Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 4, Part 7

Day Four

Doug sat on a log stool with a bare foot across his knee. “You got any of those big bandages left. Joe?”

”Three or four; How’s your blisters?”

“Look at this one - half dollar size, and bleeding. I wish I hadn’t bought these new boots. I wore them for a week - figured they’d be broke-in by now.”

“We’re all gimped up in some way”, I said. “Your blisters, my stiff leg, and Dan’s got a weak ankle from an earlier accident” I looked over at Ed. “Well Ed. What’s wrong with you?”

“Yeah! How come you ain’t hurt?”

“Hey now”, Ed screeched. “My Achilles’ tendon is sore; I can barely walk.”

“I knew he’d come up with something; couldn’t stand to be left out.”

“I just don’t complain like some people I know.”

“Poor Ed. The silent sufferer.”

“Ah crap. Let’s get out of here”, he said as he headed out the door.

Doug suggested we place one of the air mattresses in the bottom of the raft to help distribute the weight. The boat had a small leak, but we judged the repair could wait till evening. We cast off.

Crisp air and muted echoes of a silent morn cast its spell as we paddled the long axis of the glass smooth lake. I rowed while the others lounged with their backs pressed against the sides. No one said anything for a time, reluctant to break into the mood, but finally someone ventured, “This is the type of scene you see in travel magazines. Think of all the people who never get to see a sight like this.”

“Yes! But there’s more to it than just a photo. A photo can’t convey the other things you sense - the feel of it.”

“Alaska is like that. There is nothing more majestic when its sunny… nor more dismal when it rainy and overcast.”

“You guys sound like you’re making an ad for the local tourist bureau. Do you think this weather will hold?”

“Those clouds over there look like snow, and that’s where the weather has been coming from. We’re high enough - could get snow before we get out of here.”

“Which mountain did you get the small one on?”

“The one that’s off to the right. It slopes up a long way and then levels off - looks like it goes on up to the next higher peak, but its actually separate. The level spot is the top.”

“You shot it on the level spot?”

“Yeah! It rolled all the way down to the brush.”

“Then it rolled half way down the mountain. That must have been quite a sight.”

“Let’s hope the wind doesn’t come up before we head back.”

”Think we can get all the meat in the raft?”

“Yes, but three of us will have to walk along the shore. That won’t be too bad if we don’t have to carry anything.”

GO TO: Day 4, Part 8

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 6

Once in the cabin Dan and I shed our wet clothes and lounged on built-in bunk beds while Doug stoked the fire, and Ed acted as camp cook. The small place, no bigger than fifteen feet square, was filled with our equipment - backpacks, tents, sleeping bags, rifles, etc., much of it, along with wet coats and clothes, was hanging on nails driven into the log walls.

“I’m glad we got this cabin“, I said. “I kept imaging that we’d get here, and find an army of hunters in and around it. We‘d have to stay in tents, and that wouldn’t be near as comfortable - wet and damp, no way to dry anything, no room to move around, no place to store stuff. - gives me chills just thinking about it.”

“I wonder what’s the story on this old place? How long do you think its been here?”

“Hard to tell, but the back wall is going to collapse before too many more years. I’ll bet there’s fifteen, maybe twenty feet of snow up here in the winter. The weight on this flat roof is probably what’s causing the building to cave in. And that gap between the roof and walls makes it nearly impossible to heat during cold weather.”

“Gosh, that backstrap smells good”, Doug interrupted. “Give me a chunk; I’m so hungry I could eat the ass-end of a skunk.”

“There’s a whole plate full”, Ed shot back. “Backstrap not skunk”

“Who’s got a fork?”

“We have only one and I’m cooking with it. Use your knife.”

“What the hell? You mean no one thought to bring silverware?”

“That’s right, one fork and two lousy spoons”.

“We seemed to have brought everything but the kitchen sink and silverware. We’ll probably starve to death amidst this abundance. Damn, the whole trip’s ruined.”

I was sitting on the edge of the bunk greedily gorging moose, and noticed that Dan had crawled into his sleeping bag and was snuggled down out-of-sight.

“I think we have lost Dan.”

“You guys can talk all night“, he said. “I’m going to sleep, and if a bear drops in to investigate the savory odors, then you guys will have to do the negotiating.”

