Moose on Ice
by Gary Olsen
I was filled with anticipation as our tiny float plane dropped from the sky and settled on the little wilderness lake. We had flown over 200 miles of Alaskan wilderness since leaving Fairbanks Airport two and half hours earlier.
It was September 9th, 1992, and our bowhunt for moose was under way. My bowhunting partner, Mike Misch, and I were on our own for the next 16 days. We were hunting the south slope of the Brooks Range in Alaska.
Our pilot taxied the plane as near to shore as possible until the thick grass and reeds stopped us. We unloaded our gear and slogged through thigh deep water and mud to solid ground. We waded back out to the float plane and gave it a push back out to open water. The engine roared to life and the little airplane was soon skimming across the water. We waved good-bye and watched as our last link with civilization rose from the lake and disappeared over the mountains. We were very lucky to be here, since two other hunters had booked this hunt. Darrin Lung and Ken Domke had arranged it with bush pilot Drew Dix, but had to change their plans. They vouched for our credibility, and talked Drew into taking us in their place. Normally, his busy schedule doesn't allow him to take on any new clients. The lake is really a slough, or intermittent branch of the river. During high water it connects to the river at both ends but during the dry season the water level drops and it becomes a long narrow lake. The water filled portion is about three miles long and 200 yards wide. It is bordered by a grassy meadow 50 to 200 yards wide and very wet and boggy. Next to the meadow is a narrow ridge covered with thick spruce, alders, and willows.
In Alaska you can't hunt the same day that you fly so we spent the rest of the day setting up camp and preparing our equipment for hunting. Mike was using a 60 pound Bear take-down recurve and I had my 70 pound PSE Citation. We were both using Easton 2219 XX75 arrows tipped with Zwickey Black Diamond Eskimo broadheads.
At daylight the next morning, we started walking inland toward a high ridge with a large outcropping of rocks. The plan was to climb up to the rocks where we would have a good view of the whole drainage.
Mike carried his bow and I carried a video camera. We planned to hunt as a team with the cameraman doing the calling and capturing the action on tape. Each day we would trade off. This way we would have a good record of our hunt even if we weren't successful with our bows.
We hadn't gone 200 yards when I slipped and twisted my knee. It wasn't too severe though, so we continued on. We had only taken a few more steps when we heard a loud scraping noise coming from the other side of the lake. We did a quick about face, and headed back toward the lake. When we reached the edge of the lake, we spotted a patch of white moving through the brush on the far side about 400 yards away. I called by imitating a bull grunt and broke some branches. Suddenly a huge bull moose emerged from the brush and slowly approached the lake. His massive 60 inch plus rack stood out like a radar dish in the sunlight. A moose rack functions like a radar dish as well as it amplifies sound and helps him zero in on it's source, just like when you cup your hands to your ears.
The bull stopped about 100 yards beyond the far shore of the lake. He stood there staring toward us but wouldn't come any closer. We knew we couldn't entice him to swim across but we continued calling anyway. He turned around and began destroying a willow bush with his antlers. The bull then began walking parallel to the shore line toward the east end of the lake.
We thought we might be able to intercept him at the far end, but it was about a two mile hike. We took off as fast as we could go short of running.
When we reached the end of the lake we set up an ambush along a well used moose trail. Suddenly, there he was. He approached to about 75 yards but would come no closer despite my continued coaxing.
While returning to camp, we came upon a small bull feeding along our side of the lake. We stalked within 35 yards and I got some good videotape footage, but we figured he was a bit too small. We estimated his rack at about 45 inches wide, with two brow points on each antler. In our area nonresidents are restricted to bulls with racks that are at least 50 inches wide or have at least one antler with three or more brow points.
We were excited and encouraged by the early action and eagerly anticipated the adventures awaiting us the next day.
The dawn broke clear and cool. It was already daylight when I crawled out of the tent. I walked to the edge of the lake with my binoculars and immediately spotted a good bull feeding at the west end of the lake about a mile away. We quickly grabbed our gear and headed west along the lake. It was my turn with the bow so Mike carried the camera. When we reached the end of the lake, the bull was gone. We knew he couldn't have gone too far so we tried a cow call. The bull answered from about 200 yards away. I dashed for cover and Mike quietly backtracked 40 yards or so and called again.
