Mark Twain said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” Somehow, I’m pretty sure old Mark never did any fall moose hunting in Maine. It was still technically “summer” when my wife, Viola, and I left New York for my highly anticipated moose hunt in the big woods of Northern Maine with Nathan Theriault of OMM Outfitters. As with any hunting trip, I was keeping a close eye on the weather. The forecast called for the remnants of a hurricane to settle over Northern Maine for the first day or two of the season, turning the area into a sloppy bog. Clearly, not optimal conditions.
Fortunately, the weather gods favored us. The storm never materialized. The new forecast for opening day, two days after the last day of summer, was clear and in the high 30s at daybreak. After checking in at the Eagle Lake Inn, we met our guide, Matt, and enjoyed a dinner of lobster and apple crisp al fresco with the other hunters.
The 3:40 a.m. wake-up call came quickly after an almost sleepless night, and we were out of the inn by 4:30 a.m. and heading to Portage Lake. As I stepped out into the predawn darkness, I briefly shivered and a smile appeared on my face as I zipped up my jacket. The weather was perfect, definitely colder than San Francisco.
Our first stop was a big clear-cut that Viola and I called the “wild raspberry stand” because the first 100 yards were filled with wild raspberry vines. Matt said this was our first stop because he had spotted a nice bull here during his pre-season scouting. As we walked quietly up a game trail, trying to evade raspberry vines as best we could, I certainly agreed with Matt’s assessment, this spot was very “moosey.” There were fresh prints and droppings all over the place. Matt was quick to point out several rubs.
We finally got to a small knoll that allowed us to see over the underbrush. It felt perfect. I felt the hunt was going to be over before I knew it. Matt let out a cow call. Nothing responded.
Over the next hour or so and following several different calls, there was still nothing. I was confused. We were in a perfect spot with perfect weather with the perfect guide on opening day. Didn’t the moose get the memo? We finally sneaked off the knoll when Matt decided that we should find another spot.
And so set the routine for the next three days. Despite perfect weather in locations with an abundance of moose sign, we heard no moose and saw no moose. Although we saw no moose, Viola and I were certainly forming a bond with Matt. We shared stories about who introduced us to hunting, and Matt told us about his grandfather who taught him how to hunt when he was a young boy. Apparently, Matt’s grandfather had an infectious enthusiasm that inspired Matt to become a moose guide.
Matt also revealed to us that after many years, his grandpa finally drew a moose tag in 2022 and Matt had the privilege and the pleasure of guiding his grandfather. He was successful in his quest to harvest a big bull moose. Unfortunately, not long after that hunt, Grandpa became ill, and after a somewhat protracted illness, he passed away.
Besides Grandpa, Matt brought up another gentleman who exerted a considerable influence on him, Guy Randlett. He was the “senior statesman” of Maine moose hunting and had mentored many of the guides in camp, including Matt and Nathan. Matt was delighted when I told him that I had hunted with Guy on two occasions, and during those hunts, I got to know him pretty well. We had a grand time exchanging tall tales about Guy Randlett. I was heartbroken, however, when Matt revealed to me that Guy had passed away in July 2023. When we got back to the inn that night, I searched the Internet and read Guy’s obituary. I found out that his birthday was the very next day, September 28th. That night, I said a little prayer to Guy and felt strongly that hunting on his birthday would be a good omen and would bring us a turn of luck.
September 28th was the first day that we started seeing moose and heard them answering our calls. Guy was definitely in our corner.
We continued to hunt different clear-cuts, bogs, swamps, and logging roads, but at least once a day we went back to the “wild raspberry stand.” Clearly, Matt was convinced that there was some magic there.
On the last day of the hunt, we still had not seen a trophy bull. We had enough time for just one more stand. Of course, Matt took us back to the “wild raspberry stand.” Once again, we edged our way to the knoll. This time, however, Matt received an immediate and enthusiastic response to his cow call. Game on! It was looking good, but after about 15 minutes, the responses to our calls became less frequent and they seemed further away. Matt told me to stay put, and he was going to walk down the trail a bit and call from there. A few minutes went by when I heard Viola whispering on her cell phone. She was giving our daughter an update. I heard her say, “It’s the bottom of the ninth, and it does not look good for your father.” I replied, “Don’t count me out yet. Matt is closer. It is not over ‘til the fat lady sings.”
Less than a minute later, Matt reappeared. He was whispering, but he certainly had urgency in his voice. He told me to grab my gun and follow him immediately. I followed Matt about 50 yards down the trail and found a steady rest for my gun. Matt let out another call, and then I heard the bull thrashing and stomping as he slowly made his way into the clearing. As soon as he cleared the blow down, he gave me a broadside shot. I pulled the trigger on my .308 NULA and sent a 165-grain Nosler AccuBond bullet to the moose’s chest. He did not take another step. He collapsed and was dead instantly. Matt and I shared some hugs and high fives. We were both obviously thrilled to take this monster trophy bull with no more than 10 minutes of light left. He told me he to get Viola and all the gear and come back to the moose.
By the time we returned, Matt seemed very somber. He told us to bring all the gear to the truck, which was about half a mile down the trail, and come back with headlamps. Once we returned, Matt, still somber, said he was going back to the truck to try to contact Nathan and the rest of the guides to give us a hand breaking down and transporting the moose to the truck. After an hour or so, we saw a parade of headlamps come down the trail. These seasoned professionals broke down the moose in no time, and before we knew it, we were back in the truck and heading back to the inn.
Once we were back in the truck, Matt explained his clearly somber reaction to me harvesting the moose. Where my moose had collapsed, he lay next to a tree stump. Matt revealed to us that when his grandfather shot his moose in 2023, Grandpa was literally sitting on that stump. Grandpa shot his moose at the exact location where my moose came into the clearing, and I killed him. This was an unbelievable story that was certainly beyond coincidence and explained the swirl of emotions that Matt was experiencing.
Although I credit Matt’s skill, dedication, and persistence in helping me get my moose, I also credit an “assist” to his grandfather. Grandpa, I never met you, but thanks for the help. We could not have done it without you.
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