“Congratulations on the hunt win!” popped up on my phone as I was halfway through dinner with some clients.
“What are you talking about?” I replied back when I got a chance.
“Check your email, dumbass, you just won the Bighorn Society grand prize raffle hunt.”
I love my friends. If you’ve never heard of anyone who actually won one of those amazing hunts that wildlife organizations raffle off, now you have. In addition to their amazing work at preserving sheep herds and habitat, the Rocky Mountain Bighorn Society raffles off a lot of great gear and hunt opportunities every year. I’d forgotten that I’d bought a ticket three months prior so this came at me entirely out of nowhere. It was a fully-guided moose and grizzly bear hunt in the Yukon Territory! Truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Getting there is half the fun
This was March, so I’d already be spitballing where and when I’d try and hunt in the upcoming fall season. I had told my oldest that, when he graduates college, we’d set up an Alaska hunt and this was the year for my newly minted mechanical engineer and me. We had a deposit with a transporter and were in the throes of setting up a moose hunt already.
This posed a dilemma. A first-world problem for sure, but I could not go to Alaska the first half of September and Canada the rest of September. Contrary to what my social media feed might lead one to believe, I do work, a lot, and four weeks straight of vacation simply is not in the cards. Thankfully our Alaskan transporter was very accommodating and pushed our deposit and reservation off to 2024.
Yukon Stone Outfitters would handle the hunt. Aaron, the owner, was very patient with all my questions during the summer. I explained the trip my son and I had been planning and asked (begged) if there was any way I could add him as another hunter. In the world of guided big game hunts, getting a slot with only six months’ notice is pretty rare. As luck would have it, Aaron and YSO had just picked up an adjacent hunting concession increasing his footprint. So I was able to book Ethan a second hunt like mine, minus the grizzly bear trophy fee…a guy’s gotta eat.
Ethan and I spent all summer dissecting our gear needs like any two engineers to would. Neither of us had ever been on a fully-guided hunt so this was new territory. All we really had to worry about was the clothes on our backs and the rifles in our hands. I found myself physically anxious at the prospect of no preparation for food, cooking, shelter, meat care, any of that usual do-it-yourself hunting trip planning.
Last fall I had most of my best gear stolen out of my truck after returning from a Wyoming elk hunt. Over the course of the year, I had pretty much re-stocked myself. Ethan, who was finally done growing, outfit himself for hopefully many years with those first couple grownup job paychecks. By the time we packed, we each looked like we’d looted a pileup of Kuiu, Sitka Gear, First Lite, and SmartWool delivery trucks. I’ll give a special shout-out to my buddy Travis and his store A&J Supply in Whitewood, SD for carrying size 8 Stormy Kromer hats that actually fit my giant melon. The Stormy Kromer is perfect for navigating the Yukon when your gourd is big and bald!
Travel day finally arrived. We both had a long drive to meet up in Denver. I spent the four-hour road trip wondering what I had forgotten behind. Thirty minutes in, I had a head-slapper moment about soft rifle scabbards for the bush plane. I had my TSA-proof locking hard case for flying with our guns. But I totally forgot soft cases. I chuckled to myself at the irony of the best option for buying a couple soft cases lie ahead in Rifle, Colorado. Rifle did not disappoint and I was back on the road in minutes.
We found the hotel and schlepped all our gear in for the night. Rifle cases always get a few stinkeye looks, even in Denver. Welcome to 2022. We repacked a bit and got all our stuff ready for the morning flight out of DIA, customs in Vancouver, and the last flight to Whitehorse. We had to plan and pack for a night in Whitehorse, too, so we had to get a little creative separating bush gear vs. town gear in the checked and carry-on bags.
Check-in at the airport went about as smooth as you can expect with rifles, ammo, and two airlines. After starting at the Air Canada desk, like our reservation indicated, the nice Canadians sent us across the concourse to, instead, begin our Odyssey at the the United Airlines desk…like our reservation did not indicate. Then, it took some time explaining to the counter lady that yes, we would need to collect all of our checked bags (and rifles) for the trip through customs in Vancouver. That’s why I planned a seven hour layover!
