Alaska Wilderness Moose

I remembered to ask Dane how big her antlers are, and she choked and said, "I don't know. I don't have a tape."

Tina jumped up, grabbed the tape measure out of the tools, and pitched it to Dane. They grabbed their coffee and disappeared to the rack propped up at the lake edge. When they returned, they were all abuzz and excited. It measured seventy-eight inches! A record book bull if they correctly measured. Large racks are frequently damaged by broken tines or broomed. As I recalled hers, they were not broken at all.

I took the tape measure, stood up, and we all went down to the antlers. I had never seen a raw antler that massive and didn't find any broken or broomed tines. It was nearly perfectly balanced with paddles that were heavily grooved and very shiny amber color. The tines were all polished. I noticed that the blood had been washed off, so the paddles wouldn't be stained. All of the velvet had long ago been rubbed away, and the overall impression was that it was a very pretty rack.

A mature bull. When I finished turning the lips, eyes, and antlers, I had noticed that the bull's molars were heavily worn. Dane's bull had a terrible wide-open gash on one leg that I was sure would eventually cripple him, so he would have died this coming winter since he had not stored much fat, and the rut would have used all of that up before it ended. He was in marginal health at best. He had no parasites and appeared healthy internally. Her shot had entered behind the ear down low and broke his neck, killing him instantly. The damage externally from the bullet would not show when she had the cape on the mount. The beard was not damaged and was complete.

I hoped for the same good luck as she had. I still hadn't found any killing damage on the carcass I had to retrieve. I hoped the shot didn't ruin the cape or the antlers, although I still didn't know if it was a legal kill. As we were getting ready to leave, Dane's pilot slid along the lake from her camp to our shore in a Cessna 185. We all went down to the shoreline, beached the plane safely and firmly, and waited for the pilot to come around the propeller and come ashore. He was sitting in the pilot's seat, talking into his microphone, looking unwaveringly at the moose rack propped at the lake edge. Eventually, after a few seconds' delay, he jumped down and said, "Wow! I have never seen a rack that beautiful. How big? It looks legal but seems too pretty to be big enough. These old bulls out here are usually broken, uneven, or malformed. This thing is gorgeous. How big?"

I spoke up quickly and said, "I hope you have a tape measure."

"Here, I will get it."

When he came ashore, he bent down to hold one end. He handed the tape case to Dane, who was the first to see the width. When they stretched his ten-foot tape across the length of the antlers, the tape read seventy-nine inches.

The pilot exhaled and said." Christ, this is a record of some sort, Dane. Wow! Do you not know how big it is?"

Dane said, "I quickly measured it at eighty-one inches, but now I get seventy-nine. What did you get when you looked just now?"

"Seventy-nine at the widest point."

We, of course, knew he couldn't haul her and the moose and her camp, so she asked him to take her camp and some of the meat. She told him who to call to get her stuff, and they would be quick to get it from him.

He agreed and asked her when she wanted to be picked up.

She looked at Tina and then at me and replied, "Yesterday. But the next day or so. These two have a bear tag and caribou tags. I would like to hunt with them and help them pack meat. When are the two of you going to leave?"

Tina said, "You are welcome to stay. Dane, don't you still have two caribou tags to fill?"

"Yes, but I wasn't going to continue to use you two to fill them."

I said, "You are welcome to do both. Fill your tags, and lean on us for assistance in handling it all. Dane, can you stay two more nights? I am sure we will fill both of your tags by then, and your pilot can come prepared to haul you and the rest of your gear late the third day."

The pilot said," I have some caribou hunters to bring here that afternoon. It would be great to come then if you want me to wait until then. By the way, Dane, Mike is fine; he has twenty-seven stitches, pain pills and has been back to the Fight Service to thank me with a bottle of Scotch. That always works. Of course, as busy as I am this time of year, I can't drink it. When the snow flies, I will, though, because I am grounded for about two weeks, maybe more while the lakes and rivers we use ice up."

It was agreed. Brian would bring his Wigeon and call my flight service and coordinate the two camps going out together.