I could hear the bull coming, but I couldn't see him until he broke through the brush into the open meadow along the lake. My heart was pounding as I watched that huge rack swaying from side to side with each step. I had gone back in the brush a little too far and I was having difficulty finding an opening to shoot through. At 25 yards broadside the bull passed through an opening. I quickly drew and released and then stood gawking in disbelief as my arrow skipped off the top of his back and into the water on the far side of the lake. The bull made a hasty retreat back the way he had come.
Mike and I regrouped and discussed the possible reasons that might account for my missing an animal the size of a barn. Mike was sure that bull fever had reared it's ugly head, while I suspected a deflection, but I don't totally discount his hypothesis.
We decided to head for the rock outcropping that was our initial goal the day before. It was in the same general direction that the bull had gone. Within 200 yards we were both ringing wet with sweat. It was the most impossible terrain to walk through that I had ever encountered. We had to cross an area covered with knee high grassy mounds called tussocks. They were roughly a foot apart and were interspersed with a tangle of waist high bushes. We had to walk on top of the mounds like stepping stones or step over and between them. It was slow and arduous and it was beginning to take it's toll on my sore knee.
As we walked we kept hearing my bull. He was about 1/2 mile ahead of us and about every 5 minutes he'd attack a bush. We could hear the thrashing and crashing. We tried calling again but got no response.
After we'd gone about a mile inland, my knee was really hurting so we stopped to rest. I took both ankle bands off my neoprene hip boots and wrapped them around my knee. That helped a lot.
While we were resting we could still hear the bull. It sounded like he was circling back toward the lake. We decided to cut cross country and try to intercept him.
We walked as quickly as my knee would allow. We'd gone about 1/4 mile and were walking through a grassy clearing when Mike spotted a patch of white through the brush 100 yards ahead. It looked like a piece of moose antler. I quietly stalked another 30 yards across the clearing to the edge of the brush and stood behind a bush. Mike back tracked 10 yards or so and took cover with the camera.
After 3 or 4 minutes the white patch started moving. The bull probably had heard us walking through the grass and was coming to investigate.
He was walking directly toward me, grunting with every step. All I could see was his huge rack plowing through the brush like a bulldozer. There was a 4 foot willow branch from his last victim wedged between the points of his right antler. It was an awesome sight, and a bit intimidating. With my heart pounding violently, I stood my ground. I didn't know if he would pass on my left or right or walk right over me. 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. At about 15 yards he angled off to my right. (What a relief!) At 9 yards broadside I came to full draw. He must have caught the movement, because he stopped. Unfortunately a bush concealed his vitals. I held at full draw and waited. I could see his right eye glance in my direction. I told myself you can't miss at this range, just don't hit the leg bone. After what seemed like an eternity, he started moving again. As he emerged from behind the bush my arrow was on its way. He grunted, whirled and charged off into the brush, the dense willows yielding to his passage as if they were grass. Ten inches of my arrow protruded from his side just behind his right front leg.
Mike, who was as excited as I was, pointed to the last position he had seen the bull. After a 30 minute wait, we started walking in that direction and soon spotted the bull. He was down for keeps. I checked his back and discovered a tuft of hair had been shaved off which confirmed that it was the same bull I had missed that morning.
Upon reviewing our videotape we discovered that I had held at full draw for 9 seconds and only 18 seconds had elapsed from arrow impact until the bull went down. After 30 years of bowhunting, I'm still amazed at the deadly efficiency of an arrow.
After congratulations and some picture taking, Mike asked me why I had to shoot him so far from camp. I told him that I never do anything the easy way.
He asked that same question a lot during the next three days. That's how long it took us to pack out the meat, cape and antlers. We took the antlers and cape all the way back to camp, but left the meat at the edge of the lake 3/4 of a mile west of camp.
We built a platform out of dead logs to help cool the meat and keep it off the ground. While building our cooling rack we were breaking a lot of branches. Suddenly, we heard a bull grunting. He was attracted to the commotion we were making. Mike took cover with his bow and waited. The bull came within about 100 yards but he was downwind of us and soon disappeared. We never got a look at him because of the thick brush.
We piled all the meat on the rack with ample air space around each piece. We left it uncovered the first two nights to facilitate cooling. During the day we covered it with a couple of space blankets to keep the cold in and the rain, snow and birds out. After the meat was well chilled we kept it covered all the time. We inspected it every day and walked around it and urinated in several different spots around it to let any bears or wolves know that it belonged to us.
