The Monarchs of Mystic Lake
by Gary Olsen
Like claps of thunder, the sound of each clashing blow echoed across the slough. It evoked visions of mythical gods hurling lightning bolts at each other. Three great hulking behemoths wielded their mighty weapons with deadly intent. The battle of the titans was underway.
We gazed in awe at the drama that was unfolding before us. Three bull moose had declared war on each other. Each bull had the same goal in mind, namely a romantic encounter with a lovesick cow that we heard bellowing earlier. The cow munched on willows nearby, seemingly oblivious to the conflict. We wondered how we could make the situation work to our advantage.
My hunting partner on this hunt was Mike Carroll. We were hunting along the Brooks Range in Alaska. We were both hoping to tag a Pope & Young bull moose with longbows designed and built by Mike.
Mike Carroll, who now resides in Texas, lived in Alaska for ten years. He works as an air traffic controller and builds custom made longbows on the side. He had taken a medium sized bull moose and a good caribou bull with his bow but had never gotten a crack at a real trophy bull moose.
My long time hunting companion, Mike Misch and I met Mike Carroll while on a float trip with Jay Massey and Al Taylor in 1990. ( Jay wrote a story about that trip, which was published in 'Traditional Bowhunter Magazine'.) We struck an instant friendship and planned to hunt together sometime in the future.
This was my third trip to Mystic Lake and probably my last. Mystic Lake is just one of thousands of water filled sloughs in Alaska, but this one seems to have an ominous cloud of doom hanging over it. It's a great moose area with some dandy bulls wandering around, but the price we've had to pay for those bulls is high, and I'm not talking about money. We named the place based on our experiences there, which have been good, bad and bizarre. It's as though the place is cursed. We never know what form the curse will choose to present itself. We only know that sometime during the hunt, it will rear it's ugly head to make our lives miserable.
It all started in 1992. On September 11th, I took a nice bull moose with a heavy rack over 61 inches wide. Mike Misch called in the bull with a cow call. The bull approached along the edge of the lake. As he passed by me at 25 yards, I uncorked a bull fever induced release that sent my unguided missile rocketing skyward. It skipped off the top of the bull's back and plunged into the lake. The bull swapped ends and made tracks.
The broad side of a barn analogy came to mind as I mentally criticized my poor shooting performance.
An hour later, and nearly a mile inland, we managed to intercept the bull as he circled back toward the lake. I stood behind a bush as the bull approached. All I could see was the massive rack floating along as he bulldozed his way through the brush. A four foot willow branch was wedged between the points of his right antler. He was on a collision course with my ambush site, and thoughts of 1800 pounds of raging beast jumping up and down on my chest, began to creep into my consciousness. With my heart pounding violently, I stood my ground. At 15 yards, he veered slightly to my right. As he passed by at nine yards, I came to full draw only to have the bull stop behind a bush. After what seemed like an eternity, the bull took a step forward. My arrow slipped from my fingers and buried to the fletching in the bull's chest cavity. With a loud grunt, the bull whirled and plowed through the brush for 100 yards. When he hit the ground, his luck ran out and so did ours. We were about to get our first taste of the curse.
We spent three days hauling moose meat across a tussock flat, which is like wading knee deep through grass and briar covered basketballs. I twisted my knee walking through that stuff, and spent most of the hunt with a painful limp.
On the fifth day of our hunt, the temperature plummeted. Within two days It was down to 15 below zero, and this was still summer.
The only way into the area was by float plane. With the sub-zero cold, the lake quickly froze over. We were stranded.
On the tenth day, our pilot flew over and dropped a message instructing us to move our camp to the river 1 1/4 miles west. We spent the better part of two days hauling our meat and gear down to the river.
While transporting our gear, Mike fell through the ice on the lake and narrowly averted drowning and then freezing. Mike walked the remaining half mile to our original campsite. He looked and felt like a big icicle. He had already transported all of his extra clothes to the new campsite, but fortunately I hadn't. I loaned him some dry clothes and we finished moving camp.
A pack of wolves moved into the area to feed on my moose carcass. That initiated a mass exodus from the area by all of the remaining moose. Consequently, Mike was unable to fill his tag.
The river was now choked with ice and we knew a float plane couldn't land on it, so we spent the next two days moving rocks and debris from a gravel bar along the river to create a landing strip. While completing this chore, Mike slipped on the ice and hurt his knee.
