Reconciling The Wolverine Trail
This year I decided that I would name it the Wolverine Trail. It is a trail that I know well. Although I have traveled it many times since my first moose hunt when I was only thirteen years old, I hadn't really given it much consideration or thought.
Each time it was the same; Push a cart to the back of the valley and then pack our rafts and all of our gear over the pass to the creek for a week long moose hunt. From the creek, the rafts are inflated and from then-on, the work is different, still hard, but different. Up until then though, everything is strapped on your back. Usually the pack over the pass takes three round trips each. It’s just over two miles to the creek. The hope has always been that all the effort will pay off when a moose is down and the raft is put to work instead of our backs.
This year I hunted alone. So with no one to blame but myself I arose before dawn on the morning of the third day. I was sixteen miles off of the road in a non-motorized hunting area when suddenly and quite unexpectedly, my trip changed in dramatic fashion.
The rain had pounded the tent all night which was consistent with all nights previous, and when finally there was a lull in the downpour, I pulled on my clothes and outer gear. Who wants to start their day in the rain? Just as I unzipped the tent the rain began again. Great.
I didn’t know the exact time of day but it was very early and the beginnings of the day’s light had yet to light up the sky. Having just emerged from my tent, I stood there for a moment to get my bearings. I saw the cook stove sitting there. Where’s my coffee?, I wondered. Maybe I should put on my boots first, I thought. Oh look there’s a big bull moose standing there looking at me....huh?
There, not forty feet away on a nearby rise was a rather large moose looking at me. Okay.
Holy shit, what is a moose doing way up here? I was camped in the high alpine country. Moose tend to hang-out in good browse areas thick with willow bushes and swampy lowlands.
There wasn't any of that in the pass, just high tundra. In fact, the night before I watched a herd of forty caribou move over a nearby ridge. It wasn't surprising to see caribou here, it’s their habitat, but not moose.
Maybe like myself, it was just passing through. Maybe it heard me snap the wooden timbers of my cart for the fire the night before and wanted to check it out. It was nearing the rut. Bulls get very curious and aggressive during the rut. Many hunters call them in-close with sounds of another challenging bull. Sometimes knocking sounds such as chopping wood will bring them in.
Maybe the moose was crossing the pass and had been hunkering down in the driving rain just as I was and when the rain subsided, he arose, started his day and happened upon my doorstep.
I was no where near the creek where the weight of the moose could be offset at least somewhat by the flotation of the raft. Two miles to the creek would represent the longest moose pack-out I've ever heard of. Certainly the longest I've ever done. The longest one for me was maybe a mile but the burden was shared among others.
It was easy to stay calm because I was barely awake. I bypassed the coffee, cook stove, boots, and everything else making a nonchalant B-line to my rifle. I pulled it out of it’s cover, chambered a cartridge and turned to face my new neighbor.
During my fumblings he had retreated thirty feet but after I turned back towards him with something new in my hands his temperament changed.
He turned back, walking directly at me swaying his big rack back and forth. Holy shit he’s challenging me to a dual! In the confusion of his hormone fueled rut he was looking for a scrap with me. What a bully! Maybe I should have taken it as a compliment that such a beast would consider me a worthy fight but since my antlers were many brow-tines shy of a decent match-up, I took the other road. I slid the safety from safe to fire and dropped him on the rise not fifty feet from the tent.
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| The creek in the valley yonder is where the floating begins. |
Although this last paragraph would be a tidy ending to the story, for me it was just the beginning. Since this wasn't my first rodeo, I knew that as the excitement of the moment passed that I was in-store for a real bitch of a pack out. In some strange back-corner of my mind though I was okay with it. Not only do I enjoy the challenge, but I also have learned to embrace the suffering that is inevitable with such things. The rewards of gratification later-on far outweigh the self-doubt of passing it up.
With the moose on the ground I began the process of field dressing in the wee morning hours in the driving rain. I finished mid-day and knew that I had to get my camp and all of the meat away from the kill-site.
In my first load, I filled my backpack with an assortment of gear along with a 60 pound bag of back-strap and neck meat. I put the game bag inside a garbage bag so it wouldn’t bloody my backpack and took off down the old Cat trail. Also, I grabbed one of my oars to use as a walking pole.
The pack was heavy and I had to find strategic sit-down spots occasionally to recover. These hand-picked rest spots had an elevated seat and allowed me to stand back up without too much effort.
At one such spot, halfway down the trail I looked up and was surprised to see a wolverine running down the trail towards me. He had just crested a small hill in the trail and was thirty feet away from me when we both noticed each other. He slammed on the brakes in dramatic fashion. I immediately stood up and did the only thing I could think of; I raised my oar into the air to make myself appear bigger. I had to do something after all I did had fresh bloody meat on my back, still warm and my rifle was sitting idol, back at camp.
Luckily, contrary to popular folklore the wolverine was just as scared as I was. He paused to check me out, then turned on his furry heels running back over the hill from whence he came. He left the trail, diving over the edge of the embankment. He paused to stand on his hind legs to check me out again. Maybe he smelled the fresh moose on me. Maybe he was just curious. When his head lowered below the bushes he was gone from me and after all was done I was grateful for the encounter.
Over the course of the next two and a half days I would become re-acquainted intimately-so with my newly named Wolverine trail.
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| Bags of meat waiting their turn for a piggy-back ride. |
Originally cut-in as a mining prospect in the late seventies, the dozer’s markings have since overgrown and inter-weaved with local game trails. It is an elegant trail affording brilliant views of the high alpine tundra. It represents a passageway between two distinct biomes; high alpine tundra and lush willow lowlands. At it’s end it morphs into a tidy game trail as if it were planned.
I relocated my camp very near this end spot. I wanted to get my camp away from the irresistible lure of the gut-pile and it turned out to be a good midway spot to shuttle loads of meat in and out of.
With the last load of meat and antlers loaded onto my back I set out one last time down the Wolverine trail saying goodbye to each landmark as I passed it.
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| Wolverine trail near its namesake. |
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| Tenderloin medallions, bacon, onions, jalapenos, olive oil, garlic, and one succulent habanero pepper... yeah! |
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| Sadness of the last beer. |
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| Happiness of one special bottle. |
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| Repairing my hooves. |
