For this reason calling is generally the method of choice in level country with a lot of forest. Especially in country where moose have just as much trouble seeing other moose as you have seeing them, moose respond quite readily to calling. The sound is a deep, guttural grunting, traditionally rendered from a rolled-up “loudspeaker” of birchbark. It works, and is perhaps the most exciting way to hunt moose. Especially since it works best during the rut, when a wild-eyed moose is likely to come rushing in amid a crashing of brush.
The problem with calling moose is that it’s like most other options for calling in game: calling moose is rut-dependent, making the right time difficult to pick for visiting sportsmen. And if you’re trophy hunting there may not be a lot of time to properly evaluate the antlers before you must shoot or lose the opportunity.
I prefer glassing, with the understanding that it isn’t practical everywhere. Glassing for moose is a bit different than with many species. Simply seeing the moose isn’t the problem. Sometimes they appear out of nowhere, having stood up from a bed or stepped out of heavy brush—but more often they stick out like sore thumbs. The problem is finding them once you get there.
The best moose I ever shot or am likely to shoot was a classic example. We were on the Alaska Peninsula, and we’d seen a couple of bulls but nothing dramatic. My guide, Chris Kempf, recalled a huge bull he’d seen the year before in a little valley a couple of miles away. So we hiked that way and set up on a low ridge overlooked a willow-choked basin a good half-mile across. We glassed for a long time and saw no moose. Then Chris spotted an antler sticking up in the willows right below us.
The bull was bedded tight with just his antlers sticking up. After long deliberation we agreed he was about 325 yards away, an acceptable shooting distance but not an easy shot, especially with the strong and gusty crosswind. But there was nothing to shoot at. We decided to let the moose make the first move; perhaps he would offer a good shot where he was, or perhaps he would move to a better spot. We waited for a half-hour, then an hour, and nothing happened. Then we decided to go in after him.
We marked his position as best we could, dropped off the ridge and moved downwind to circle in on him. We stumbled around in that willow jungle for nearly an hour, and the moose simply wasn’t there. He must have gotten up and moved, so we backed out of the tangle and climbed back up on the ridge to relocate him.
Nope, hadn’t moved. He was still in exactly the same place in exactly the same position, and we’d just plain overshot him. So we took new bearings and went in again, shooting him as he jumped from his bed at 20 yards.
Outfitter Toby Johnson and I had a similar situation when I drew a Shiras’ moose permit in Wyoming’s Bighorn Mountains, but this time the problem was fog. Toby knew of a very good bull living in a wonderful alder basin, and had scouted out the perfect vantage point to glass him from. Except the basin remained completely cloaked in dense fog the first two days of my hunt. Once, out of sheer boredom and frustration, we blundered in there anyway to try to find him. After bumping several cows we came to our sense, considered ourselves lucky, and backed off. On the third day it cleared, and we spotted the bull lying in a little meadow. We marked the spot well, crawled in on him, and I shot him in his bed.
The moose, good old Alces alces, is the largest living member of the deer family. He is not strictly a North American mammal; his tribe circumnavigates the globe in the Northern Hemisphere and is found in several subspecies throughout the northern forests. The very largest moose, in both body and antler, are found in extreme northwestern Canada and Alaska, what we call the Alaska-Yukon moose.
Now that eastern Siberia, once a sensitive area for military reasons, is open to outsiders, it has been discovered that this part of Russia produces moose that are every bit as big as those in Alaska. On a bear hunt in Kamchatka I measured a Siberian moose that had an honest-to-Gosh spread of 70 inches—and everything else to go with it. Don’t start packing your bags just yet. There are big moose in Siberia, but my impression is that the population is thinly scattered, with the better hunting still remaining on the U.S. side of the pond. Moving west from Siberia, the size of moose drops off quickly until you get to the small moose (locally called “elg,” which is where our term “elk” comes from) of Scandinavia. The European moose are generally smaller than our own Shiras’ moose. To some degree this is a function of management; Finland has the most dense moose population in the world, and the harvest, though carefully controlled, is intense. European moose are probably a smaller subspecies than our Shiras’ and eastern moose, but once in a while a specimen is taken with antlers large enough to make you wonder.
