6th Prize
Hunting Journal with Weatherby Logo (100 awarded)
Randy Carlson, Florida
“My dream hunt, the hunt of my lifetime, would take place in the northern regions of this great country. The hunt would take place in the rugged wilderness of Alaska. The game would be what I consider to be the king of the Northwoods, the Alaska...Yukon moose.
I grew up reading endless stories by fellows named O'Conner, Keith and others who told their tales of pursuing these creatures via horseback and by foot during the early parts of the last century. I still have some of the dog–earred copies of their old books and re–read them even today. Those stories of rugged conditons and tough men after the continent's largest member of the deer family have inspired me ever since.
Or perhaps it stems from my grandfather, a logger who once shot a moose to feed his logging camp in Ontario back in the 40s. He kept the small set of antlers in his camp for as long as I can remember. Years later, the camp was to be sold and the rack lay gathering dust in his basement. When I was about 14 or 15, they were going to be thrown away and I struck up a deal. If he would give the antlers to me, I would paint his house with my uncle. I've owned those antlers ever since and today they sit atop my gun cabinet. I would have painted the house for him though, antlers or not.
Like most hunters, sooner or later one gets the bug to hunt something that cannot be found in your neck of the woods. Living in Florida, that's not too hard to do. For years, I've dreamt of hunting moose, elk and bears. Recently I've even added sheep to the list of ‘must hunt,’ to say nothing of African game. Number one on the list though has always been moose. However, the realities of life are apparent and those adventures for me will be mostly dreams. With the birth of our first child a year ago, my wife and I are overjoyed with a healthy little boy. The financial responsibilties of children however is a little taxing at times. Combined with the modest salary of a local Deputy Sheriff and the fact an Alskan moose hunt is about half of my yearly take–home pay, most of my ‘dream hunts’ are mostly just dreams. It sure is nice to dream though.
I can envision riding a buckskin horse, a huge fellow I've given the name ‘Big Dummy’ that has fought with me the whole trip, alongside my wife Nicole (also an avid hunter) through the dense aspens and spruces of the north country. A chilly morning, perhaps a bit of frost or snow on the ground with the sun just beginning to streak across the Northwoods. In the distance a raven gives out his eerie yodel to let the world know it is dawn. The only other sounds to be heard are the breathing and footsteps of the horses and ‘Big Dummy.’
As the sun rises, the packtrain comes into an alpine meadow, with long streaks of sunlight reflecting the reds and yellows of aspen leaves. Dancing sunlight sparkles off the crystal clear waters of the pond in the middle of this beautiful place seldom visited by any man.
I can envision the guide dismounting his horse to try a few cow calls. Maybe even raking the brush with a small shed moose antler. The steam from our breath is the only impurity in the cold, clean air. The guide gets a response and motions for us to dismount. I slide my rifle from the scuffed leather scabbard and we sneak forward to the edge of the meadow. I can see myself taking a position next to a small spruce tree, it's soft boughs gently rubbing against me, and gently closing the bolt on my Weatherby Mark V. In .338–06 caliber...it is plenty enough gun for moose yet not too much for Nicole to use when it becomes her turn. But for now it is finally my turn as the glistening brass cartridge I've handloaded myself glides effortlessly into the rifle's chamber.
Then I see it, across the meadow, the reflection of sunlight on the wide palms of the animal I've been chasing since childhood. A magnificent animal that looks larger in life than I could have ever imagined. Slowly and majestically he moves towards us. I'm amazed at his size and how he can so easily cross the terrain that we struggle with. I can see myself staring at the bull as he nears us and I feel so small to be in witness of such a magnificent sight in this vast country. I can vaguely remember hearing the guide say shoot, or he's a shooter, or I'm just to mesmerized by the beautiful animal I've waited my whole life to see and hunt.
Before I can get a hold of myself the bull is near us. My wife, who has always been by my side, gives me a little nudge to bring me back to reality. The bull is hidden behind a stand of spruce trees as I raise my rifle. I ease forward the safety and all I need is a few more steps and he will be broadside to me about 40 yards ahead.
As soon as the bull clears the spruces, I take aim behind his shoulder and squeeze the silky smooth trigger. What happens next is not as crystal clear but it feels as though my rifle barely recoiled. I'm sure I hit the bull though as he started off in a slow trot towards the thick woods. In a moment of clarity, I chamber another round and lead the bull in my scope, squeezing the trigger again before he hits the thick timber. It is extra insurance that is not needed, I would find out later that both of the rounds were killing shots that had done their job perfectly.
After the echo's of my second shot finish reverberating off the adjacent mountainsides and the smell of gunpowder is slowly lifted away, I sit there next to my little spruce tree in awe of what had just played out. For several seconds I can only stare at the woods where I had last seen my bull.
Slowly I come back into reality again as I am suddenly aware of my wife's hugs and the handshake my guide is giving me. Congratulations are given all around as we wait anxiously a few minutes to give the moose time to expire without pushing him farther into the woods. The guide removes a thermos filled with coffee he brewed before daylight and the steam given off as his pours it is a reminder of the crisp air. Coffee is given all around and mine spills and stings my hands as the morning’s events start to hit me.
As we walk through the spruces and aspens I can see the huge white antlers of the old bull as he lay on his side. More congratulations are in order for such a magnificent animal and such a quick and humane kill. After the customary pictures are taken, the ‘real’ work will now begin. Nicole and our guide go to retrieve the horses and packing equipment and I tell them to go without me, I want to be here next to the bull by myself for a little while longer.
As the two of them leave me, I sit down next to my moose. I unchamber the round in my rifle and put it into my pocket, making a mental note to go back and find the spent casings as souveneirs. I brush his thick hide back smooth and run my hands along his majestic antlers and suddenly I feel that same feeling I get whenever I take the life of any animal. A sudden sadness overwhelms me and a slight tear is shed for the fallen moose, yet at the same time I'm overwhelmed with joy. A fitting emotion, and one I believe is possessed by any ‘true’ hunter. My sadness will be gradually overcome by my joy and success and I'm left with a few minutes alone with my moose before they return with the horses. I talk out loud to myself, to the bull, to God. I thank everyone that has made this dream come to reality. And I'm thankful to be able to finally stop ‘dreaming’ of moose hunting and can now get onto ‘reliving’ my moose hunt.
With the return of the others and our horses, we begin packing out the moose. The job will take all day but there is still plenty of time left in this hunt to enjoy. I dream that maybe someday I will be fortunate enough to return here with my son and let him have the same experiences.
Tomorrow will be another day and it will be Nicole's turn. I wonder if hers will be bigger than mine?”