After the first leg, waiting for our bags on the carousel in Vancouver was our next milestone. They finally started bouncing out. Ethan’s black duffel, my green duffel, my big red duff…what the heck?! Down slid a pile of clothes and gear loosely surrounded by shredded remnants of my big red duffle bag that I had started the morning with. Sonofa…!
I scooped everything into a pile as Ethan grabbed a cart for the rest of our bags. I went through the pile as best I could, immensely thankful that this was my “soft stuff” bag of clothes, jackets, sleeping bag, etc. It all seemed to be there but I wasn’t 100% sure. The nearest airline counter had some giant clear wrap-your-carseat bags for me to use. That got us mobile again so we could go fetch the rifle case from the oversized bag area.
Now it was on to Customs. Hobos might be a bit of a strong metaphor, but we definitely looked a bit discombobulated rolling our rifle case and my giant clear bag of camouflage clothing, socks, and underwear on our luggage cart designed for far fewer bags than we loaded onto it.
The Customs agents were very helpful and that all went pretty smooth. It was even fun as we loitered as long as possible listening to a nearby agent berating a Taiwanese fella well on his way to getting arrested. He was giving all the wrong answers about the giant wad of cash and drug residue in his bag. #SaveTaiwan indeed. Finally Customs staff moved us along to go check back into the Air Canada counter, for real this time.
In Canada, you get a temporary 15-day firearm permit that you must keep on your person at all times. You also need a little form for 40 rounds of ammo in your checked gear. And, it really throws them if two travelers each have one bag containing ammo but those two travelers share the same rifle case for their two separate rifles. Thankfully, it’s nothing a little extra paperwork won’t solve.
Sidebar for a few tips. The ArriveCAN app is very handy for navigating Customs. In there, you put all your contact, vaccination, and trip information. But, you can’t enter it until within 72 hours of your travel. It is also extremely handy to have the bulk of the firearm paperwork filled out, but not signed, before arrival. We were thankful for the read-ahead packet from our outfitter explaining all this.
We still had my shredded bag problem to deal with. Between Customs and Air Canada’s counter, we kept our eyes peeled for any store that might sell luggage or gym bags or any suitable replacement. We were most of the way there, with no luck, when we started seeing people with their checked luggage shrink-wrapped in plastic.
Everyone has their quirks. I’ll happily give germaphobes a little grace after the bio-beating we’ve all endured since 2020. But I’ve never been compelled to shrink wrap my entire suitcase. Maybe it’s a cultural thing. Or, maybe, it could be a United-destroyed-my-bag solution thing!
Sure enough, we found the booth right in the main airport lobby. I asked the gent if he was up for a challenge and pointed to my clear garbage bag of clothes, gear, and shredded nylon duffel. He was happy to oblige and shoehorned the whole pile into the big clampy spinny shrinkwrapinator. Up until that point, I had found it odd that every single credit card transaction offered me the choice of adding a tip onto the transaction at hand. But now I decided that I had rarely met anyone more deserving of a performance-based bonus than this shrink wrap wizard. And the $1.37 Canadian-U.S. exchange rate was a bonus for me. Oh, did I mention the plastic wrap was pink?
I read that Americans travelling abroad should do their best to maintain a low profile and be sort of a “Gray Man” not standing out or drawing attention to oneself. Yeah, Gray Man definitely drags around a giant pink plastic alien orb with a rolling rifle case on his way to the Air Canada counter. We definitely made some new friends in Vancouver.
So we made it through the Air Canada bag check process fairly smoothly. More paperwork seemed to just duplicate earlier paperwork, but one doesn’t argue when checking orbs and rifles in a foreign land. Also, even if the most accurate language to describe your duffel bag crisis is that it exploded in transit, definitely use any other word except “explode” to describe the situation inside an airport. Trust me.
All that still left us still 3-4 hours of our seven hour layover to bum around Vancouver. We ate, opted for the train downtown to eat again, this time with beers, took in a few sights of Vancouver, then made it back fine for our last flight to Whitehorse.
