*Please forgive the poor picture quality, they’re pictures of pictures taken quite a few years ago.*
After finishing my senior year of high school with a 4.0 GPA and scheduled to leave state for school that fall, my parents surprised me with an unexpected proposition. Before leaving, my Dad and I were going to be flown out for a bomber style moose hunt. We would fly out on Friday night, hunt Saturday and Sunday, fly home on Monday, get cleaned up, pack and leave for Wyoming on Wednesday. What could possibly go wrong?
As I’m typing this out, I cannot help but sidetrack briefly while the “Coffee” thread comes to mind. One of my fondest memories from growing up is the smell of coffee, in our house, that meant Dad was home. He was a long haul driver for a fuel company and remains the hardest worker I have ever met. Providing for a family of five to the standards he thought we deserved meant he was gone far more than he was home. While Dad was trying to get ahead on his workload to take time off, I was busy at home packing our gear. That has been our practice since I was really young. Mom took care of the food to make sure we had enough PBJ’s, cookies, and trail mix that we couldn’t possibly starve but most importantly, she made sure there was enough coffee that Dad didn’t come unhinged and bury me. Sipping scalding hot coffee on a cold fall hillside while eating trail mix with my Dad, well that’s heaven right there.
This trip started just like the rest of ours, Dad was working until the last minute and I was home packing our gear. When he pulled in the driveway, I threw our gear into the bed of the truck and we promptly left for the hunt. It took over an hour to drive out to the lake where the Cub was staged. The weather cooperated perfectly that evening and I was airborne shortly. If you’ve never ridden in a Super Cub through the Alaskan backcountry in the fall, it is worth every single penny. The fall colors look as though they’ve been painted across the hills with brilliant greens, reds and yellows. The undeveloped vast expanses of wild are seemingly endless. As we buzzed along low enough to spot animals, it didn’t take long before the plywood (moose antlers) seemed to pop out of the colors. We found a nice bull with a lake nearby to land on which made our decision for location easy. After a quick splash, I was unloaded and pushed the plane off the bank. As the pilot made his way back to get Dad, I got camp set and ready for the hunt. Dad was dropped off and we watched the Cub take off once more. As he disappeared from our view, the growing silence was peacefully refreshing. Well, until Dad found his sleeping bag, good Lord that man can snore…..
The early fall morning came right on time and we were up just as the sun was beginning to glow behind the horizon. After three gallons of coffee for the old man, we packed day bags and headed to where we had seen the bull yesterday evening. The area we were hunting has rolling hills that transform quickly into mountains. Picking one of the bigger hills to gain a glassing vantage, we beat brush to a small clearing just at tree line. As the sun rose and the morning fog from the lakes began to burn off, we could not find the bull. After hours of glassing the same area, the bull did what only animals can do, he stood up out of thin air. It just amazes me that an animal as large as a moose with huge white palms protruding from it’s head, can lay down and vanish. As quickly as we saw him, his harem of cows began to appear scattered about the draw. My heart was in my throat immediately, not 800 yards away was the type of bull I had dreamed about since I was little. Dropping my pack with Dad, I snuck down the hill closer to the bull. By the time I had reached the bottom, the brush had thickened and somehow that easy stalk became sickening, I could not find the bull.
Several times I drew my rifle up to scan the brush for antlers through my scope but each time I was disappointed. As I was raising my rifle, Dad was equally dismayed that I hadn’t shot one of those times. He was glassing through binos watching me and the moose simultaneously. The moose was aware of my intrusion and became annoyed with my presence. He slowly ambled away with his cows tailing shortly after. Becoming frustrated, I marched back up the hill to chat with coach. It hurt even more knowing that he could see the moose the whole time but had no way to help.
Back to the clearing we went for more quality glass time. We scanned that afternoon and into the evening with no luck. The bitter taste of defeat is horrible when you’ve already picked out a spot for that 65”+ bull at home on the wall. Dad quickly scolded my piss poor attitude and reminded me it was the first day, what did I really expect?
The next morning began just like the one prior, three gallons of coffee, morning fog and welcomed a gorgeous sunrise to push away the cold. Near the midday point we moved to a further valley with views of a new area. Dad jokingly kept reaching over and pointing my binos down to a closer area but I could swear I saw plywood flashing waaaaay over there. Pulling out my spotter, brought Dad’s nightmare to fruition. Damnit junior, you had to find a moose as far away as possible didn’t you? This is where Dad being a hard worker comes into play. He would never in a million years turn down an opportunity to make his kids happy no matter the pain.
