Habits, Haunts and Anecdotes of the Moose and Illustrations from Life

by Charles Albert Jones

CHAPTER III.

Anecdotes of the Moose. A Large Bull in Three Hours. Moose will Answer a Call. Two Personal Experiences. From a Guide's Standpoint. Crack Shots. A Jack, a Moose, an Accident. A Noble Animal—but 't was June. The Ablest Romance in Moose History.

Picture a hungry group at supper around the camp-fire as night shuts down, when the noisy jest and laughter are suddenly interrupted by your guide. Listen! There it is again from over the lake,—the fierce challenge of the bull and the horn-like note of the cow! I'll not try to record the many exciting incidents of those glorious morning and evening watches; how this one saw his lordship in broad daylight swagger across the open, just out of rifle range; how that one, in the darkness of the homeward trail, called a jealous bull so near that he could hear him breathe ere the tell-tale human scent turned his course; or how another stalked a cow moose by mistake, and watched her some time, vainly hoping her lord would call; for every hunter knows of these slips, making success more pleasant when it is yours.

I must tell you, however, of that still October morning, of the faint mist rising from the lake, of the bright hills so fairly mirrored by the clear waters, and of the rising sun so dazzling on the mist and the water. Suddenly the guide and I drop the half-prepared breakfast and take to the canoe in haste. We had heard that note of notes—the angry challenge of a bull moose. The remembrance of that morning brings back the sound as I heard it a few miles away over the hills. Watch how the guide is carefully following the course of the sound. We soon reach the other side. There he is, head on! Wait! he may give a better shot. No! he sees the canoe. Shoot now or he will be gone! Bang! A miss, for he did not flinch! The smoke hides him! Bang! Bang! The guide has fired, too, but the smoke hampers both. There he goes, crashing through the thicket! Let's give him another for luck! He certainly was hard hit, and in that event it was best to let him go, for after a short period of time he would lie down, become stiff, and die. We paddled back to camp, finished breakfast, and in about three hours returned to the place from whence he had entered the woods, and there we found him, cold in death. He was a monster! A wealth of black, glossy hair, a splendid bell, and massive antlers, fit to adorn any mantel.

Photographed from Life.

Three days later another fine bull fell to my party. Just at sunset he was called out from across a pond, and strolled with that majestic woodland swagger through the shallow water. The first shot so confused him that he turned and came directly towards us, but soon veered off. At a closer range this might have been interpreted as a fierce charge of the dying bull, though it was merely an aimless start of surprise. He fell, with the ball behind his shoulder, and we found him quite dead. It was a fatal one, though it failed to stop him until he had gone fifty yards.

There was one section I had not visited, and this was to the east, in the direction of the brook which had proven too small for floating logs. So it was that after pulling the cabin door to, I made tracks toward the stream, which I knew must be asleep under four or five inches of ice and two feet of snow.

In half an hour's time I had reached the bank and crossed over, keeping close to it all the time. I had not gone far beyond the ravine-like formation with the brook hugging its lowest point, when there were unmistakable evidences of large game. Moose it was. Tracks as large as a cow, great rents in the snow crust, through which the brown earth showed in spots; these were some of the traces. I went back across the ravine and proceeded up-stream, following the east bank; saw several fresh tracks, but they were cows, and along in the afternoon, while travelling up an old brook, I saw the imprints of a large bull, and they were big ones, together with a cow and calf. It did not take me long to decide what to do, and as they followed the brook I knew that they had not heard me. The wind was favorable and they were working up

Photographed from Life.

into it. Finally they left the brook and that necessitated more caution on my part. I had covered about half a mile and I heard the cow calling. Suddenly she came into view. I worked up to within forty yards of her in hopes to find the bull, but ran into the calf, a two-year-old; luckily he did not see me. Things were getting interesting, with a moose on my left and another in front of me. Working my way cautiously along I heard the bull in the thick growth. He was so covered that I could hardly see him. By careful inspection, one antler and part of his shoulder showed. Raising my rifle I fired, at which he stepped into the clearing and stood defiant. What a noble looking fellow he was, and a monster in size as he stood there shaking his head, blood running from his mouth and nostrils. Once again I fired. As the last one struck he went down, the shot breaking his shoulder blade—another victim of the 30-30.

The experience of a young New Yorker will serve to exemplify both the uncertainty of moose calling and the manner in which it is prosecuted. He was hunting in the Bear River woods, accompanied by one of the most expert guides of that section. Two nights of calling proved fruitless. The sportsman frankly told his guide he had no faith in it, and that he did not believe a moose would come to the call of a man. This considerably ruffled the guide's conceit, and he resolved, if possible, to make a lasting impression to the contrary on the mind of his employer. That afternoon an ideal place for calling was chosen. The tent was pitched beside a giant boulder, on one side of which a narrow, open bog stretched away between wooded banks, and on the other a sort of natural park extended to the foot of a ridge covered with hard wood. The guide exacted the promise that his companion would not shoot until he gave the word. All arrangements being complete, as the sun was nearing the western horizon, the guide climbed to the top of the boulder and sounded the call.