On our 16th day in the deep freeze, a plane with tundra tires came to pick us up. Our landing strip was too short, so he had to land over a mile upstream.
The pilot didn't have time to wait for us to transport all the meat and gear, so he took off with Mike and three backpack loads of gear, and flew off into the sunset. Since Mike had a bad knee, I was elected to stay another night and haul the 600 pounds of meat, cape and antlers, and the rest of our gear by myself. The meat was frozen solid and was like carrying a bunch of rocks.
That night I was lulled to sleep by the howling of the wolves, and the ominous roar of grinding ice as it rumbled like thunder for miles down the river valley. I said a prayer out loud that night.
The next day the plane returned to evacuate one exhausted moose hunter. After we landed back at the air strip, the trim control jammed on the plane and it had to be grounded until repairs could be made.
Our lake had gone from open water to ice six inches thick. We spent 8 of our 17 nights in our unheated tent with the temperature dipping to 20 below zero. We spent 7 days hauling moose meat. It was the coldest September ever recorded in Alaska.
Our next trip to Mystic Lake was two years later. We wondered what would go wrong this time. We didn't have to wait long to find out. Two weeks before our hunt was scheduled to begin, we received news that a flood had ravaged the area. Heavy rains and a heat wave in the glacial valleys upstream had combined to cause a flash flood. A huge wall of water had raged downstream destroying at least two Indian villages. It caused the river to rise 25 to 30 feet above it's normal level. The high water pushed every animal miles inland to high ground.
We were unsure of what we would find when we arrived, but we didn't know where else to go. As our little Cessna 206 float plane circled the area, we could see that the waters had receded and left everything coated with a thick layer of mud.
We landed on the river this time, instead of the lake. We unloaded our gear, waved good-by to our pilot, then began the task of setting up camp. We located a spot where the mud and slime was the thinnest, then scraped out a circle big enough to erect our tent.
On our first day of hunting we planned to hike to the other end of the lake. We soon dropped that idea. The entire area was covered with water at least knee deep. There was only a narrow strip of high ground right along the river. The trees and brush were coated with dried mud up to a point 12 feet above the ground. The slightest contact with this brush sent a choking cloud of dust into the air. We were soon covered with dust, and gasping for air. We concluded the best course of action would be to wait in ambush and try to call in a bull.
We built a blind on the end of a finger of brush near the end of our lake. Any moose traveling along our side of the river would have to pass by our blind or swim the lake. This was the same spot that had witnessed my errant shot on our previous hunt. We named the spot Moose Point.
On the evening of our third day, September 11th, we had yet to see a single moose or even a fresh track. We weren't feeling very optimistic about our chances, but we continued to wait and cow call every thirty minutes. About an hour before dark we heard a grunt, and then another. It was the distinctive sound of a rutting bull on the move.
The bull soon appeared at the edge of the lake. He was looking for that amorous cow. We sat silently waiting. The bull skirted the lake and was approaching our position just like we planned. Mike stood ready and waiting with his antique recurve. I stood several steps behind him with my video camera.
With his huge rack swaying from side to side, the bull slowly plodded through the knee deep water, grunting with every step. At eleven yards, he stopped. The massive rack tilted in our direction as he attempted to locate the object of his desire. Both our hearts were pounding from the adrenalin rush. He was still several steps from Mike's shooting lane.
After several heart wrenching seconds, the bull continued on his course. As he stepped into the shooting lane, Mike came to full draw and sent his cedar shaft on it's way. The arrow found it's mark low behind the front leg. We were startled when the bull didn't run, but grunted, whirled around and lowered his rack to face us instead.
We both froze in our tracks. A variety of possible scenarios flashed through our minds, none of which were pleasant. We could see the bull's large eyes roll back and forth as he tried to determine what had stung him.
After several intense seconds dragged by, the bull decided that retreat was his best course of action. As the bull turned and began trotting away, Mike nocked another arrow. He came to full draw, then grunted to try to stop the bull. The bull slowed his retreat, but did not stop. Mike established his lead and launched his arrow. The arrow hit too far forward striking the front leg bone. It didn't matter however, because his first arrow had pierced the bull's heart.
The bull stopped about 60 yards away. Wobbly legged, he stood teetering for a few moments, then tipped over.