Aahh, Whitehorse. It quickly became one of my favorite cities, and I’ve been to quite a few. Like most rural communities, the Canadian airport mask mandate turned out to be more of a suggestion. And the airport greeted us with full-body mounts of two bull caribou fighting on the baggage carousel. Urban airports take note, that’s the way you decorate!
Aaron picked us up and quickly outfit us both in YSO fitted ball caps. Each hat was size XL/XXL so they actually fit us both! I know a good omen when I see one. This was going to be awesome.
We got to the hotel about midnight and, again, schlepped all our bags and cases inside for the night. Sunday morning’s weather was pretty socked in so all the bush flights were moving slow. Aaron texted to take our time organizing our gear, we’d probably fly out a little after noon.
As luck would have it, one of the coolest breakfast restaurants on the planet was right across the street. Klondike Rib and Salmon seemed to wrap up all things Yukon in a simple two-page menu. Between the food and all the Klondike swag on the walls and ceiling, I was smitten.
We had a few hours to kill in Whitehorse so we explored on foot. We found a drug store and grabbed a few odds and ends. Whitehorse itself had the distinct feel of the modern-day version of an 1800’s log wall outpost carved out of the thick Yukon wilderness. It just has the feel that modern man was constantly battling to keep the boreal forest from taking the town back if they looked away. It was absolutely awesome.
Finally the time came to start loading up the float plane for our trip into the bush for 10 days. Ethan and I were giddy! We met Bob, one of our two guides, who would ride with us in the four-seat DeHavilland Beaver float plane. The pilot, sporting hip waders, gave us our safety brief. We all crawled in and the pilot motored us out to the middle of the river.
Taking off in a float plane feels both like a plane and a boat. As you gain speed, you can feel the moment when the floats plane up on the water surface just like a boat. Then, just like a boat, acceleration picks up. Only in a plane, you keep accelerating and take off into the air. Unlike a boat, that’s a good thing…a great feeling in fact.
We flew over absolutely breathtaking landscape. Forests, lakes, rivers, mountains, all of it was gorgeous and we drank it all in. The lake we’d call home for 10 days was about an hour flight from Whitehorse. I don’t know about Ethan, but I kept picturing us calling moose, shooting moose, and hauling out moose quarters from every pond and creek we passed over.
Landing on our little lake was uneventful and we taxied over to two little boats tied up on shore. We were met by a pretty wild-looking Canadian who seemed very happy to see other humans! This was Shae, our other guide. He’d been out here for a few weeks already having guided another hunter into taking a nice bull moose the week prior. Shae tied up the plane and we all pitched in to unload the gear and get the pilot going again. Time was money out here and the bush pilots, the ubers of the wilderness, were all flying nonstop shuttling hunters, guides, meat, and supplies all around the Yukon. Later in October, when the lakes begin to freeze, their work would take a remarkable slowdown as float planes became relegated to flowing water and areas further south.
Our lakefront “resort” was pretty cushy compared to usual wilderness hunting digs. Our cabin had foam-padded bunk beds, wood stove, a generator, propane stove and fridge, and three-sided outhouse. There was even a spot for a covered outdoor shower if we took the time to warm up a couple gallons of water on the stove. All in all, it was way more cosmopolitan than a tent!
The rules and fair-chase hunting ethics prohibited us from hunting country that we’d just flown over. So we just settled in at camp, shot our rifles to make sure the sights were still on, and planned out the next day.
The hunt I had won included all the fees for a moose and a grizzly bear. Ethan was just going to hunt moose. Shae’s last hunter had killed a good moose four days prior, so he knew the moose carcass location. He and I would go into that area in the morning in hopes of either moose or grizzly bear. Ethan and Bob would take their boat around the lake, calling, getting the lay of the land, and looking for other “moosey” areas to explore.
Game On
The Yukon is cold at sunup. We could see our breath and frost on the tall grass. The sound of our outboard motor offended the dead calm of the morning on the lake. But speed definitely made the noise worthwhile. Paddling our boats on a lake this size would mean that we’d spend all day paddling instead of hunting! We found the creek that fed into our corner of the lake and motored upstream. Shae knew the shallow spots from his week guiding the previous hunter and we slalomed our way up. There were a few stretches where we had to break out the paddles and pole our way upstream.