“See you tomorrow”, three sang in unison.

“Think we can get the moose back here tomorrow, Joe?”

“With the four of us - easily, but it will take all day.”

"Its after midnight, we'd better turn in too."
GO TO: Day 4, Part 7

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 5

I loaded about forty pounds of loose meat in my pack, and we started for the lake, two miles down the valley. Upon approaching the lake, we began feeling a light breeze in our face, and as we dropped over the last rise, descending to the shore, the full force of the wind hit us. The lake was a mass of whitecaps. It was two miles long, but narrow, and the wind was being funneled down it. The cabin was at the other end

We stood on the shore looking at the turbulent surf. Dan laid down on the bank. “To hell with it”, he said. “let’s crawl under the raft and stay here. I’m too tired to fight it.”

I was tired, but not nearly as bad-off as Dan. “No way! I’ll row home. We’ll hang close to the shore. We can make it - besides you row in circles most of the time anyway.”

“Well, I’ve only rowed a boat a couple times; there’s not that much water around Amarillo, Texas. You know what I mean?”

Dan’s favorite phrase, “You know what I mean?”. It was his attempt to accentuate a point, and after several years of running with him, I knew it was rhetorical, not requiring a response . “I would never have guessed it this morning“, I said. “I wasn’t sure which direction you were going most of the time.”

I launched the raft, turned it around, and backed it into shore for Dan. He stumbled off-balance into it, and landed full force in the bottom.

“Watch it or you’ll go through. That jaunt around the mountain did you in, didn’t it?”

“I’ve been beat ever since”, Dan said in a tired voice.

“I’ll stay close to shore. If it gets too rough we’ll pull up and stay there the night.”

It took an hour and a half to row the length of the lake. I would row up to the sheltered edge of a point and hold until the wind died, then hurry around the point and into the next cove. That way we did not catch as much spray, though our clothes became sodden anyway. Further down the lake the wind died a bit, and the rowing became easier.

Our two hunting partners, waiting at the water’s edge, stepped forward to help us land. Doug Jackson grabbed the bow line and pulled us onto shore a ways. “Its about time you guys got back; where in the hell you been anyway”, he asked?

“We’ve been hunting. We don’t quit in the middle of the afternoon like some guys.”

“We just got back an hour ago. Did you get anything?”

“Oh! We got two”, Dan answered casually. “How’did you do?”

“Well we got two too,” returned Ed Cerney in a superior tone.

“Christ! We’re in trouble”, Dan spit out as he slumped back into the raft.

”You didn’t really get two - did you?”

“Here, take this,” I said, as I heaved my pack to the front of the raft.

They lifted it to shore, opened it and looked inside.

“You really get two”, one of them said, stressing the “two“.

“Yea! Did you really get any?”

“No”, Ed answered ruefully. “I thought you were spoofing us.”

“We didn’t even see a cow”, Doug added.
GO TO: Day 3, Part 6

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 4

We gathered the equipment and started down and across to the other side. Half hour later we were on the valley floor and stopped by a pond for water. I stepped into the water and sank the water bottle, holding it upright so water would pour in over its mouth. “Its brackish, I said. There’s green stuff floating and a bunch of little bugs running around on top. You got any halogen?”

“No, but I’m parched. Let’s wash our mouth out and find a stream later.”

Dan looked down the narrow valley toward the lake we crossed that morning. “I’ll head toward the lake, circle back and push him toward those alders. He’ll probably go through, and into that open spot on the right.”

“I’ll be at the top waiting for him”, I said. “Give me about fifteen minutes.”

I got to the top of the clearing, discovered an animal trail going through a narrow cut into an adjacent valley, and climbed high enough to cover both routes. Ten minutes later I heard a loud report, then another, and then a final one. I waited to be certain the moose was not coming my way and then began walking in that direction. I found Dan near bottom, walking up toward me.

“Where is the moose?” “Further down. He damn near ran over me. I started up through those alders, but decided I was getting nowhere, so I swung further to the left and came to this opening. No more than rounded those bushes when he bolted out from the right - not ten yards away. Surprised the hell out of me - I didn’t think I was even close to him. I hit him broadside - right in the lungs. He went down on his knees, but popped back up again, so I shot him again. He got up again, but was all wobbly and staggering. I thought I’d try to herd him down through the clearing - like Natives use to do with Caribou herds - but he turned up hill, so I put him out of his misery. Wonder why he didn’t run your direction?”

