This column originally ran on Saturday, September 29, 2001
The face of dawn was blushing behind a veil of mist as the guide sculled the canoe along the winding bog stream. In the bow seat, his moose-hunt client checked the safety on the .30-06 and casually squinted through the 4-12x scope-sight. Satisfied that the lenses weren’t beaded with moisture, he laid the rifle across his lap, covering the sight with his hands.
After receiving a moose permit for District 4, the hunter hired the guide with the stipulation that they would hunt from a canoe. “It’ll likely be the only chance I’ll ever have at a moose,” the hunter explained, “so I want to make it as traditional and memorable a hunt as I can.”
“Fair enough,” the guide agreed. “I know a bog that’s holding a big bull. We should be able to get a chance at him. That is, if a cow hasn’t sweet-talked him out of there. I’ll guarantee you’d have a memorable hunt if we had to muscle that critter into a canoe. No need for that, though. There’s a trail that runs along the side of the bog where he’s been hanging out. It’s 50 yards or so into the woods. I can drive my truck in there and winch him out … if we get him.”
When the hunter said he had heard that a moose shot in water would sink, the guide explained that a rutting bull that has lost a lot of body fat might not float. “But the bull we’re after is in good shape,” he said, “and aside from that, the bog’s shallow.”
Scanning the sprawling waterway, the hunter imagined the rising mists as smoke swirling from the flame-like foliage of swamp maples. “What a great time of year,” he thought. “And what a privilege to be hunting North America’s largest big-game animal — Maine’s state animal — practically in my backyard. Moose are symbolic of Maine and Maine is symbolic of moose hunting. Thoreau wrote about it after he tramped around here in the mid-1800s.”
Thoughts of Thoreau reminded the hunter that the renowned naturalist was guided by Penobscot Indians, namely, Joe Polis and Joe Attean. In musing about Indians hunting moose from birch bark canoes, the hunter muttered thoughtfully, “How’d they manage it?”
“What’s that?” the guide asked.
“Oh, I was thinking about the Indians hunting moose from birch bark canoes. How’d they ever get a moose into them? I wouldn’t think a birch bark canoe would hold one.”
“I’ve got an idea the Indians did their skinning and butchering on the spot,” the guide allowed. “As for birch bark canoes, they were light but strong. The ribs, rails, thwarts and planking were made from brown ash and cedar. The Indians knelt when they paddled and, naturally, stood when they poled, so there were no seats. The bark — usually in one piece with the inside layer on the outside of the canoe — was very supple when wet. It was sewn with spruce roots and the seams and splits were sealed with a mixture of pine pitch and animal fat. The fat kept the pitch from drying and breaking.”
“Clever people, weren’t they?” the hunter thought aloud.
“And then some. The baskets and utensils they made from birch bark and brown ash were pure art.”
Nodding, the hunter watched a muskrat split the surface of the stream with a wedge of wake. “This land must’ve been alive with game back then,” he said. “Moose, caribou, deer … it must’ve been something to see.”
“Plenty of moose, some caribou, but no deer inland,” the guide responded. “There were deer along the coast, but they didn’t start moving inland until the settlers arrived and began clearing the forests. Until the forest canopies were opened, allowing sunlight to enter, there wasn’t enough undergrowth to support deer.”
“So the early Indians were essentially moose hunters,” the hunter replied.
“Right. By the late 1800s, though, owing to a blight of brainworm, unrestricted hunting, and farmlands replacing forests, Maine’s moose population was down to just a couple of thousand. Consequently, the state banned moose hunting in 1935. But when clear cutting left pastures of new-growth poplar and other hardwoods, the moose population rebounded. Now we’ve got 30,000 or more statewide and an annual moose season.”
“With a hunter-success rate of 90 percent,” the hunter added. “In Quebec it’s only around 10 percent. But, y’know, this national park nonsense and its prohibition of logging would decimate our moose population.”
“Course it would,” said the guide. “And the anti-hunters and animal-rights activists would blame hunting. Prohibit logging. What do they think people around here would do for a living? Sell kayaks and trail bikes? That’d be thin soup come winter. Besides, there’s nowhere near the clear cutting now that there was 20 years ago.”
“I don’t know what has to be said or done to convince those park proponents to pack their gear and head downriver,” said the hunter. “Every time they’ve held a meeting hereabouts they’ve been practically run out of town. Now they’ve got a consultant from Montana telling us what great economic benefits a park would bring to northern Maine: More companies, more people, more paved roads, he says. All the things we don’t want. They just don’t get it. This state is a national park; a natural treasure that attracts millions of people each year. So what’s the problem? If they’re so bent on restoring something let them restore southern Maine. God knows it needs it.”
Shaking his head with contempt, the guide said, “Talking about it sickens me. I just can’t believe what I see happening in this state. I’m beginning to appreciate how the Indians felt when their way of life was being threatened by people from away.”
“You and me….”
“Hold it,” the guide interrupted. Propping the paddle against a thwart, he fetched his binoculars from the pack basket. Focusing on the opposite shore, he grumbled, “Wouldn’t you know it, he’s on the other side … the trail doesn’t go that far. Take a look through your scope. That dark spot just to the right of where the sun’s striking those hackmatacks.”
“Man!” the hunter exclaimed when the bull filled the sight. “He’s massive. His antlers must be as wide as a pickup. What’ll he weigh?”
“I’d say 900, easy. More than you and I can load into this canoe, that’s for sure. Tell you what, though, I’ll paddle us down to the outlet, that’s where the trail ends. He won’t see us because of the way the stream bends and from there it’s a good chance I can call him to us.”
For a moment the hunter grinned over his shoulder before saying, “Sounds good to me. I can’t think of anything that would make this moose hunt more traditional or memorable. Or more symbolic of Maine.”