I Survived a Moose Assault. Then My Buddies Deserted Me

This story, “The Moose Hunt That Almost Killed Me,” appeared within the June 1978 situation of Out of doors Life.

The antler suggestions of the massive moose I had crippled wob­bled above the alders. I ended operating, made certain I had a cartridge within the chamber, and stepped out to get a transparent view of the swaying bull. I lifted my rifle, planning a neck shot, and was nearly prepared to the touch off the spherical once I heard loud snorting and blowing behind me — solely 10 to fifteen ft away.

Startled, I whirled to face probably the most fearsome sights of my life. An enormous bull moose, head down, was charging me. Blood and foam flew from his nostrils and mouth, and the tines of his large 74-inch unfold rack had been pointed proper at me as he got here full bore. Astound­ed, I froze momentarily.

I attempted to swing my raised rifle round to cease him, however he was too shut. Earlier than I might get the rifle lined up the bull’s antlers struck it, and I dropped it, unfired. I don’t bear in mind drawing the .44 Magnum Ruger single-action handgun I wore in a shoulder holster underneath my left arm, however in some way I yanked the 7½-inch barrel revolver, thumbed the hammer, and fired at that moose’s head at concerning the on the spot he struck me and despatched me head over heels, flying 10 to fifteen ft by the air. I landed face down, plowing by the gentle tundra, certain the moose was proper behind me prepared to complete me off.

Looking has been an impor­tant a part of my life in Alaska for 35 years. I’ve shot dozens of Sitka blacktail deer and sev­eral coastal brown bears. I’ve climbed the icy peaks for mountain goats, and I’ve trusted black bears and moose for my winter meat.

Looking is as a lot part of my life as commer­cial fishing. I personal a salmon troller, crusing from my residence at Sitka in southeastern Alaska’s panhandle.

I’ve spent many chilly, moist nights in tough nation. I’ve crawled by alder thickets, picked satan’s membership spines from my conceal, and clung to cliffs by fin­gernails. Fast capturing has saved my life twice from charging brown bears. One fell together with his head about two ft from my boots – and I used to be nonetheless in them!

My previously-described journey began on a brilliant mid-August day in 1965 when my pal Gene Riggs, a dispatcher for Alaska Coastal Airways, lifted his Piper Tremendous Cub from the water at Sitka with me within the again seat. We headed for Sq. Lake on the Yakutat coastal plain, simply north of Dry Bay on the wild Gulf of Alaska.

After two hours of flying north, with our proper wing almost scraping glaciers and sky-busting peaks, Gene feathered the Cub onto the quiet waters of Sq. Lake, a number of miles inland from the surf-pounded Gulf coast. He beached the airplane in an space we had pre­viously cleared of brush for a campsite.

We pitched a tent, lower wooden, and received prepared for a couple of week of looking for the one moose every the restrict allowed. The realm across the lake is flat and swampy and has many spruce islands and alder-willow brush patches. It was good moose nation, however powerful strolling.

At mid-afternoon a twin-engine amphibious Grumman Goose landed on the lake, taxied ashore, and dropped off two extra moose hunters, each airplane mechanics who labored for a panhandle airline. They had been welcome, for there have been loads of moose and many nation to hunt. (This was earlier than Alaska’s no-hunting-on-the-same-day airborne legislation that’s nonetheless in impact.)

The mechanics — I’ll name them Bud and Andy — pitched a tent close to ours. Late within the afternoon a small bull moose crossed the outlet of the lake a number of hundred yards away, and Andy killed it.

The three of us nonetheless after moose hunted round Sq. Lake for the following a number of days. I normally hunted alone, by desire. Sooner or later Gene, alone, took the airplane to a different lake, landed, and picked up a pleasant bull, which he packed out and flew again to Sq. Lake to hold close to the moose Andy had killed.

Towards the top of the week Bud and I hunted collectively a bit. He was an inexperienced hunter, and I realized that he and Andy had hunted from Sq. Lake the earlier 12 months with out connecting. He was a pleasant fellow and desirous to study.

I received a bit of bored with slogging the swamps round Sq. Lake, and one night I requested Gene if he would fly me up the Alsek River a methods to increased, drier nation. By some means Bud managed to incorporate himself within the invitation, so at dawn subsequent morn­ing Gene flew the 2 of us a couple of minutes from Sq. Lake to land on a straight stretch of sluggish water on the Alsek simply above Dry Bay. I knew there have been many open meadows among the many scattered spruces of the world, and I deliberate to hunt a few of them.

“I’ll verify on you round midday,” Gene promised, as Bud and I swung the little float airplane round and watched it roar into the air.

Bud adopted as I sneaked by the comb, heading towards an open meadow I knew about. In half an hour we reached it, and tip-toed to the sting of the bushes and brush to look out. We had been each stunned to see two large bull moose standing within the meadow 150 to 200 yards away. They had been nearly black within the early morning gentle, and their large antlers seemed even bigger than they actually had been. Bud stood open-mouthed, and I believed for a second he was going to have buck fever.