Almost immediately, from the ridge, about two miles away, came the deep-voiced answer of an old bull. A few minutes sufficed to show that he was coming at a rapid pace. The guide continued to call at regular intervals, and in a few minutes another answer was heard far down the bog, though this time from a smaller moose. A few seconds later brought a reply from a third, in another direction. The sport was getting exciting. The guide came down from his perch on the rock and stationed his employer and himself behind a smaller boulder, over which it was possible to look while lying on the ground. The guide thought the young moose would not come up for fear of the larger ones, and of course the one he wanted was the monster that had first answered. In that, however, he was disappointed. The distance was considerable, and while the big bull was still a long way off he was

BULL MOOSE IN CARIBOU LAKE.
Photographed from Life.

interrupted and turned from his course by another party of hunters. The little one on the bog ceased to answer, but the large one that had started last was, when the sun went down, already quite near, and coming steadily along. When the moose was about breaking cover the guide climbed partly up the big rock and noted the direction from which he was coming, satisfying himself the game would appear on the side of the boulder on which they were stationed. Another call, and the bull's hoofs were heard beating the firm ground as he trotted up the slope toward the men. In full view of the hunters, and about ten yards from them, grew a bunch of sapling birches. There the moose paused and began a furious onslaught with his antlers. Having tired of that, he turned toward the hunters, and going down on his knees plowed his horns along the ground some distance, tossing them, well loaded with vines, moss, and earth. With a snort, he shook these from his head, the dirt falling on and around the two men lying behind the rock. The city man about that time was enjoying his first acute attack of moose fever. His teeth fairly chattered, and the guide had to grip his rifle barrel to prevent it from rattling against the rock. Again the moose came on and stood with his broadside toward them, not more than twelve feet from the muzzle of the rifle. That was about as close quarters as the guide cared for on his own account, so he gave the word to fire. The moose went down with the shot, but immediately rose to his feet again. Again the rifle spoke, and down he went, only to rise again. The third shot, however, dropped him for the last time. Any of them would have proved fatal, but the moose was too close for the men to take any chances.

The sportsman was convinced a moose would come at a man's call, and was so excited over the fact that he slept none on that night.

I recall an experience of mine with an old bull on Pockwockamus Dead Water (from my note book), Oct. 21, 1899.

I had gone only a few steps when I heard the splashing of a moose around the bend of the stream ahead. There was a stretch of sand that led to an island for which I made. There I concealed myself in the brush. I could hear the big fellow wading along and ploughing through the reeds. I first saw his antlers above the brush, and then his majestic head appeared. That was all he would show, as he suspected a hidden foe and was on the lookout for any apparent danger. For distance, he was about one hundred yards from me and close inshore. Finally an opportunity presented itself, and I raised my rifle and let go through the leaves where his neck should be. At the report he made a quick turn and disappeared in the thick growth. I dashed through the water, which was only about three feet deep, up the opposite bank, and pushed my way through the bushes to where I had last seen him. There he lay. My shot was fatal. As I appeared he snorted at me and tried to regain his feet, but his efforts were ineffectual. I then put him out of his misery with a shot through the heart.

COW MOOSE IN UMSASKIS LAKE.
Photographed from Life.

Still another is worthy of mention.

At one time the guide and myself were coming back to camp, just about dusk, after a long tramp, and were within sight of the tents, when we heard a moose off to the right and close to the trail. The guide tried to coax him out of the thicket by gently sounding the birch horn, which he had with him. The moose turned with a crash and ran towards us, grunting all the time. We were crouched behind a pile of birch brush. The big fellow kept coming, until it seemed as if he might at any moment jump over the brush pile and appear before us. It was too dark to shoot, so I slightly changed my position, thinking I might see the moose outlined against the sky. Just as I moved, the moose turned, ran some distance back into the woods and stopped, grunting again as if he was not certain about it all; but he was soon off, this time silently.

The next morning I was out early examining the tracks, and found it only sixteen paces from where we were behind the brush pile to where his lordship had been standing. I could see where he had barked the trees with his antlers when he was first frightened.

