Squatting to examine the tracks, the hunter runs his fingers slowly along the forms. A large bull, he silently observes. The compressed snow, frozen and stiff, casts the molds of cloven huffs as one complete sculpture. Created just as the prior night’s storm was abating, the prints, at least six hours old.

Standing, he turns to survey the animal’s route. The path is a long forgotten trail connecting abandoned vegetable gardens ringing the community. The prints are straight and decisive, a steady train of indentations, coursing through a tangled mass of large alders.

Determined, the old bull does not appear to be feeding, its movement more in line with changing one forage area with another.

Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, the hunter knows that the animal is well ahead of him at this point, but could bed down soon, in some strategic location. He must be vigilant.

Charging after the animal is not an option, at this stage in the game, a straight pursuit will force the animal ever onward. He must be careful, with two days until the season’s end, he can ill afford to drive the brute, possibly forcing the creature to leave that area of his range, altogether.

Dense softwoods, mixed with stands of birch and popular, the forest is thick, with few open tracts in which to spot the beast. The clammy, frozen snow, drapes the foliage, presenting as some elaborate Christmas scene, providing cover for the hidden workings of the display. The conditions, no aid to stealth, luck, his only chance.

Attempting to establish the animal’s whereabouts, he strikes a route angling away from the track, so as to loop back on it, in an attempt at encircling the large bull. Moving smartly, he squeezes through the snow laden alders and the thick, dense white spruce, surrounding it. The air is still, the crunch of the frozen, crusted snow, reverberating throughout the woods. The hunt will not be easy.

Trudging steadily away from the moose’s direction of travel, the hunter turns slowly back on its trail, his legs aching from the constant exertion of the breaking, heavily crusted snow. With each step, the tracker surveys his surroundings, his peripheral vision alert for movement, his ears straining for sound beyond his own.

Bursting into a small clearing, the pursuer intercepts the moose’s path. The beast had long ago turned eastward towards his own direction of travel. The animal is much further ahead than he had expected, moving steadily towards a series of rocky hills skirting a long, narrow valley, sweeping gently towards the sea.

The steep mountain that represents the opposite border of the deep depression devolves into high cliffs that tumble into the ocean, providing a natural funnel to push the mammal towards the head of the basin. A good place to catch him, stark against the contrasting brilliance of the landscape.

Turning, the hunter heads west towards a bald outcropping of rock atop a ridge ending in a saddle that forms the very head of the valley. Travelling much faster, the arresting nature of the snow, forces an exertion that soaks the hunter to his core.

A quick survey shows no sign of the moose. Grabbing his  binoculars, he glasses the valley floor. Far below, against the steep slope that defines the opposite boundary of the draw, he spies the track.

As he had expected, the moose had entered the opening at its lower end and rimmed the marsh travelling to its uppermost boundary, turning towards the almost vertical wall of birch and aspen, populating the impossible incline.

Judging by the tracks, the animal had not been harried, its passage through the valley hours old. The moose is somewhere high on the hill.

Scrambling down the side of the ridge, he turns up the valley heading for a small notch in the mountainside. Bracing against the effort, the route allows for slightly easier passage. More crawling than climbing, he drags himself up the steep drop, stopping to rest on each ledge as he moves. No pretence at remaining quiet, the silence is broken by the sliding and rolling of the crusted snow as the small avalanche streaks down the slope, echoing throughout the  expanse.

Reaching the summit the hunter stops for a final rest before continuing. Searching the sky, he realizes the day is half over, he has no time to lose. He forges on.

Cutting straight across the mountaintop, the pursuer intercepts the bull’s prints once more. The indentations indicating the trail is at least an hour old, the animal heading slowly west, straight along the ridge. Turning, he decides to skirt the summit on its southern side and intercept the moose, forcing him off the mountain and back down into the valley from whence he came.

Travelling quickly, he pulls himself along the steep incline and rocky outcroppings, holding to slender hardwoods as he goes. His exposed hands numb from the cold and ravished by the sharp, jagged extrusions of dead, standing timber.

At a small ravine, he turns back over the ridge, intercepting the track in an area of hardwoods that had been recently cut. The reason for its travels, the scattered birch limbs and abandoned tops, a choice edible for the moose. The trail is much fresher. The animal can’t be far. Scanning, there is nothing.

Turning, he slowly follows the now meandering track, eyes focused straight ahead, stepping as quietly as the frozen snow will allow. Suddenly, he is upon the large bull. It jumps, scrambling from its bed amongst a thick cluster of alders, disappearing instantly into the nearby greenery. Swinging the gun, there is no chance at a clear shot.

The animal bolts along the ridge and drops down over, running along the side of the steep hill, the slope plunging then falling gently towards a large pond.

Thinking fast, the hunter knows there is a small bog, just past the body of water, in a hollow created by the narrow-ridged mountain and lower hills running towards stark cliffs, plunging menacingly into the sea.

Scrambling, the hunter swings back over the side of the ridge and moves quickly, intending to force the moose onto the marsh.

Roving in and out of the trees clinging to the steep drop, he reaches the end as it falls away towards a small farm and the ocean beyond. Rounding the ridge, he drops down the other side, half sliding, one leg folded under him the other straightened, acting as a break. Halfway down the cascading river of snow, he intersects the moose’s path. The animal had been too fast.