“I’ll take the far one,” I mentioned. “You’re taking the opposite and shoot first.” 

I kneeled, readying my 7 x 61 Sharp & Hart rifle mounted with a 4X Bausch & Lomb scope. I received into the sling and had a pleasant regular maintain. My animal was extra distant than I wish to shoot at sport, however there was no method we had been going to get nearer. Bud’s rifle blasted off, and out of the nook of my eye I noticed his moose drop. His shot made me soar simply sufficient to flex the set off, and my bull staggered because it was hit. He moved into some head-high brush, so I couldn’t see him clearly.

I had been directing Bud as we hunted, and he had adopted my in­structions faithfully. I instructed him, “Wait right here,” as I sprinted into the mea­dow, heading for the moose I had hit. I deliberate to get shut sufficient for a transparent shot to complete it off. I didn’t need Bud behind me capturing. Since his moose had dropped immediately, I used to be pretty certain he wouldn’t should shoot at his animal once more. I’ve by no means been so mistaken.

As I ran by the animal, I used to be im­pressed by its large antlers (measured later with a variety of 74 inches). I clearly bear in mind seeing him on his aspect, legs stretched tight, quivering, in what I took to be a classical dying throe.

About that point I noticed the antler suggestions of the moose I had crippled transfer above the alders, and I ready to shoot. Then I heard the puffing and snorting shut behind.

Bud’s moose had come alive. As earlier associated, he tossed me 1O to fifteen ft, and I landed face down, plow­ing the tundra.

I used to be dazed however acutely aware. I nonetheless held firmly the .44 Ruger, the ham­mer again, prepared to fireside once more. I rolled over, anticipating the moose to be on high of me, however he was 10 or 12 ft away, rear finish excessive within the air, his entrance finish down, struggling to rise up. My pistol shot had struck him just under the attention, apparently momentar­ily gorgeous him.

I struggled to my ft, glanced round for the rifle however couldn’t see it, after which shortly ran over behind the struggling moose, shoved the bar­rel of the .44 underneath the roll of the antler, and put a bullet into his mind. He landed with a thud, lifeless this time.

I wiped what I believed was sweat from my forehead, and found it was blood. An antler tip had caught my brow, ripping the pores and skin. My chest, the place the moose antlers had struck, harm with each transfer and breath.

Bud, standing the place I had left him, had seen his moose rise up, however was afraid to shoot it once more for worry of hitting me. He got here loping up.

“You all proper?” he requested.

“I believe so,” I instructed him, all of the sudden realizing that the moose I had shot may nonetheless get away. I couldn’t see him in or close to the alder patch.

“Go forward and begin dressing this one,” I prompt. “I’ll go end the bull I hit.”

I discovered my rifle, made certain the barrel was clear, and painfully head­ed towards the place I had final seen my bull. There was a climbable cotton­ wooden tree close to, so I slung my rifle over my shoulder and, regardless of the ache in my chest, crawled up the tree to search for the bull. After I was about 20 ft up the tree I noticed him, nonetheless wobbling, however strolling, head down. He had moved maybe 30 or 40 yards from the place I had final seen him.

I hooked an arm on a limb and tried to get the rifle off my shoulder, planning to shoot from the tree.

I harm as I moved, and was mov­ing relatively slowly, when a rotten department broke underneath me, plunging me 20 ft into the comb — which fortu­nately helped  break  my fall — and onto the bottom on the foot of the tree.

I picked myself up, dazed, scratched, nonetheless bleeding from the brow. My chest harm terribly. I puzzled what I had gotten myself into. I checked the rifle once more, and headed to the place I had seen the wounded moose. He heard me com­ing, and began transferring. I saved ex­pecting him to drop, however for about 20 minutes he lead me in a circle. Then he walked again into the mea­dow the place we had first seen him. As he began throughout the meadow I received a transparent shot and eventually dropped him, not 50 yards from Bud’s bull. He was a trophy-size animal too, with antlers that spanned 68 inches. We had been looking for meat, not trophies, and after measuring them we left the antlers of each bulls the place they fell.

We skinned, gutted, and lower the bulls into carrying-size chunks, and began packing the meat the half mile or so to the place Gene had dropped us off. Round midday Gene confirmed up with the airplane, with Andy, who stayed to assist us pack the meat to the river. Gene took the airplane again to Sq. Lake with a load of meat. I harm with each transfer and each breath, however with the necessity to get the meat of the 2 bulls out of the woods, it was necessary that we get it to the place Gene might fly it out, so I saved packing.

We put the meat in a dry 20-foot diameter willow and alder thicket, surrounded by naked sand and gravel, maybe 50 yards from the river the place Gene might land. Every time Gene got here in with the Cub one of many different two guys packed sufficient meat right down to him for a airplane load, and I continued to pack from the meadow.

Late within the day all the meat had been packed to the river or flown out. The wind was rising, and with it got here rain. Gene landed and yelled, “No extra meat. I’m having a helluva time on this wind. We’ve received to get again to the lake. I’ll take two of you now, and are available again for the opposite.”