When he asked, I told him about the other moose. He laughed and said, "Good luck getting the rest without any damage. I saw four mature grizzlies at the end of the lake. I will scout the area before I fly away. I will drop a white pennant with a rock if I see anything you need to know about, like more bears. They are everywhere around the lake except here, it seems. They have followed the caribou through here like this every year."

I did see a huge boar over the ridge east of here less than a mile. He is very big, gold, and alone. He was feeding on a carcass that looked about finished. Watch to the east for him. He was a real beauty. I am sure if he is about, you will see him; he is so gold. The bears filter through this lake basin but do not seem to stay long. If he were moving toward his winter den, he would come west, but figuring where he will be passing through, of course, is called hunting."

The pilot, Brian, waved through the windshield as we pushed him off and spun him to face the lake. We stepped to the side; he cranked the engine, idled for a couple of minutes. He stood on a pedal, turned along the shore, then accelerated. He skimmed along toward the other camp and lifted off there so he could look over the area for bears. He waggled his wings and disappeared over the horizon. He apparently saw no bears.

We gathered together and decided to go on with our day, being alert for bears. We had five caribou permits left to fill and a grizzly tag if the right bear came along. I warned them to hunt close to camp as it was foolish to pack 150-180 pounds of meat one step further than necessary.

I grabbed a few energy packets from the ice chest and took off for the last of my moose. They agreed to fix dinner and that I would not return until I could get everything from there. That way I would need to go there today and not tomorrow. I thought I would winch the remains out of the hole into the clearing and finish the butchering there. I didn't want to go into the hole again, especially when I was alone. I worked about an hour and had the cape, head, antlers, and part of the gut pile out of the hole, but I still had to re-rig and drag it clear of the vegetation around the hole.

My rifle was close at hand, and I was rigging a dead man when I heard a snuffling and huffing.

I grabbed my rifle, checked the safety, and waited. This was inevitable because of the gut pile, and it came with a loud roar and the sound of crashing brush and trees. It was gold, and I saw no other noticeable markings. It was so beautiful with its shoulders rolling and its claws throwing dirt clods as it got traction and coming like a freight train. It must have heard me straining to set the dead man and assumed I was a bear on the gut pile that he smelled. He was going to take it away from me. Another bear would have stood its ground probably, and a hell of a fight been had. But...

I had plenty of time, I thought, and I waited for it to raise when it pushed off the ground with its front shoulders as it ran. I placed the sights on its chest, swung forward, shot it in the neck, chambered a second shell, and couldn't see the bear anywhere. Christ, I thought, Waist-high dense sage and scrub juniper everywhere. I pulled the forty-five, braced it, then waited. I waited three weeks if we counted my heartbeats. It was a minute, maybe, when I heard the ptarmigan rustling again. I heard no bear, no noise, no death cry, and nothing to see.

Terrified, I was. Alert was a close second and jumpy for sure.

I decided to circle widely where the bear had come from on the chance I could see into the brush from there. It took me a half-hour to circle. And when I came through the same track as the bear, I found him right where I last had seen him. There was a puddle of blood on the ground behind his shoulder, as well as one under his neck about two inches above the breast bone. Shot through the neck bones, which killed him instantly, with an exit wound back in his ribs. I sat on the ground with the shakes and tremors for at least five minutes. I remembered the snack and swallowed it quickly. I reloaded the rifle, replaced the pistol, and began to understand what I had done.

Then I realized I would be back here tomorrow, most probably. I thought I needed to get this killing zone cleared of me as soon as possible. I finished with the moose, making two trips to Dane's camp. The moose antlers took me an hour to get to camp. I stopped a thousand times for relief from the weight and fought the overgrown trees and scrub brush. I couldn't rest there, and I needed to be alert around all of the meat and carcasses, so I couldn't eat while moving.

I laid out all the tools, stripped down, stoned my blades, and skinned the bear. Fifteen minutes later, I had the paws and cape ready to haul. I needed to flesh out some of the head and reduce the weight by cutting the neck at the same point as the moose, the atlas. I packed the cape, with paws and head on the pack board, took a few pictures of the scene of the carnage, shouldered the pack board off a rock, and stood with just short of 90-100 pounds held to my back with two shoulder straps and a belly band.

