For most sportsmen there is no greater thrill then seeing your name listed among the fortunate few who each year get randomly selected for a moose hunting tag. For me this lifelong dream became a reality in 2004, when after 8 years of applying my name was finally drawn. I consider myself extremely fortunate since most friends and family have applied for more than a decade without the coveted prize. Receiving a tag, a hunter takes on a large amount of responsibility related to finding, dispatching and processing an animal of this size. Many hunters who take these tasks lightly go home disheartened with a tag and lifetime dream unfulfilled. For me many of these requirements were simplified. Not only had I managed to pull a tag that allowed for the shooting of a male or female moose but also my predefined area was in my uncle’s (a registered Maine guide) backyard. While hunting is a fickle sport to say the least I had the benefit of not only having my scouting done before I arrived but the support of my Uncle’s compatriots should I shoot one of these mammoth beasts. With so many elements in my favor, I must say I was feeling a little cocky and perhaps boasted a little bit that I planned to harvest a new state record bull.
Exquisite fear is what I felt as Thursday morning arrived and I still had not shot my moose. Despite the fact that we drove hundreds of miles in the truck down back roads and had been stalking for almost a week with only two days of hunting remaining I still had not harvested a moose. In sheer desperation, I borrowed a moose call from one of the local old timers and bellowed away all morning in a small cedar swamp but by noon no moose had arrived. Somewhat disheartened I headed back to the camp for lunch and then immediately set out again for the swamp I had visited that same morning.
Connections were made with my Uncle (the Famass Guide) and his friends and in less than 30 minutes I had most of the town of Grand Lake Stream ready to assist me in getting the moose out of the swamp. Taking a short swim across a beaver flowage in late fall I managed to reach the moose to attach a rope and with large trucks, heavy tackle and ropes we managed to within an hour gut the animal and load it onto the bed of a Ford F150. Upon inspection of the carcass it was revealed that I had in fact hit the moose directly through both lungs with my first shot and a follow up had been unnecessary.
Think we as a society we don’t create disconnections? Then why do we call much of the furry critters we commonly eat by other names? Cow is beef, sheep is mutton, pig is pork, deer is venison . . . think about it!
Such a nice blog. I hope you will create another post like this.
ReplyDeleteHey RO
ReplyDeleteI'd not really checked out your blog, until you posted a comment on mine, it's excellent! This is a great tale and really well written too. I'll be back.
SBW
SB,
ReplyDeleteThanks for stopping by! Relatively new to blogging but having a ton of fun. Really appreciate the positive comments as they help motivate me to post more! Linked to your blog . . . take care!
The 2005 moose hunt is the reason we now own a deep freezer. I can understand your excitement... My husband still gets excited when talking about his hunt 3 years later.
ReplyDeleteSomehow I wandered onto your blog...but stayed here and found this post...fascinating! My Dad lives in Northern Maine and my husband and I always look for moose when we visit. I'll have to show this post to my Dear Hubs.
ReplyDeleteBTW my Dad is soooooo sick of the rain and is telling me all about the garden woes each week I talk to him. Hope it gets better soon!
Jillian,
ReplyDeleteThanks for stopping by, saying hi and wandering around the page . . . always nice to know someone finds my writing at least a little bit interesting. I also enjoy moose spotting and no matter how many times I see them they still fill me with wonder at their size and beauty.
N. Maine is a big area . . . where?
This last week of sun had things in the garden improving dramatically. Until this point what the slugs hadn't eaten was rotting in the ground.