MOUNTAIN MOOSE MEMORIES

BY KIM SCHWANKY

As I felt my feet rise up the three inches from the forest floor to the asphalt, my body flooded with emotions. I had forty yards to complete this day but could I do it? I paused for a moment and convincingly told myself I could. I have to do this! I dropped my head and forged ahead, thirty yards to the truck, now twenty, now ten. I struggled frantically to place the burden of my backpack, weighing in excess of 100 pounds, onto the tailgate of the pick-up.

Once freed I laid beside the pack containing the fruits of my labour and attempted to deal with the most profound physical and mental exhaustion I had ever experienced and at the same time the undeniable high produced from what I had just accomplished. I could feel tears well up in my eyes and I wondered if I should laugh or cry. I had just lived through the most unbelievable day of my existence.

It had really started out as a very innocent day. Two days prior I sustained a very bad cat bite to the middle finger on my right hand. Being a veterinarian holds many exciting moments, not all of which are pleasant. My doctor suggested I go to the hospital because the infection was deep and rapidly spreading. I declined and instead started on mega doses of oral antibiotics.

Because I was feeling so nauseous on the drugs and my finger was throbbing continually, my husband and hunting guide T.J. decided to scout an area close to home, where a fellow hunter had spotted moose earlier in the week. We glassed several slopes from the road and walked into a few meadows but to no avail. Not a moose to be seen, not even any fresh sign. T.J. suggested we travel further west to a valley he had come to call the VALLEY OF THE GRIZZLY, where he would "guarantee" me a good mountain bull moose. We agreed to try to hike up to the spot and if I wasn't feeling well once we started, we would postpone the hunt to another day.

Arriving late in the morning at the trailhead we prepared our backpacks. A ranger informed us that a large blonde, boar grizzly had been in the parking lot early that morning but that he wasn't a problem bear. Certainly I felt a lot better knowing that! I am deathly afraid of bears and as far as I am concerned, one within five miles of me is a problem. However, my trusty guide reassured me that we probably would not even see him. So with finger throbbing we began our assent up the trail.

After thirty minutes of walking we left the park boundary and began our search for moose. We moved into the willows and spruce and slowly still hunted, looking for tracks and spoor as we went. Pristine white snow was scattered throughout the dense cover and the grizzly paw prints that freshly christened the crystals were the last thing I wanted to see.

Again T.J. consoled me but added to keep an eye out behind us, just in case. Just in case what? I was starting to question my sanity as T.J. was not hunting and therefore not carrying a rifle. I wasn't sure that the 30-06 Husqavarna in my quivering grip would be the least bit effective if that "just in case" situation arrived. Quietly we moved along for another mile. We entered into an opening and glassed all around us. Mule deer played on the side hills; birds flew overhead but still no sign of moose.

T.J. was about to step into a thicket of willows when he turned and whispered to me "You know, this would be a great spot for a ... " and there he was. No more than twenty feet away. I felt that I could reach out and stroke the rich blonde hair. T.J. read my mind, taking the rifle from me and telling me not to move. The big grizzly began to drift off and as he did, T.J. and I slowly backed up while yelling at him. For several minutes after, all I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears.

T.J.'s lips were moving but what was he saying? Finally my heart rate decreased and I quit gasping for air but still could not hear my highly qualified guide because I was yelling obscenities. I was getting the @*@#& out of here and you would have to be nuts to shoot anything with this many @*#& bears around. Finally, with a great deal of effort I was convinced to go just over the hill into an old moose camp where we could make a fire and have lunch.

Little did I know that the day had just begun.

As we approached the fire pit at the camp, strong urine like smell saturated my olfactory system. I queried T.J. on the odour. Immediately west of the site he found a moose wallow that was emitting the scent. He felt it was fresh and suggested that after a short break we would try calling a moose in. The fire was warm and soothing, especially in the light snow that was now falling.

Soon I felt relaxed. There was a fresh moose track at the edge of the camp so we decided to follow it into the spruce. T.J. stopped periodically and called using a low guttural sound. No answer. After 45 minutes of unsuccessful sneaking and calling, the now heavy snowfall convinced us it was time to head back. T.J. felt since it was only mid September that the moose may not yet be into full rut and that we might be better rewarded in a couple more weeks.

We paused for one last glance back before leaving. " What is that?" I whispered. It was the paddle of a bull moose's antler. There he was, not more than eighty yards away standing partially concealed by the trees. This was my chance, except I was having a hard time getting oriented to shoot. I could only visualize one antler. It seemed like the rest of him just blended into the greenery. I tried to position myself for a better view but the bull retreated back into the forest.

