​Well, the sun has set on my Newfoundland moose hunt. I’m going home without a moose, but with a heart renewed with adventure and swelling with new friendships.

​The last day of any hunt is filled with high anticipation and today was no different. We awoke to clear skies, light wind, and a skimmer of ice on the ponds—a perfect day for hunting moose.
 
In the morning Steve, Bob, and I did a 5-km loop across a large flat that was dappled with forestland, bogs, and cutovers. We moved slowly into the wind, interspersing cow in heat calls with bull grunts. On a forested ridge, we found a fresh rut pit that reeked of bull-moose urine. We hid ourselves among some spruces and called for about 20 minutes, but got no response. The rest of the morning went along in much the same way—walk, hide, call, no response.
 
In the afternoon, I went with Michel, Mario, and Steve. We dropped Steve and Mario off at the trailhead leading to the location where I missed the cow, while Michel and I hit a new spot a few kilometers away. We worked timber, bogs, and blowdowns, but didn’t see or hear anything.
 
Back at the trailhead, we waited for Mario and Steve and when they didn’t show up by 30 minutes after dark, we started calling their cell phones. We didn’t hear back from them until nearly an hour after dark. Steve said he got confused on the way out and they wound up on the wrong side of the lake. He asked Michel to blow the horn, so they could find their way out. By this point, Michel was unhappy that Steve had gotten lost with a client in tow. After a long wait, we could see flashlights coming. Mario was first and you could tell by his body language that he was pissed!
 
He went straight to Michel and demanded to know why his guide was not carrying a GPS. Steve soon arrived and tried to explain what had happened. It was tense for a second, then all of a sudden, Mario thrust his arms in the air in a sign of victory and yelled in English heavily tainted with French, “we kill, we kill!” His smile beamed in the flashlight and we saw Steve’s bloody hands to confirm Mario’s antics.
 
It turned out, they worked the same group of cows that we encountered the night before. Just before dark, the cow I missed emerged from the timber showing no signs of injury, but this time she had a small bull in tow. Being the last day of the hunt, Mario happily took the small bull with his rifle.
 
I’m too tired for coherent writing at the moment, but tomorrow, I’ll draft a wrap-up post with a few thoughts about this hunt.
 
Keep the Traditional Spirit Alive!
 
Ron

​Despite the difficult weather and few moose sightings, I am loving Newfoundland and enjoying this hunt. This morning I hunted with Michel Breton who is the owner of White Hills Outfitters and a rock star moose hunter. Michel teaches moose hunting and calling techniques in Quebec and has produced several instructional videos. Michel’s style is to work the timber with the wind your face while calling and scraping trees and brush with a shed antler.
 
This morning we made a four-mile loop along the Parker River. It took about an hour to climb up the mountain, then we turned and hunted the spruce-fir timber alongside the river until we reached the bottom. There was terrific sign and it was exciting to be slipping through the timber while calling.
 
At one point, about 30 minutes into our down-river hunt, we had to cross a large deadfall. Michel went first and gave a cow call just after he crossed the log. As I climbed over, Michel was in front of me, but I was perhaps four feet higher than him when standing on the deadfall. I looked right over his head and there was a cow moose coming straight for us as at about 50 yards. There was no way to shoot from amid the deadfall’s limbs, so I had to scramble down and take several steps forward to gain a shooting  position. By this time, the cow was on to us, but not badly spooked. As she ambled away and to our right, we noticed a calf with her. It was an exciting encounter…I think I might be hooked on moose hunting.
 
We worked our way down and, as is always the case here, we saw lots of fresh sign, but couldn’t drum up another moose. The weather was miserable again, with light, cold rain and winds gusting to 40 mph.
 
This morning Mario hunted with John and for more than an hour they watched a giant bull at around 200 yards. To Mario’s credit, he never had a shot angle he was satisfied with and chose not to pull the trigger. They plan to be back in the same spot tomorrow morning.
 
This afternoon, I went to a new location with Steve and Bob. Steve is a French Canadian and Bob is from St. Anthony, Newfoundland. We set up on the downwind side of a large patch of blown down timber. Steve was behind me calling and Bob was using a shed antler to rake trees and brush. About 10 minutes into the calling, we could hear two cows responding from different locations in the timber and occasionally a bull would grunt. Then things mostly fell silent and after another 20 minutes, I was thinking that perhaps the calling was too aggressive for so early in the rut and the animals had moved away. I glanced across a large pond to my right and when I looked back to the left where I expected animals to approach, I clearly saw a moose ear flicker between the trees at 40 yards.
 
