My adventure began in early spring when my husband, Adam, and I abandoned the beauties of north Idaho to chase a dream and willingly accept all of the challenges of living in the bush. For years, we dreamed about residing in Alaska, antsy to live and breathe nothing but hunting, flying, and exploring the amazing state. We took another vital step forward and bought our ultimate hunting machine – a Piper Super Cub. Then September came, which meant moose season fell upon us. Our lifelong dream of hunting with our own airplane on self-guided hunts became a reality when Adam flew us and a friend into a secluded area and landed our cub in a swampy meadow within the heart of moose country. Wheels of excitement turned for what could be in store during the next 10 days off grid. We set up our wall tent and gathered firewood, and though we were eager for what opening morning would bring, we eventually drifted off to sleep.
An absolutely beautiful morning greeted us for opening day. Fighting brush and alders to make a path to an ideal glassing spot, we finally spotted a few decent bulls bedded on top of a far ridge, but none were even close to being within hunting range. We only hoped to locate a rutting bull that would run to our beckoning call. One smaller bull, borderline 50", appeared 150 yards from us after raking a tree. The rut was just beginning. For the rest of that hot, sunny day, we glassed for hours and soaked in the serenity of it all.
The following day, we hiked at first light to where we were the previous day, and we continued this pattern throughout the week to avoid spreading too much of our scent. Our friend, Justin, spotted a group of moose in the bottom of the basin within minutes of glassing. Three bulls stood scattered amongst the sparse timber with a couple cows. We could see their white paddles flashing in the morning sunlight. We hurried down the ridge to get a closer shot. Trying to determine which bull was bigger, Adam began to cow call and the widest bull made his way toward us. He looked at least 60" and had four brow tines, so there was no question that he was legal. The bull stopped at 596 yards, and Justin took the shot. The bull tipped over in his tracks and died instantly! After walking up to him, we discovered something incredible. Our tape measure only went to 60", and it was clear that this bull was high 60s. We took a piece of parachute cord to measure the width and then measured that with the tape. He taped out at 68 7/8". We carefully caped the bull for a future mount and split the moose into 10 separate packs, spending the next day and a half packing a very heavy moose between bouts of rain and sunshine.
With one moose done and packed by the end of day three, it was now my turn. Unfortunately, the day before season, a cold hit me. I got sicker each day. Every step of exertion and moose pack drove the cold deep into my lungs. Breathing remained a struggle, and it took every ounce of energy I had to hike one mile through tundra to glass for a bull.
By day four, the cold and fog arrived with wind. My sickness hit me hard. Concerned that I was on the verge of pneumonia, I told Adam I had to take it easy or I would get incredibly ill on this mountain. He said I should rest and give hunting a break to fly me to a doctor. I sternly told him he would not be flying me anywhere until my tag was filled. I would do whatever it took to get my first Alaska moose.
After some needed rest and a warm fire, we hiked back that evening to glass. I was beginning to feel a sense of desperation to fill my tag with any legal bull we spotted. As dusk approached, Adam saw a legal bull emerge from the timber. He stood 1,500 yards away but would not budge. After watching him for an hour, he finally bedded down in a tiny opening. Velvet covered his entire left palm, and pieces of loose velvet hung from his brow tines. He was definitely wide enough to be a legal bull. We planned to go after him in the morning.
Within 30 minutes of first light the next morning, Adam had the bull spotted, standing in the same meadow as the night before, but this time, he had a cow with him. He would be over a two-mile pack to camp because he wouldn’t budge with any attempts at calling. Knowing it would be a tough pack, I was still willing to pursue him. I did not have much longer before I wouldn’t be able to hunt anymore. My lungs were struggling, and my body could barely keep up. While making a game plan, we spotted another bull a mile away located just above our camp. I watched him meander through the alders. He was on a mission and headed up and over the far ridge to be gone forever. I set up the spotting scope to get a closer look. From the side, I could not tell if he was legal. Then he faced me and flashed his palms. He displayed the whole package – decent palms, long points, fairly wide, and remarkably symmetrical.
“Whoa! He’s big! I want that bull, Adam. He’s the one I’ve been waiting for,” I whispered.
Nearly 30 seconds later, the bull disappeared over the far ridge, never to be seen again.
I attempted pushing the image of that beautiful bull out of my mind and watched the other bull a few miles from camp. I tried to stay positive, but deep down I was pretty depressed that I never got a chance at the other moose. I kept praying that we could make something happen. Adam glassed back toward camp five minutes later, and there he was. That bull actually came back! He was walking down a ridge almost next to camp. We had to make a move and fast. We practically ran up the hill toward camp to attempt getting close for a shot.
We found a closer vantage point to find him amidst the timbered hills and alders. To my surprise, the bull emerged from the trees into a little opening 452 yards away. He was on the move, and a sea of tall alders separated us. He spotted us and stood broadside, giving me the perfect shot. I quickly set up the gun. Through my scope, he did not look as big as I thought he was, and he only had two brow tines on each side. I asked Adam if he was over 50", and he confirmed that he was legal. I focused on my breathing and slowly squeezed the trigger of the .338 Ultra Mag. The bull lifted his front leg, hopped around in a circle, and tipped over. I saw long front points as he spun. I couldn’t confirm if he was over 60", but he was definitely legal and certainly a nice bull moose. A wave of relief fell over me. The hunt was over, and I was completely overwhelmed with gratitude that he was a complete Godsend to me. He died 300 yards from where we could taxi the airplane.
As I walked up to my first Alaska moose, my eyes widened. There was no ground shrinkage. His palms were wide, his fronts had double daggers curled up almost 24" long, and he had long, symmetrical points all the way to the top of his palms. His final measurement was 64 5/8" wide. After shooting a nearly 65" moose, I could not have asked for a better hunt. I was in shock for my first moose.
Overall, we had the most enjoyable hunt imaginable. The weather was unbelievable for an entire week. Despite not feeling my best, we harvested two big bulls in five days, none of which would have been possible without my fearless pilot and husband, Adam Grenda. As I reflect on this successful hunt, I realize that when it comes to hunting, the length of the hike, the distance of the shot, or the size of the animal remain the least important factors. Sometimes, it’s all about serenity in the mountains, the remarkable adventure, and discovering what lies beyond your limits.
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