Winter’s First Breath
By Chris Campbell
It was a frigid, October, morning the first snow had begun to fall. I was sitting on a rocky ridge, overlooking a shallow valley, the smell of campfire smoke fresh on my clothes. It was my favourite time of year, the trees had all turned different shades of orange and yellow. The air was crisp; I could feel the light burn in my throat. As I scanned the low lands, for any sign of the elusive moose I hunted, I was taken a back by the beauty of my surroundings. The creeks were flowing nicely, after the recent rain, and the wild blue berries were plump and plentiful. They were a welcomed snack as I sat there scouting the area, with my bow leaning against a small sapling.
It had been during this early morning snack that I had first heard the grunt of a lone bull moose. My heart stopped, but I knew the bull was a minimum of four hundred and fifty yards from where I was positioned. It was too far for a stalk through thick forest. I would have probably only scared other moose that were bedding in the trees. Still the call had encouraged me, I knew the moose were around and I would get another opportunity.
Later in the day I had gone down into the valley to look for any other signs of moose activity. Besides two sets of tracks, belonging to a cow and her calf, the search was in vein. I did, however, find a good trail crossing which I planned to hunt the next day. As I trudged through a thick wooded area, on the way back to camp I came face to face with a large grizzly, fortunately all went well and we went our separate ways, but it was a hair a hair raising encounter. That night I reached camp just as the sun had begun to disappear behind the surrounding mountains. As I sat by my glowing fire, that first night, after a dinner of fresh eggs and sizzling bacon sipping my steaming wild berry tea I heard the howl of a wolf. First one then two, it was a beautiful harmony as it reverberated off the rocky bluffs that encircled the camp. The sun had vanished and small diamonds began to appear across the black expanse of sky. It continued like this for a long while, until it looked as though not one more star could have fit. The Milky Way appeared as a white sash stretched across the darkness. The temperature had dropped to around zero by that time, so wearing my scratchy Stanfields I crawled into my sleeping bag. Wrapped the sheet of canvas around me, which had become a staple of these trips up north. The canvas smelt of fresh Fir bows which I had used for a mattress. It was a wonderful aroma to fall asleep to, under the brilliant canopy of stars.
The next morning when I awoke I realized it had been a very cold night. A thin layer of ice had formed on my canvas sheet and there was a fresh coat of white on the forested hillsides. This was a good sign. It meant the moose would now be in full rut, no longer would they rest during the day. They were going to be active all day, driven by the annual ritual to find a mate and reproduce. My hopes for a successful harvest had greatly increased with the dropping temperatures.
That morning I had a quick breakfast which consisted of a freshly steeped mug of tea and some moose jerky, provided by the previous year’s hunt. I then put on my camouflage and prepared my bow for the day out in the field. As I was dousing the fire the sun was slowly creeping into sight. It was time for me to depart for my chosen location to still hunt for the day. As I was leaving camp a light snow began to fall, I had a great feeling about the next few hours.
The place I had selected, the previous day, for my hunt was at the crossroads of two well used game trails. I had limited cover there, but my chances of spotting a moose were quite high. Especially now that the rut was in full swing. The crossroads were located near a small flooded area, caused by a beaver dam, and as I approached I started hearing the slapping tails of resident beavers. There was no wind at the crossroads, so I found a few small, new growth, fir trees and knelt down amongst them. Other than the occasional slap from the beavers all was quiet. By this time there was already a good frosting of snow that covered the ground, and my hands were starting to feel the cold. After three hours I began to wonder if it would ever happen, I couldn’t feel my fingers and I had a tingling in my toes from the cold. My boots that were about half a size too small didn’t help. It was during this period negative thinking that I first heard it; the grunt of a mature bull.
He was close, maybe sixty yards out, I became fully alert all numbness in my body was instantly forgotten. Then I heard a second grunt, closer, he was coming my way, my heart began to pound. Trying desperately to stay come I reached for my bow, which was hanging on a near by branch as I pulled it off a light dusting of snow fell from it. I slowly removed an arrow from my quiver, before I could nock it a third call came this time just around the bend of the trail, no more then thirty yards out. I gingerly nocked my arrow and got into a good shooting position. By then I was able to hear his every step and his huge rack raking the low brush along the path, I knew I was going to get a shot. I drew my bow and awaited my prize to round the bend. Then I saw him first his head, with ears positioned forward, he could sense my presence so I stayed absolutely rigid expecting him to bolt at any second. Instead to my excitement he kept coming and soon he was broad side to me. It was then or never, I pulled the trigger on my release, the arrow instantly travelled the twenty five yards and sliced into the vitals behind the right shoulder of the moose. The moose went ballistic and crashed off into the bush.
Thankfully for the fresh snow it was no problem tracking him and I found him, dead, about six hundred yards from where I took the shot. The tri blade, razor sharp, arrow head had done its deadly job. With every step the moose had taken, the arrow head cut and tore more of his vitals. He was a magnificent animal, the nicest I had ever shot, he must have weighed close to fourteen hundred pounds with an antler span of close to five feet. I was able to gut and quarter him there, I than began the agonising job of carrying each individual piece back to camp. After six long hours of work, in the freezing cold, I was once again sitting huddled around my fire gathering all its heat. My fresh kill was hanging off a large spruce tree near my camp. I knew in the morning I was going to have to head for home, and part of me felt quite disappointed, but I was thankful for the great hunt I had experienced and knew I would be back in years to come. Once I was comfortably in my sleeping bag I looked up at the stars one last time before going to sleep and the only words that came to mind were how great is our God.
.jpg)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