I used to be the one who was harm, and so they all knew it. However Bud and Andy dropped their packs of meat, grabbed their rifles, and climbed into the airplane. After they had been in I hobbled painfully to the shore. Gene seemed on the two mechanics, after which at me, shrugged, and climbed in and took off. Later he instructed me that though he knew I used to be harm, he thought it was higher to go away me there than them. “I figured you’d survive,” he defined.

He flew them to Sq. Lake and returned. As he got here in to land the wind was whooping throughout the river at 35 or 40 knots. The Cub’s wings dipped and waved, and Gene repeat­edly needed to gun the engine to achieve pace and extra management, and he labored the controls violently because the airplane leaped and skittered. When he neared the water he poured the coal to her and went round. Seven occasions he made an method to land, combat­ing crosswind and turbulence. On the final 5 tries, I waved him off, worry­ing the wind would flip him if he slowed sufficient to the touch down.

Lastly he gave up, gunned the Cub right into a climb, circled me a few occasions, wings wobbling, and headed off towards Sq. Lake. Rain spat­tered my face as I watched the wing lights wink into the gap. I used to be caught for the night time. It was too far and too tough a hike to camp for me to aim it at night time. I knew that the moment the climate broke Gene can be again.

A lot of the meat of 1 moose lay within the 20-feet-across willow-alder patch, so I dragged it right into a pile and coated it with a 10-foot-square piece of plastic Gene had left. Then the rain actually hit onerous. And when storms blow off the Gulf of Alaska and slam into the lofty St. Elias Vary, rain can pour down nearly in a strong move.

At darkish the wind shrieked throughout the Alsek River at about 50 knots, slamming the heavy rain horizontally.

There was nothing for constructing a hearth. The night time was pitch black, and I had no flashlight. I used to be heat in a heavy woolen jacket, nevertheless. I hud­dled down amidst the moose meat, which nonetheless held a few of the physique heat of the moose. I tied the plas­tic sheeting over me and the meat. I had no meals, however I did chew some uncooked moose meat. My chest harm a lot that I wasn’t actually hungry. I dozed off to the roar of wind, the swishing of alders and willows, and the rattle of heavy rain on the plastic. I used to be moist, however heat, and I felt I might survive the night time in honest form.

I suppose I had dozed for an hour or so when all of the sudden I awakened. One thing was mistaken. I remained nonetheless, awake, listening. Then I heard a deep low growl from 25 or 30 ft away. It was a brown bear. The Yakutat-Alsek nation has plen­ty of huge bears. Sportsmen usually kill 15 or 20 there yearly.

I fired the .44 into the air, and the hearth that spurted from the barrel seemed like a Roman candle within the deep darkness. I used to be inconsiderate to have had my eyes open and be trying as I fired; for a couple of minutes all I might see was stars.

At first I figured there was one bear. After a bit I heard a good deeper growl, and then two growls on the similar time, so I knew there have been no less than two bears. I then heard two growls on one aspect of the comb patch, and a 3rd growl on the opposite. The three bears appeared to be strolling round, and round, arguing with one another over which was going to get the moose meat — or me — or each.

My thoughts spun a number of wheels that night time. Ought to I get away from this meat, and let the bears have it? However the considered strolling, blind, into the darkish with three brownies close to ended that concept.

I didn’t dare shoot towards the bears and take an opportunity of wounding one. When the bears appeared to maneuver nearer I fired into the air, clenching my eyes shut. I yelled incessantly, cussing the bears, the climate, my hurting chest, Bud and Andy — and even Gene.

The wind shrieked and howled, and typically the noise of the wind gave the impression of a bear. Rain poured down, however with the bears so shut I didn’t dare keep underneath the plastic to maintain dry. I saved the .44 in hand, pre­ pared to shoot off any bear that received shut sufficient for me to odor or really feel. And people bears popped their tooth, whuffed, growled, and grumbled all night time. It was the longest night time I can bear in mind.

Towards morning the wind dropped and the rain eased to a drizzle. I sat on the now-cold meat, the .44 in my hand, shivering, hurting, chilly, moist, and watching the sky regularly lighten. The bears had left by the point it was gentle sufficient to see.

At daylight I walked out of the comb patch and located the packed sand and gravel the place the three bears had paraded round and round through the night time. A number of min­utes later the distant clatter of that outdated Cub engine heading my method made the sweetest music I’ve ever heard, and I certain didn’t cuss Gene when he plunked down on the river and taxied to the shore the place I stood ready. He flew me to Sq. Lake, the place I stoked up on grub and cof­price and received some sleep whereas Andy and Bud helped him herald the remainder of the moose meat.

Learn Subsequent: My Canine Saved My Life in a Brown Bear Assault

After I received again to Sitka a day later, X-rays confirmed that when that large bull slammed into me and tossed me into the air, my sternum had been torn aside. One rear rib was damaged and two had been cracked. Two entrance ribs had been additionally cracked.

I slept each night time through the subsequent month sitting in a recliner chair, for it harm an excessive amount of to lie down. I didn’t sleep too effectively, which gave me loads of time to consider the roughest moose hunt I’ve ever had.