Made it! I was at the lake at Dane's camp. It was dark, I was exhausted, and I had another half-mile hike to camp. I could see the lantern hanging high in a tree or something. It was warming to think about how close it was, and about a million steps later, I announced myself to camp. I realized that when I stepped into the lantern light, I'd forgotten to leave the bear at Dane's camp and hauled it the extra half-mile. I was truly a zombie walking.

I placed my pack board against a tree, slowly collapsed into a squat, tipped over, and laid on my side for a few minutes. Tina handed me a bottle of water, Dane started disconnecting the pack board, and I smiled up at both of them and said, "I will tell you about the critter on the pack board in exchange for food."

Neither had noticed the pack board. Tina and Dane were too busy watching me collapse. Then they both uttered the equivalent of a scream in the wilderness and started asking a million questions.

My response was, "Food."

"Drink."

"Please."

They had eaten a couple of hours earlier, but we're prepared with leftovers knowing I would probably be filthy, for sure tired, and want to eat something quick and nourishing. I do not recall what they fed me, but they both did. I added two VO-water cocktails to dinner and felt like a million bucks pretty fast.

They were eager to see the pelt and closely examine how I had caped it for the rug I would have. I asked them to watch me roll back the toes and the eyes, invert the ears and roll the lips. When I finished, they had the salt ready, and we finished getting the pelt field dressed. We bagged it and left it to sit right out in the open beyond the fire's heat. We all poured another drink, and then sitting on warmed rocks, we sat cuddled together with the three of us under a drop cloth where I immediately fell asleep. The two of them held me up, sitting between them. I was out. The alcohol, full belly, fatigue, adrenalin fatigue, food, and fresh air had taken me out. They sat there with me, sleeping between them, talking about me. I didn't hear a word, and when I didn't react, they changed the subject to being alone in the woods and wilds with a handsome, capable, single, eligible bachelor. I didn't hear a word of that either.

I woke up with them discussing how much they enjoyed the sex after their dinner. I was awake about five minutes when I had to say, as they were talking, "Talk louder, please." They both swatted me, and we all laughed. I got up, cleaned up, and made excuses for going to bed.

The next morning, I was sore all over. I knew the only way to feel better was to work it off. I had breakfast, they cooked, while I started on the bear pelt again. I fleshed it, trimmed it, salted it, rolled it, and packed it again in a clean meat bag.

They had gone inland, pursuing caribou. I went back to the moose cape Dane had killed, then, with a lot of straining, had it spread, where I trimmed, scraped, salted, and repacked it for the trip to the taxidermist. I Still hadn't put any meat in the waterproof bags and decided to take a chance that no bear would find it. I re-bagged some of it and turned a few pieces to help cure it. All in all, it was in very good condition.

The peace and quiet were broken with the crack of a rifle not far away. I thought, 'Oh crap, more skinning to do.' Then there was a second shot, pointed in a different direction. The switch in direction meant a miss or two caribou. All I could do was wait.

I took advantage of the chance and stoned and steeled and then cleaned my butchering tools. I had them packed away when I heard them announce themselves to camp.

"Hey Dale, we have two down real close. I think they are two or three-year-olds, but maybe older, judging by their body size. They are the only two we saw that were not too far away. Both have double shovels and majestic white chests. Where's the booze? I want to celebrate."

I got up, stretched, and said, "Show me what you did."

I grabbed my rifle, followed them through some scrub trees, and nearly tripped over the first 'boo.' I started to ask whose it was when Dane said, "Will fresh liver tonight be okay? I love liver and onions, especially when the liver is fresh."

Tina said," Hell, yes, and scrambled eggs to go with it."

"I'll cook for you two tonight," I offered. Neither claimed the right to cook, so I said, "Where is the other caribou?"

"Here," Tina said as she took about five steps into a treelike shrub. "They were standing head to tail."

Okay, I offered, "Which one is first? I have all of my tools right here."

Directed to the one under the tree, Dale and Tina drug it out into the clearing. Dale rapidly had the belly clear and removed the hind legs, bagging them as they came loose. The front shoulders and neck became three pieces. Dale dug the heart and liver out of the gut pile, and then he removed the tongue. When they stood over the empty cape and vacant-eyed carcass, they all stood and gave the meat, animal, and spirit of the wild the respect of a minute in silence for these two animals.

