The weather is crazy warm for December. Most years we would have had some measure of snow by now.
If I were still hunting for a moose I would be mighty frustrated, because the first snow, enough to track, is one of the best mornings to bring home the venison.
We killed our moose back in early October and I didn’t learn much this season. That’s the thing. We think we are having bad luck, hunting through the festive season, after trekking the woods relentlessly hard all autumn.
Better to think of it as the gods and goddesses of the field blessing us with knowledge. I learned most of what I know about moose through bad luck and hunting in snow.
On the other hand, if you are one of those people who ignored your tags throughout the entire autumn and now you’re looking desperately for a moose with your Christmas tree standing in the living room, well, that’s a whole other quintal of cod.
I don’t think the deities of the arrow or bullet are much pleased with you. You might not have moose soup for family and friends on Christmas Eve or Boxing Day. Because no matter how you slice it, no odds how good you are, luck is always the melted butter in the porridge.
To seal the deal you need a tad of luck. That moose could easily hear that twig crack under your foot, or be standing by a brook and not, or a gust of wind might make your day.
The gods decide these details.
Some say we make our own luck. I suppose.
Luck really just boils down to statistics. If you play the lottery long enough you will win.
You won’t shoot a moose while eating a late Saturday morning feed of eggs and bacon. You have to go in the woods where the moose are.
So the more you hunt the more good luck you will have, and likewise bad. I guess in the long run, to a lifelong hunter, luck is irrelevant. You will get your share of seasons.
I mean for me, like this year with an early moose, and the others, up to my butt in snow.
Seriously, and nowadays, with a lifetime of experience, and the good grace of the gods, I hope, we usually get our moose early in the season. I think that mid-November changes everything. Chance gains ground, because earlier moose are pretty easy to talk to. Yes indeed, they can be enticed out of hiding by bull and cow calls, executed to take advantage of their mating rituals. It puts them at a disadvantage to crafty and experienced hunters.
With the rut ended moose hunting is a whole new ball game, more of a level field. The tactics are totally different, at least from my perspective.
That’s where the first snow comes in.
Here on the Avalon Peninsula it usually occurs about three or four weeks after the rutting season ends. That’s often after a period of hunting that may have been very taxing physically and mentally.
I remember one year we were looking for our second moose and never seen a thing in quite a while. And then the snow fell. The abrupt change was absolutely amazing.
Matt Brazil had the licence and I was to meet him and Robert at the bottom of Peter’s Path a half hour or so before daylight. It was a Saturday morning in early December, around now sort of timing.
There had been no snow and we hadn’t had much luck since our opening day kill. I left my house around 6 a.m. on my 500 Arctic Cat quad. The stars were bright and a near full moon lit up the year’s first snow, about 6 inches of dry fluffy powder.
It was beautiful and I felt full of life and optimism. I knew the gods were smiling. We had hunted hard, learned stuff, and had not complained.
Never complain, not about the weather, the wet bogs, cold feet, nothing. It is mortal sin. There is no forgiveness, and no moose soup.
Anyway, I don’t hunt or fish with folks who complain.
My Cat climbed the hill, had to engage the four-wheel drive. On the high ground in particular it had really snowed last night. Wow — we were going to get a moose this morning. I could feel it in my soul.
I crossed the Veteran’s Highway and drove towards the Buck Hill. Big bright eyes twinkled above the snow up ahead. My toe pressed the braking lever and slowed my pace. There were three moose in the narrow trail ahead. The day was looking promising. The moose moved into the trees and I carried on.
At Peter’s Path we discussed going back to look for the moose I had seen, but given the terrain we figured I had been lucky to encounter them, not likely to happen again this morning. They were in thick difficult tracking country. We carried on with our original plan to hunt Goose’s Hill at the top of Peter’s Path.
There were tracks everywhere, going up the road, all over the hills, and on the marsh below us. I could see the tracks with my binoculars, lit by jut the moonlight. The moose were really on the move this morning. And we hadn’t seen a thing in weeks. Must be the snow.
The sky began to lighten and black outlines became trees. Yellow marsh grass appeared out of the whitest snow blankets I’d ever seen. Detail emerged and the hunt was on.
Just as the sun cleared the hills I had rode over earlier, a moose stepped out from the trees, then another, and another. They slowly meandered their way across the white and yellow marsh. Matt lay prone with his rifle resting on his pack. I watched with my glasses.
The crisp bark of rapidly burning propellant altered the serenity of the scene. Maybe I will take up bow-hunting again. But I guess the end game is the same. And I do love the scent of burnt gunpowder. The moose died and we drank moose soup.
Now the question remains. Were we lucky that morning?
If you don’t have your moose yet be sure and get out there. And don’t pass up on that first snow.
It is a gift from the gods for those who pull on their warm jackets and brave the elements.
I’ll be out here, just for the fun of it.
Happy moose tracking and Merry Christmas. See you Boxing Day.
Paul Smith, a native of Spaniard’s Bay, fishes and wanders the outdoors at every opportunity.
