The Niles, Michigan boys found success once again in the wild reaches of northern Alaska, this time harvesting a giant bull moose. How do they continue to do it? Let me tell you.
Spring of 2017 found “The Legend” Kent Kaiser and me, “Caribou” Chuck Knoll, hunting all around the country to solve the mystery of the turkey grand slam in only 60 days. The charisma and karma Kent and I share in our lifelong passion to hunt and have Lewis and Clark experiences fire our enthusiasm. The next plan was success in Alaska! The plan was formulated for the 14-day excursion later that spring. We fellow Nilesites and childhood friends would be joined by a third adventurer, Gary Smith, who Kent brought along. Gary’s family calls him “Pelon” (Spanish for “hairless pilot”). He is a 72-year-old Niles native who had been itching to go to Alaska for years and yearned to shoot a big moose. He had failed to get a bull moose on three other guided trips in Canada.
We met in Fairbanks on September 8th, the opening of moose season. Pelon and Kent flew north by bush plane almost 200 miles to a pristine and beautiful river above the Arctic Circle. They set up camp on a rocky gravel bar and began scouting the area for moose. I joined them the next day. The weather was gorgeous, in the high 40s during the day and 30s at night with only a little rain. We were equipped with a 16 foot inflatable raft. Kent is an expert at negotiating white water rivers and has 40+ years of experience in Alaska. We brought a Big Agnes Flying Diamond 8 four-season tent, spacious enough for three large men, our equipment, and enough provisions to last a few weeks on the river.
On this trip, we employed three very successful techniques for moose hunting. First, boot leather on the ground, general scouting that produced a lot of information. Second, getting to a high vantage point to watch ponds under the shelter we had built with spruce poles and a tarp. Third, floating the river late in the afternoon to catch moose grazing and bulls following the cows at the river’s edge.
Our initial scouting around the campsite quickly revealed we were sharing the area with many moose, wolves, grizzly bears, and caribou. The river encircled us, so we did not venture more than four miles from camp. I cannot explain the thrill of sharing a remote campsite with bears. Care and caution were our watchwords. We could never venture out alone without protection: a gun in one hand and baby wipes in the other! Most nights, the moon was bright and the sky was clear with the Aurora Borealis dancing its mystical, shimmering greens and blues across the sky accompanied by the symphony of nearby wolves. It is always a treat to witness this natural spectacle.
The third night was special. At 2 a.m., a bull came up from the river, loudly grunting. My heart was jumping out of my chest as it seemed the beast was just outside the tent. Kent and I jumped out of the tent to see where the giant bull was, but the haze and darkness of the night hid the large animal. At sunrise, we saw the bull’s hoof prints within 30 yards of the tent. Days later, a grizzly bear laid down fresh tracks 20 yards from the tent as we slept and another bear came even closer near the end of the trip.
Almost a week into the hunt, we were seeing signs of moose around camp and from a high vantage point. We set up a scouting vista and spotted some big bulls. The moose were lazily moving around small lakes or working across large expanses of tundra. Kent and I agreed we would avoid carrying moose quarters over the difficult tundra if we could. While Kent and I scouted from our ridge vantage point, Pelon watched from the shelter. Then Kent’s eagle eyes spotted a nice bull moose across the river. I had agreed earlier in the week that Pelon would get the first shot at a bull, but at his age, could he keep up? I was pleasantly surprised to find he could more than keep up. He was in fantastic shape! I had worked very hard since my last Alaskan trip when I was not in great shape. In dogged defiance of The Legend’s yearlong marathon of constant shaming, I lost 40 pounds and could now go on 10 to 15-mile death marches.
We quickly reached Pelon and helped him maneuver down the large hill to an overlook. That placed Pelon around 250 yards to get at the bull. He rested his beautiful 338 Browning BAR on a small spruce tree and took careful aim. The rifle roared several times as I watched with binoculars and a rangefinder. The moose shuddered, rocked, and then fell. Wow! I was so excited for the man. We high fived on the hillside and then finished the long trek down the hill. We climbed in our raft and rowed across the river.
All three of us approached the mammoth creature, whose size was unimaginable, comparable only to a Clydesdale horse with very large antlers. This beautiful creature, the world’s largest member of the deer family, lay still at our feet.
After tons of pictures, the thought moved from jubilation to work. How does one dissect a creature this big? Fortunately, Kent’s foreknowledge compelled him to bring an electric chainsaw filled with cooking oil so as not to taint the meat. All three of us had more than a century of collective hunting experience, and we were all quite familiar with butchering deer, so it made sense to treat the carcass like a big deer. We could not hoist this beast, so we did one side at a time. I found that the skin of an adult bull is over half an inch thick on the top of its neck, its heart was the size of a basketball, and its hooves were the size of those of large Angus cows. The bull yielded meat quarters of 100-140 pounds each. The four trips to haul that meat to the bush plane were exhausting. I honestly believe it took me two days to recuperate from the sheer exhaustion.
