About Moose and Moose-Hunting

It is a vast and lonely region in Northern Canada where the moose roams and lives, and the huge size of this monstrous creature⁠—it is the largest of the whole deer family⁠—makes hunting it a very exciting business. Accustomed to dwell all its life in the deepest recesses of primæval forest, the powers of sight in the moose are not highly developed. Sometimes, when the wind was in the right direction, and the creature got no tell-tale scent of my approach, I have almost walked right up under his very nose without his seeing me. It is upon their unrivalled powers of smell that these gigantic deer depend chiefly for their safety. Nature has provided them with a proboscis of enormous proportions, as you may see by going to any natural history museum, and in the wide nostrils gaping at the end of that expansive muzzle the faintest odour is quickly registered, and the owners are off at top speed in less than a second. With their heads lowered, and in spite of the bull’s spreading horns, they charge through the woods at full tilt, crashing through the densest underbrush as if it were merely hay, and smashing young tree stems as if they were the stalks of sunflowers. Everywhere, in these northern woods, beyond Quebec and south of James Bay, can be seen traces of their passage: trunks with the bark scraped off where they rubbed their horns; broken saplings: tufts of coarse brown hair caught on pointed branches, and the print of their great hoofs and tremendous stride everywhere on the ground. Accustomed to the dim twilight of the great woods, the eyeballs of these creatures are oblique, as with deer, and do not seem to be specially sensitive. They never turn their heads at shadows. Provided the wind is right, as I said, you can approach a moose to within a few feet, if you go perfectly straight in front of him, and he will never see you. If he does raise his head, it will mean that his ears have warned him of your approach. If you can fool his ears, you can put salt on his tail, say the hunters. But wind and rain are the best aids. Noisy weather is good hunting weather. The roar of the branches, the rattle of the rain, and the constant dripping from the trees combine to drown the sounds of your approach. Then there is a good chance of success. The front legs of moose are much longer than the hind ones, and to drink, if the bank be steep, or to crop the sweet shoots of the wild rice, they are obliged to kneel. Their food, however, consists chiefly of the ground hemlock, whose low bushes cover the ground in the neighbourhood of the big hemlock-trees, and can be easily got at in winter by scraping away the surface snow; but they are also very fond of the topmost leaves of the young maples, which their great height enables them to pull down and devour with ease. On all sides, where moose have been travelling in the autumn, the maple saplings can be seen bent double to the ground; and when the earth is too hard to show a track, an experienced hunter can follow the path of a moose for miles and miles by observing where he has cropped the hemlock and swept maple-leaves on both sides as he sauntered slowly along, enjoying his vegetarian meal. In the great heats of July and August these animals suffer terribly from the sun, owing to the thickness of a hairy skin that also serves to keep them warm when the thermometer is 40 below zero. In these months they often wade into the cool lakes and ponds, and stand up to their necks in water, where the Indians, to their shame, used to slaughter them without mercy. They offer a large target, and, though splendid swimmers, they cannot get away from the bullet in time. These same Indians always say that the bear is the shyest animal of the woods. Bruin certainly is a very wary and shy beast; but the moose, in my opinion, comes in an uncommonly close second. On all sides you can see rotten logs torn open by the bears in their search for ants and honey, and the deep trail leading up to the log and away from it again; but the old bear himself is probably miles away by the time you come upon the scene, covering the ground in that rolling, tumbling gait of his that carries him along at incredible speed. It is no uncommon sight to surprise a bear among the low fruit-bushes, no matter which way the wind is. When berries are thick you may stumble upon bear quite frequently, standing on their hind legs among the blueberry-bushes with front paws round some nice rich clump, and gluttonously devouring the ripe fruit with much grunting. But whoever came upon a moose in the middle of his dinner, unless wind, weather, and all else too were against him? Moose move generally in groups of four or five, or less. Several groups of this size travel in the same direction, and cover practically the same country at the same time. In this sense they may be described as moving in widely scattered herds. They get over vast distances, moving with great speed, and the enormous territory at their disposal, of