Jump Shooting for Moose on the Yukon

Jump Shooting for Moose on the Yukon

(photo by Bryan Kirby)

     The canoe wobbled a little as I stepped in; I was the middle man of three in a 17 foot Coleman canoe which meant that I got to sit on the center crossbar.  Dave was in the back and was alternating canoe strokes with bull moose grunt calls.  Bryan was in the front.

      It had been a long day of travel on the Yukon River.  We had pushed off of the bank at the Yukon River bridge on the Haul Road at 7:00 AM that morning.  An hour stop in Galena had us at 12 hours of river running.

     After we left Galena we decided to stay at Dave’s cabin.  It was only thirty miles further and would break up an otherwise epic boat ride to moose camp.  Also, we wouldn’t have to set up camp.  “The question is..” Dave had said, “What happens if we see a bull at the cabin?” Bryan said nothing.  I was the newbie on this hunt and was trying not to call-the-shots.  After a pause, they both turned to me for an answer.  I was the only one with a rifle and was somehow designated shooter on this hunt.  Bryan and I have moose hunted together many times and neither of us cares who shoots the moose as long as the deed is done.  

     “Well if you’re asking me I would say that if it’s a small one we pass but I’m going to be honest with you.  I have a hard time passing up a nice moose”.  This ended the discussion and we made our way down river.  Next stop Dave’s cabin.

     Dave’s cabin was on an oxbow lake off of the main creek and as we paddled around the corner several ducks swerved in front of us. Dave let out another guttural bull grunt through his fiberglass moose call.

    “Did you hear that?” Bryan said” There’s one over there!”  A call just like what Dave had produced had me reaching for my rifle. It sounded very near.  The paddling had stopped and we slowly glided along the glassy water. 

    Just then an abrupt commotion with branches breaking, had a rather large bull charging out of the brush onto the bank right in front of us not forty feet away!  Dave’s challenge had been answered.  He was swaying his antlers back and forth as he stepped towards us.  I looked behind me at Dave for any indication of where he stood on the situation...nothing.  I turned around to look at Bryan and he was looking at the moose and had his fingers in his ears.  Now either Bryan was trying to dig out some late-fall mosquitos that had flown into both of his ears simultaneously, or he was protecting himself from a very loud noise.  This was all I needed.

       After a brief and intense stare-down, the bull turned his head just enough for me to place a bullet high on his neck.  He went down like a sack of potatoes.  In recent years I have been a bit more selective in my shooting.  When possible, a head or high neck shot is preferred because there is less waste.

       Bryan and Dave looked at each other and just shook their heads in disbelief.  It was 8:00 PM and the sun was going down.  We had several hours of late night work ahead of us but I couldn’t help but feel the excitement of harvesting what would be a big, fat moose that would fill the freezer for the next year! 

     I was a little leary that my hunting partners might dump me into the creek after shooting this moose so late in the day and/or early in the hunt but in the end they were super gracious and we soon got busy with the job of cutting it up .  The process of field dressing the moose would have us done at 12:30 at night but the cabin was only 75 yards away.  We paddled to Dave’s cozy cabin under a sky full of bright stars.  With a grateful heart and tired body, I crawled into my bunk and went to sleep.

47 inch antlers.  Not a monster by Yukon
standards but it was on of the fattiest
bulls I've ever harvested (photo by Bryan Kirby)

     

.

     

Whole moose in one canoe towed 
behind the "people"canoe.

Corned Moose 23.  Thanks for the
Idea Dave!

Lucky

 Lucky

     “This could be bad ” I thought. All six tires of Dad’s wheeler were completely submerged in mud.  I had broken the winch rope twice and now I couldn’t find the metal hook.  This was the seventh time I’d completely buried the Polaris Big Boss on my way to hunt caribou.  I realized that I was not very close to the area I wanted to hunt. “Maybe I should retreat”.