With any adrenaline filled hike, it seemed like a few short minutes before we were at the last spot we had seen him which was an odd shaped spruce we picked to serve as a landmark. When we reached the tree again, the brush was thicker than it had looked from the hillside. I scanned again almost losing hope for fear of repeating yesterdays events. This bull made one mistake however, he moved at the exact right moment. Shouldering my hand-me-down sporterized 1903 Enfield .30-06 (which is a story in and of itself for another time), I stomped the bull with two quick rounds.
After the grip and grins were over, the enormity of the task at hand began to set in. We were over two brush busting miles from the lake with a huge moose down and it was now approaching Sunday evening. While two miles may not seem far, soft tundra that is akin to walking across a saturated mattress makes for a hellish experience. Keep in mind, I have to be on the road to move to Wyoming on Wednesday morning. We gutted the moose, loaded our packs heavy and pushed back to camp that night. Reaching camp well after dark, we hung the meat and slept for a couple hours.
Up early, we humped it back to the moose and began the arduous task of meat mode. Our pilot flew over to pick us up and saw what we were up against. That pilot was my best buddy’s Dad and also a guide. He knew I was leaving state soon so he took the meat from camp and flew out. Grabbing his oldest son, they flew back in and the two of them hiked in with packs to help. Each of them carried well over 100 lbs back out in a trip. Words cannot describe how grateful we were. They began ferrying meat with the Cub while we went in for our last load, mine was the antlers. Having packed those out, I can see why my Dad never packed his out of the field before it was required. He was always a meat hunter and never cared for the trophy side of hunting. Well, I’ll be honest, I wanted that rack BAD and I paid for it through the willows and alders. The whole time I kept telling myself this was nothing compared to what my brother had gone through. I was convinced that rocking his leftover, shirts from training somehow made me tougher. With bleeding shoulders and hips, I limped the final stretch to the lake and crashed onto the ground. We made it, finally!
Back at the house Monday evening, we hung the meat overnight. A hot shower and a warm bed felt amazing. Tuesday morning we were up early again, Dad got up and went to work while Mom and I cut meat all day. A barbecue that evening with never frozen backstrap and potatoes from the garden was just what the doctor ordered. Dad even managed to make it home while the food was still warm. Wednesday morning, we left on schedule for Wyoming.
I’m writing and reminiscing about the sense of euphoric accomplishment sitting in the back of the Cub as the floats left the water that evening. If I had been asked right then and there if I would head out again the next day, absolutely. The pain subsides but the memories made, those last forever. I posed the question, what could go wrong? That weekend, nothing, He blessed us.
After finishing my senior year of high school with a 4.0 GPA and scheduled to leave state for school that fall, my parents surprised me with an unexpected proposition. Before leaving, my Dad and I were going to be flown out for a bomber style moose hunt. We would fly out on Friday night, hunt Saturday and Sunday, fly home on Monday, get cleaned up, pack and leave for Wyoming on Wednesday. What could possibly go wrong?
As I’m typing this out, I cannot help but sidetrack briefly while the “Coffee” thread comes to mind. One of my fondest memories from growing up is the smell of coffee, in our house, that meant Dad was home. He was a long haul driver for a fuel company and remains the hardest worker I have ever met. Providing for a family of five to the standards he thought we deserved meant he was gone far more than he was home. While Dad was trying to get ahead on his workload to take time off, I was busy at home packing our gear. That has been our practice since I was really young. Mom took care of the food to make sure we had enough PBJ’s, cookies, and trail mix that we couldn’t possibly starve but most importantly, she made sure there was enough coffee that Dad didn’t come unhinged and bury me. Sipping scalding hot coffee on a cold fall hillside while eating trail mix with my Dad, well that’s heaven right there.
This trip started just like the rest of ours, Dad was working until the last minute and I was home packing our gear. When he pulled in the driveway, I threw our gear into the bed of the truck and we promptly left for the hunt. It took over an hour to drive out to the lake where the Cub was staged. The weather cooperated perfectly that evening and I was airborne shortly. If you’ve never ridden in a Super Cub through the Alaskan backcountry in the fall, it is worth every single penny. The fall colors look as though they’ve been painted across the hills with brilliant greens, reds and yellows. The undeveloped vast expanses of wild are seemingly endless. As we buzzed along low enough to spot animals, it didn’t take long before the plywood (moose antlers) seemed to pop out of the colors. We found a nice bull with a lake nearby to land on which made our decision for location easy. After a quick splash, I was unloaded and pushed the plane off the bank. As the pilot made his way back to get Dad, I got camp set and ready for the hunt. Dad was dropped off and we watched the Cub take off once more. As he disappeared from our view, the growing silence was peacefully refreshing. Well, until Dad found his sleeping bag, good Lord that man can snore…..
