After a successful morning hunt, another guide and I were basking in the late September sun on the deck of an old wooden moose camp, located deep within the Long Range Mountains of Northern Newfoundland. Realizing that the rut was in full swing, we were planning where to take the next group of hunters when the door swung open. The camp manager emerged with news that I had just been transferred to another camp. Before I had time to process this information, the distant sound of a floatplane could be heard. I quickly packed my belongings into a duffel bag and made my way down to the dock, where the rest of the guides were waiting. This would not have been a big deal if it weren't for the fact that this was my first time guiding big game hunts, compounded by my unfamiliarity with the terrain.

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As the Beaver made its slow approach to the dock, I noticed other hunters aboard. With little time for goodbyes, I found myself seated, and looking out the window as we flew past the camp and disappeared into the blue horizon. As we flew past the hunting grounds I had spent the past week learning in preparation for my first client, Dougie the pilot, turned around and informed me he had to drop these hunters off at another camp.

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Who Would be My First Solo Client?

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After 15 minutes of flying, I could make out the camp in the distance. What surprised me about these grounds was how open they were. Daylight was drawing to an end. The setting sun reflected off the placid pond as we made our descent. Approaching the dock, the camp manager came down to help offload the plane. Once everything was offloaded, Dougie followed the hunters up into the camp. Moments later, returning with another person. Dougie opened the door to assist the man in, as I had made my way into the cockpit. The hunter and I greeted each other and began chatting. He mentioned he was flying into a different camp because the terrain was too difficult for him due to his arthritis, which limited his ability to walk long distances.  

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It was getting late. We moved quickly to offload the plane and repack it with the other hunters and their gear. From the dock, we watched as Dougie made his way to the other end of the pond. The wind was breathless. He needed to gain as much momentum as possible. The Beaver's engine roared as it made one attempt, then another, but failed to reach sufficient speed. On the third attempt, after going further back on the pond and waiting for any sign of wind, Dougie managed to take off. The guides, hunters, and myself made our way into the camp, where I would once again introduce myself and quietly mention to the guides that this was my first time guiding big game hunts.

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Challenges in the Newfoundland Bush

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The first two days were challenging, with windy, cold weather and showers. I spent these days crossing the pond to an open area that led down into a thick wooded valley. My plan was to sit on high ground and make calls. However, traversing the 400 yards to the top of the valley was difficult. The terrain consisted of peat moss and black tuckamore brush, creating a challenging obstacle course for John, my hunter, who frequently fell due to his limited mobility. Regardless of how many times John would fall to his knees, his spirits remained high. Except on one occasion, when our eyes locked as I was helping him up. I felt as though he slipped up and finally showed some signs of discouragement. I thought to myself. I am supposed to be a guide. Somebody who people rely on to help them. To find solutions to the problems. Not to fold under unfavorable circumstances. It was at this moment I felt a sudden surge of determination. 

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We did not have much luck over the two days, nor did the other hunters. Discussing the plan for the following day with the guides, I mentioned it was John’s final day to hunt. He had switched camps because the previous camp was strictly for walking, but this camp had access to an argo. We planned to head further into the country, into less disturbed grounds, for his final day. I spent the remainder of the night analyzing topographic maps and gathering as much information as I could from the other guides on where we should go.

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It was close to mid-October, and the mornings were crisp, with frost coating any exposed surface. As we loaded onto the argo, I felt the nudge of pressure pushing me on. It wasn't long before we left the thick timber behind the camp and emerged onto plains with rolling hills and patches of forest strategically placed. The sun was beginning to rise, it felt like a scene from The Lion King movie. I was in disbelief that we were on the island of Newfoundland.

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Was it Meant to Be?

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Alvin, one of the guides who was driving the argo, dropped us off on a plateau, overlooking a valley that extended far beyond the eye's reach in both directions, with a small stream running dead smack in the middle. We waited until Alvin was out of sight, put our packs away, and buried ourselves among a pile of rocks on the peak of the ridge to provide some camouflage and shelter. It was 8:00 AM when I began calling.

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Moments later, there was movement below us. It was two cow moose, and my hunter was willing to shoot. He was interested in meat, but I could also tell he would prefer a bull. However, they were roughly 150-200 yards straight down a relatively steep decline, tucked in waist-high tuckamore shrubs. Knowing it would be backbreaking work for me to quarter them up below and carry them back up the ridge on my own, I quickly convinced John it was a cow and a calf. He was hesitant at first, but thankfully the two cows quickly disappeared among the shrubs.

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Periodically, I would get up and walk behind us to make a few calls in the other direction, but I couldn't see where a bull would come from because it seemed to be all open. The possibility of not seeing another moose was starting to set in. As the sun rose higher, we continued to scan the valley and make calls.

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Sometimes you just get a feeling that something is off. When I felt this, I rolled over onto my back and looked behind us. No more than 70 yards away was a massive bull moose. I was in shock. I quietly rolled over and began nudging my hunter. When he managed to do so, he too was in shock. The bull stayed looking in our direction. John slowly raised his gun, now resting on his stomach. We waited for the animal to turn broadside. When it did, I plugged my ears and gestured to John to shoot. BAM, John missed, but the moose did not move. BAM, he shot again, and this time, it was a hit. The bull started galloping away, so I made another call, it stopped. BAM, another shot and down it went. At that moment, John's arthritis seemed momentarily forgotten. Both of us sprang up like jackrabbits and sprinted over to the kill, jumping and hollering with joy. To add to our fortune, the bull dropped right on the argo tracks, so no lugging was necessary.

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Reality then set in. The hard part was about to begin, field dressing. I began skinning one side, taking off the backstraps, tenderloin, and quartering it up, then proceeded to debone each quarter and put them in separate meat bags. Thankfully, John only wanted a European mount, so I took the skull off and cleaned it up as much as possible before collapsing on the ground in sheer exhaustion. With my eyes closed, I heard a sound getting louder. Dougie popped out of nowhere in the Beaver and flew overhead. He swung the plane around and gave us the thumbs up. I had called in and harvested my first moose for a hunter while acting as a big game moose guide.

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