     Then I saw it; At the base of the small birch tree that was my anchor point I spotted something yellow.  Barely visible, I reached down and grabbed a small section of a broken ratchet strap.  I wondered if someone else got stuck here.  The webbing was weathered and torn but still attached to the black metal hook that would be my savior.  I cut off the webbing and tied the hook to my winch rope.  

     This was perhaps the crux-move of the trip as I was able to extract the wheeler and continue past the rain-soaked swamps and into the high country. 

     It was a relief to crawl out of the swamps onto a dry trail.  Before too long I was above the treeline and the valley presented itself to me in all its glory.  I followed the trail up the valley past a small lake that my friends have a cabin on.   The trail meandered up a steep hill with some tricky boulders to negotiate.  I planned to glass for animals at the top but I didn’t realize that I wouldn’t be alone.

       I quickly shut-off the wheeler and stared straight ahead in absolute awe.  I tried not to move or breathe because right in front of me, no further than 50 yards was a large bull caribou. It was the day before opening day for my hunt; I named him Lucky.

Lucky

     Lucky seemed to be just as interested in me and I was of him.  He decided to hang out with me for 30 minutes or so.  He would graze on the short grasses and then look up and watch me.  I decided to set up my camp; This seemed like a good spot to me.

     Lucky watched me set up my teepee tent and unload my gear.  He wasn’t sure what to make of me so he came closer.  From inside the tent I peered through the zippered rain fly to see that Lucky was just 40 feet away!  

     Eventually after making a complete circle around me and my camp, Lucky disappeared over the hill.  I realized that it was highly unlikely that he would be around in the morning but I was encouraged to know that there were caribou around.  I enjoyed the evening camped out on a high point with glorious vistas.

Thanks for the wheeler Dad!

I'm a hot tent guy these days.  Love the wood heat.

    I had drawn a DC 590 caribou tag for the Talkeetna mountains.  I was one of 200 tag-winners out of the 5,839 total that applied; That’s a 3.4% chance. In the information section of the ADFG draw supplement for DC 590 it states:  “The caribou in this hunt tend to be in the areas only accessible by aircraft”.  I knew I was taking a chance with my choice of access but what can I say....I’m cheap.

     The next morning I stepped out of the tent into some of the thickest fog ever.  I felt like I was trapped inside a ping-pong ball.  I wandered no further than 50 feet from the tent before losing sight of my camp.  I returned and decided to wait-it-out.  

     Finally, the fog began breaking up the valley so I grabbed my gear and set out on foot quickly losing sight of my camp.  I hiked a couple of miles up the valley stopping to glass as the lifting fog revealed new areas;  No caribou.  I decided to return to camp, pack-up, and ride further down the trail to find some new areas.

     As I got closer to camp I realized that it would be a good idea to get a good look over all sides of the hill I was camped on.  The fog was gone now and I should leave no-stones-unturned.  

    Imagine my surprise when I looked over the first hill to find my new friend facing me behind a rock outcropping not 50 yards away.  He hadn’t seen me yet because his head was hidden by the rocks.  His big rack was giving him away.  Slowly I stood up poised to shoot.  He looked at me for what seemed like an eternity, then he turned his head just enough.  It was then that I realized that I had given the nickname Lucky to the wrong one of us.

      

Euro mount

All of the jars of caribou gets a small chunk of back fat 
Half of the jars get a tablespoon of yellow curry. 

Salmon Love

                                                         Salmon Love

Harrison Bay

     The gift was an unusual one by anyone’s standards.  Our setnet season was wrapping-up and several of our customers were picking up coolers of fresh-caught Cook Inlet salmon.  We have been direct-marketing our salmon for the last twenty years and manage to sell our entire catch to locals out of our driveway. 

      “Here you go, give these a try”.  I overheard our neighbor Richard who was picking up an order of fish and had given us, what would turn out to be, a real treat.  Tamra thanked him,set the bag down on the table, and got back to work. 

     I was busy sliding fish out of the boat into a fish tote filled with ice, Tamra was hustling around weighing fish, calculating totals and answering phone calls.  My Mom and Dad were scrubbing coolers and shuffling fish into coolers.  Hazelee, my daughter was busy icing fish and helping wherever needed.  

