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That evening would have us sitting around the campfire shooting the breeze, making amends for the missed opportunity, and reveling in the successful mule deer harvest. All along, I was thinking the boy would have bad dreams and a restless sleep over what could have been.
The second morning of the trip, I begin my ritualistic calling with a few grunts followed by the soft moans of an annoyed cow. I repeat and increase the sequences until I’m interrupted by a faint grunt in the far distance. It’s only been ten minutes and here he comes.
Not wasting any time, this bull is in full motion, strutting across the mossy floor under the tall pines, vocalizing the whole way from about 300 metres. I indicate to Mark where the bull should be if I can stop him with a light grunt. The bull comes along a small patch of spruce and pines keeping himself slightly covered. He’s only thirty metres in front of Mark when I grunt and he stops, but it’s not a clear shot yet. The bull takes a step and I see Mark let the arrow fly. I can see the glow of his knock passing through the small spruce and pine and slightly high. The bull takes off but stops about fifty metres away, out of sight for another shot. We watch in disbelief, as the bull ponders what to do. I try to lure him back into sight with a few more cow calls. He’s had enough of us though and saunters off to the south, swinging his long black bell from side to side, as he faded into the distant tree line.
Well, the disappointed twelve-year-old boy just reappeared but his disappointment has turned into frustration with a small dose of anxiety over what could have possibly been an awesome first-time archery moose accomplishment. But the story doesn’t end there.
Twenty minutes later, after the arrow was recovered, and because it had been less than an hour into the morning hunt, we would continue for a bit longer to see if the moose whisperer could drum up another love struck bull. I let Mark settle down for a few minutes to get his thoughts in order, knowing how the pressure to succeed would be stressful, as two failed attempts would have frazzled any hunter.
Now I go full throttle with the calls, loud and long drawn-out moans and bellows that could possibly be heard for many kilometres. I do this two times and listen for any sign of life beyond the swamp line. It’s one of those mornings you rarely have an opportunity to enjoy, where a mouse could sound like a deer from 100 metres away, yet again, there it is! A faint bark from the east of the swamp—it can’t be another bull that quick and exactly where the other bull had just came from, could it? We wait for a minute, thinking it might be a figment of our imagination. I send a few soft love calls out that way and within seconds, there it was again, a reply.
I see a big freight train coming hard and steady. I gestured Mark to be locked and loaded and standing in a shooting position, as this bull is bigger than the last two.
Mark is ready and the bull pauses at sixty metres. I give a mild grunt and he starts walking toward my direction and then pauses again. There’s a small clearing he needs to cross but instead he skirts to my left and there it is, a four by eight brown and black target forty metres directly in front of Mark, slightly quartered; there is no way he can miss this brilliant opportunity.
Now I’m the one having the anxiety attack, as I watch Mark in full draw. I see it before I hear it, the arrow is flying fast and it hits the zone. Again, like a freight train, the bull takes off, wounded and smashing down every small tree in his path, blood being evacuated with every breath he takes. The bull covered three-hundred metres in what seemed to be seconds, as I watched him disappear in the distance.
There it was, the adrenaline rush that was decades in the making. It was now going to take several minutes to get the heartbeat back to a normal rhythm and the legs to stop shaking.
The dream of a boy harvesting a moose with his bow, the excitement and yahoo gestures accompanied by a job well done from Dad. But the hunt wasn’t over yet, as the gasping of the bull could be heard in the distance, which was a great indication we would find this animal quickly.
We reviewed the video footage and scanned the area determining the shot was high, but still a good lung shot. We began to trail the bull for a short distance but then common sense kicked in when the blood trail faded into a mix of coloured grass and tea berries, accompanied with a huge pile of bear scat where the bull had been arrowed. We decided to wait for the assistance of Adam and Aaron.
We gather up the guys and head back to the area. Along the side of the abandoned road into the swamp, Adam stops and says he may have seen the moose on the edge of the road! Weird, I was thinking the bull should be farther into the swamp. We stop to take a good look and the moose he thought he had seen turns out to be a large sow black bear with three very large cubs. This scenario just put a bit of a hurry in our step, as it appeared the bears would have been no more than five hundred metres from where I suspected we would find the bull.
A twenty-minute search after the bull had taken a hard left proved Aaron had good eyes, as the bull’s antlers were spotted protruding high from the swamp grass off in the distance. Now the real celebration could begin with high fives and hugs all around—a proud father moment being a mentor and cameraman assisting his son fulfill his archery moose dream hunt, all while sharing it with friends is a memory that cannot be erased. ■
For previous Reader Stories click here.
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