The early fall morning came right on time and we were up just as the sun was beginning to glow behind the horizon. After three gallons of coffee for the old man, we packed day bags and headed to where we had seen the bull yesterday evening. The area we were hunting has rolling hills that transform quickly into mountains. Picking one of the bigger hills to gain a glassing vantage, we beat brush to a small clearing just at tree line. As the sun rose and the morning fog from the lakes began to burn off, we could not find the bull. After hours of glassing the same area, the bull did what only animals can do, he stood up out of thin air. It just amazes me that an animal as large as a moose with huge white palms protruding from it’s head, can lay down and vanish. As quickly as we saw him, his harem of cows began to appear scattered about the draw. My heart was in my throat immediately, not 800 yards away was the type of bull I had dreamed about since I was little. Dropping my pack with Dad, I snuck down the hill closer to the bull. By the time I had reached the bottom, the brush had thickened and somehow that easy stalk became sickening, I could not find the bull.
Several times I drew my rifle up to scan the brush for antlers through my scope but each time I was disappointed. As I was raising my rifle, Dad was equally dismayed that I hadn’t shot one of those times. He was glassing through binos watching me and the moose simultaneously. The moose was aware of my intrusion and became annoyed with my presence. He slowly ambled away with his cows tailing shortly after. Becoming frustrated, I marched back up the hill to chat with coach. It hurt even more knowing that he could see the moose the whole time but had no way to help.
Back to the clearing we went for more quality glass time. We scanned that afternoon and into the evening with no luck. The bitter taste of defeat is horrible when you’ve already picked out a spot for that 65”+ bull at home on the wall. Dad quickly scolded my piss poor attitude and reminded me it was the first day, what did I really expect?
The next morning began just like the one prior, three gallons of coffee, morning fog and welcomed a gorgeous sunrise to push away the cold. Near the midday point we moved to a further valley with views of a new area. Dad jokingly kept reaching over and pointing my binos down to a closer area but I could swear I saw plywood flashing waaaaay over there. Pulling out my spotter, brought Dad’s nightmare to fruition. Damnit junior, you had to find a moose as far away as possible didn’t you? This is where Dad being a hard worker comes into play. He would never in a million years turn down an opportunity to make his kids happy no matter the pain.
With any adrenaline filled hike, it seemed like a few short minutes before we were at the last spot we had seen him which was an odd shaped spruce we picked to serve as a landmark. When we reached the tree again, the brush was thicker than it had looked from the hillside. I scanned again almost losing hope for fear of repeating yesterdays events. This bull made one mistake however, he moved at the exact right moment. Shouldering my hand-me-down sporterized 1903 Enfield .30-06 (which is a story in and of itself for another time), I stomped the bull with two quick rounds.
After the grip and grins were over, the enormity of the task at hand began to set in. We were over two brush busting miles from the lake with a huge moose down and it was now approaching Sunday evening. While two miles may not seem far, soft tundra that is akin to walking across a saturated mattress makes for a hellish experience. Keep in mind, I have to be on the road to move to Wyoming on Wednesday morning. We gutted the moose, loaded our packs heavy and pushed back to camp that night. Reaching camp well after dark, we hung the meat and slept for a couple hours.
Up early, we humped it back to the moose and began the arduous task of meat mode. Our pilot flew over to pick us up and saw what we were up against. That pilot was my best buddy’s Dad and also a guide. He knew I was leaving state soon so he took the meat from camp and flew out. Grabbing his oldest son, they flew back in and the two of them hiked in with packs to help. Each of them carried well over 100 lbs back out in a trip. Words cannot describe how grateful we were. They began ferrying meat with the Cub while we went in for our last load, mine was the antlers. Having packed those out, I can see why my Dad never packed his out of the field before it was required. He was always a meat hunter and never cared for the trophy side of hunting. Well, I’ll be honest, I wanted that rack BAD and I paid for it through the willows and alders. The whole time I kept telling myself this was nothing compared to what my brother had gone through. I was convinced that rocking his leftover, shirts from training somehow made me tougher. With bleeding shoulders and hips, I limped the final stretch to the lake and crashed onto the ground. We made it, finally!
Back at the house Monday evening, we hung the meat overnight. A hot shower and a warm bed felt amazing. Tuesday morning we were up early again, Dad got up and went to work while Mom and I cut meat all day. A barbecue that evening with never frozen backstrap and potatoes from the garden was just what the doctor ordered. Dad even managed to make it home while the food was still warm. Wednesday morning, we left on schedule for Wyoming.
I’m writing and reminiscing about the sense of euphoric accomplishment sitting in the back of the Cub as the floats left the water that evening. If I had been asked right then and there if I would head out again the next day, absolutely. The pain subsides but the memories made, those last forever. I posed the question, what could go wrong? That weekend, nothing, He blessed us.
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