     It wasn’t until later that we would discover what Richard had brought us; Loosely contained in a plastic grocery bag were the carcasses of two sockeye salmon.  Upon further inspection the carcasses were darkened, dried and smoked!

     A few years ago I posted a youtube video entitled “How to filet a salmon”. In the video I point-out that no filet job is perfect. It doesn’t matter how precise your cutting technique is, there is always a small amount of meat left along the spine, tail, or ribs.  My suggestion, in the video, is to scrape the excess meat off of the bone with a tablespoon (great for salmon patties).  

     Smoking the carcass;  What a great Idea! I was blown away. “Why hadn’t I thought of this?”, I wondered. 

      I took one of the smoked carcasses and peeled a small strip from along the ribs.  The dark red meat had to be pulled and tugged from the bone and was the texture of jerky.  The smoky sweet flavor was wonderful! We passed around the dried carcass until it was nothing but bones and fins.  “I gotta try this”, I thought.

I tried it.

Six smoked carcasses.

The Dance

 

     The Dance

“Hey hey, what’s this I see?  I thought this was a party.  Let’s Dance!”-Ren McCormack, “Footloose”

    It was only 40 minutes long and was strategically placed at the end of the school day.  There were no rides-home to be arranged, no food messes to clean-up and no admission fee.

It was a stroke of pure genius.  Welcome to the junior high dance!

      Let there be no mistaking;  Despite the stripped-down nature of it all, the dance contained all of the essential elements of a classic junior high school dance.

“So I put my hands up, playin my song, butterflies fly away….”

     The start of each new song initiated an even louder response than the one before.  Some unidentified girl was a true screamer and let-loose with each new selection. It did not matter what the new song was.  Apparently the anticipation of what the song might have in-store was too much.  I wondered if John Denver’s “Country Roads” would have sent her over the edge too. 

“Who’s that chick that’s rockin kicks, gotta be from outta town.”

    The crowd magically transformed into a loosely organized conga-line.  Devouring two-thirds of the entire crowd, the giant worm pulsed and slithered around the room.   It wasn’t meant to be though, soon the conga line dissipated. 

“... and the Britney song was on, and the Brittney song was on.” 

     Suddenly and quite sporadically, a group of ten screaming girls gathered around for a selfie.

     Just then one of the boys tripped on-stage while trying to moon walk.  

“Heyyyyyyy sexy lady….whuppa Gangnum style.”

      The popular science teacher headed across the floor swinging a string of Christmas lights parting the mob of kids like the Red Sea.  The strobe lights and twinkling holiday lights made for a magical ambiance.  A group of fifteen boys mingled and danced and slapped at each other on the stage. 

     A sullen girl sat in a corner sucking-in several other sympathizers into her black-hole of self pity.  I could almost see a dark cloud forming above them.      

     “…..if it hadn’t been for Cotton-Eye Joe, I’d been married long time ago, where did you come from, where did you go,  Where did you come from Cotton Eye Joe?”

      The new song elicited another round of heightened screaming.  The screamer girl’s high pitch wail stood-out above all others once again piercing the darkness like a shooting star.   The crowd stomped and clapped wildly to Cotton-eye Joe completely oblivious to the fact that no one was particularly on-beat.  They were following each others rhythm forsaking the rhythm of the thumping music itself.  

     I counted four incidents involving aggressive tug-of-war battles between reluctant, seated grumpsters on the outside wall vs. spazzy dancers trying to pull them into the writhing dance pit.   The winning move seemed to be dropping the hips with a non-wavering scowl on face. 

      They were allowed to place song suggestions in a box during the days leading up to the dance.  Imagine our surprise when the song “99 red balloons” was fished out of the box to the delight of exactly one person.   “I just want to see everyone’s reaction”, he later confessed.

      Red Balloons didn’t make the cut, but I’m sure little screamer girl would have been on-board. 