course, makes difficult hunting. You must have iron muscles, and be tireless. A fresh moose track⁠—that is, one with no water or cobwebs in it⁠—may be followed for fifty miles, the creature always keeping half a dozen miles ahead of the hunter. If, meanwhile, it chooses to take to the water, the tracks, of course, are lost, and so much time has been wasted, that’s all! The utmost caution has to be observed. Their ears are sharper than those of a deer, and their scent keener than that of almost any creature in the woods. If a twig snaps beneath your moccasin, or your coat brushes noisily against a branch, especially in damp weather, when noises are sharper, they will put another mile or two to their credit before you have gone a hundred yards. The usual way of hunting moose is to find a fresh track⁠—and then follow it. To find a track at all is a matter of some training. It is easy enough, of course, when the ground is soft and muddy, to see the great hoof-mark of a bull moose, or the more pointed impression of the cow’s pad, but when the earth is hard and the light poor (as often is the case in the dense Canadian forests), you may search for days and find nothing encouraging. An Indian, or an experienced woodsman, will see a track in a second, where you or I might pass over the ground as untouched and useless. Often have I followed a good strong track for miles, and then suddenly lost it on coming to a stretch of hard earth, whereas the woodsman with me has gone straight ahead without hesitation as though he were following a pathway marked with white stones. It is extraordinary, however, to note how the senses improve after a few weeks in the woods, and how much keener the sight gets, and the power of hearing. Men who live entirely in cities are always astonished at the powers of vision and hearing of the backwoodsman; but after a little practice you soon become far more expert. The silence of these woods, for one thing, is extraordinarily deep. I have often sat at my tent door when the others have already rolled up and gone to sleep in their blankets, and listened intently in order to train my ears to catch the lightest sound. Dense trees and underbrush on all sides, stretching for hundreds of miles, full of moving, running life⁠—and yet hardly a sound reached me. There is a sort of low humming murmur. The woods emit a sort of whispering, made up of a thousand-and-one little tiny voices and sounds. But in vain you listen for any distinct, unmistakable noise. The deep silence of the forest at night is more to be wondered at when you reflect that everything alive in the woods travels at night and rests by day. The woods “travel” in the darkness, to use the hunters’ term, and the animals prowl and hunt. Moose, deer, bear, foxes, wolves, everything, in fact, moves then, either in pursuit of prey or to change their hunting-grounds. Yet hardly a sound of all this reaches you. I have sat at my tent door, with the dying embers of the fire at my feet, and peered out into the darkness, knowing well that there was not a hundred yards in any direction in which some living creature was not moving. Eyes were watching me on all sides, and had I moved to aim my rifle, or stood up to poke the logs into a blaze, numbers of little furry feet would everywhere have scuttled off a little farther into the shadows. Yet there was no sound⁠—not the breaking of a twig or the crackling of a dry leaf beneath the lightest paw. It is curious, too, how a man who loves the woods and dwells in them soon learns to imitate the habits of the animals. He learns, for one thing, to move silently. When hunting moose this is of great value, and the man who can tread on a twig with out making it snap has a great advantage over the clumsy fellow who goes along snapping and cracking at every step. I have followed a backwoodsman step by step for miles, going after moose, treading exactly in his tracks, and choosing my way most carefully, yet have noticed that, whereas he moved soundlessly, or nearly so, it seemed impossible for me to put my foot down without making enough noise to frighten any animal who was down-wind within a hundred yards. By degrees one learns, of course, so to distribute the weight of the body that the twig is pressed into the earth without snapping. The method is difficult to describe, but you gradually learn it. The moccasins are soft under the feet, and never slip, and you find out after a bit⁠—if you have it in you at all⁠—how to move with the branches and underbrush, instead of against them. This is the secret of stealthy moving, and a good hunter picks it up in time, though he can never hope to attain to the absolute soundlessness of the snake-like Indian motion. At first, after you strike a fresh moose track and follow it, the stride is fairly regular, and you can see how the creature has ambled along in a leisurely fashion, nibbling the hemlock branches off the ground, or going to one side or the other to pull down some maple sapling and eat the juicy top