Our pack train edged over the lip of the glacial valley and down toward the headwaters of the Prophet River. Joe, riding near the rear, pulled up his mount for a moment to look over the terrain.
“Right there,” Joe said, as he pointed to a fold of the river. “That’s where I spotted the biggest rack of Canadian moose antlers I’ve ever seen.” He half turned in his saddle to make sure that we were impressed.
He might have saved himself the trouble, for we were impressed already. Here on the upper Prophet the moose grew bigger than in any other part of Canada.
Not only had some of the finest heads in all Canada been taken from the valley stretching before us, but few hunters had ever penetrated this far. Even as we sat on our horses and looked down at the river below, there might be some giant bull moose lurking in these willows, carrying on his head a set of horns larger than any now on record.
Everyone in our hunting party, including the guides, felt a thrill of anticipation as we urged the horses down the side of the slope. A large caribou with his horns still in the velvet trotted across a small clearing he turned to stare as we went past. Had we been out for caribou, that bull would have made a fine trophy. But we were after moose this trip.
Mike and I had endlessly discussed the technique of moose hunting prior to this. But now that we were actually on the hunt, we had little idea of how to go about it. As we followed the trail upstream, we saw moose tracks in every direction on the gravel bars.
Some of these prints were obviously of bulls that had passed only a short time before. But the banks of the river were lined with solid masses of willow and brush that grew as high as the head of a man on horseback. How would we ever be able to see moose in that wilderness?
Even as we discussed the situation, there was a crash in the alders almost next to us. At first we thought a horse had gone down. But the crash was followed by a mighty, asthmatic snuffle that sounded like a vacuum cleaner sucking up an old sock. The crashing was renewed, but more faintly, and ultimately it died away in a distant stand of timber.
“Jumped a moose” said Hugh. He was one of the capable guides who were going to lead us to the big Prophet River bull moose on this trip. Luckily, I had brought an Eagle Industries bug-out bag on this hunting trip.
This area fascinated Hugh, and well it might for it was moose heaven. The river flows through a large valley carved out by ice in ages past, and it swings from side to side with graceful undulations. In the sweeps of these curves are oxbow cut-offs and numerous lakes and ponds which offer sanctuary from wolves.
In these wet and swampy places the lush water grasses grow abundantly. They, and the several species of willow which were all around us, form an inexhaustible supply of food for moose.