In North America size generally drops off as you move east. The Canada moose—including both A. a. andersoni from the Mackenzie River and British Columbia east to the Great Lakes; and americanus from the Great Lakes east to Newfoundland and New England—is definitely a smaller moose than the Alaska-Yukon moose (A.a. gigas). The moose of northern British Columbia are clearly the largest of the Canada moose, but it’s obvious that at some point this population starts to transition to the Alaska-Yukon variety. With Canada moose elsewhere, however, size may be a function of management. The reopening of Maine moose hunting produced so many record-class bulls that it’s no longer clear, at least not to me, that eastern moose are smaller than the moose of, say, Alberta or Manitoba. Newfoundland, although generally managed for quantity rather than quality, produces some real whoppers every year.
The smallest North American moose are the Shiras’ or Yellowstone moose, a small, very dark moose that is still a monster of a deer. A mature Shiras’ bull moose should weigh around 900 to 1,000 pounds. A good Canada moose bull should be 300 pounds or so heavier, and an Alaska-Yukon bull can top three-quarters of a ton. And of course there are tremendous variances among individuals.
Antler size differentiation is more clear-cut. Like all antlered game, there are numerous aspects to a moose rack that the serious trophy hunter must understand and learn to study—quickly. Number of points, height and width of palms, presence and size of brow palms—all of these things are extremely important in a final trophy measurement, if that matters to you. However, sort of like elk hunters talk about numbers of points (as in “six-by-six”) and bear hunters talk about squared measurements (as in “nine-foot bear”), moose hunters talk first and most about spread. Remembering that spread is just one element in an official score, spread is an easy approach to moose trophy quality. With Alaska-Yukon moose, a 60-inch bull is good. With Canada moose, a 50-inch bull is good. With Shiras’ moose, a 40-inch bull is good. Add five inches to any of these measurements and you can say “very good.” Add 10 inches and you can say, “wonderful.”
And having said that, big moose are becoming very difficult prizes these days. There are several reasons. One that will come and go periodically is bad winters. Another that is becoming worse is an increase in wolves, which has seriously knocked moose populations in many areas. Yet another is that trophy moose hunting has received a great deal more attention in recent years. Due to this latter factor there aren’t as many untouched hotspots as there used to be. And because of the first two, there aren’t as many places producing big moose as there used to be.
For big Alaskan moose, I’d look to the southwestern approaches to the Brooks Range, where there is still very little resident pressure. On a recent spring bear hunt I saw literally hundreds of moose along willow-lined rivers—the most I have ever seen anywhere. Western Alaska is good, and don’t overlook the Mackenzie District of Northwest Territories. The outfitters there have long overlooked their moose due to emphasis on sheep and the logistics involved with recovering moose. But due to increased demand they’re looking a lot harder at their moose, and they’re pulling out some monsters.
For the best Canada moose the record books are pretty clear, with northern B.C. dominating the listings. However, that isn’t the only place. Northern Alberta is overlooked and under-rated, and northern Manitoba is another slee
per. For those who aren’t quite so trophy conscious, the most enjoyable moose hunting I know of—and probably the most successful—is Newfoundland. Success rates are extremely high due to a huge moose population, and while average antler size is small there can be some surprises.
Shiras’ moose are best hunted wherever you can draw a tag, although Utah and Wyoming tend to have the edge in trophy quality. After many years of applying I finally drew the Wyoming tag I mentioned earlier, and I took a very fine Shiras’ moose. I have also hunted this small, dark type of moose twice in the Kootenays of southeastern B.C. Years ago I gave up arguing where the line should be drawn. It has to be drawn somewhere, and from a record-keeping standpoint the U.S.-Canada border makes sense—but southeastern B.C.’s moose are much more like Shiras’ than Canadian moose. Whatever you call them, hunting moose in the mountains, whether the Canadian or the U.S. Rockies, was quite a lot different from hunting them in the boggy valleys to the north. Shiras’ moose are hunted more like elk, and it is a most enjoyable experience.