Pelon and his moose meat went back to Fairbanks, which left The Legend and Caribou a few short days to fill a second tag. Kent, always excited to explore, wanted to float the river. He repeatedly said we would get a monster floating the river this late in season. I had hit the wall, and I was very reluctant to add more work to the trip, but Kent's knowledge and experience told him we needed to be on the river. It took a boat oar across the back of my thick skull from Kent to make me realize I was wrong and he was right if we wanted the other tag filled. I again yielded to his persistent manner, and minutes after Gary’s bush plane left, we were shoving off the bank and heading south. After only a few minutes, my excitement rejuvenated as we headed for another epic adventure. We had a lot of river to cover, and Kent pushed us hard so that we could meet at the rendezvous coordinate our pilot had furnished us. Day turned into early evening and we were back in hunting mode. Kent said, “It feels good tonight, and the last two hours are always the best time to spot a moose.”
As we swept around a riverbend, I saw the telltale sign of a moose silhouette downriver. I mentioned to Kent, “I think that’s a moose ahead,” and his razor vision concurred. As we closed within 400 yards, we both determined it was a cow. We grew nearer, and from behind a mud bank, a colossal bull appeared, 70" wide. I had a Remington 700 in 300 Winchester Magnum set up on my shooting sticks. The bull was facing us, and a chest shot was my target. I ranged the distance at 300 yards. Kent was attempting to zoom in on the giant with his video equipment. As he did, he silently settled the oars on the side of the raft. The forceful current began spinning us counterclockwise. My shooting position was now twisting me where I was aiming towards Kent. As he whispered, “I got him! Shoot!” I lost my window of opportunity. I said, “Turn the boat, I don’t have a shot,” and Kent maneuvered the boat.
Ignorantly, I had said, “Turn the boat!” loud enough for the moose to hear me. Moose aren’t exactly happy with human vocal sounds, and this bull turned and ran up a steep bank and began to disappear into the spruce jungle. I squeezed the trigger at 110 yards, but I whiffed completely. To say I was dejected was a gross understatement. The Legend and Caribou were blaming each other for the mishap. Well, mostly I was cussing and yelling. Kent looked at me sort of funny, shaking his head, knowing I would figure out what happened, and then we finally started laughing, figuring that was one lucky bull. We landed the raft and looked in vain for sign. After looking at the video in Fairbanks, I was convinced I had not wounded the bull. Maybe someday I will find him again.
The next morning, before dawn, we were climbing in our raft for another trip on the river. The Legend said with words that rang with confidence, “We have all day to pull this off, and I think it’s going to happen today.” After yesterday’s fiasco, I didn’t share the feeling. He made me laugh when he jumped in the raft, crooning, “Ain't no fat lady sang yet.” We would have all day to hunt before we arrived at our bush pilot’s runway. At the magic time, 11 a.m., we spotted moose along the river’s edge. Again, out of nowhere, a bull and two cows appeared ahead of us. The bull was outside of 290 yards, and one of the cows had turned up her nose to his advances. As he looked to the other cow on the bank, he gave me a perfect broadside shot. The raft was now at 180 yards. This time, I did not wait for Kent, who had told me the night before, “If you get a chance, take it and don't wait for me to film." Nor did I mention to him to right the raft. Instead, we used predetermined hand signals. It worked! I fired four shots, the first at 180 yards and the last at 100. All I remember seeing in my riflescope is massive brow tines, four on each side. The behemoth fell 30 yards from the bank.
To say I was elated was an understatement, for this was truly a miracle bull shot in the last few hours of a long trip. After all the hard work we put into getting Pelon's moose out, we were given a gift from God, who allowed me this majestic animal placed so close to the raft. We celebrated with a long hug and a pat on each other’s backs. I also learned a lesson instilled by my friend, The Legend, “Never give up!”
My moose was a giant at 63" wide and was enough meat to feed an army. It took us five hours to load the raft with four quarters, four separate bags of meat, and a heavy set of antlers. A native Alaskan would be proud.
The Legend and Caribou had struck again. Kent’s highly successful self-guided moose fly-in/float hunting business, Alaskan Quest, keeps him quite busy. My 25-year career in law enforcement is ending. We have made many plans to explore and enjoy the last frontier as Lewis and Clark did in the West. Stay tuned as we are planning a black bear hunt for 2018. And that will be just the beginning…
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