A wave of elation and relief washed over us. After handshakes, congratulations, and several minutes of discussion about our close encounter, we had time to contemplate the monumental chore ahead of us. The bull was lying in frigid, thigh-deep water 100 yards from the nearest dry ground. We had no choice but to butcher the bull where he laid. We removed one quarter at a time and floated it out on a small inflatable raft.
After a long exhausting day of butchering, we were back on moose point. This time it was my turn to hold the bow. As if an instant replay, another trophy sized bull appeared. He followed the same course that Mike's bull had taken. When the bull passed by at eleven yards, I drew my bow, then let back down. He was a Pope & Young contender, but smaller than my previous bull, so I decided to wait for a bigger one.
Within two days, the wolves moved in on Mike's moose carcass, and the moose all vanished again. Three days before we were scheduled to leave, our hunt was cut short when our pilot showed up unexpectedly. He said we had to get out now or we would probably be stranded here for another week. There was a heavy weather front moving in.
We made a quick departure and had to follow a long round about course through the mountains to avoid a thunderstorm.
In September of 1998, I returned once again to Mystic Lake, this time with Mike Carroll. We wondered what misfortune would befall us on this occasion.
The little Cessna 185 float plane touched down on the river, and delivered us into the waiting arms of the Mystic Lake wilderness. We set up camp and prepared to hunt the following day. We cleared a path out to Moose Point and repaired the blind that we had built four years earlier. We planned to use the same call and wait tactics that had brought us success in the past.
The first three days of hunting were uneventful, except for a couple of cows that wandered through. On the fourth day, September 10th, we saw our first bull. He had a small rack, about 45 inches wide. He was coming right toward us. We figured he would follow the trail past our point like the bulls did on our previous hunts. This bull had different plans, however. When he got to our finger of brush, he cut straight through it on a cow trail and wound up right in our laps. I was videotaping and didn't realize how close he was getting until I glanced over the top of the camera to see him bearing down on me a mere seven yards away. I was standing in the middle of the trail that he was walking down. Mike's backpack was lying in the trail between us. The bull was a bit bewildered by these unexpected obstructions. He stopped and stared at us for several minutes, then changed directions, much to our relief.
On our return to camp, we ran head-on into a 52 inch bull coming up the trail from the other direction. It was a standoff for awhile, then the bull spooked and dove off the 12 foot bank into the river.
Back at camp we could hear haunting sounds emanating from the south edge of the slough; the mournful cries of a love sick cow, and the clatter of at least two bulls racking the brush. We were feeling very optimistic about our chances the next day.
The next day was Friday, September 11th. That was the date that Mike Misch and I both killed our bulls on our previous hunts. The morning hunt was uneventful, although we could hear activity back in the willows, south of the slough.
That evening we heard a bull approaching from the north. We thought he would follow the same course that Mike's bull did in 1994, but to our surprise, instead of walking around the end of the lake past our point, he swam directly across the lake and headed for the willows where we heard the activity earlier. This was a nice bull, probably 60 inches or more.
We tried calling, to no avail. He knew right where he was going and we soon found out why. As we watched him crossing the slough, another bull appeared from the south. The second bull was even bigger. He dwarfed the first bull. This bull was obviously the king of the slough. He was the type of bull that you dream about, but rarely see. They met out in the slough directly in front of us, but they were 400 yards away. All we could do was watch.
The two bulls circled each other, posturing, and rocking their immense racks back and forth. The biggest bull lowered his rack and lunged at the smaller bull. The smaller bull backed off. The larger bull turned around and headed back toward the willows. Then a third bull appeared from the southeast. This bull was smaller than the others, but still a legal bull of 50 inches or more.
While the big bull was busy racking the brush, the two smaller bulls met. After some posturing, antler wagging and brush racking, they commenced banging heads.
The clatter of antlers was unbelievably loud as it echoed across the slough, as I mentioned at the beginning of this article. The two bulls battled each other for a good thirty minutes. The smaller bull was nearly knocked off his feet on several occasions.
Just as the fight was winding down, Mister Big reemerged from the willows. The combatants had ceased hostilities and were now content to vent their remaining energy and anger on some innocent willow bushes. The big bull wandered about 50 yards out into the slough before stopping.