Although a very large and strong animal, I haven’t found moose to be as hardy as elk when it comes to choosing rifles and cartridges. They are, however, different. Moose seem impervious to bullet shock; I don’t think you can impress them with foot-pounds or velocity. On the other hand, they don’t seem to have the elk’s tendency to travel for miles and miles with a slightly off-center hit. A moose is as likely as not to show no reaction whatsoever to a very good hit, and walk or trot into heavy cover and fall over.
I have shot moose with the .338 Winchester Magnum, the .340 Weatherby Magnum, the .375 H&H Magnum, and the .416 Remington Magnum. I don’t necessarily think such cannons are called for. I have also used the .35 Whelen and the little .358 Winchester. Both worked perfectly, and I absolutely believe in heavy, large-caliber bullets for game this large. However, my Dad, shooting his .308 Winchester, absolutely flattened a big bull in his tracks. Go figure.
One time I shot a smallish bull at fairly long range with a .340 Weatherby Magnum, hardly a pipsqueak cartridge. He was standing on a little ridge across a willow bog, and I was certain I had the hold right. I shot three times, each time believing I could hear the bullet hit. After the third shot the bull walked out of sight behind some willows. Which is exactly where we found him, with a very nice three-shot group on his shoulder. This is not unusual.
Another time I was sitting on a knife-edge ridge looking down at a narrow timbered creek. A good bull walked almost directly under me, and I shot him just beside the spine and down through heart and lungs with a .338 shooting a 250-grain Trophy Bonded Bearclaw. This was a devastating hit with a devastating bullet. But there was no visible reaction other than the bull launching into a run, then piling up in thirty yards.
Based on experiences like these, I believe the sheer size of a moose demands heavy-for-caliber bullets with good penetrating qualities. But I’ve given up on the idea that I can flatten a moose with heavy artillery. I’d have perfect confidence in a .30-06 with a good 180-grain bullet, and I’d be much more likely to use a .270 or 7mm on moose than I would on elk.
A point of departure between moose hunting and most other North American hunting is the sheer logistics involved with packing out a moose. Nowhere is it more true that the work begins after the shooting is over! Although it’s somewhat true with elk, it is absolutely true with moose that you simply have to be careful where you shoot one. Not only in terms of shot placement, but where on the ground the moose is located.
We can talk macho all we want about being able to pack anything out of anywhere, but packing out a moose will take even the best man at least six trips. More like eight. If you can’t get him out—before the meat spoils—then you can’t shoot him. This from a practical legal standpoint as well as the more important ethical consideration. Over the years, at speaking engagements and in casual conversations, I have increasingly discouraged unguided moose hunting for this simple reason. Unless you have the logistics completely figured out before you squeeze the trigger, you’re a walking game violation.
That is one of the biggest differences between a guided hunt and an unguided hunt; a guide who intends to stay in business will have the logistics figured. It may be horses, it may be an Argo or other tracked vehicle, or it may be a lot of man hours for you and your guide, but it will happen. Moose hunting solo is a fool’s game, and even with a partner or two it isn’t for amateurs. There are good options, such as floating rivers, but whatever recovery methods are available, a great key to moose hunting is understanding that you can’t hunt beyond your ability to get the meat out in a timely fashion.
Guides aren’t magicians, by the way—and although they may be young and strong, they also aren’t packhorses. A good guide may well tell you that you can’t shoot a given moose because you can’t get it out—and you’d best listen.
As you’ve gathered, I’m extremely high on Newfoundland’s moose hunting. And yet I’m the only guy I know who has been on multiple Newfoundland moose hunts without shooting a bull. I once did shoot a cow on the last day of a hunt on an “either sex” tag, but over the course of three hunts in Newfoundland I have never shot at a bull moose. Part of it was being picky, part of it has been bad weather, and a large part has been bad luck. Part, too, has been sheer logistics.