It was a large cow and she came at a steady walk, angling straight to me from my left. At 10 yards she cleared the trees and was in the wide open, but always quartering to me. I was tucked in a row of head-high balsam firs and she just kept coming. At 20 feet I started to get concerned, but she just kept walking. She reached a point at around 10 FEET where I could have touched her with my bow. She towered above me and I could clearly look up into the nostrils of her fleshy nose and see her soft eyelashes. The closest thing I can compare this to is being stared down by a horse at 10 feet. By this point, I’m ready to come unglued! There’s no shot, nowhere to go, and she shows no sign of stopping.
 
Finally, she realized something wasn’t right and wheeled her 600 pounds in a crashing half circle, coming broadside at 20 yards without so much as a wisp of grass between us. I remember seeing some blondish hair behind her elbow and I remember my hand against my face, but then my arrow was going wildly in a bad direction. How you can miss something the size of a sheet of plywood at a mere 20 yards is beyond me, but that’s what happened. I think I jerked my string hand upon release and sent the arrow way high and to the left, making just a slice across the top of her butt. To be sure, we searched for blood, but found none. While she sustained little injury, my hunter’s spirit was badly wounded.
 
I always carry a judo-tipped arrow in my quiver and have been nailing spruce samplings out to 30+ yards. Ninety percent of being consistently good on game animals isn’t our physical ability, but our psychological wherewithal to make a good, “blueprint” shot in spite of heady anxiety.
 
I am putting that shot behind me and focusing on the next one. It’s all I can do.
 
Just one more day to make it happen.
 
Keep the Traditional Spirit Alive!
 
Ron

Just a short note for today. Newfoundland brewed up another miserable day for us. This morning was a complete rain out. This afternoon we hit a couple of spots in heavy rain and wind. The bad news is that we didn’t see anything. The good news is that we heard a cow calling numerous times, indicating the rut is starting.

​Just two days to go, but my spirits are high and I still feel confident!

More tomorrow…

​Keep the Traditional Spirit Alive!

Today was a long and unproductive day. In the morning, we hunted an area near where we hunted on the first day. We covered a lot of ground and saw good moose sign, but not a single animal. We got back to the truck around 11:00 and I asked John if it would okay if I stayed out instead of returning for lunch.

He dropped me off at a spot that I was familiar with and where there is a large rock outcrop, restricting a well used trail.  Any moose coming down the trail would have to funnel within 30 yard of my hiding spot in clump of blown down trees. I stayed until 2:30, calling every 45 minutes, but saw nothing.

In the afternoon, we hunted a new spot, but despite good sign we again got skunked.

The other two hunters in camp (Mario and Charlie) both heard moose calling and had them respond. Charlie took video of a large cow that came into 15 yards in response to his guide’s calling. Charlie is the hunter who shot the cow earlier in the week, so he wasn’t even carrying  a gun. In addition to Mario and Charlie, Michel has two other gun hunters who are staying elsewhere in a small cabin. Yesterday they got a cow and a small bull, which they brought here to hang. I’ll try to get some photos.

This gives me hope that the rut is picking up. Getting within recurve range of a moose without being able to call them in will be VERY difficult. Everything here is wet and it’s nearly impossible to stalk without making tremendous noise when your boots break free of the sucking peat/mud.

On the upside, I am having a great time with my new French Canadian friends. They are very friendly and happy, and are enamored with traditional bowhunting. They ask many questions and show great respect for what we do. We laugh a lot and usually one of them understands me well enough to interpret for the others. Except when I’m with John during the day, I’m surrounded by people who don’t speak my language. This has been unexpectedly fun and I feel a real bond with these people.

Tonight for dinner a local guy brought fresh cod that he had just caught a few hours earlier. It was some of the best fish I have ever eaten—a completely different food than what we buy in the grocery stores.

​This morning, Newfoundland threw us a curve ball. We awoke to rain and temperatures in the high 30s. John and I decided that we were far too ornery to melt, so we hiked up our pants and headed for a series of small bogs and lakes where John had seen a lot of moose last winter while cutting firewood.
 