It was late afternoon of day five and after three days of packing out meat we were a bit weary, or maybe burnt out would be a better description. Anyway, we decided that a less arduous method of hunting would be in order, so we located a well used moose trail at the west end of the lake and just sat, watched and listened. Every half hour we would break branches and scrape a tree with a dead limb to imitate a bull racking the brush. A dry moose shoulder blade works better but we didn't have one.
After about the third such session, we heard crashing about 500 yards to the west. Mike picked an ambush site and I retreated 100 yards to do the calling. I called and thrashed the brush every few minutes. Each time the bull would respond by attacking a bush. During the next half hour he must have attacked a dozen trees or bushes. This was one angry bull!
Finally, the bull began his approach to seek out the source of the taunting. Unfortunately he took a different route than Mike had anticipated. The bull passed on the wrong side, and Mike had to contort his body in an awkward position in order to shoot. Just as Mike made his release, he lost his balance and his arrow flew wildly. (I suspected bull fever!) The bull charged off about 40 yards and looked back toward Mike. Then he just turned and walked away.
Up to this point, the weather had been pretty good. The temperature ranged from the mid 40's during the day to the 20's at night. It had been clear and sunny for the most part. Unfortunately for us, however, it was about to take a turn for the worse. In fact our adventure was about to become more like an ordeal.
We spent day six hunting in blowing snow with no success. The temperature was steadily dropping.
On day seven we saw two bulls but were unable to call them into bow range. The temperature was down to 10 degrees and still falling. Ice was starting to form on the lake.
When we awoke on day eight, the lake was completely frozen over. The temperature had dropped to ten below zero.
By the next morning the lake was covered with ice an inch and a half thick. We knew we were in trouble. There was no way an airplane could land on this lake now. We could only hope that the weather would warm up and melt the ice before the plane came to pick us up. If it didn't, we would have to pack our camp and the moose out to the river which was a mile and a quarter away. Mike took our inflatable raft out to the middle of the lake by scooting it along on the ice. He broke up the ice with a log until he had two areas of open water ten feet wide. He hoped it would speed up the thawing process in the event that the temperature did rise again.
On day 10 we were relieved to get some warmer weather again. The holes in the ice had opened up until we had a stretch of open water 300 yards long.
Drew was supposed to fly over and check on us the following day so we decided to transport the moose meat down to the river, which was about 1/4 mile from our cache. We figured he would be able to land on the river and pick it up.
The meat was frozen solid. It was like carrying a bunch of rocks. We spent most of the day packing it out. Upon our arrival at the river, we were dismayed to find it full of floating chunks of ice.
The next morning we were disappointed to find that the temperature had dropped and the lake was frozen over again. About noon we heard the plane coming. Drew circled the lake and then flew low over our camp and dropped us a message. The message instructed us to move our camp to the river where he would pick us up in five days. He couldn't pick up the moose meat because the river was still full of ice.
We hadn't seen any moose in the area for several days, so we went down river about three miles to try our luck. We managed to call in a bull but he cut across downwind and would not come into bow range.
On our way back to camp we encountered a pack of wolves coming up the shore line toward us. They approached within 100 yards before they spotted us and scattered. Later we could hear them howling all around us as they attempted to regroup.
On day twelve we broke camp and packed everything down to the river. We hiked along the edge of the lake on the ice, which was now two inches thick, because it was a lot easier walking. We stayed close to shore, however, in case the ice gave way. While returning from taking the first load, Mike walked past a beaver lodge. He had forgotten that the beavers had been trying to keep a hole open in the ice. When he noticed the patch of black ice, he tried to flatten himself out, but it was too late. The ice shattered and Mike plunged into the frigid chest deep water.
He waded to shore and walked the remaining half mile to our original campsite. It was then that he realized that he had already transported all of his spare clothes down to the river. Fortunately for him, I hadn't taken mine yet so I loaned him some dry clothes and we finished moving camp. I said to Mike, "Aren't you glad it's still summer?"
On day thirteen, we hiked down river again. We saw two bulls on the other side of the river. Under normal weather conditions we could have taken our raft across and gone after them, but with the river choked with ice any such attempt would have been suicidal. While returning to camp, we visited the spot where I had taken my bull. The wolves had found the remains of the carcass. Everything was gone except the backbone and a few attached ribs. Even the skull had been carried off. They had stripped every piece of flesh from the bones, but they hadn't touched any of the meat back at our cache. The human scent was enough to keep them away.
