Moose Run

Come spring, I usually do a small amount of guiding for turkey hunters. As any Maine Guide knows, the last thing you want is to disappoint a customer, so I try to locate as many mature male turkeys as I can prior to and during the season. If I can’t locate any toms (also called gobblers) by sight, I “prospect” for them by using a variety of turkey calls in an attempt to get one to respond with a gobble. Once I “strike” a bird, I hustle out of there and make a mental note to return to that general area later for a hunt.

One morning, as I drove to an area to prospect for turkeys, a cow moose galumphed across the road in front of my truck, heading toward a blueberry barren. She was in no apparent hurry, and I managed to get a photo with my digital camera. I continued on, feeling that the morning was already a success since seeing a moose in central Maine is still a rare treat.

After prospecting at a few spots, I ended up back at the entrance to the blueberry barren. I parked and decided to cut across the barren and call down into the far corners, hoping to strike a gobbler. Since I was just scouting, my shotgun stayed in the truck. Halfway across the barren, I glanced to my right and saw the cow moose standing about 200 yards away looking at me. I sent some raspy yelp calls down into the woods and glanced back at the moose again; she was now walking toward where I had parked. I snapped a photo.

This barren was in need of bush-hogging and had become overgrown with small islands of brush. As I wove my way back through some of that obstruction, daydreaming about where to go next, I came face-to-face with the moose. She was spitting distance away and staring right at me.

Having encountered moose in the wild before without incident, I wasn’t alarmed, and took out my camera and took another photo. I’m not sure if the flash went off or the almost inaudible click of the camera disturbed her, but immediately her ears went back. That’s when my heart started to race and the realization hit me that I was way too close to this unhappy moose in the wide open.

I started to back away. She started walking toward me. I turned and started to jog; she did the same. I started to run like hell and she started chasing me. The tree line seemed like it was a mile away as I glanced back and saw she was right on my tail.

It’s amazing what can run through your mind when you are about to be run over by a freight train. Like a slow-motion movie clip, I could see visions of flailing hooves coming down on my head. I could picture newspaper clippings about the turkey guide that got trampled to death by a cow moose. I remember thinking that it would have been less embarrassing if it were a bull moose, and that people would have to stifle a chuckle when they read
my obituary.

But that was not to be. Somehow adrenaline got me to the tree line and I scrambled behind the closest tree. She was right there on the other side, practically blowing smoke out of her bulbous nose like a cartoon bull. Using available trees as cover, I sheepishly wove my way to my truck as she followed. From the safety of the cab, I even took one last shaky photo—before driving home to change my underwear.