When we left the truck at 6:13, John said, “good thing about this spot is that’s it’s not too far so we can come back to the truck if the rain picks up.” I’m still trying to figure out John’s definition of “not too far.” At 7:15, more than an hour’s steady hike from the truck that’s “not too far,” we finally reached the first bog that John wanted to hunt. By this point, the rain had picked up considerably and cold wind had begun to blow. We braced against Mother Nature and moved from bog to bog, giving wailing moose in heat calls and scanning the spruce-fir for movement. I really liked the set ups, as the bogs were small and the edges offered good cover, which meant close shots.
 
By the time we reached the fourth little bog, we were both soaked. I was wringing water from my shooting glove and my fletchings were drenched and laying nearly flat against the arrow shafts—not good for guiding a heavy broadhead. We set up to call toward a small lake, but after about 15 minutes I think we were both ready to pack it in. Behind us, I was watching sheets of rain sweep over the bog when I caught movement. Then, straight out of the rain curtain, stepped a bull moose, just like that there he was. I tugged at John’s sleeve and did the old “hunter’s point” with my index finger extended and my hand close to my chest.
 
John dropped down and did a backward crawl to get 20 yards behind me and resume calling. I tucked into some head-high spruce-fir and nocked an arrow. The young bull was about 75 yards away and looking our way. When he began to move off, John called and the bull snapped his head toward us. He came a few steps forward, then tossed his head in the air. Our scent was blowing straight to him! With a few strides of those long legs, he was gone—back behind the rain curtain like he’d never been there.
 
Soon after, we heard a cow moose moaning in the wind and we headed in the direction. We did one more bout of calling, but by this point the rain and wind were just too much. We admitted defeat and headed for that truck that “wasn’t too far away.” On the way out, we found a fresh rut pit and a rub.
 
Perhaps the rut is heating up, after all.
 
The rain finally let up around 2:00 this afternoon, but we didn’t see anything on our afternoon hunt.
 
It’s been a long, cold, and wet day so I’m going to wrap it up for tonight.
 
With the rain ending and colder temperatures arriving, I think tomorrow is going to rock!
 
Keep the Traditional Spirit Alive!

​PHOTOS BELOW
Click to Enlarge

​This morning after a quick breakfast, my local guide John and I, drove south on the hard-top road for about 30 minutes, before parking and heading into the bush. We talked along the way and I immediately liked him. He was born and raised in St. Anthony and has spent his entire life hunting, fishing, and trapping. His family lives on wild game, including mainly eider ducks, moose, harp seal, caribou, and trout. I asked, which was his favorite and after a brief pause he said, “seal.” They also grow potatoes in small fenced plots along the road where the government Crown Land has been cleared. John says the practice is illegal, but the government leaves them alone, as it’s part of the subsistence lifestyle.
 
We left the truck around 6:30 am and walked hard for an hour before we slowed to a hunter’s pace. John was trying to reach a series of bogs, lakes, and stunned spruce-fir fields while moose were still likely on their feet. Despite our best efforts to spot or call a moose, we encountered nothing until around 9:30.
 
We were walking along the edge of a narrow bog and scanning the opposite side for feeding or bedded moose. Abruptly, John stopped and blurted, “what the fuck is that?” I saw it immediately. Lying in the sun at the edge of a spruce-fir patch, was what appeared to be a dead moose. I said, “looks like a dead moose.” John agreed, but then after a quick look with my binoculars, I hastily said “she’s not dead she’s sleeping!” In unison, we both dropped down and backtracked to put some cover between us and the moose.
 
We watched for a while and then I decided to stalk closer to see if there was a bull with her. It was an easy stalk, but when I got to within 20 yards, my left boot made a slight sucking sound as I lifted it from the mossy bog. At the noise, she made a hard blowing sound and simultaneously jumped to all four feet. In a split second she made the forest edge and disappeared. It was fun and encouraging to have gotten so close.
 
We continued on, calling and glassing. On two separate occasions, we jumped a cow and calf and then a lone animal that was ghosting through the trees. John was disappointed with the number of moose and the lack of rut activity, but I was having blast seeing so much country and was grateful to see a few moose on my first morning.
 
John’s woodsmanship extends well beyond moose. At one point, we stopped to call and a bird landed immediately above John’s head and then flew to within feet of me. After our calling efforts, John said “do you know what that bird was?” I reeled off a know-it-all ornithologist’s answer and said, “well, it’s commonly known as a Gray Jay, Canada Jay, or Moose Bird.” John looked at me, smiled patiently and said, “you missed Whiskey Jack and around here we call them “Brazen Jays.”
 
