This story, “The Moose Hunt That Nearly Killed Me,” appeared in the June 1978 issue of Outdoor Life.
The antler tips of the big moose I had crippled wobbled above the alders. I stopped running, made sure I had a cartridge in the chamber, and stepped out to get a clear view of the swaying bull. I lifted my rifle, planning a neck shot, and was almost ready to touch off the round when I heard loud snorting and blowing behind me — only 10 to 15 feet away.
Startled, I whirled to face one of the most fearsome sights of my life. A huge bull moose, head down, was charging me. Blood and foam flew from his nostrils and mouth, and the tines of his huge 74-inch spread rack were pointed right at me as he came full bore. Astounded, I froze momentarily.
I tried to swing my raised rifle around to stop him, but he was too close. Before I could get the rifle lined up the bull’s antlers struck it, and I dropped it, unfired. I don’t remember drawing the .44 Magnum Ruger single-action handgun I wore in a shoulder holster under my left arm, but somehow I yanked the 7½-inch barrel revolver, thumbed the hammer, and fired at that moose’s head at about the instant he struck me and sent me head over heels, flying 10 to 15 feet through the air. I landed face down, plowing through the soft tundra, sure the moose was right behind me ready to finish me off.
Hunting has been an important 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 depended on black bears and moose for my winter meat.
Hunting is as much a part of my life as commercial fishing. I own a salmon troller, sailing from my home at Sitka in southeastern Alaska’s panhandle.
I’ve spent many cold, wet nights in rough country. I’ve crawled through alder thickets, picked devil’s club spines from my hide, and clung to cliffs by fingernails. Quick shooting has saved my life twice from charging brown bears. One fell with his head about two feet from my boots – and I was still in them!
I tried to swing my raised rifle around to stop him, but he was too close. Before I could get the rifle lined up the bull’s antlers struck it, and I dropped it, unfired.
My previously-described adventure started on a bright mid-August day in 1965 when my friend Gene Riggs, a dispatcher for Alaska Coastal Airlines, lifted his Piper Super Cub from the water at Sitka with me in the back seat. We headed for Square Lake on the Yakutat coastal plain, just north of Dry Bay on the wild Gulf of Alaska.
After two hours of flying north, with our right wing nearly scraping glaciers and sky-busting peaks, Gene feathered the Cub onto the quiet waters of Square Lake, a few miles inland from the surf-pounded Gulf coast. He beached the plane in an area we had previously cleared of brush for a campsite.
We pitched a tent, cut wood, and got ready for about a week of hunting for the one moose each the limit allowed. The area around the lake is flat and swampy and has many spruce islands and alder-willow brush patches. It was good moose country, but tough walking.
At mid-afternoon a twin-engine amphibious Grumman Goose landed on the lake, taxied ashore, and dropped off two more moose hunters, both airplane mechanics who worked for a panhandle airline. They were welcome, for there were plenty of moose and lots of country to hunt. (This was before Alaska’s no-hunting-on-the-same-day airborne law that is still in effect.)
The mechanics — I’ll call them Bud and Andy — pitched a tent near ours. Late in the afternoon a small bull moose crossed the outlet of the lake a few hundred yards away, and Andy killed it.
The three of us still after moose hunted around Square Lake for the next several days. I usually hunted alone, by preference. One day Gene, alone, took the plane to another lake, landed, and collected a nice bull, which he packed out and flew back to Square Lake to hang near the moose Andy had killed.
Toward the end of the week Bud and I hunted together a bit. He was an inexperienced hunter, and I learned that he and Andy had hunted from Square Lake the previous year without connecting. He was a nice fellow and eager to learn.
I got a little tired of slogging the swamps around Square Lake, and one evening I asked Gene if he would fly me up the Alsek River a ways to higher, drier country. Somehow Bud managed to include himself in the invitation, so at daybreak next morning Gene flew the two of us a few minutes from Square Lake to land on a straight stretch of slow water on the Alsek just above Dry Bay. I knew there were many open meadows among the scattered spruces of the area, and I planned to hunt some of them.
“I’ll check on you around noon,” Gene promised, as Bud and I swung the little float plane around and watched it roar into the air.
Bud followed as I sneaked through the brush, heading toward an open meadow I knew about. In half an hour we reached it, and tip-toed to the edge of the trees and brush to peer out. We were both surprised to see two huge bull moose standing in the meadow 150 to 200 yards away. They were almost black in the early morning light, and their huge antlers looked even larger than they really were. Bud stood open-mouthed, and I thought for a moment he was going to have buck fever.
