BULLS, BROTHERS, & BOYS

Yukon Moose Hunting | Alaska

Story By: Jeff Harris

As the reality of the moment settles in, two generations of brothers walk toward a moose that can only be described as a “gagger bull.” Everything that morning had aligned in the most chaotic yet perfect way, resulting in an absolute giant. In true hunting tradition, the final tag belonged to the least experienced and youngest hunter in camp. He was just ten years old. Though young, he could sense from the reactions of his uncle and dad that something extraordinary had just happened. As we pulled the measuring tape from the ATV, I watched my son’s crooked smile grow bigger with each passing moment. The tape stretched from 50 inches to 60, then 66, and finally to 68. This was the biggest moose taken in camp in 30 years. And then, the moment we all had waited for.

Before we jump to that culminating moment, let’s start from the beginning. My family and I have been residents of Alaska for the past fourteen years. In 2021, September took on a whole new meaning for me when I received an invitation to join a moose camp in Western Alaska. Typically, September is when my family winds down after a busy summer of fishing. Now, it’s spent chasing moose for eleven days.

The 2024 hunt felt different. With the unit turning into a draw for non-residents, none of my usual buddies drew a tag. Fortunately, my brother Scotty was one of the lucky few, drawing one of only twenty non-resident tags. Since February, I’ve gotten weekly calls from him, each filled with excitement about the hunt. Scotty and I are nearly thirteen years apart, so we didn’t spend much time together growing up. I’ve lived in Alaska for most of his adult life. But the last three years have been different. We’ve hunted and fished together, and it’s been a blast. Scotty’s enthusiasm is contagious, whether we’re after king salmon, turkey, or squirrels. After seven months of anticipation, the excitement was building for me too.

The day arrived. Scotty landed in Anchorage, and we gathered gear for a charter flight in a Cessna Caravan to the hunting area. We touched down on a gravel strip in the middle of nowhere, greeted by outgoing moose hunters on ATVs sharing stories from their ten days. Their season was over; they’d fly back on our plane. The "airport" was classic Alaskan wilderness, with moose antlers everywhere. Scotty and I admired the massive harvested bulls, loaded our gear on ATVs, crossed rivers and gravel bars, and headed to camp.

The first sight was an American flag waving proudly, next to a tent modeled after George Washington's field tent, showing the owner’s love of history and patriotism. The camp was a highlight, a 30-year collection of items creating home comforts: a sauna from a 50-gallon drum, fridges, hot shower, even a washer and dryer.

We settled in and prepped for first-day chores like chopping wood and collecting water. But the previous group had stocked everything, so we dove right into scouting at 3:30. Since we flew in that day, no shooting allowed; just photos and videos. The weather was cold and wet, trails muddy from recent rain. We saw Denali 100 miles away and stopped to admire it. Our spot was seven miles out, called "Wonderland" for its bull abundance, like a kid in a candy store full of moose. I’d taken my bulls there and shared the spots and stories with Scotty.

We arrived around 5:30 PM and glassed three bulls and two cows. Two bulls were small; the third looked potentially legal. It takes seeing a few moose each season to judge 50 inches confidently. In this unit, bulls need 50 inches wide or four brow tines, adding anxiety. A sub-legal shot ruins the trip; someone always measures 49 ½ inches. I’d studied pictures, but nothing beats the real thing.

We had a good night and returned late, sharing stories. Our video of the big bull drew comments that it was way over legal. That stung; we’d misjudged it badly. We slept poorly, me especially, worrying I’d hurt Scotty’s chances.

Next morning, we returned to the spot, but the bull was gone. We stayed all day, spotting nothing but catching up on life, napping, and eating junk food. At 7:30 PM, from a tree stand, we saw a bull 700 yards out and ATV’d closer to 80 yards, but couldn’t confirm 50 inches. As light faded, back in the stand, we spotted two more a mile away. We raced over to 100 yards; one looked legal through binoculars. Scotty hesitated, shaking my confidence. We second-guessed as they closed to 30 yards. Frustrated at possibly passing another, I confirmed it was legal and said I’d shoot if he wouldn’t. He agreed. Two .270 WSM shots dropped it broadside.

Thrilled but anxious, we measured 54 ½ inches: legal and more. We celebrated with hugs and shouts, soaking in the Alaskan postcard scene: light rain, orange sunset, rainbow. It was absolutely remarkable, and I will never forget it!

Night falling seven miles from camp, with two other camp harvests nearby, we couldn’t haul everything. We field-dressed, separated meat, covered it to cool, and returned exhausted but elated.

Wednesday, prepping to retrieve two moose, Scotty asked about his rifle. I said bring it for possible wolves. Good call: 45 minutes out, I spotted a bigger bull than mine. Scotty set up and shot through the boiler room as it crossed broadside. It sprinted; two more shots crashed it 100 yards away. We’d both harvested within 12 hours. Measured 57 ½ inches, it was the same first-night bull we’d misjudged, confirmed by its dragon-shaped right antler. I left Scotty there and retrieved the others. One bull was buried by a grizzly, internals eaten but meat salvageable; the other untouched. We hauled Scotty’s too and spent the day prepping four moose for hanging.

