It was a foggy, damp October morning deep in the North Maine Woods, the second day of the annual Maine cow moose hunt. I stood in the bed of my truck, binoculars around my neck, blowing cow calls across the timber cut to my north.
A slight breeze brushed my face and a trace of drizzle fell from the sky. In other words, it was a perfect morning for moose hunting.
My clients, a father and his 13-year-old son, were in front of me. The boy stood to my left and his father to my right, both scanning the northwest corner of the harvested timber plot for a moose responding to my calls.
Fresh cow tracks crossed the branch road, heading north into a stand of mixed spruce and fir at the corner of the clearing. The crisp hoof prints lay directly over my tire tread from scouting a previous location just an hour earlier.
On my second round of mouth calls, I spotted movement in low-growth scrub along the cut’s edge to my right. A moose stepped out of the tree line in the northeast corner of the clearing and moved into the opening as if on a string, only 150 yards away. I quickly got the hunters’ attention and repositioned them while I glassed the moose to confirm it was a cow.
I hunkered down in the bed of the truck and checked on my shooter — the young hunter was steady and ready.
The grandfather of the family was along for the hunt, watching from behind our position. I had guided him and his son on a bull moose hunt a few years earlier, when he was the father of the hunting pair. This trip, we were introducing a third generation to moose hunting.
Binoculars up on the cow, I told my hunters to give her a moment to present a better shot. She faced us head-on, searching for the cow she thought she heard moments before. When she didn’t find it, she turned broadside to leave. I gave the young hunter the go sign.
“Take her,” I whispered, and the 7mm-08 barked.
The cow went down hard behind a big log. His father never fired. I kept glassing the spot and saw the moose lift her head briefly before rolling onto her back and out of sight. The big cow was down.
As the adrenaline faded, my clients were rejoicing, smiles and handshakes all around. I climbed down from the truck bed and began gathering gear from the rear of the crew cab. This is when the real work of a moose hunt begins.
The clients had already started down the open cut toward the moose, preparing to dispatch it if necessary. I would follow with my field-dressing pack and retrieval equipment, just like on our last moose hunt together.
After a few moments, I heard commotion down the road where the grandfather had the chase truck parked. It was about 75 yards behind me and perpendicular to where the moose went down in the cut. As I leaned out of the truck to find the source of the voices, I saw a big moose moving at a fast clip halfway up the cut.
The hunting party called out, “Is that the same cow?”
They were standing near the chase truck and hadn’t gone to the moose after all. Apparently, they had gathered at the grandfather’s truck to celebrate, albeit prematurely.
Knowing we had multiple cows in the area, I asked if they could see the moose that went down behind the big log. They were closer and had a better sightline than I did. I couldn’t risk having the clients shoot another cow. If they unknowingly shot a second moose, we would be in hot water with the Maine Warden Service.
As I watched the moose near the back edge of the cut making her grand escape, the hunting party still could not verify that the moose down by the log was still on the ground.
Time was of the essence now — moose can cover ground very quickly with huge strides. I urged them to move further down the cut for a better view, and by golly, to do it fast. Every second ticked by as I scanned the spot where the big cow had last been, then back to the cow now high-stepping toward safety. Blood pulsed in my ears and I could hear my heart pounding.
A few agonizing minutes later, the confusion cleared up. It was the same cow, and she was long gone.
Mistakes happen, and a few were made that morning. How we react to them and learn from them is what I call a “teachable moment.”
The hunting party should have gone directly to the moose to ensure it was expired. The young hunter’s rifle should have been properly zeroed so the point of impact was reliable; I later learned it had been set high “for the possibility of a long shot.”
Incorrect assumptions were also made. First, by the hunters — the moose was down for good. Second, by me — the experienced hunters knew a follow-up or dispatch shot was likely needed.
I let my clients down that morning. I should have ensured they went directly to the downed moose. I should never have taken my eyes off the situation. And I should never have assumed prior experience would guarantee proper procedures and post-shot actions, no matter how obvious or well-discussed.
At the end of the day, all of these things are a hunting guide’s responsibility — and on that day, they were mine. To this day, that hunt remains the biggest personal teachable moment of my guiding career.
