Wednesday I spent much of the day hunting moose and/or mushrooms and hauling firewood to the cabin from the Blow Down. When evening came, I plopped down on the couch with the laptop for some less srenuous work while dinner heated and I waited for Michelle to come home.
As I’d hunted that day, I began to doubt my methods. I usually hunt on the peninsula only. I dream of bagging a moose within hiking distance of the cabin. I don’t want to drive up river and try to stalk a moose on unfamiliar land. If I could have my way, a legal bull would come to the property, where I could shoot it close to home, tools, hot water, and other luxuries.
I began to consider how few moose I’d seen during the annual hunt (see Moose Hunt News Flash: I Actually Saw One!). Sightings become so rare each year during the hunt that I began to think that I delude myself thinking a moose might be bagged on our peninsula within the time period.
I rose from the couch to check on something, glanced out the window, and found a moose.
Makin’ tracks! Our guesthouse path ripped up by moose (Photo: Mark A. Zeiger).