Turning to follow the determined creature, the pursuer attempts to circle him on his southern side and turn him back towards the small valley. Slogging on, he soon realizes that the bull is moving quickly and has circled around him, heading in a southeasterly direction, up the long, thickly wooded drop.

The old cervid is determined to stay close to his new feeding area. If he is allowed, there will be no way to bridge the distance for a shot, the stillness of the air and the loud crunching and cracking of the frozen snow, an obstacle to closing in on the large beast.

With few options, the hunter races to push the moose back towards the bog. Breathing heavily and with searing pain in his legs, he roars up the mountain, staying well south of the animal’s track in an effort to circle the beast and turn him towards the dampish vale. Crossing over the mountain crest he breaths a little easier as he realizes that he has been successful.  Reversing, the moose has turned, heading back down the incline.

Following, the man circles quickly in a southwesterly direction,   attempting once more to push the animal towards the depression and out into the open. Nearing the diminutive dale he hears the stark reverberations of frozen tree limbs, breaking and splintering, further south along the side of the gently sweeping hill. The huge ruminant has outmaneuvered his foe, evaded his pursuer and beat him at his own game, the animal, determined to gain the mountain.

Stopping only for a second, the beaten and bruised hunter contemplates his next move. Grimacing, he knows he has no alternative, the day is closing in. With resigned determination, he forges on, rushing to encircle the driven, single-minded deer, before it escapes.

With every ounce of energy, he rushes forward, his lungs burning, every muscle screaming for relief. Reaching the summit in a wide, circuitous route, the commotion has forced the bull to retrace its path, but this time, it has left a warning, a large fir tree denuded of bark and branches, leaving behind three points from his antlers, as evidence of his intent.

Exhausted, the battered hunter collapses on a pile of logs overlooking the low valley. Scanning the shaded landscape, there is no sign of the old bull. Reclining, his lungs afire, he breaths deeply, his body starved of oxygen. Slowly regaining his strength, he adjusts his position. Sitting upright, he suddenly catches movement.

Using his rifle scope, he scans the depression. On a long, high, stunted spruce knoll, sprawling the length of the boggy dale, he spots the bull, its massive head and crown of antlers, protruding from a tangled mass of stunted spruce.

Standing, the tracker’s movement causes the large animal to slip back into the thick brush, unseen. The raised and tightly weaved mound is an island. The hunter knows that to escape the sodden glen, the moose must expose itself. Suddenly, the large head appears again and as quickly, fades back into the brush.

Undecided, the enraged moose thrashes the thicket, his hooves raking, scraping, stripping the frozen floor of dense brush, the sound dampened by the loud strumming of his antlers against the wood, his maddening guttural snorts, reverberating throughout the valley and mountainsides. Again, he appears, presenting nothing but his long, drawn, rectangular snout as evidence of his existence.

The long, raised platform is over three hundred yards away, much too far for the small target the head presents. It is now a waiting game. The incensed animal clearly wants the high ground.  Trying to decide its course of action, it vanishes once more into the tangled mess.

Choosing not to close the distance for fear of losing sight of the ungulate, the tracker contemplates the situation. The sun waning, the sudden silence is deafening, the animal cannot hold indefinitely to the narrow strip of brush, his instincts will force him to run, a bet the hunter is counting on.

Suddenly, the bull appears in full splendour, standing on the rise and staring intently at the mountain and the hunter. The silhouette of dark brown  magnanimity, a challenge
to the preeminence of its relentless predator. Heavy of form, his antlers extraordinary, framing its head in a hue of gold against the snow laden trees.

The pursuer knows this is his only chance, he must trust his gun and his knowledge of the ammunition’s ballistics, if there is any chance of success.

Without warning the bull breaks, turning towards the pond, attempting to outflank his tormentor, seeking to rim the body of water before turning up the mountainside. The hunter is ready.

The animal moves briskly along the crest of the knob, exposing its side. Swinging with one fluid motion, the hunter judges the height and lead the bullet must take in order to punch through the animal’s engine room and take out his lungs. Estimating the moose’s body proportions he pulls high on his ribs
and forward squeezing the trigger as he moves. The gun recoils, the sound echoing throughout the valley, the moose disappearing from sight.

Silence and the fading light of day, is all that remains. The moose is nowhere to be seen. Wringing his hands and kicking the pile of wood to force blood flow into his frozen extremities, the hunter knows he must move fast. If the moose is down he must find it before dark.

Leaving his perch, he scrambles awkwardly down the mountain, sliding, tumbling, he nears the raised mound. Expecting the bull to be on the opposite side of the rise, he circles the island of stunted growth, finding nothing. Encircling the raised platform, the animal is nowhere to be seen, its tracks in the snow confusing. The animal could not have escaped.

In a last ditch effort, he plows headlong into the intricately tangled woods, pushing his body through the tightly weaved brush on hands and knees. Finally, he spots it, the huge denizen, contorted by the squeezing, mangled brush. The bullet had found its mark, a merciful harvest.

Rolling onto his back in the thick, immovable understory, he rests, allowing the day’s exertions to wash over him. The final work will have to be completed in darkness. The thought fails to temper his emotions. The memory will last forever.

Postscript

The Royal Canadian Navy, in the ensuing days, would initiate a small logistical effort to have the moose flown from Newfoundland and Labrador to Nova Scotia and then transported to HMCS PROVIDER, where it was eagerly received by the crew.