The King Is Down | New Hampshire Moose Hunting

Story By: Zackary Corr

A “tap-tap” from my father on my shoulder . . . “I hear something coming,” he says, alerting me to the presence of a magnificent moose in his prime standing in unit C near Gorham and Berlin, New Hampshire.

Backtrack earlier in the day, to the morning of day four: Gerry Marcou, our lively, seventy-four-year-old guide built like Superman or Jack LaLanne, spotted a nice big bull in the “Chop,” as he liked to say. After receiving the coordinates of the bull’s whereabouts, my father and I moved hastily in a Polaris down the ATV road, leaving our ambush spot to head towards the Chop a mile up the mountain and meet up with Gerry.

There was indeed a bull bedded down, but we could not get eyes on its paddles. We traversed through a saturated bog of grass and finally found the bull. In Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine, there is abundant dense forest. Most shots taken do not go beyond 100 yards. Our hunting brothers and sisters out West are used to shooting long range. Unless commercial logging has produced a cut, there is thick, dense cover everywhere here. Yellow birch trees blocked our line of sight. I moved laterally one hundred feet on the left flank. My father and Gerry were glassing on the right. I could see the beast’s body and then, finally, its rear paddles. I kneeled down on one knee and fired. I fired again, but he trotted off. The bull left ample tracks . . . but no blood.

We tracked him one mile into the thicket, coming up on the moose twice. However, twice, the bull escaped. Gerry was ahead, attempting to push the bull into the funnel of my .375 Dakota H&H. The last attempt saw Gerry and me running at a full trot down the road, trying to intercept the bull. The bull came within one hundred feet of the road and sprinted off. There was a very loud crash of branches emanating from the moose’s path. It was deemed a clear miss.

Fast forward that day to 5:45 p.m. A noise crackled, and then a black figure appeared thirty yards to our rear. We were sitting on the edge of the road, adjacent to a stream that provided a good sound buffer. Gerry was now one mile ahead with Matt (a team member assisting on our hunt). “I hear something coming,” said my dad.

“I see him. That’s the big bull. Don’t move!” I uttered. The paddles were identified, but I could not determine if the bull was looking at us. He rose up from a bedding area between the two ATV roads on the mountain. His intention was to cross the road.

At first, I was going to lean on my dad’s knee and shoot down the hill since the bull was located ten feet down a gully on flat ground. My body shook, and then I was overcome with a steady calm. The bull kept dropping his head and swinging it from side to side. The moment felt like slow motion for me. He tore off a few branches and continued his intended course.

5:50 p.m. The moose made “gallop-gallop” sounds as he climbed up the embankment. He revealed himself to us fifteen feet to our right and close to the road. I already had the sling wrapped around my left arm and the safety off, aiming slightly up from a kneeling position. “I’m gonna fire. Put your ears on!” I yelled . . . Bang! The bull hinged at his left shoulder and attempted to cross the road. “Hit him again, hit him again!” Dad yelled. Rising from my kneeling position, I rotated my point of aim, cycled the bolt, saw the silver brass fly, and put another one in him mid-stride.

The bull trampled to the right side of the road and was no more. Our hearts were pumping! “That was textbook. It was perfect—it was unbelievable the way it happened,” my dad exulted.

Many thanks to Gerry, Mrs. Marcou, Matt, Dave, Keith, Keith’s son, and, most of all, my father. Without him, I never would have been introduced to this great sport we call hunting.