It is fortunate for some of the sportsmen who journey to the north woods after big game in the fall that their guides live so far away, otherwise their reputation might suffer. This concerns both their personal traits and their ability as hunters. Camp life brings out a man's true qualities. The experience of a sportsman during his first attempt to lure a moose from his home in the forest is related as follows:—

One of the party tried his luck at calling. He left the guide at the camp. Quietly hiding among some shrubs, he gave a gentle but long-drawn-out call and waited results. Hardly had the notes died away than there was a tremendous crash, the alders parted, and the head of a large bull moose appeared in the leafy frame within ten feet of the hunter. This abrupt entrance dumfounded the sportsman whose confusion and consternation were pretty evenly balanced at a moment when he needed his wits. Who was the more frightened it was hard to tell. At any rate the caller returned to camp posthaste minus his gun, horn, and hat, and with an expression that was indeed pitiable.

A guide, who had a well-known preacher in the woods for a short time one season, refused to take him the following year. On being asked the reason he said:—

"That man cares only for himself and thinks his guide can be wound up with a key to work like a machine. He may be good enough to preach the Gospel, but he ain't good enough for me to guide."

YOUNG BULL AND COW MOOSE SWIMMING.
(Lobster Lake.)
Photographed from Life.

Many are the stories told by the guides about the unsuccessful sportsmen who lack the moral courage to go home empty-handed. So accustomed have the guides become to this sort of thing that they take it for granted, unless instructed to the contrary, that they are to kill the game their employer is to take home with him, provided he does not meet with success in the early part of the hunt.

Another guide has to say of visiting sportsmen: "Some of them shoot all right, of course, but others are regular Spaniards. I had a fellow up this way last fall that thought he was death on anything walking on four legs, and that his gun was the best shooting tool ever turned out of a gun factory. I paddled him right up to a bull moose standing in the water one day, and he fired every shot in his magazine at it without rumpling a hair.

"He didn't know enough to stop pumping the lever when all his shells were gone, and just about then I chipped in with my rifle and put a ball through the moose's shoulder that dropped him handy to the bank. The sportsman was in the act of pulling the trigger of his empty gun, when he saw the moose fall, and he didn't for a moment doubt but what he had killed him. He felt so good that he rose right up in the canoe and yelled, and the next thing I knew the canoe kind of slid out from under us and over we went into four feet of mud and water."

BULL MOOSE IN CARIBOU LAKE.
Photographed from Life.

A New York sportsman had his guide call a moose into the East Branch thoroughfare one evening just before dark, and the guide tells of his difficulty in pointing him out to the sportsman, who happened to be nearsighted. The moose walked right out into the water away from the concealment of the bushes and stopped. The guide nudged the sportsman and whispered to shoot.

"Shoot what?" said the sportsman in a louder tone than was prudent under the circumstances. "I don't see anything to shoot."

"Shoot the moose," he whispered again, "there he stands under that broken-topped spruce."

The lawyer craned his neck and peered into every shadow but the right one. Two or three rods below the moose was a clump of bushes growing out beyond the general shore line. The lawyer finally singled this out as the moose and opened fire. He was perfectly cool, and every one of his shots went straight to the centre of the object at which he was firing.

Moose are notoriously slow to start when alarmed, provided they have not scented the hunter, and the one in question stood motionless until the sportsman had fired five shots at his inanimate target and had but one cartridge left in the magazine. Then the moose turned to escape, and, as luck would have it, dashed directly into the line of fire. The lawyer saw it, and with his sixth and last shot dropped the moose stone dead.

BULL MOOSE IN ALLAGASH STREAM.
(St. John Waters.)
Photographed from Life.

On another occasion, a sportsman, to show his contempt for Maine's prohibition law, got gloriously full every day before ten o'clock.

The guide left him in the canoe one afternoon while he went ashore to look for some game signs on a bog near at hand. As he was returning he saw a nice moose step out of cover within ridiculously easy rifle shot of the sportsman. The sportsman at once opened fire on the moose, but after many shots the animal trotted off, untouched.

"'T was this haway," said the bibulous hunter, in explaining his misses, "when that moose came out there was only one, all right enough, but when I cut loose with the old gun, blame if the moose didn't double up into two. I couldn't shoot both at once, and while I was pumping it into one the other got away. Mus' ha' been I shot at the wrong moose."