About 15 minutes in, we pulled up to the edge of the bank and tied up. We walked a bit, let our noise dissipate, and Shea fired out a few cow moose “looking for love” calls. Moose calling can sound a lot different from caller to caller. You close one or both nostrils and let out a loud “NYAAAAAAAH” that sounds not unlike a chainsaw in the distance. I’d hunted moose in 2010 and had been watching videos lately, so I kind of knew my way around the process. But Shae’s moose calling was spectacular. He kind of sang to them, sometimes calm, sometimes urgent, sometimes throwing in some vibrato…he elevated the process to art. I was impressed!
Hunting moose this way is similar to hunting turkeys back home. You set up, let out a burst of calls, wait 10 minutes, and repeat the process a few times. Sometimes you’ll hear a response causing you to decide to make a move or sit and keep calling the critter in closer. Sometimes you don’t hear anything so you pack up, move to a different spot out of earshot, and start over.
After about a half hour of calling and listening and no response, we headed back to the boat and motored/poled our way upstream. The stream topped out at another little lake much smaller than our cabin lake. This one was very shallow and we just paddled our way in to last week’s moose carcass.
I’ve seen grizzly bears behind a zoo fence or through my truck window along the highway. Before this moment, I’ve never really walked the same piece of ground that very likely had, or has, a grizzly bear on it. We tied up the boat and I racked a shell into my .300 Rem Ultra Mag, Shae did the same with his 7mm Mag. Rifles at the low ready, we squished through the boggy shore in to the carcass that was only about 20 yards in.
Sure enough, much of the bull moose carcass was there. And also, it was moved around and covered up with grass, branches, and muck…meaning a bear had definitely been here. Better yet, when they cover their kill it usually means they’re coming back! I’d seen mountain lions do this back home in Colorado but never seen a bear meat cache like this. We were both pretty jazzed about the whole thing. We decided we’d pull back a couple hundred yards, just sit and watch it a while.
We slipped back into the boat and started paddling/sliding across the shallow mossy pond. The spot reeked of rotting meat smell. Odds that a moose would still be hanging around this carcass that likely smelled of bear as well, were low…but not zero. So Shae kept calling and we both kept our eyes peeled as we paddled.
“What the…that’s a paddle!” Shae whispered urgently. He wasn’t talking about a boat paddle, there was a bull moose in the trees less than 100 yards away, and probably only 50 yards from the carcass. This was crazy, not only did the carcass stink to high heaven, but we’d just been in there poking, thrashing our way to and from the boat, and generally making more than a little noise.
I could see the same big polished moose antler he did. It stuck up and moved around in the brushy trees behind shore. We stopped where we were, right in the middle of thigh-deep water, and I readied for a shot.
Shae kept calling and held the boat. I got out, stood in the goo, and stabbed my wooden boat paddle into the muck to use as a rifle rest. At this point, we were busted out in the wide open, but just sitting tight and quiet was a much better plan than splashing to cover anywhere.
We could hear the bull moving through the trees and grunting occasionally at Shae’s calls. We could catch a glimpse of him here and there but could not see how big he was. But, by the look of things, he was headed for a spot on the shoreline and was going to pop out close by allowing us a good look. I set my rifle on the paddle handle and got ready.
Since March, I had been drooling over moose pictures, mainly from the Yukon. They’re not hard to find on today’s internet. And, holy cow, did google ever send me pictures of monster moose. You have to love all those dopamine-inducing search algorithms, they definitely have me pegged. So I was thinking that I really wanted a giant bull. I was hoping for something at least 55 inches wide and was really hoping for one with antlers that kind of splayed backwards or sideways instead of straight up. I wanted a trophy for my first guided hunt.
Turns out, I probably should have shared my thoughts with Shae…
The bull popped out of the trees and just stood there, broadside and beautiful. He turned his head back and forth a few times. Shea said he thought he was at least 50 inches wide. He also said “Kill him!”