We pursued him and T.J. embarked on a dialogue with the bull. If I was not right next to T.J. as he called and the moose answered, I would never have known who was vocalizing. My guide knew his work well. T.J. continued to call while frantically thrashing a willow. The moose moved into a small opening 30 yards away but did not hesitate long enough for a clear shot. (I am absolutely fanatical about a perfect shot and have never relished the thought of tracking a wounded animal.)

He continued crashing though the timber with the force of a locomotive. Again we followed. His trail dwindled in the dead fall but we pressed on. The woods had taken on an eerie silence as we edged onto a game trail. Suddenly, there he was, 30 yards to the left. I swung around, lowering my four-power Leupold scope square on his chest.

For a split second I saw him drop his head and some where in the distance I heard "Shoot! He's going to charge!" The rifle shot echoed in my ears as I reloaded. The moose jumped and wheeled hard to the right. Adrenalin was coursing through my veins from the threat of the charge, causing me to shake so bad that I could hardly hold my gun. The bull was still standing but swaying to and fro. I shot again and he dropped to the ground.

The remorse I always experience after killing something inundated me as I stood above this beautiful, immense creature. This was my first moose, a Shiras Moose taken on a hunt that was second to none. I marvelled at the pure size of the beast, his rank smell and his unusual antlers. It was obvious why I had not seen a second antler. The left antler was perfectly formed while the right was non-typical, sweeping down like the horn on a cape buffalo.

It was 3:30 p.m. when we began field dressing and deboning the bull. I was very little help because of my infected finger but managed to hold up legs to assist T.J. in the process. He worked quickly and efficiently and by 5:30 p.m. we were loading the last of the meat into our packs. T.J. lashed the skull and antlers onto my pack and then balanced it as I squirmed into the shoulder straps.

I stood up and staggered under the weight, moved ahead three steps, teetered and fell on my back. I lay there totally helpless like a turtle rolled onto its shell. This was going to

be a long four miles. We readjusted the packs and T.J. took the antlers. This was much better for me because even though the weight was still crushing it didn't throw me off balance. We began our journey; me with a little over one hundred pounds and T.J. with a whopping two hundred.

The initial part of the trail, through the flat moose meadow, seemed relatively straightforward. My eyes focused on the ground directly in front of my feet, the weight of my backpack forcing me to do so. I shuffled one foot in front of the other to create forward motion. Our final destination felt achievable at this pace, until we reached the first hill. I wobbled back and forth as commenced the ascent. Every time I lifted my boot more than three inches off the ground, my body would list to that side and I had to fight hard to maintain my semi-upright position. A third of the way up the hill I thought death was a viable alternative. I had to rest. The physical stamina now being demanded of me seemed more than I was capable of.

T.J. stopped to wait for me. He made it look so easy. He appeared so comfortable, so confident. I envied his strength and mental control. I pressed on envisioning what lay ahead. Another mile of this up and down terrain that included a wide, wet river crossing. Quickly I came to the reality that I was never going to make it out of here if I kept thinking this way. I literally had to take it one step at a time.

We crested the first hill, rested briefly then headed down the backside. At the base of the next knoll I counted my steps as I moved up the incline, promising myself that when I had walked thirty steps I could rest. This soon became a large part of my motivation. I found that I could push myself to thirty steps on uphills and seventy-five on the flats. Without playing this mind game, I could barely move ahead.

Upon joining T.J. at the top, it was apparent that death was more than a viable alternative. Three hundred yards to the southwest, T.J. pointed out a huge boar grizzly sitting on a boulder, watching us as we watched him. The message he sent out across the valley was clear "This is my domain."

I felt intensely ill at ease. Partly because we were heading in that direction and would have to pass about 100 yards directly below the bear to hook up with the main trail but mostly because I felt like a walking dessert parlour with a hundred pounds of still warm moose meat on my back. T.J. jolted me out of my thoughts and urged me on. Great, my own husband was hastening me to my potential doom. Sometimes life is so good!

The next obstacle was the river. Our usual crossing was too treacherous with the heavy weights so T.J. picked a wide flat section to ford. The icy cold water felt like it was slicing my hot feet in half. Each step was a test of agility and patience, making sure there was a secure foothold. By the time I reached the centre, the water was up to my knees and my legs were numb. I prayed I wouldn't slip and fall in, as it would drain me of vital strength.