That line of alders covers a ditch. He couldn’t get into the clearing. He might have caught my scent too.”

“There he is, next to that little stream.”

“That’s convenient. I think he fell a little too close though; he’s laying in a soft spot with his rack buried in the mud - going to be hell to turn.”
Dan stood over the fallen animal with his hand resting on a velvet covered antler. “He’s a big one all right, and the rack isn’t so small either. Its about the same spread as the one I got last year. The base is a lot heavier though. It may not have its full growth; the tine are pretty blunt.”

“How big of a spread do you think it is?”

“About fifty-five inches; maybe sixty.”

“A lot of people would consider it sinful to leave the rack, but we’ve got too much to carry as it is. Lucky for us we’re not trophy hunters.”

“Yeah! Look at the bugs - it didn’t take long for them to find him.”

“They’re probably always with him, a regular entourage, like the sea gulls flying around the white whale in Moby Dick.”

“Let’s get busy. Its late already, and we still have a full day ahead of us.”

We worked till nearly 8:30 that evening. It took the two of us to drag the hind quarters to a nearby spruce and hang them from branches. Some meat remained on the carcass, but the animal was skinned and what remained would cool without problem. We were too tired to do more, and it was getting dark. We had to get back.

GO TO: Day 3, Part 5

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part3

Dan scrambled down the slope. He was into the ravine and half way to the moose in minutes, but I was having trouble. I tore my knee ligaments in a skiing accident the previous March, spent eight weeks in a cast, and couldn’t bend the knee more than ninety degrees. Going down was a lot harder that up. A quarter of a hour passed and I had made little progress. Dan was sitting on a large rock scanning the mountain slope across the valley. He lowered his binoculars and shouted, “Hurry and get down here. I just spotted another moose.”

I sat and began scooting down the mountain on the seat of my pants, controlling my descent by digging a heel in now and then. “This one is really big”, he said. “You can see his rack without binocs. He’s straight across and just below us - in the clearing to the left of that line of alders.”

“Yeah, I see him. He’s lying down. Isn’t that the luck - another moose, and we haven’t got the first gutted yet. What do you think we ought to do?”

“He’s not very high. We could get there in half and hour or so. Why don’t we gut this one and then go for him. We can come back later and finish here.”

“Okay. I hate climbing this mountain again though. I wish Doug and Ed were here.”

“We should have stuck together. I wonder how they’re doing in that other valley? If we get that one, and they harvest one or two we’re going to be in big trouble.”

“We must be four or five miles from the cabin.”

“At least. And its another six to the trucks. Even with two trail bikes we’d kill ourselves - lose a lot of meat too.”

We made our way to the fallen bull, dropped our packs, took out knives, and prepared for the messy job of field dressing. Its size surprised me. “He’s bigger than I thought. He looked dog-size rolling down the slope. And it looks like he needs some dental work: most of his teeth are busted out, and his antlers are gone. That seems to be the extent of the damage - at least that’s all that shows.”
Dan straightened and looked across the valley. “The big one is still there. He’s up browsing, but he’s staying put. Its late enough, he may bed down for the rest of the afternoon. Let’s do as much as we can, and keep an eye on him; if he starts moving, we’ll go after him.”

Dan and I gutted, skinned, and quartered the animal. We placed each quarter in a game bag, carried it over to some nearby alders and laid it across the branches. The limbs sagged as the meat floated above ground. Two hours went quickly by.

“What time is it?”

“About one. Where is the bull? I don’t see it.”

“Its moved down and into the brush. You can barely make it out. You wouldn’t see him if you didn’t know he was there.”

“Maybe our luck is changing. I was certain we’d get nothing but bone splintered and bloodshot meat from this one, but the broken rib was all the damage.”

“They got thick hides, and he was putting his winter coat on. I guess that cushioned the fall. Maybe all that bouncing tenderized the meat.”

