Wednesday I spent much of the day hunting moose and/or mushrooms and hauling firewood to the cabin from the Blow Down. When evening came, I plopped down on the couch with the laptop for some less srenuous work while dinner heated and I waited for Michelle to come home.
As I’d hunted that day, I began to doubt my methods. I usually hunt on the peninsula only. I dream of bagging a moose within hiking distance of the cabin. I don’t want to drive up river and try to stalk a moose on unfamiliar land. If I could have my way, a legal bull would come to the property, where I could shoot it close to home, tools, hot water, and other luxuries.
I began to consider how few moose I’d seen during the annual hunt (see Moose Hunt News Flash: I Actually Saw One!). Sightings become so rare each year during the hunt that I began to think that I delude myself thinking a moose might be bagged on our peninsula within the time period.
I rose from the couch to check on something, glanced out the window, and found a moose.
Makin’ tracks! Our guesthouse path ripped up by moose (Photo: Mark A. Zeiger).
A big cow browsed the nasturtiums in the new raised beds near the solar array! I couldn’t believe it.
I grabbed for the camera to take a photo or two, but then I remembered that Michelle would arrive home any second. I didn’t want her to walk into the yard and come face to face with the moose.
I abandoned the camera, stepped out on to the porch and started yelling at the moose. Immediately, Michelle called out from just above the outhouse. She had, indeed, been about to enter the dooryard while the moose stood there.
The moose took off toward the guest cabin. We followed her down and confirmed that she’d climbed the cliff behind the cabin and left.
Immediately, I began to scheme. True, I couldn’t shoot the cow, but I realized that our compound might now have that funky cow moose phereomone fog that bulls find irresistable. I needed to exploit it if I could.
I thought about where the closest best place to shoot a moose might be. It occurred to me that the remains of a tree house the former owner’s children built above the guest house overlooked a prime spot! The cow had run right past the treehouse on her way out. I had a readymade blind!
The next morning I parked my butt in the tree house with my rifle and a few other supplies. I called for a long time, sat completely still and quiet for a much longer time.
I never saw or heard any moose. Even so, I’m assured. As the rut progresses, the bulls will likely try to go where the cows are. Maybe hunting close to home isn’t a complete waste of time after all.