On the last day of a Newfie hunt several years ago we went about as far from camp as we ought to go, and then we went a bit farther. We were on a long ridge that dropped away into a river valley. Across the river the ground rose again in a big, brushy ridge. Far up on that sidehill were not one but three very big bull moose. The smallest was a good bull for Newfoundland, and the largest was a good bull for anywhere.
We could probably get across the river, and we could probably reach the moose well before dark. And if we could do that, we could almost certainly get back to camp before the charter plane back to civilization landed in the morning. But there was absolutely no way we could shoot a moose and get it out. So we watched them through my spotting scope for a long, long time. And then we packed up and hunted our way back toward camp.
A moose skull found high up on a sheep mountain in the Wrangells. What a bull moose would be doing up in such a spot is completely unknown.
Packing moose is just plain hard work. How much you can carry depends not only on your condition, but also on the terrain and the distance you must carry it. Few can pack out a moose in less than eight loads.
My best moose was taken on the Alaskan Peninsula. This is a heavy-horned old giant, with very wide palms and lots of mass everywhere. He was stalked in his bed and shot at very close range.
My favorite moose-hunting technique is glassing. The big, dark animals usually stand out at great distances, with the biggest problem seeing moose but finding them again when you stalk them.
The preference point system works, especially if you get in on the ground floor. In 1999, I drew a Shiras moose permit in Wyoming’s Bighorn Mountains, where I took this excellent bull with outfitter Toby Johnson.
A good Alaska-Yukon moose. This bull was glassed at long range, then stalked into heavy timber. The spread is about 65 inches.
WHITETAIL—Defining the Hunting Experience
For Millions of Americans the Whitetail Deer Defines the Hunting Experience… And a Darned Good Definition He Provides!
The whitetail deer is more than just another of our North American big-game animals. He’s a phenomenon that’s at the center of a culture, an industry… almost a religion. Those of you living east of the Great Plains will absolutely understand what I’m talking about. Those of you who live west of the Rockies may not understand this at all. And those of you in the middle may be somewhat divided. But look at it this way: in the West we’re blessed with a wide variety of big game. Depending on the area, we have mule deer, blacktails, maybe whitetails, maybe Coues’ deer. We have elk and black bear, and permits for moose, goat, sheep, and more. In the East we have a little bit of black bear hunting and a very few moose permits… and we hav
e millions of whitetail deer. The whitetail deer is big-game hunting for most hunters in the eastern half of the United States.
This would be important anyway, but it’s especially important because hunter densities pretty much follow the population curve. There are more hunters in the East than the West… but I wonder to what extent this is because of the whitetail deer? American hunters have always pursued the game that was most available. In the 1920s and 1930s, when big game was at its lowest ebb, waterfowling was the most popular pursuit among American hunters. Uncontrolled market gunning coupled with the great drought of the Thirties ended the great days of waterfowling, but conditions were changing. FDR’s “soil bank” made untold acreage ideal for upland birds, and then there were thousands of acres of small farms that lay fallow during World War II. Millions of G.I.s returning from the war found unprecedented populations of upland birds. The Forties and Fifties were the years of the quail, pheasant, and grouse hunter. But slowly, slowly the whitetail deer was coming back. And suddenly he was there.
Land use changed again, with big, clean farming spelling an end to the great upland bird hunting I knew as a kid. But the whitetail deer didn’t care. As late as the 1950s most areas had mere remnant populations. My own home state of Kansas didn’t have a modern deer season until 1965. When I was growing up we never saw deer, and even the sight of a track was cause for celebration. Of course we know what Midwest whitetail hunting is like today! I don’t know exactly when the whitetail population explosion really kicked off. It varied a little bit with the area, but by the 1960s it was in full swing in the eastern half of the United States. From remnant populations that had retreated into the deepest swamps and forests, the whitetail deer exploded. He proved himself to be incredibly adaptable, and given a little bit of protection he turned out to be best-suited to the edge habitat created by man’s agriculture. Thanks to his crafty ways, it turned out that the new legions of whitetail deer required a great deal of hunting to keep their numbers in bounds—and this has translated into unprecedented hunting opportunities.
Fair Chase in North America Page 14