Around 11:15, John must have decided it was time to roll. Without a word, he picked up the pace and again we were out of hunting mode. John is about 6’ 2” and around 225 pounds, and at 63 he can still move! I noticed on the way in that I had to walk about 25% faster than normal to keep up with him and when we hit those blasted bogs, look out—he was poetry while I was a drunkard on the sidewalk.
 
On the way out, I was feeling really spent. John must have sensed this and we stopped for a brief break in the middle of a massive bog. I thought we were fairly close to the road when John said, we’ve got about another two miles of  bog to cross and then after we hit the road, we’ll have to walk south for another two miles. “Gulp!” Two miles of bog walking is like 5 miles of woods walking. About halfway across the bog, John turned to me and said “you’re doing great, most new guys would be dead by now.” I said, I think you’re right I can feel rigor mortis setting in!” John believes that native Newfies learn to walk the bogs at a young age and develop muscles that most other outdoor folks don’t excercise.
 
I have secretly nicknamed John, “Moose John.” He certainly knows moose and his long, moose-like legs are built for bog walking. I was relieved when we could finally catch glimpses of the road about 300 yards ahead. But then, all of a sudden there was a creek—too wide to jump and too deep for knee-high boots. John plowed ahead, saying he had an extra set of boots at home. With only one pair of rubber boots, I didn’t want to get them wet. I stripped to the waist and waded across. Wow! What a first morning.
 
My afternoon hunt was the polar opposite. We sat up on a single bog/spruce-fir field and didn’t move for nearly three hours. We simply called and watched. With just 30 minutes of light remaining, a single, large cow skirted the timber and we got satisfying, but ineffective looks.
 
One of my new French friends shot a cow today with a rifle. We had moose liver and onions for dinner.
 
The rest of the group is also seeing moose, but the rut seems to be lagging.
 
Tomorrow morning we’ll be back on our feet and bog walking.
 
Keep the Traditional Spirit Alive! 

​Just a very short note tonight, as it’s late and we’ll be hitting the bush tomorrow at 5:30 am.
 
Today was a transition day. We drove from Deer Lake to the cabin near St. Anthony. It was about a 6 hour drive north and east along the coast. You can see Labrador directly across the channel to the north from our location (see map below). Polar bears sometimes ride ice floes and end up here in far northern Newfoundland. The landscape and fishing villages along the drive were stunning. Had I been driving it would have taken 12 hours with photo stops.
 
There’s not much to report. They are seeing lots of moose, which are beginning to rut and call, so my timing seems good. The area looks fantastic. Tomorrow I will be paired up with a local Newfoundlander named John who has lived here all his life and knows the local forest and its moose. Temperatures will be in the 30s tomorrow, so it should be a great day.
 
I’m the only English speaking person in camp. Everyone else speaks French. Fortunately, a few of them are bilingual so we are managing to communicate. I’m learning a lot and having fun. Everyone is very intrigued with my vintage recurves and arrows.
 
Tune in tomorrow for a report from the first day in the field.
 
Keep the Traditional Spirit Alive!
 
Ron

​If Cape Cod and the Rocky Mountains had a one-night stand, the bastard child would surely be Newfoundland, with her majestic shoreline, salty fishing community, timbered mountains, and abundant wildlife—all mixed up in a gritty human culture.

​I'm not sure how Newfoundlanders would feel about that, but that's how I felt by the end of today.
 
My hunt doesn’t not start until tomorrow, so today I rented a car and explored Gros Morne National Park, only to fall in love with Newfoundland.  The park is named for Newfoundland’s second highest mountain, which is 2,644 ft tall. In French Gros Morne means “large mountain standing alone.” Interestingly, the chain of mountains that contains Gros Morne is considered an outlying range of the Appalachians, which I left behind in New York.
 
I didn’t really have a plan. The only thing I knew for certain was that I needed some woods time after spending all of the previous day in airports and planes. After driving about 45 minutes, I found the trailhead for Gros Morne mountain (I realize that is redundant!). The sign said to bring plenty of food and water because the hike to the top and back could take as long as eight hours. I realize that 2,644 feet doesn’t sound like much, but keep in mind that you are starting at sea level, so it’s 100% up. I loaded two bottles of water and some local sausage and cheese in my pack and took off.
 
It was fantastic! The air was thick with the scent of balsam fir and there was a nearly a constant roar from a nearby brook tumbling fast for the Gulf of St Lawrence below. The American Mountain Ash were dripping with ripe red fruit and I saw bunchberry, pearly everlasting, and lots of moose tracks!
 
