At 62, Bob Stone had waited nearly a quarter-century for a bull permit. And now, after a steady shot, the moose had disappeared into the dense North Maine Woods. For two hours, we all wondered if the hunt he’d dreamed of for decades would end in disappointment.
I was there to help guide him alongside Jayson Lucarelli of Maine Whitetail Adventures. We spread out through a recent cut, searching for a faint spot of blood, broken branches or a scuff mark that might indicate which way it went.
No blood. Now the real challenge began — searching through thick brush with no visible sign.
Our hunt had started the morning before. Bob had driven up from Biddeford, eager to fill his first bull tag, and we’d already seen three cows: one crossing the Golden Road and two more near our first walk.
Bob’s stomach was in knots — nervous, anxious and excited. After losing his long-time hunting buddy this spring, his father last year and his black lab two weeks ago, this hunt meant more than most.
He was also worried he wasn’t prepared or in shape, admitting the hunt might be the hardest thing he’d ever done.
Despite his doubts, he was a great client: alert, patient and quiet. He scanned every shadow, and double-checked large stumps or clumps of brush.
We moved quietly through alders and old logging roads, stopping often to call and listen. We jumped a few whitetails and found moose sign everywhere — wide, beaten-down trails through tall grass, saplings freshly raked and wallows that still reeked of a bull in rut.
We were in the right spot, an area I’d call “Moosealicious,” we just hadn’t seen anything yet. At the edge of a clearing, we called and waited half an hour. It was in the 20’s that morning, our noses were running, and the wind kept us chilled.
That afternoon we split up. I walked a couple of roads east of Bob and Jayson, searching for fresh sign and calling occasionally. The cover looked more like cow habitat, with fewer tracks and less scat than earlier. Their evening sit turned up nothing, but it was only day one, and morale stayed high.
Tuesday started early. We were up at 3:30 and gone by 4:45, hoping to be in position by first light. Around 6:30, we slowly made our way past a large beaver flowage, crossing a steep ditch and then going down an alder-choked road.
My hound, Annie, was furious to be left behind in the truck. Her howls pierced the cool morning air — nonstop and impossible to ignore.
I hoped she’d shut up as we trudged on. Thankfully, Jayson didn’t seem to care. We made it to the edge of a clearing and he cow called. A bull responded. We looked at each other, eyes wide. The bull continued calling, and so did Annie.
My frustration grew and I wondered if I should run back to quiet her. I didn’t want my dog to ruin a perfect opportunity. Jayson reminded me things could happen fast, so I stayed put.
He moved out of sight to call elsewhere, and I stayed with Bob, vigilantly listening and watching. The bull’s calls faded, irregular and distant. Jayson shifted behind us to call and rake a shoulder blade.
A deer appeared from the southwest, 100 yards ahead. Bob looked back, .300 Win Mag ready. The fork-horn buck flicked its tail and crossed the road, unbothered.
The bull’s calls had vanished. Maybe Annie scared it off. Maybe we’d hear him further up the road. Maybe we’d walk for miles and never find him.
About 20 minutes later, a bull appeared from the same side of the road the buck entered.
He was farther away, about 175 yards, and he just peeked his neck out of the brush, his vitals hidden by tree boughs. He scanned the area, swinging his head side to side. Bob and I watched him for a few minutes.
I tried to gauge his antler spread while Bob was weighing the shot distance, determining if it was ethical to take.
“Do you not want to shoot it?” I asked.
“No, I do. It’s too far,” he said.
“Are you sure?” I asked him.
This distance was something I was comfortable with, having lived out west where many shots are this distance or farther. But in Maine, most shots are within 50 yards. We should have brought the rest that was in the truck bed.
I knelt down, watching the bull staring back in our direction. “Kneel down the next time he turns his head,” I said. “You can rest off your knee and get a good shot.”
The moose’s head swung away, searching for the cow that wasn’t there. I grabbed Bob’s shirt and pulled him to my level.
Bob positioned his rifle, steadying himself. “Take your time,” I said, blocking my ears. A second later, the bull stepped forward, offering a perfect shot.
The rifle fired. I knew Bob hit it — the bull’s hind leg had dropped slightly. The moose crossed the road and disappeared into the thick brush.