leaves. Then, perhaps, the stride lengthens, and you know he has begun to move faster. His great legs are stretching out a bit. Presently, you see a spot where the hoof marks become a little confused and pointing in all directions, and you know that he has scented danger, and has paused to listen, turning his body to catch the wind, and ploughing up the ground as he turns. After that the length of the stride gets bigger and bigger, and you know he is on the run. He has got wind of you, either by scent or hearing, and is off at that long, loping gallop which carries him through the woods at a tremendous pace. Pursuit is then useless. He may run for twenty miles without stopping. He may come to water and swim over to the other shore, or he may dive and double in such a confusing way through the dense tangle that it is hopeless to follow him with any chance of catching up for a shot. The distance between the hoof-marks gives you a good idea of the size of their owner, and the ease with which he takes a striding jump over fallen trees thrills you with the knowledge that you are after no ordinary deer. Deer, by the way, it is interesting to note, are not so plentiful as the hunter might expect in these regions; and the man who goes into camp with light provisions, relying upon venison for his meat supply, may find more trouble in keeping his larder filled than he likes. The wolves keep their ranks thin. No wolf can catch a deer in the woods, if the conditions of the chase be equal; but in the winter, ferocious with long fasting, wolves chase the deer on the ice of the frozen lakes and rivers, and soon get their teeth into the tender flanks. Wolves move more easily than deer on the slippery surface, and, being lighter, do not sink so deeply into the patches of soft snow. The barking of a few wolves in pursuit of a deer sounds like the fighting and snarling of a lot of angry dogs. It must be an unpleasant sound to have at your heels at any time, and the poor deer makes the most frantic efforts to escape, but only slips from side to side, growing weaker every minute, till at length it is overhauled and torn to pieces. I was once in camp in this region, moose hunting, and a friend and his wife cccupied a little tent just behind my own. The lady held the wolves in special abhorrence. She hated to hear them bark at night. During the first week in camp some animal had been heard snuffing and prowling round their tent during the night. The ground was too bare and hard to show any tracks, and the opinion of our party was divided as to whether it was a bear, a porcupine, or a wolf. “It seems to be a largish animal,” she said, “judging by the sound.” Just as I was dozing off one night, after a hard day’s hunting, I heard voices in the tent next to me. “There’s that animal again,” said the lady’s voice, speaking to her sleepy husband. “You really must get up and see what it is. I believe it’s a wolf.” “Oh, it’s nothing but a silly porcupine looking for grub,” declared the husband, who did not want to get out of his warm blankets, for it was a cold night, and camp-beds are difficult to make up again. “But it’s rubbing against my side of the tent. It’s trying to get in,” she said, getting more excited. “But that’s no reason why I should get out!” growled the husband. However, the wife thought it was a very good reason, so, after a little more growling, the husband got up and peeped through the opening of the tent very cautiously. The moon shone brightly, but only seemed to make the shadows beneath the trees darker than ever. “Take the rifle,” I heard her whisper. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Give me the lantern. I hope the beast won’t go for my legs. “I’ve got nothing on.” “Put on your top boots,” advised the practical wife. A sound of laughter came from the men’s tent beyond. Evidently they were listening and enjoying the situation as much as I was. There were manifold sounds of preparation, and, in due course, the husband issued forth into the cold night arrayed in top boots, pea-jacket, and striped pyjamas. The lantern swung over his arm, and the rifle was loaded and pointed at full cock. I heard his footsteps going cautiously round the tent, and, as I lay in my sleeping bag, I hoped devoutly that he would be careful how he fired, and not aim too low, or in my direction. I think the wife and the men had the same uncomfortable thoughts. Suddenly there was a shout. “I see it!” he cried, and the next instant the rifle cracked. “It’s a skunk, I do declare!” he cried, with a roar of laughter. And a skunk it was, and nothing more. But we others thought a good deal of that skunk, for the wind was blowing our way, and the whole benefit of the penetrating and offensive odour of that harmless but terrible little animal was wafted into our tents. The guides burnt the body, but you cannot burn the smell of a skunk, and next day it was so bad that we were obliged, at great trouble, to pitch our tents in another part of the woods altogether.