The second carcass was cleaned about forty minutes later. They loaded the pack boards and were in camp in minutes.

Dane realized her camera was still hanging on a tree limb, and grabbed her rifle and empty pack, and headed back to the caribou carcasses. She looked up at the edge of the camp and fired at her last harvest tag.

Dane was whooping and hollering like a crazy person, and when she calmed down, she announced, "I am done. Yay, for Dane. 'Nanna-nanna-ding-dong' hooray! What a trip this has been. Three shots, three animals, and three clean, respectful harvests."

Dale and Tina, of course, figured out what happened and danced around with her. Part of hunting is sharing, an important part.

The skinning was routine and finished within an hour. When the cape is not saved, the work is much less tedious. They all said an acknowledgment of the death, renewal through the meat, and the experience of being in the wilderness before they returned to camp.

The meat racks were full, so Dale brought in a bunch of deadwood and created another rack for cooling the meat. The liver was soaked in milk, and everything was prepared.

Then Tina said, "I have something to say to both of you. My hunting partner is so unlike the two of you. I have had a constant good time since he left. Even when I was frozen with indecision about hunting without a kitchen and food, I knew I had to count on this camp for help. When I rose to come down here, the moon crept above the horizon and led me to your camp without a flashlight. I cannot thank you both for all you have done and how seamlessly you incorporated me in your hunting trip."

"Dale, when you woke me to kill my moose, I thought you were crazy for having me shoot it. It is so much of what we came out here for. I realized that you might not get a chance yourself. That is special, unusual behavior. How could a trip going so wrong turn out so right? I mean more than right; I mean correct and right. You acted as though you never considered shooting it yourself, and I do not want to know if you did. You gave away the shot. That is what I am saying."

"Dale, I thank you, and I am so happy I didn't miss."

As they lazed around camp, the alcohol flowed very steadily. Dale and Carl had planned on ten days, and it was going to be a shorter trip due to the successes. Tina had killed half of her tags, and tomorrow she would fill out. Dale still had a caribou tag and was confident that tomorrow would end his hunt. The two targets of this trip were on the shoreline. When they all had slowed enough to think, Tina asked Dale, "What did your moose measure? Dale looked at her, looked away, and said, I couldn't find the tape measure when I was there. I do not know."

Quiet descended, and then he said, "But I did cut off a piece of string the right length. We have to figure out how long the string is."

Tina got up, reached in her pack, and tossed the tape to Dale. She said, "Sorry, I put it in my pack instead of yours. Tell me, how big is your moose?"

The tape stopped as I slid it through my fingers along the string. The string stopped at seventy-four inches. I had guessed it at seventy-one after judging it against some known distances I knew of myself.

Tip to tip, thumb and longest finger for me is nine inches. But I always had come up short of seventy-two inches, the minimum legal size for the hunt. I was elated and said I was." I took the string to the lake edge and found the string was shorter than the antlers of Dane's moose. Her moose had much bigger paddles and longer tines. I looked forward to seeing them together, but not enough to haul mine a half-mile to camp.

When the trip ended, the two Wigeons loaded, the camp policed, no sign of who had been here was left. The two pilots were friends and enjoyed flying out in a loose formation and back again the same way.

Will's boss had called the Anchorage newspaper to tell them he would have a new record moose on the dock around six PM, maybe even two record moose. The newspaper and one TV station were awaiting us. I dodged them, handling all of the gear into the trucks. When I finished, the TV camera came around and interviewed me. They were, not surprisingly, more interested in the bear story than the two moose.

Tina and I swore to Dane that we would see her again soon, but life has a way of sorting reality for us in painful and often untimely ways. About a week after our trip, Tina was out someplace, getting the black wood from a water hole when something went terribly wrong, and she didn't return to her camp for her pick up. A search party arrived, and in about three hours, they found her floating in a water hole. No one could figure out what happened to her. The coroner said heart failure killed her; she didn't drown.

Dane's moose hangs in the entry to an Alaska Fish and Game office. Tina's picture hangs beside my moose above the fireplace in my home. Dane and I have finally gotten married, and the first baby was named Tina the very hour we found out Dane was pregnant.