We suddenly saw the opportunity we were waiting for. Mike bellowed out a cow call. The bull turned and started coming toward us. As he approached, we could hear a fourth bull approaching from the north. We then realized why the big bull had come back out. He had heard the other bull coming long before we did, due to his excellent hearing. Now he thought there was another cow in danger of being snatched away by the other bull. He was coming to protect that cow. He just didn't realize that the cow was bogus.
At about 200 yards, the bull stopped. He appeared hesitant. One more enticing call from Mike got him moving again. He didn't call anymore to avoid having the bull home in on our exact position.
The bull continued his approach for about 25 minutes, with frequent stops to look and listen. His rack grew more impressive with each step. At 15 yards, he stopped again. For five minutes, the bull stood there. The massive rack swung back and forth as he tried to locate the cow. The bull was facing directly toward us, so Mike was unable to shoot. Our hearts were pounding as he appeared to look right through us. Finally the bull became suspicious and turned to retreat.
In a flash, Mike's bow came alive. His arrow leaped from it's hiding place and darted through space catching the bull in mid-stride. The full length of the shaft disappeared into the bulls chest cavity.
In an explosion of water, mud and grass, the bull churned a path across the slough for 100 yards, then came to earth with a mighty splash.
I glanced over at Mike and could almost swear that he was floating in mid-air. He was so pumped up and excited, that his voice was two octaves higher than normal for several minutes. He had achieved his goal. He had taken his dream bull, and he had dropped him right out in the middle of that nightmare bog. Another submarine butcher job loomed ahead of us.
We slept in the next morning. We didn't want to go out into that frigid water until the air warmed up some. When we arrived at moose point we were surprised to see a cow and two bulls out in the slough. One of the bulls was small, but the other was nearly as big as the one that Mike shot. The two bulls soon started pushing each other around and clashing antlers. We were witnessing another battle. Unfortunately, the cow swam across the lake instead of coming past our point. The bulls followed suit, of course.
We waded out through the knee high water and waist high grass to where Mike's bull had expired. The bull's rack was 66 inches wide. It had wide palms and massive brow tines. We estimated it would score well over 200 points in the Pope & Young listing.
We spent a long day butchering and hauling meat. We didn't have a raft this time, though, so we used our two air mattresses. We stacked one on top of the other and lashed some poles on top to keep the meat from rolling off. Our make-shift raft did an adequate job, although one of the mattresses did not survive the ordeal. It took eight hours to get the meat, cape and antlers, to dry ground. Two exhausted moose hunters slept well that night.
Two days after the kill, the wolves moved in to clean up the carcass and chased all the moose away again, as expected. I was not too disappointed though, since my primary goal was to help Mike get a bull. We saw 10 bulls in the four day period before the wolves arrived, and I got some great video tape.
It rained the last five days of our hunt. We didn't see any more moose, but we did observe several wolves feeding on the moose carcass. We shot a few grouse which we found to be mighty tasty.
We radioed a passing aircraft and asked the pilot to relay a message to our air service requesting an earlier pickup. The moose meat was in danger of spoiling, due to the warm wet weather. We asked to be picked up on Friday instead of Saturday.
On Friday, we took down our camp and packed all of our gear down to the river. We moved the meat, cape and antlers from where we had it hidden, to a spot near the river where it could be quickly loaded. It was about a half mile down river from camp.
While we sat waiting in the rain for the plane to arrive, I mentioned to Mike, how well our hunt had gone. Maybe the curse passed us by this time. All he said was, "It's not over yet".
Those words turned out to be prophetic, because an hour later the curse emerged from it's dank lair and grabbed us by the throat.
About 1:00 PM, a small boat came down river. It pulled in to shore right where we had the meat stashed. We saw two people get out of the boat and climb up the river bank. We were worried.
About twenty minutes later, we heard voices approaching. Two native moose hunters with rifles were following the trail to where we were waiting. We spoke to them for several minutes, and offered to give them some moose meat. They declined, and returned to their boat.
We were suspicious, and quickly headed down the shoreline to our meat stash. When we got there, our worst fears were confirmed. Mike's moose rack was gone! The trophy of a lifetime had been stolen.
To make matters worse, our airplane never showed up, and no other aircraft passed overhead that we could radio a message to. There was nothing we could do but set up our tent again and hope the plane would come on Saturday.
The atmosphere in camp had changed from one of joy and jubilation, to one of anger and despair.