I held my shot. This was the first day of hunting. I had all manner of thoughts as I held the crosshairs behind the bull’s shoulder:
“55 inches minimum, you’ll never get a professional moose guide again”
“Damn, that’s a nice huge bull just standing there at 80 yards, you can even pick out which rib to hit.”
“Do you really want to be done moose hunting four hours into a 10 day hunt?“
“Don’t pass on something the first day that you’d shoot on the last day.” Shae echoed that one out loud.
“It would be way cooler to have Ethan by my side when one of us shoots a moose.“
“The way you hunt griz is to sit and watch a carcass, so you could be in for nine more days of just sitting.“
So yes, I passed, and the bull sauntered back into the trees. They really do just stroll around, not fast, not super slow, but with just a few steps the bull decided that his curiosity was satisfied. He probably didn’t know what we were, whispering and bobbing around on the lake surface, but we were definitely not a lonely cow, so he vanished back into the treeline.
I knew this is something that guides complain about their clients doing. Even though this was my first guided experience, I’d read and heard plenty of stories. Guiding is tough and often thankless work. Just in the first couple days, I could tell that Shae was one of the hardest-working guides around. And I had let him down.
But gone is gone, the opportunity had passed. Shae was a great sport, shrugged it off, and we loaded back into the boat. Between being a husband, dad, and boss for decades, I’m used to disappointing people!
We floated, poled, dragged, and motored down the shallow creek back to camp for lunch. We kept talking about how crazy the whole encounter was. From seeing the bear-covered carcass, to the bull moose just hanging out near the carcass, and then having him just stand there almost begging to be shot. It was all pretty wild.
Ethan and Bob made it back to camp mid day as well. No dragging boats up creeks for them, they they had made it about halfway around the lake shore while stopping and calling the whole trip. They’d seen some caribou, pretty close to the boat even, but no contact with moose. They had come across an abandoned cabin on the far side of the lake, also.
A hot lunch and quick fire in the stove was nice. Again, this cabin life proved pretty easy to get used to and definitely better than tenting it. Shae and Bob both agreed that midday was pretty slow for moose hunting or even moose finding, we may as well sit tight until mid afternoon.
So about 3:00 we rolled back to the boats and did it all again. Shae and I worked our way up the creek to the high ponds again. We slipped around the upper pond, called from a few places, then slipped over to the smaller pond with the carcass.
That morning, before leaving the carcass, we had stabbed a long stick topped with some flagging right in the middle of the pile, Iwo Jima-style. Even in this thick brush, it made a good marker we could see from out in the water, even from just the right spot on the far shore. Shae figured if a bear came back, he’d definitely knock it over and we could tell he had been, or maybe even still was there. Sort of a wilderness version of a Ring doorbell camera.
We quietly slipped the boat that direction and peeled apart the spot through our binoculars. No flagging. We slipped closer…still no flagging. Hmm, this could be promising. We didn’t stop on the far side like we had originally planned but just kept inching our way across the water toward the carcass. We got to 80 yards, 60, then at about 40 yards we stopped and watched. We both heard some deep tearing noises and grinned at each other…
FUR! We caught a glimpse of fur moving around. Then we saw a tree wagging a bit. There was definitely a bear in there rooting around. I saw an ear, then a shoulder, he was moving but we couldn’t get a good look. Shae held the boat steady, I had my rifle on the wooden paddle again, and we just silently waited for the bear to present a good shot.
The bear stood up right in my line of sight. I squared the crosshairs low on his chest and started squeezing.
My trigger is set to three and a half pounds. I was probably about two pounds in when Shae said “That’s a black bear, don’t shoot!”
Sure enough. I got a better look. While the bear had a big old pumpkin head, overall his body was smallish and jet black, definitely not a grizzly. Sonofa…
All this was in about three seconds, then the bear saw us, dropped down, and ran off.
We both looked at each other with a “What just happened?” stare. We set up in a spot we could see the pile and watched a bit longer in hopes that a bigger bear had scared this black bear off.
Nothing ever came back to the carcass that evening. We grabbed our gear and worked our way down the creek back to camp. What a first day!
To be continued…
Dave's Stories 