Thursday, we slept in, explored new areas, and fished for pike, catching trophies at 43 and 39 inches. Evening, we helped the camp owner harvest. Scotty mentioned heading home early due to work. I hated it, but understood. I considered leaving too, then thought: bring my boys.

My twins, Hoyt and Hayes, just turned 10 and were eligible for tags. I’d dreamed of hunting with them, but not starting with Alaskan moose; better a spike deer. The owner wished for meat for his absent kids via proxy tags in a far unit. On a break, I suggested my boys could help fill tags easier. He loved it, wishing for a sat phone to call my wife.

No moose that night, but back at camp, I called Tricia. She was hesitant with one day to prep for a week trip but agreed next morning. She got them ready; Saturday, we awaited their plane at the airstrip. Excitement reignited with two more tags. We hugged, let them soak in the wilderness. I asked, "Boys, why are you here?" "To shoot a moose!" they said. I smiled: "No, to spend time with dad and uncle, and have fun." This felt like jumping to the Super Bowl before playing peewee football; perspective mattered.

In camp, we ensured safety, spending six hours on gun basics, scopes, tripods, 100-yard shooting, ethical shots, vitals. They nailed it consistently.

Rest of the day: pike and trout fishing, grouse shooting, blueberry picking. They beamed using their berries in pancakes next morning.

Monday and Tuesday, we focused on fun: chased spike forks lightly, built moss forts, climbed trees, chased squirrels, raided food, shed hunted, watched Netflix late. Scotty and I felt anxious but loved their joy.

Wednesday, serious hunting: early start, no breakfast, to a proven spot. At shooting light, a fork horn escaped. Then a big legal bull 90 yards off with cows in thick trees; no clear shot. We set Hoyt up on the Bog Pod, but it vanished deeper.

Pressure mounted; we bickered. Scotty wanted to rake and call; I was skeptical, pushing to circle ahead. He smiled: "You’re an air traffic controller, not a guide." He tried; suddenly, "Here he comes!" It approached from 280 to 80 yards. Cow behind it; Scotty called aggressively. It stopped broadside, clear. Hoyt asked, "Shoot?" We yelled yes. One .270 shot dropped it perfectly. "One freaking shot!" I said. Hoyt’s dirt-covered face grinned huge. He’d slayed a trophy stud any adult would want. We were expecting a small meat bull, but in true “Hoyt Fashion”, he hammered a true trophy bull!

Back to camp, we taught meat processing, relaxed, picked berries, celebrated with “moose pie”: pie for shooting a moose, vanilla ice cream and apple. A day of joy, pride, family bonds.

Thursday, early again, same trail. Forty minutes in, tree stand at dawn light showed brown figures miles out. Scotty spotted a group 2,000 yards away: big bull with smaller ones and cows. He claimed “over 60 inches,” his seventh such call. After ten days together, habits annoyed: his oversized estimates, my “10 minutes” that became 45. I dreaded that wet, muddy area from last year. Suggested sticking to Red Ridge.

Drove a mile; at the turn, the group was close. I said check it, “only 10 minutes.” Scotty resisted my earlier bleak description, but I insisted.

Twenty minutes later, front-row to the group: small bulls, one large, cows, but no 60-incher. Scotty stood on his ATV: the big one was 300 yards back in brush, antlers like boat oars. Definitely over 60. We knew it wouldn’t be easy, considering Hayes is about as tall as Frodo from The Lord of the Rings. Plus, Hayes had needed more practice to get comfortable shooting the day before. We abandoned the ATVs and began walking toward the moose, having to pass right by the smaller bulls and cows. They scattered, but we pressed on until we were just 80 yards from the big bull.

We set the Bog Pod to his height; but brush blocked everything. We could shoot easily, but not him. Tried moving lanes; bull became more skittish and trotted away 40-50 yards repeatedly. Frustration grew.

Worse: approaching ATVs. I ran back, asking the hunters for a 15 minutes hold for Hayes. They agreed. The big bull was deeping now into the brush. We followed the bull through the trees and found a small clearing where he had regrouped with the cows. Scotty set the tripod; I recorded. As predicted, he had a 70-yard broadside view. Hayes shot and the bull lunged forward. Two more finished it. It was the end of a thirty-minute roller coaster: excitement, frustration, desperation, elation.

I thanked the other hunters, and retrieved Hoyt from our ATVs. In awe of the size, Hayes’ bull measured 71.5” wide. Huge hugs, high fives, shouts. Hayes beamed: “Happy I shot a bigger bull than my Uncle Josh.”

Later, we learned it was camp’s largest bull in 30 years.

When I tell this story, folks say, “You ruined your boys! They’ll pass on everything smaller.”

My reply: Our conversation on the drive home.

Dad: “What was your favorite part?”

Boys: “Shooting ducks!”

Dad: “What else?”

Boys: “Blueberries and fishing.”

Dad: “What about the moose?”

“Oh yeah, that was cool too!”

Moose hunting was just a part of what we did that week. What really mattered was what I emphasized to my boys when they got off the plane—we spent quality time together, had fun, and yes, we even brought home some moose.

For everyone reading this, I hope we can remember that hunting offers a unique opportunity to step away from the distractions of daily life, creating the perfect setting for quality time and joy. The hunt itself should never be the main focus, but rather the time spent with those we love most while we’re out in the field.