Mike and I took different routes back to camp. I was walking down our original meat packing trail when suddenly, the brush exploded 15 yards in front of me. A 60 inch bull moose loomed up in front of me. If Mike had been with me he would have had a good chance for a shot. I was carrying the video camera and got some good footage. That was the last moose we saw.
Day fourteen, the first day of fall, and 15 degrees below zero. By this time we had given up all hope of the plane being able to land on the lake or the river. We concluded that Drew would have to land on a gravel bar with a wheeled airplane. We spent the next two afternoons clearing rocks and debris from the gravel bar, and smoothing out the surface. The ground was frozen so we had to knock each rock loose with another rock. We marked the best line to land on with chunks of ice.
On day sixteen, we broke camp and packed all of our meat and gear down to the gravel bar. Finally the work was done, or so we thought. At 3:30 PM we heard a plane approaching. We knew right away that it wasn't Drew's plane. The pilot circled us and then flew low over our gravel bar. He circled again, waved and kept on going. He landed about a mile and a quarter upstream. Our gravel bar was too short. All of our work had been in vain. Now we were faced with the chore of moving all of our meat and gear again. We donned our backpacks and headed upstream. When we reached the plane, the pilot told us that he couldn't wait long because he had other hunters to pick up. Drew Dix had hired him to pick up all of his hunters. He could take one of us now but the other would have to stay another night. He allowed us to get one more load of gear, then he and Mike took off. Unfortunately they took all the camping gear with them, except for my sleeping bag and a small backpack tent. I had no food or cooking utensils or warm clothes.
I was left alone with the task of transporting the rest of our gear and the frozen moose. I could walk on ice for about 3/4 of a mile, so I packed everything to the edge of the ice. Then I loaded as much on top of my backpack as I could and pulled it like a sled across the ice. I hauled moose meat for the next six hours until dark.
It was kind of strange walking across the ice. It was six inches thick now, but so crystal clear that I could see fish swimming under my feet.
Just before dark the plane returned. The pilot left me some blankets and some rice, peaches and tang. He also brought back my warm clothes to my immense relief. He said he would pick me up the following afternoon, then he flew off into the sunset.
I set up my tent and built a big reflector fire in front of it. I cooked my rice in a coffee can and ate it with a forked stick and my pocket knife. I ate my can of peaches and then used the can to mix up some tang to drink. I listened to the rumbling and groaning of the ice flows as they scraped their way along the shore. The roar of grinding ice was a constant companion as it echoed for miles down the river valley. It was a stark contrast to the silence and serenity that we had experienced during our first week, and a deadly reminder of the power of nature.
The wolves came during the night and circled the meat but didn't touch it.
At daylight the next morning I started hauling meat again. By noon I had it all transported. I was one tired moose hunter when the airplane arrived.
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On seven of the last eight days of our hunt the temperature had dipped down between -10 and -20 degrees Fahrenheit. The lake had gone from open water to ice six inches thick.
We dealt with the cold the best we could. We had prepared for cold weather but hadn't expected anything like this. We had no source of heat in our tent except for a one burner camp stove. We only had enough fuel for cooking and boiling water, not general heating. At night we would wear all of our hunting clothes inside our sleeping bags. I also wore my polar fleece face mask and a stocking cap. Any extra clothing we laid across the top of our bags. We each had a space blanket to top it off. It was tolerable but not toasty.
One morning it was so cold that my butane lighter wouldn't light until I held it in my hand inside my bag for a few minutes. It was too cold for the butane to vaporize.
We didn't build any fires until the last three days, because of our close proximity to the moose feeding area. During the day we kept warm hiking or working. I brought a radio along for weather reports but our area was so remote I couldn't pick up any stations.
Upon our return to civilization we found out that there were hundreds of hunters stranded all over Alaska. Pilots were air dropping food and supplies to some. Many had to be rescued by helicopter. The mountains in the Alaska Range to our south got up to six feet of snow. Many pilots had to put skis on their planes to get to their snow bound hunters.
Drew Dix had to take his float plane all the way to Anchorage and store it for the winter because the float pond at Fairbanks Airport was frozen over. A few months later he sold his air charter business and moved to Colorado.
We were fortunate to be close to a large river with gravel bars. We were able to get ourselves, my moose and all of our gear safely home. We got one trophy class bull for two guys, which was pretty good under the circumstances. After the required 60 day drying period, my bull officially scored 191 3/8 using the Pope and Young scoring system, and measured 61 1/8 inches wide. After reviewing our videotape, we discovered that my bull was the same one that we pursued on our first day of hunting.
The End.
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