About 10:00 AM the next morning, we heard a plane approaching. A De Havilland Beaver swooped down and nestled comfortably on the river, then taxied in to shore. Our ride had finally arrived, but our troubles were not over yet.
After loading all of our gear, we taxied down to our meat stash. We had left the meat next to a gravel bar, where the float plane could get out of the main current and it would be easy to load the meat. However, the river had risen two feet over night, due to the rain, and the gravel bar was now submerged.
Due to the high water and fast current, we couldn't beach the plane. The pilot brought the plane as close to the meat as he could get until the floats bottomed out on the submerged gravel bar about a hundred yards upstream from the meat. We had to wade out to the plane to load the meat.
After everything was loaded, we had to turn the plane broadside to the current so the pilot could start the engine and taxi away from shore. With the pilot in the cockpit, Mike and I turned the plane. We tried to hold it long enough for the pilot to start the engine, but the current was too strong.
The current swept the Beaver downstream as Mike and I scrambled aboard. About 80 yards downstream, we slammed sideways into two sweepers. The two spruce deadfalls were still attached to the river bank and with the current pushing the Beaver against them, they bent back like the limbs of my longbow at full draw.
The pilot jumped in the river and grabbed one of the floats. He turned the plane while Mike tried to pry the trees off the fuselage. I was trapped inside the plane, because the trees were pressing against my door, and all of our meat and gear was piled up on the other side of me.
Finally, Mike managed to pry the trees loose. They snapped back and slapped the Beaver's tail as they went by. We were floating free again but heading for more trouble downstream. Mike and the pilot quickly climbed back into the cockpit. The engine roared to life and we made a mad dash for the middle of the river just in time to avoid the next bunch of sweepers.
We taxied upstream for about a mile to some quiet water where we could beach the plane to check for damage. Fortunately, the plane was okay, and we were soon airborne.
After hearing our story, the pilot was sympathetic to our problem. He flew us over a small village where we thought the antler thieves might have come from. As we passed the village, we spotted the boat belonging to the thieves, but could see no antlers.
When we got back to civilization, we contacted the DNR and the Alaska State Troopers, and gave them what information we had. We didn't have much hope of recovering the antlers.
Our problems still weren't over. When our scheduled flight to Fairbanks arrived, they were overloaded and didn't have enough room for both of us. Mike had to stay and wait for the next day's flight.
The next day when it was time for Mike's flight, he was informed that it had been cancelled. He had to go to another air service to get a ride, but it turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
Mike's new flight to Fairbanks had to make a stop at the same village that we had flown over in the Beaver. While Mike sat in the plane, who should climb aboard but one of the antler thieves. The man tried to hide his face when he saw Mike.
Mike went to the air service office and managed to get the guy's name and address, which he quickly relayed to the Alaska State Troopers.
Two months after his arrival home, Mike was contacted by the detective in charge of the investigation. He informed Mike, that one of the thieves had confessed to the crime, and agreed to show them where the antlers were hidden. The Troopers confiscated the antlers and are holding them as evidence until prosecution proceedings are concluded.
Meanwhile, with eternal patience, Mystic Lake awaits. Beautiful but deadly, like a Venus Flytrap with promises of sweet rewards, it stands poised and ready. When the next unsuspecting bowhunter stumbles blindly into it's gaping maw, the deadly jaws of the curse will snap closed and claim yet another victim. But it won't be me!
On our three hunts we took three Pope and Young bulls, from the same spot on the same day, (September 11th). Each time, the wolves claimed the carcass and shut down the moose activity. Our adventures and misadventures induced a full range of emotions including elation, exhilaration, frustration, anxiety, relief, sorrow, fear, despair and anger.
My bull's rack officially measured 61 1/8 inches wide and scored 191 3/8 points. It was the #2 P&Y bull taken by bow and arrow in the state of Alaska for 1992. Mike Misch's moose rack was 56 inches wide, but had more points and better palmation. It scored 196 4/8 points and was the #1 archery moose in Alaska in 1994. Mike Carroll's bull was much larger than the others, but since it was stolen, we didn't get an official measurement. We field measured the width of the rack at 66 inches.
All three of us now shoot Alaska Peninsula Longbows, built by Mike Carroll.
Go to Alaska 1992 Moose Hunt Video Page
Go to Alaska 1994 Moose Hunt Video Page
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