GO TO: Day 3, Part 4

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 2

Dan flopped down on the rocky slope, not bothering to take his pack off, still looking at the moose which had rolled halfway down the mountain. I dropped my pack, took out the water bottle and handed it to him. He took a sip and handed it back.

“I sure didn’t mean for that to happen”, he said. “He was balanced on the edge, and I figured I could shift him around so he would be easier to gut. It didn’t look that steep, but he started rolling and I wasn’t about to try and stop him”.
“Yeah. You’d be down there with him. How much hamburger do you thing we got?”

“Hell. He’s probably got every bone in his body smashed. Did you see him bounce just after he went in that ravine? He must have flew ten feet in the air.”

“No, he was out of sight by then. I bet he rolled five minutes; I didn’t think he was going to stop.”

“Well, at least we don’t have to tote what’s left off this mountain.”

“What happened to you?” Dan asked. “You hardly moved after we separated”.

“I hadn’t covered more than a hundred yards when the cow got up. She stood the whole time looking down the mountain in my direction. If I’d been another hundred yards to the right I could have gone on around. I finally laid down and enjoyed the view.”

“I’m beat. I went all the way to the backside of the peak. Its even steeper there. I got to within a few feet of the top and decided they weren’t there and circled back. Wish I’d gone over; it would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

“I saw you making your way back to this side, angling up toward the cow. She turned your way, and I’d swore you could have seen each other.”

“I didn’t see either one until the bull stood up.”

“That was some time later.”

"They were further away than I thought; my first shots hit in the rocks way below him. I finally aimed a couple feet over his back - shooting up hill makes a big difference.”

“Where’d you hit him?”

Dan hesitated a moment. “Gut Shot.”

“Oh!” I said, smiling. “It doesn’t matter anyway - not now.”

“No”, Dan said as he stood. “But we’d better get down there and check him out.”
GO TO: Day 3, Part 3

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 1

Prelude: In 1972 I went moose hunting with three teacher friends. I wrote the story about it nearly forty years ago, shortly after the hunt, and then filed it away, not to look at it again till recently. I had forgotten much of the story, and can only attest that I wrote it with little embellishment. It seemed like a good story at the time.

Indian River lies about 60 miles north of Glennallen on the Tok Cut-off (250 miles north of Anchorage) . The Geological survey map shows an old trail or mining road at mile 74, about a mile south of the Nabesna Road turnoff. I think we followed that trail up the Ahtell Creek, past “The Dome” and then east to Long Lake - about twelve miles total. The story begins on the third day of the hunt.

Day Three of the Hunt

The moose rolled onto its back with legs folded against its body. It seemed it would stop, but gravity forced the roll and began the next. By the third, it was in full flight down the mountain; its head wheeling rhythmically back and forth, its legs shooting straight up, and then tucking neatly under. Sometimes it nearly stopped, but then would pick up speed and bounce high in the air. It was like watching a silent movie that alternated between running too fast and then too slow.

I stood off to the side watching its limp body descend until it rolled past and disappeared into a ravine. Looking up the mountain, I saw Dan Wilson standing at the pinnacle where the moose began its descent. His casual stance, with arms hanging loosely at his side, belied the emotions he must have been feeling.

After a while he picked up his rifle, shouldered it, and started down. I began traversing the slope, setting a course to intercept.We were well above timber, and though there were thin patches of alpine scattered about, most of the decaying peak was loose rock. The detritus shifted underfoot, rolling and settling with each step. It was steep, and after watching the moose’s fate, I had an appreciation of the hazards awaiting those who tread the earth too casually.

We had stalked the moose for three hours, following it to the top of the mountain, but now, as we worked our way toward one another, it seemed all had been in vain. This was the third day of a hunt which appeared to be more of a fiasco with each passing day.

Our camp, an abandon trapper’s cabin in the Mentasta Mountains, sat on the shore of beautiful Long Lake. It represented the high point of our outing. The cabin was twelve miles off the main road. The first three, passable with 4-wheel drive, deteriorated into a tortuous trail snaking up streams beds, and bumping over rock slides, and washouts.

It took two days to get the equipment to the cabin, and the first night had been the worse. Nothing had gone right, and now, as Dan and I groped our way toward one another, it appeared that nothing had changed.

GO TO: Day 3, Part 2