At one point, I topped out on a bench that rolled off to each side. The wind was steady from the south, so I decided to break from the trail in that direction to see if could see anything in the creek bottom or adjoining slope. After about 150 yards, I dropped to my knees and peaked over the edge. There, 50 yards below, I was startled to see a mamma black bear and two cubs. I managed to get one quick photo before the threesome disappeared into the tuckamore.
 
After 3 hours of climbing and taking photos, I was at the rocky base of Gros Morne. I wanted to make the summit, but Mother Nature had other ideas. The air had been changing throughout my hike and now it was getting nasty, with blowing mist and wind gusts up to 20 mph. I did an about face and headed down. By the time I reached the trailhead, it was a full on gale with gusts that must have hit near 50 mph.
 
I jumped in the rental and headed for the coast, where the Gulf of St. Lawrence meets rock and a tangle of fir. There, Mother Nature was whipping up a froth. I made my way north, stopping now and then to take pictures, but at times it was difficult to remain on two feet in the gusting winds. Eventually, I found a little pub that was all but closed for the season. The place had port-hole type windows and one perfectly framed a neighboring shed that sported several years worth of moose antlers. The pub had stopped serving food for the season, so I had a local beer and then headed south for my hotel.
 
Thoughts for the day.

I ran into a handful of hikers on the trail to Gros Morne. Each was dressed in high-performance type hiking gear and all were single-mindedly pursuing the summit. One guy almost walked into me because he was so intently focused on his foot falls. I admire anyone who spends time outdoors, as it’s vastly better than being rooted in front of the TV. That said, I wish folks would slow down and appreciate what’s around them. The forest leading to Gros Morne was full of sights that I’ll bet most missed. I’m reasonably certain that in a natural history trivia quiz, avid hunters would beat most other outdoor types. There is a renewed, high-level interest in encouraging non-hunting, outdoor enthusiasts to buy state habitat stamps and federal ducks stamps as a means of supporting conservation. There is also talk of placing a tax, similar to the Pittman-Robertson tax, on outdoor equipment, such as camping gear, binoculars, etc. I think this is a good idea, as it would greatly boost conservation dollars and give other outdoor users some context for the hunter’s legacy.
 
Today I was reminded about the importance of public lands to hunters, not just in the U.S., where they are in jeopardy, but across North America. Checkout Whit Fosburgh of TRCP on the Canadian podcast, Beyond the Kill.

​


​Near Gros Morne, I encountered the following sign. I’m glad to see that Parks Canada is doing such a favorable job of managing their public lands and engaging hunters to do it!

Keep the Traditional Spirit Alive!

​Ron

Hi Everyone:

I left home this morning at 6:30 on the dot. In addition to a heartfelt farewell from my family, I was treated with a wonderful sunrise along our road. I'll take it as a good omen.

Assuming I can get adequate internet and/or cell connection, I'll be using this blog space during the next 7-10 days to document my moose and bear hunting trip to St. Anthony, Newfoundland. My plan is to write a brief daily report, including photos and/or videos, in the evening after each day's hunt.

By signing up for the TSO eNews at the right, you'll receive alerts each time that I make a new post.

I'll be hunting with the 1972 Bear Super Kodiak that won the RMS Gear BowVote in June. My arrows are XX75 2117 aluminums with Bear Razorhead broadeads and 100-grain steel adapters.

Moose should be entering the rut during my hunt, so our primary tactic will be to call bulls into range. My license is good for a bull or cow, and since I love a freezer full of wild organic meat more than antlers on the wall, I won't hesitate to shoot a cow as the hunt progresses. I also have a bear tag, but that will get used opportunistically or after we have a moose for our efforts.

​Today will be filled with travel, including a two hour drive from my home to Syracuse and then a flight to Deer Lake, NL that first stops in Toronto and Halifax before touching down around 8:45 pm in Deer Lake.

​

​Perhaps the hardest part of this journey is saying goodbye to my wife, son, and daughter, who will turn one while I'm gone. Having an October birthday and an obsessive hunter for a daddy isn't a great combination. I know that as she gets older I won't allow myself to miss her special day, so I thought I'd do it this year when she is less likely to notice or remember. I suppose no amount of explaining is likely to assuage my guilt. Love you, Leela Bell!

​Also, a special thanks to Mamma and Rex for their love and support of my crazy adventures! 

That's all for now. Thanks for tuning in!

Keep the Traditional Spirit Alive!

Ron