“I’ll take the far one,” I said. “You take the other and shoot first.”
I kneeled, readying my 7 x 61 Sharp & Hart rifle mounted with a 4X Bausch & Lomb scope. I got into the sling and had a nice steady hold. My animal was more distant than I like to shoot at game, but there was no way we were going to get closer. Bud’s rifle blasted off, and out of the corner of my eye I saw his moose drop. His shot made me jump just enough to flex the trigger, and my bull staggered as 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 followed my instructions faithfully. I told him, “Wait here,” as I sprinted into the meadow, heading for the moose I had hit. I planned to get close enough for a clear shot to finish it off. I didn’t want Bud behind me shooting. Since his moose had dropped instantly, I was fairly sure he wouldn’t have to shoot at his animal again. I’ve never been so wrong.
As I ran by the animal, I was impressed by its huge antlers (measured later with a spread of 74 inches). I clearly remember seeing him on his side, legs stretched tight, quivering, in what I took to be a classical death throe.
About that time I saw the antler tips of the moose I had crippled move above the alders, and I prepared to shoot. Then I heard the puffing and snorting close behind.
Bud’s moose had come alive. As earlier related, he tossed me 1O to 15 feet, and I landed face down, plowing the tundra.
I was dazed but conscious. I still held firmly the .44 Ruger, the hammer back, ready to fire again. I rolled over, expecting the moose to be on top of me, but he was 10 or 12 feet away, rear end high in the air, his front end down, struggling to get up. My pistol shot had struck him just below the eye, apparently momentarily stunning him.
I struggled to my feet, glanced around for the rifle but couldn’t see it, and then quickly ran over behind the struggling moose, shoved the barrel of the .44 under the roll of the antler, and put a bullet into his brain. He landed with a thud, dead this time.
I wiped what I thought was sweat from my brow, and discovered it was blood. An antler tip had caught my forehead, ripping the skin. My chest, where the moose antlers had struck, hurt with every move and breath.
Bud, standing where I had left him, had seen his moose get up, but was afraid to shoot it again for fear of hitting me. He came loping up.
“You all right?” he asked.
“I think so,” I told him, suddenly realizing that the moose I had shot might still get away. I couldn’t see him in or near the alder patch.
“Go ahead and start dressing this one,” I suggested. “I’ll go finish the bull I hit.”
I found my rifle, made sure the barrel was clear, and painfully headed toward where I had last seen my bull. There was a climbable cotton wood tree near, so I slung my rifle over my shoulder and, despite the pain in my chest, crawled up the tree to look for the bull. When I was about 20 feet up the tree I saw him, still wobbling, but walking, head down. He had moved perhaps 30 or 40 yards from where I had last 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 hurt as I moved, and was moving rather slowly, when a rotten branch broke under me, plunging me 20 feet into the brush — which fortunately helped break my fall — and onto the ground at the foot of the tree.
I picked myself up, dazed, scratched, still bleeding from the forehead. My chest hurt terribly. I wondered what I had gotten myself into. I checked the rifle again, and headed to where I had seen the wounded moose. He heard me coming, and started moving. I kept expecting him to drop, but for about 20 minutes he lead me in a circle. Then he walked back into the meadow where we had first seen him. As he started across the meadow I got a clear shot and finally dropped him, not 50 yards from Bud’s bull. He was a trophy-size animal too, with antlers that spanned 68 inches. We were hunting for meat, not trophies, and after measuring them we left the antlers of both bulls where they fell.
We skinned, gutted, and cut the bulls into carrying-size chunks, and started packing the meat the half mile or so to where Gene had dropped us off. Around noon Gene showed up with the plane, with Andy, who stayed to help us pack the meat to the river. Gene took the plane back to Square Lake with a load of meat. I hurt with every move and every breath, but with the need to get the meat of the two bulls out of the woods, it was important that we get it to where Gene could fly it out, so I kept packing.
We put the meat in a dry 20-foot diameter willow and alder thicket, surrounded by bare sand and gravel, perhaps 50 yards from the river where Gene could land. Each time Gene came in with the Cub one of the other two guys packed enough meat down to him for a plane load, and I continued to pack from the meadow.
He was a trophy-size animal too, with antlers that spanned 68 inches. We were hunting for meat, not trophies, and after measuring them we left the antlers of both bulls where they fell.
Late in the day all of the meat had been packed to the river or flown out. The wind was increasing, and with it came rain. Gene landed and yelled, “No more meat. I’m having a helluva time in this wind. We’ve got to get back to the lake. I’ll take two of you now, and come back for the other.”