I tossed my pack and sprinted with Bob toward the crossing, hoping for a second shot. We didn’t see the moose anywhere, and we didn’t see any blood, either.
Jayson caught up to us. He made it back to the road as I knelt, just in time to see the action go down.
The three of us walked back and forth on the road searching for blood and discussing exactly where we thought he stood. “No, that’s too close. It was definitely farther,” one of us would say.
“Wait,” I said. “I took a video. Let’s watch it.” We determined it was past the downed maple tree, but before the grassy opening on the road.
I plowed through the slash, raspberries and tall grass, searching for the moose. I expected it to be dead nearby, just hidden by the shoulder-height vegetation.
Jayson was back on the road, meticulously searching for the tiniest drops of blood, and any sign of where the moose crossed. If a hunter hits a moose — whether it’s recovered or not, the hunt is over.
Jayson made his way through the cut, and I signaled for him to join me.
“I just heard antlers,” I said. “That way,” I pointed.
I’ve busted plenty of deer and moose over the years to know that was the sound of antlers hitting tree branches below us. Jayson then heard a second noise — a branch breaking, perhaps.
We marked the spot, and I looked at my compass. Northwest.
Jayson was worried the bull was still alive, and didn’t want to push it further. I hoped, given the caliber and short distance from which the sound came, it indicated the animal was seriously injured.
We walked back to the truck to give the moose time to die, or at least, that was our hope. Over lunch, we ran through every what-if scenario. The moose was still out there somewhere, but I smiled thinking about what just ensued. I was optimistic. There were still so many places to search, and I had Annie to help if needed.
Jayson was cautious. The bull might still be alive, and Bob could need a second, or third, shot. Also, the farther it got from the road, the longer the pack-out.
Bob, meanwhile, was discouraged and worried, imagining the worst-case scenarios: a gut-shot bull, dying 5 miles away, never to be recovered. With all his recent losses, the last thing we needed was to also lose his bull.
When we made our way back to the shot location, they searched for blood while I followed a path the moose might have taken. I just wanted to reach the spot where I’d heard antlers. Trying to find blood in the fresh cut was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Eventually they made their way down to our last waypoint. We spread out, searching and making our way down the contour. Jayson wanted Bob close, and I didn’t want to be ahead in case he needed to shoot.
When we got down the slope, the ground was damp in a spruce-fir patch, and I saw a heavy trail continuing through a cedar bog. We’re in their bedroom, I thought, and I felt the urge to follow the tracks.
As I was almost lured in, I heard Jayson say “Congratulations.” I turned and saw him shaking Bob’s hand. Jayson found the moose about 50 yards north of me.
“Are you serious?” Bob exclaimed. He repeated this, again and again, in disbelief. He hadn’t even seen the moose yet, but he keeled over, overwhelmed and tearing up.
His reaction moved everyone as he took in the moment — the hard work, the beautiful bull and the years of waiting and loss that made it so special. It took him a long time to settle down, still trying to process what had just happened.
This bull, a 44-inch moose, fell 220 yards from an old logging road, about six-tenths of a mile from the truck. The shot had been slightly back but fatal, passing through the liver.
We gave Bob his moment with this trophy, and we headed to get the game carts, jet sleds, knives, game bags and Annie.
Quartering and packing out the animal took nearly four hours, but between stories and feeding Annie pieces of meat, it felt more like an adventure than work.
The quarters went into jet sleds, and from the old logging road, game carts made the transfer manageable, except for the ditch.
It wasn’t an easy recovery, but when you think an animal’s been hit, you can’t just move on. You owe it to the animal to search until you’re sure. We were ready to spend all day looking if we had to, and thankfully, persistence paid off.
Despite his fears, Bob proved more than ready for this hunt — better than even he realized. As Jayson said, “He was light-years ahead of most.”
A successful harvest is always about more than the kill. The saying, “You carry more weight into the woods than you carry out,” couldn’t be truer, especially for Bob. Hours earlier, we’d wondered if his long-awaited hunt would end in disappointment. Now, standing over the bull he’d dreamed of for 24 years, we knew it had ended in something much greater.