I made it to the other side and wanted to kiss the ground. A two-foot bank greeted me immediately. I lifted my right foot onto a ledge about half way up, used my hands to steady myself and pushed up. My pack tipped me forward and I was hung up, doubled over at the waist with the top of my pack and my head tight to the earth. I tried to stand back up, to roll over, to somersault ahead. Nothing worked. I was stranded and at that very instance felt my whole life was hanging by a thread.

Desperately I called to T.J. This was a major ordeal to correct as T.J. had to first remove his pack, get me out of my pack, help me back into my pack and put his back on his shoulders. Sounds simple but by this time (about one and half hours from the time we started) we were both getting tired and it took every ounce of energy to shoulder the backpacks and then stand up again. And now we were only about a hundred yards from the grizzly, which made things even more critical.

We joined into a trail just below the boar's location. My heart pounded but my feet could not travel any faster. I concentrated hard on counting steps. This segment of the footpath was more hospitable with ledges along the sides to rest the packs on when we stopped. Both of us were enduring shoulder and lower back pain and looked forward to being relieved of the weight for a few minutes while resting.

At 7:30 p.m. we reached the park boundary. This pack out was more than we had both bargained for and T.J. felt that a 15 to 20 minute break with the backpacks off was essential. The only disturbing thing about this was that the sun was sliding behind the face of the mountains and it would be dark in 30 minutes. We examined the pros and cons and opted for the rest.

I strategically lowered my pack on a rock and carefully balanced it before shimmying out of the shoulder straps. If the pack fell off the support, I was physically incapable of repositioning it. I stood up, instantly feeling awkward. The poundage of the meat had shifted my body's equilibrium causing me to lose my balance and coordination.

However, several minutes later I was able to ambulate fairly normally. Twenty minutes passed. The sky took on a red hue as the sun sunk ever lower. It was now or never. We had to press on or we would never get out of there. T.J. helped me into my pack. I leaned ahead to get up but nothing happened. Again I tried. Still nothing. My flaccid legs could utter no more energy. My guide's face hinted at despair as he lifted the pack up and onto my back. It had taken almost everything T.J. had to do this and he still had his own pack to dawn.

Several excruciating minutes passed as he slipped on the straps, rolled over on his belly, rose to all fours and then pushed up first with arms, then legs. The groans subsided as he shuffled passed me. I moved in behind him praying that this would soon be over.

The almost full moon was cradled in the sky by two snow covered mountain peaks. The lake below embraced the reflection of the moon and mountains. It was absolutely breath taking. I could have stood for hours starring at the view but the task at hand took precedence. T.J. and I spoke very little now except for the odd "are you ok?" or "I need to rest." We could no longer see each other and it seemed inappropriate to interrupt the silence.

Our pace had slowed considerably and rests became more frequent. Because the path was quite rocky and impossible to see, each step had to be carefully placed. A twisted ankle at this point would be devastating. I continued to count my steps. T.J. stopped and listened. "You’re not going to believe this but there is something moving on the path below us." Instinctively I knew it wasn't another friendly hiker! "What should we do?" We had little choice but to move on and start talking loud.About 500 yards from the end of the trail T.J. stopped to rest. He seemed suddenly despondent and continually yawned as people do when they are lacking energy and oxygen. T.J. had eaten very little all day; barely enough calories for a light hike forget this endurance test. I grappled with what to do. He seemed defeated and I wasn't sure he could safely go on. I pushed ahead. My logic being that if I passed him and acted like I could still go on, he would feel like he also could. And besides what guy likes to be shown up by a girl. I could hear him coming behind me. It was music to my ears. We completed the final descent and rounded the last corner before the parking lot.

Two weeks after the hunt, I returned to THE VALLEY OF THE GRIZZLY where I relived every moment of the hunt and experienced every emotion of that day once more. This has become a very sacred spot to me, like no other place on earth I know. My spirit will forever be in the valley with that of the majestic moose and the powerful grizzly.

Authors's Notes:

Depending on which book you enter your trophies in, Alberta is home to one or two subspecies of moose. Boone and Crockett recognize only one sub species of moose in Alberta, the Canada Moose. Safari Club recognizes two. Those south of the Bow River are classified as Shiras Moose and the moose on the north side of the river fall under the Canada Moose classification. Either way, Alberta is home to a very healthy population of moose.

The moose are definitely bigger in the northern part of the province but many 50-inch plus trophies are taken each season south of the Bow River. Northern moose are found in traditional moose habitat while their southern cousins have carved out a unique niche in the high valleys of the Rocky Mountains. It is these southern moose that provide a truly a memorable hunt.