I was the one who was hurt, and they all knew it. But Bud and Andy dropped their packs of meat, grabbed their rifles, and climbed into the plane. After they were in I hobbled painfully to the shore. Gene looked at the two mechanics, and then at me, shrugged, and climbed in and took off. Later he told me that even though he knew I was hurt, he thought it was better to leave me there than them. “I figured you’d survive,” he explained.
He flew them to Square Lake and returned. As he came in to land the wind was whooping across the river at 35 or 40 knots. The Cub’s wings dipped and waved, and Gene repeatedly had to gun the engine to gain speed and more control, and he worked the controls violently as the plane leaped and skittered. When he neared the water he poured the coal to her and went around. Seven times he made an approach to land, fighting crosswind and turbulence. On the last five tries, I waved him off, fearing the wind would flip him if he slowed enough to touch down.
Finally he gave up, gunned the Cub into a climb, circled me a couple of times, wings wobbling, and headed off toward Square Lake. Rain spattered my face as I watched the wing lights wink into the distance. I was stuck for the night. It was too far and too rough a hike to camp for me to attempt it at night. I knew that the instant the weather broke Gene would be back.
Most of the meat of one moose lay in the 20-feet-across willow-alder patch, so I dragged it into a pile and covered it with a 10-foot-square piece of plastic Gene had left. Then the rain really hit hard. And when storms blow off the Gulf of Alaska and slam into the lofty St. Elias Range, rain can pour down almost in a solid flow.
At dark the wind shrieked across the Alsek River at about 50 knots, slamming the heavy rain horizontally.
There was nothing for building a fire. The night was pitch black, and I had no flashlight. I was warm in a heavy woolen jacket, however. I huddled down amidst the moose meat, which still held some of the body warmth of the moose. I tied the plastic sheeting over me and the meat. I had no food, but I did chew some raw moose meat. My chest hurt so much that I wasn’t really 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 was wet, but warm, and I felt I could survive the night in fair shape.
I suppose I had dozed for an hour or so when suddenly I woke up. Something was wrong. I remained still, wide awake, listening. Then I heard a deep low growl from 25 or 30 feet away. It was a brown bear. The Yakutat-Alsek country has plenty of big bears. Sportsmen normally kill 15 or 20 there annually.
I fired the .44 into the air, and the fire that spurted from the barrel looked like a Roman candle in the deep darkness.
I fired the .44 into the air, and the fire that spurted from the barrel looked like a Roman candle in the deep darkness. I was thoughtless to have had my eyes open and be looking as I fired; for a few minutes all I could see was stars.
At first I figured there was one bear. After a bit I heard an even deeper growl, and then two growls at the same time, so I knew there were at least two bears. I then heard two growls on one side of the brush patch, and a third growl on the other. The three bears seemed to be walking around, and around, arguing with each other over which was going to get the moose meat — or me — or both.
My mind spun a lot of wheels that night. Should I get away from this meat, and let the bears have it? But the thought of walking, blind, into the dark with three brownies near ended that idea.
I didn’t dare shoot toward the bears and take a chance of wounding one. When the bears seemed to move closer I fired into the air, clenching my eyes shut. I yelled frequently, cussing the bears, the weather, my hurting chest, Bud and Andy — and even Gene.
The wind shrieked and howled, and sometimes the noise of the wind sounded like a bear. Rain poured down, but with the bears so close I didn’t dare stay under the plastic to keep dry. I kept the .44 in hand, pre pared to shoot off any bear that got close enough for me to smell or feel. And those bears popped their teeth, whuffed, growled, and grumbled all night. It was the longest night I can remember.
Toward 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, cold, wet, and watching the sky gradually lighten. The bears had left by the time it was light enough to see.
At daylight I walked out of the brush patch and found the packed sand and gravel where the three bears had paraded around and around during the night. A few minutes later the distant clatter of that old Cub engine heading my way made the sweetest music I have ever heard, and I sure didn’t cuss Gene when he plunked down on the river and taxied to the shore where I stood waiting. He flew me to Square Lake, where I stoked up on grub and coffee and got some sleep while Andy and Bud helped him bring in the rest of the moose meat.
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When I got back to Sitka a day later, X-rays showed that when that big bull slammed into me and tossed me into the air, my sternum had been torn apart. One rear rib was broken and two were cracked. Two front ribs were also cracked.
I slept every night during the next month sitting in a recliner chair, for it hurt too much to lie down. I didn’t sleep too well, which gave me plenty of time to think about the roughest moose hunt I’ve ever had.
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