The Maine moose hunt is a relatively new tradition, depending on the age of the person you ask. In 1935, moose hunting was outlawed in Maine because the herd was shrinking. By 1980, the population had rebounded, and the hunt started again.
At first, hunters drove rural roads in northern and western towns, shooting moose roadside. After nearly 54 years without hunting, the animals weren’t wary of people. Now, 45 years later, the moose have become more cautious, and many hunters must venture into the woods to find their quarry.
Some hunters still get their moose from the roadside, but age, skill, and resources often shape how hunters approach the hunt once drawn for a coveted permit. Here is a tale of two successful, but very different hunts.
My buddy from Rangeley, Bill Murphy, called me this summer after being drawn for a moose permit and asked me to accompany him as his sub-permittee. I jumped at the chance—moose hunting is always a grand adventure, and Bill had helped me on my two successful moose hunts: a cow in 2000 and a bull in 2012.
I spent the summer gathering gear, and soon we were off for the October hunt in the woods above Rangeley, where Bill shares a camp with a few other hunters.
Robbie Thorndike and his dad, loggers from Strong, were also at the camp. Robbie’s brother, Austin “Ozzie,” had drawn a permit and had not hunted for decades. Robbie was pleased to get his brother back into the sport.
When Bill and I arrived, we discussed our hunting plans. Bill is 75 and I’m almost 60. Robbie is 39 and Ozzie is 37. Our hunts would naturally look different based on age.
Robbie and Ozzie had been scouting a bog area and planned to hike in to ambush a moose looking for water during the ongoing drought. They intended to quarter their moose on site and pack it out in pieces if luck was on their side.
Bill and I, on the other hand, opted for a roving hunt, riding from chopping to chopping and calling for moose, hoping to lure one out. If successful, we planned to drag the animal to the roadside and load it into my trailer stashed at camp.
Monday morning arrived with high anticipation. Robbie and Ozzie got up early and reached their spot first. Bill and I drove to our first calling location, where he had seen several bulls during early-season bird hunting. We called for a while but saw no response. By day’s end, we had logged close to 100 miles with nothing to show for it. Robbie and Ozzie came back empty-handed as well.
Over the next few days, Bill and I repeated our roving hunt. We spotted a few cow moose and a couple of bulls, but they quickly headed in the opposite direction. Meanwhile, Robbie reported that he suspected the moose were holding up in the high country after breeding. That meant a long, strenuous hike up the mountain and several miles of traversing blowdowns and logging slash from previous years.
It was a strenuous hunt, but these boys are used to working in the woods. Bill and I could track with the best of them, but decades had passed since our last serious trek. I had packed two caribou out years ago so I knew the routine but the effort reminded me how time changes things. I was content to continue our hunt and hope for the best.
Friday morning, Ozzie shot a beautiful 50-inch, 816-pound bull — on his birthday to boot. We ran into Robbie at camp as he gathered supplies to get the moose down from the ridge, so I went along to help.
Robbie cleared a path ahead of me while I drove my 4-wheeler nearly a mile up the mountain to where Ozzie waited with his prize. I wasn’t sure how my ATV made it up, but if it could climb, it surely would come down.
We secured the beast into a half-canoe made for the occasion and began our descent. Thanks to Robbie clearing the way, the downhill drag was a breeze with only a few minor hiccups.
Robbie had also texted his friend and mechanic, Andy Pratt, for backup. Andy and a buddy arrived carrying a backpack, and Andy pulled out a 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. We each enjoyed one of those refreshing beverages. Robbie’s satellite message to Andy had been simple: “Bring a trailer, fresh legs and beer.”
I went home that evening after seeing Ozzie’s moose tagged and weighed as I had a commitment the next day. Bill returned on Saturday with Rangeley friend Maurice Plough. They went back to the area where we had last seen moose and Bill took down a great-eating spike bull weighing about 500 pounds, standing in a clearing with an easy rope drag to the road.
I congratulated Ozzie and Robbie and told them theirs was a true hunt, traversing rough terrain and calling in a whopper. I didn’t want to diminish Bill’s hunt, though. He put in the time, scouted the area and went back to spots where he had seen moose. His work paid off, too.
I told Bill, “Back in our younger days, that would be a fun way to hunt but we have to accept our limitations.”
He laughed and said, “Speak for yourself.”
I couldn’t argue. Bill had moose to eat for the winter and I just hoped he shared some with his truck-seat partner.