"You want to hear how my sports shoot?" said another native guide. "Well, I'll tell you a little story and then you can judge for yourself. I started out on the river one afternoon with a man from Boston, to look for moose. It was a nice, quiet afternoon, and a good one to get game. We dropped down stream with the current, and the first thing we knew there was a big bull moose right out in the centre of the stream, sousing his head under

BULL AND COW MOOSE.
Photographed from Life.

water, and feeding on the lily roots. Mr. A. was paralyzed at the sight, for he never attempted to shoot. I held the canoe by putting my paddle down to the bottom, to give him a chance to recover his nerve, and after a while he realized what was expected of him, raised his rifle and fired. The shot did not go any where near the moose, and the animal just raised his head and stood there, looking back over its shoulder. I whispered to Mr. A.: 'You missed. Shoot again.' As it happened, my paddle slipped off into deep water, and we were floating down on the moose and getting a good deal closer than necessary. Mr. A. raised his gun and shot again, and then, as the moose started to walk towards the bank, he got the action limbered up and fired four more shots as quick as he could work the lever. None of them touched the moose, and it moved off into the bushes, without seeming to mind the racket very much. The moose wasn't nearly as rattled as Mr. A. That man was completely prostrated with excitement. Nothing would do but we must go straight back to camp. He said his nerves were too badly broken up to stand anything more of the kind that day.

"Well, sir, we hadn't gone more than three hundred yards on our return trip, when I saw another bull on the bog adjacent to the stream. I paddled Mr. A. within good, easy range, and he tried his luck again, but the bullet struck the water twenty feet to the right. With that he began to swear, and he threw his rifle down on the bottom of the canoe, cussing it and everything else in sight. The moose gave a sudden jump and disappeared in the alders. I reckon the swearing scared it more than the shooting.

MOOSE CALVES LEAVING WATER.
(Mud Pond Region.)
Photographed from Life.

"We hadn't more than a mile to go to reach camp, when Providence, just to tantalize that man, gave him another opportunity. As we came around the last bend, there stood a bull and a cow on the bank, not a great way off. Mr. A. shot twice at the bull, as he stood there, and never touched a hair. ''T ain't no use trying,' he said, 'I can shoot at a paper target all right, but when it comes to game it's a different matter.' If all the hunters who go into Maine could shoot as well in the woods as they can at a mark there wouldn't be a decent head left in the State.

"Now, there is a sample of your city sportsmen. That man fired nine shots at those moose and he never drew blood, and I could have hit the larger majority of them with a brick. Yes, sir; if I'd had a good brick I could have swatted any one of those animals in the short ribs."

COW MOOSE SWIMMING MOOSEHEAD LAKE
Photographed from Life.

One of the most amusing incidents to others than the participants, and a most painful one to them, was the experience of two young moose hunters from far off Oregon, who tried their luck in the lower Dead River region of Maine with a jack. The night selected was one of exceptional darkness, the scene, a large bog about five miles from camp, and all conditions pointed to a most successful first attempt at this most unsportsmanlike branch of hunting. Supper over, with both eager for the fray, an early start was in order, and soon the silent craft with its over-anxious freight left the bank and started down stream. The intense stillness of an early summer night was not broken save by an occasional muskrat hurrying to its home in the bank or the ripples playing round the bow of their canoe. Mile after mile was reeled off, when suddenly a loud splashing was heard dead ahead in the stream. It was a simple matter for the man with the jack to light it, but his experience with the instrument in question was limited, and he had not discovered the slide arrangement by which the light is quickly covered without extinguishing it. The splashing continued, and both were undecided whether to back out of their present position or light up and see what the real cause of the disturbance was. The man in the stern suggested that the lamp had better remain in the bottom of the canoe, while his friend in the bow considered it far better to have a little light on the subject and therefore be able to get their bearings. By scratching a match and connecting it with the wick, the jack threw a strong light far ahead on the silent waters. It required but a second to see a large dark object ten rods ahead, waist deep in the water, and standing head on. Moose fever had attacked both of the men, and they sat motionless

TWO MAGNIFICENT TROPHIES OF THE CHASE.
The one on the left formerly held the Maine Record.

as the large black object cautiously moved nearer, wondering at each step who was challenging him in his woodland retreat. By a superhuman effort the stern man, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, told his friend to extinguish the light, as the animal would be upon them in a short space of time. The animal, which proved to be a large bull moose, decided that a closer inspection of these trespassers was in order. He was now scarce a rod away, and the light from the jack being exceedingly bright made him somewhat bewildered, with the result that he charged the canoe. The water, being shallow at this point, favored the men and prevented a possible catastrophe. His lordship jumped in and the men jumped out of the canoe. They crawled to the bank and secreted themselves as best they could under a neighboring tree, while the animal made short work of the frail craft he had suddenly taken possession of. A reasonable time having expired, the guides at the camp became somewhat anxious as to the safety of their charges, and started in search. At the approach of another craft the moose trotted off into the woods, leaving the thoroughly frightened sportsmen in their undesirable position, where they were found and taken back to camp, two sadder, and I might add, wiser Oregonians.

YOUNG BULL MOOSE CAUGHT IN DEEP SNOW.
(Northern Aroostook.)
Photographed from Life.