Frank Reinert pulled into the driveway as I was readying fishing gear in the clubhouse. I had a full week of trips behind me and another ahead, and I was hard-pressed to sort tackle and shore lunch gear in between. Early June is always busy for a fishing guide.
My first thought was that he wanted to talk about another canoe expedition. The previous year, I guided him on a three-day, two-night trip along Baskahegan Stream in Carroll Plantation, through Baskahegan Lake and Crooked Brook Flowage in Danforth. It was a memorable trip, and he talked about it all year afterward.
As Frank took a seat, a sly grin appeared on his face.
“Are you busy in October?”
I paused, trying to figure out what he meant. It would be too late for a canoe trip, and besides, that’s big game season. Then it dawned on me.
I had been so focused on fishing that I forgot what else happens in early June — the Maine moose lottery.
After waiting more than 30 years, Frank had drawn a bull moose permit. We were going moose hunting.
The opportunity was exciting, but I was concerned. Frank had been diagnosed with stage four stomach cancer the year before. It was the impetus behind our canoe expedition. That trip had been a bucket-list item for him, and he was sure at the time it would be his last outdoor adventure. But thanks to an aggressive and experimental treatment plan, he was still active a year later.
I asked Frank if he was up to the task. We talked about the rigors of moose hunting and how remote it can be. He was adamant that we should go.
“I’ve waited a long time to hunt a moose,” he said.
Frank was an avid outdoorsman, and his illness had put a serious damper on what he enjoyed most.
“This could be my last shot,” he told me.
We took the hunt day by day, walking and stalking when he felt well, driving into deeper spots when he did not. Frank’s .444 Marlin was the medicine for the walks. His Remington 760 pump-action .30-06 was the choice for the cuts.
Like most moose hunters, Frank was set on taking a trophy bull at the outset. We were hunting in Wildlife Management District 2, behind the gate in the North Maine Woods. I was confident there were good 50-inch bulls in the area. I had seen a few on previous hunts, with clients holding cow tags. I was less sure of our ability to get into the places we needed to and get a shot at one.
Even the healthiest hunters feel the toll of a moose hunt after a few days.
On Thursday, while calling and working a grass road on the top of Freeman Ridge north of Carr Pond, we walked up on a 200-pound black bear as we rounded a bend.
The problem was this: Frank was about 20 yards behind me and looking up the ridge. He didn’t see my frantic gestures. I tried to whisper to get his attention, but he couldn’t hear me. His hearing aids were back at camp. A few seconds later, the bear winded us and was gone.
Leaving camp in the dark Friday morning, I could feel Frank’s anxiety. After seeing plenty of cows, some small bulls and missing a chance at a bonus bear, he desperately wanted to fill his moose tag. His priorities had shifted and he was wearing down. It felt like our last day. The pressure was on me.
Two hours later, I glassed a young bull with a cow about 100 yards into a grown-in skidder trail, feeding in the early light.
“Bull on the right, cow on the left,” I told Frank as he bailed out of the truck.
Continuing to glass the bull, I heard the snick of the magazine going into his Remington. A second later, the report echoed along the ridgeline. I watched the bull go down hard.
We clambered uphill to the moose, Frank seemingly in shock.
“Did I just get my moose?” he asked more than once as I congratulated him on a great shot through the timber.
I didn’t know it then, but it would be his last big game animal.
When Frank passed away three years ago this month, I was honored to know he trusted me for his final hunt. I still am.
