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Screensize: 640 x 480 800 x 600 1024 x 768 1280 x 1024 UserName: Password: Format Mode: Basic  Help  Prompt  Format: Font Andale Mono Arial Arial Black Book Antiqua Century Gothic Comic Sans MS Courier New Georgia Impact Lucida Console Script MT Bold Stencil Tahoma Times New Roman Trebuchet MS Verdana   Size 1 2 3 4 5 6   Color Black Red Yellow Pink Green Orange Purple Blue Beige Brown Teal Navy Maroon LimeGreen Message: * HTML is OFF * Forum Code is ON Smilies [quote][i]Originally posted by Jen[/i] [br]My friend Connie Grant sent me this story & asked me to post it, so here it is... WHAT I DID LAST NOVEMBER: MEMOIRS OF AN IDAHO MOOSE HUNT by Connie R. Grant Last November the 13th was a very unlucky day for a certain moose. That was the day I filled my once-in-a-lifetime Idaho moose tag. I still can't believe I did this. We had been hunting near the town of Elk City since late September—spending weekends slogging through damp meadows and over convalescing logging roads. The terrain here consists of steep hillsides and draws that define the tributaries of the South Fork of the Clearwater and Selway Rivers. My family and I were hunting in the Leggett Creek drainage which flows into the South Fork, in country that has sustained Elk City’s loggers for nearly a hundred years. Before that, the region was subjected to the raw indignities of early prospectors more interested in gold than the beauty that surrounded them. In recent years, the U.S. Forest Service has struggled to restore the natural features of the area while at the same time attempting to keep logging viable. Brush patches interspersed with dense thickets of Douglas fir now cover hillsides that long ago were Ponderosa pine forests. Along narrow river corridors the November snows are intermittent, but a climb up any of the ridges can get you knee deep (or more) in a hurry. It was getting harder and harder to wake up before 6 am, and this particular morning, my 35 Whelen shells seemed to clink a luckless reminder in the pocket of my hunting jacket as I fumbled into each sleeve. An hour later my brother, Mike, and I were walking down the same closed logging road that I had walked so many times I was sure I must be wearing a hole in my Sorel boots. Mike did not have much to say, so my own thoughts turned to sullen musings. Just as I was getting discouraged and starting to think I would not even get near a moose, there he was. We had hiked to the top of a ridge where a few fir trees sheltered developing vegetation. He was standing along the edge of an old brushy clearcut facing us, about a hundred yards away. Mike suggested that we try to get closer for a better shot. We used a tree to conceal us while we closed the distance to 75 yards. Meanwhile, much to my horror, my glasses were starting to fog from huffing and puffing up a hill blanketed with drifts of heavy, wet snow. The rain beat a steady tap-tap on the visor of my hat as I closed my mouth and tried not to breathe. My heart thumped hard against my brain. Although the moose was standing fairly still, Mike said I had better shoot before we lost our chance. I leaned against a large tree trunk while Mike held the gun barrel for added support. (It must have hurt his ears a little!) He thought I should aim between the eyes, but I felt more comfortable aiming for a spot just left of the moose's nose and high on the neck. I fired…then, I saw him buckle and fold right where he stood. I stared at Mike and screeched, "Oh my God, I think I killed him!" I didn't know if I was going to jump with glee, or cry. My next concern was getting to the moose as quickly as possible. I wanted to end his suffering—I truly despair when I think of any prolonged agony that I may cause. We quickly scrambled over snow-laden stumps and mounds until we got within a few feet of the dying animal. His large body convulsed and twitched. I fired another round into his head for good measure while thinking, "to hell with the antlers, I could always glue them back together if I missed." I didn't miss…poor moose. While Mike worked up the nerve to start dressing out the huge creature, I went into the woods to relieve myself of a hefty dose of early morning coffee. As I slipped between the trees, my eyes started to water. Here I am—a seasonal park ranger-naturalist and protector of nature by occupation. And…here I am—I went and killed this beautiful moose. What was I doing? I wiped away the tears, then set my mind to the large task ahead of my brother and me. Luckily, Mike and I (as my Dad put it) "requisitioned" three very nice guys from another camp to help us quarter and pack the meat out. They were eager to take a trip up the mountain in order to test their endurance and do a little scouting. But, after we drove to where the strenuous hiking began and they had a chance to size up the slope and distance to the moose, they seemed a trifle hesitant. My face must have shown my heartfelt apprehension, because they quickly changed their mind. "We'll do it," the lanky fellow said with a friendly smile. I inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. What a lot of hard work. What a lot of moose to carry! Before long, this road I had been walking over and over seemed to stretch into infinity. Raindrops fell by the buckets until the snow began to look like overcooked mush. Our clothes felt like second skins. My boots "squished" with each step I took, and my hat dripped water in tiny rivulets that fell down my neck. However, by the end of the day our family had made three new friends from southern Idaho. They turned out to be the greatest guys—full of raucous humor and a wonderful sense of comradeship. They were just as proud as could be, while they snapped photos of the moose and passed around a bottle of cinnamon schnapps. It was long after nightfall by the time we said goodbye and exchanged e-mail addresses. Now, three days later I am looking around my living room decorated with a moose motif—moose blanket, moose bronze, moose letter holder, moose slippers, Steve Lyman's print of a moose in the aspens, a fuzzy Christmas moose, and even a cast-iron chair backed by a moose silhouette. I feel a small pain in my heart. Then, I think about how much that moose will mean to my family. I think of how my family helped to cut and wrap all that moose meat in one single day. I think about Dad filling every available nook and cranny of the large upright freezer with white packages of steak. I think about my sister Tina as she deliberates the best way to section each cut of meat. I think about my youngest sister Cindy as she fusses over the cutting board. I think about Mom as she drives to the store for yet another roll of white freezer paper. (Which, I somehow manage to tear off in pieces that are much too large—guess I'm a little over-zealous.) I think about Mike and his friend Ben as they hover over the grinder while its motor churns away at hamburger scraps. I think about family barbecues and get-togethers on the weekends. I think about the holidays. I think I feel better... [brown][size=1]The View From My Boots: [green]www.bovesboots.blogspot.com[/green] [/size=1][/brown] [/quote]   Check here to include your profile signature. Check here to subscribe to this topic.