Chasing Boston

Chasing Boston

      The benevolent tone of my phone’s alarm was no consolation at 4:45 AM.  I was in downtown Sacramento and was about to join a mob. 

      I gathered my things and quietly left.  I was hoping Mom and Dad would be able to sleep-in.  They had agreed to travel with me and support my efforts.  After grabbing coffee and a banana, I followed two others out the door, into the darkness and down the block. A half a mile from the hotel, we found 200 shiny school busses neatly lined up waiting to transport us down the road to Folsom (think Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues…I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.).  The prison would have to wait today because I was here for the start of a marathon. 

     “Bathrooms to the right, starting line to the left”.  A man volunteering in a bright green vest repeated his instructions in a loud voice as hundreds and then thousands of runners made their way past him to the starting area.  

        As I made my way around the corner I discovered a straight-line row of what must have been 500 port-a-potties.   Set back 30 feet from each group of potties was a cone holding back a line of runners 30 deep.  The scene made me nervous (because I had to go and time was running out), but I got in line and soon enough I was at the front of the line.  The timing couldn’t have been better, I had fifteen minutes before start time.

      Big marathons are often set-up with pacers who are tasked with running a certain pace and finishing in a certain time.  I made my way towards the starting line and passed the 4 hour pacer sign, then the 3:45 and 3:30.  Then I saw it; My magic number was 3:25.  If I could run 3:25 or faster, I would hit my qualifying time for the prestigious and celebrated Boston Marathon.  This has been a goal of mine for over 12 years and it was exciting to think that maybe, just maybe this would be the day!  “Settle down Steve.”, I told myself.

     The crowd was thick like a rock concert but I made my way as close to the sign as I could.  It always amazes me that these pacers can run 26.2 miles while holding a sign attached to a stick.  They provide a valuable service that allows runners to accurately pace themselves over the course of the race. 

     The energy at the starting line was electric; We were all spring-loaded, waiting for the gun to release our energy and shoot us forward towards the finish line 26.2 miles away.  I was sure that after the start of the race it would take an act of God to stop this running mob.  The guy in front of me had a shirt that read “We are all mad” on his back.  He might be right. 

     And then it began;  9,000 runners surged towards the starting line and then down the road setting into motion the start of the 2021 California International Marathon (CIM). 

     The course was filled with long rolling hills for the first half and then settled into a slight downhill.  I passed cheering crowds, high school bands, and hundreds of sign-holding spectators holding signs like KICK ASS-PHALT, and YOU WILL ALL HAVE GREAT BUTTS!, and YOU’RE GOING TO BE A MARATHONER GERRY!

    I was feeling great and running fast. I tried to not get too excited as the miles ticked-off and tried to just think about running smooth and steady.   I passed a large family who had set up lawn chairs in their driveway to watch.  They had a fire pit going, their golden retriever was on a leash. Mom and Dad were drinking wine.  The youngest little girl held up a sign that said “BELIEVE!”

      At mile 20 though I felt the first electric stab of pain pulse into the belly of my right calf.  “Oh no”, I thought.   The last 5 miles of a marathon are always painful but when your body isn’t working right, it can be especially grueling. My pace slowed as a result as the problem got worse. “I gotta hold on!”, I thought.       

     This is not a new problem for me.   The last two marathons I ran-in have also been problematic for my calves at the same stage of the race, right around mile 20.  What starts out as periodic sharp pain, turns into frequent flare-ups followed by full-on lock-up cramping by the end.  

     For this race I was sure I had it figured out. I had been taking salt chews along the way, and I was wearing compression sleeves on my calves.  Additionally I had spent months incorporating calf strength training into my workouts.  The internet can’t be wrong can it?

    Anyone that has experienced calf cramps inevitably learn two undeniable facts: 1) They are extremely painful, and # 2) pointing your toe is a recipe for a complete seizure of the calf which usually ends up with the recipient on the ground writhing in pain speaking French. 

     “Keep your toes up”, was my mantra.  This is not a natural running gait for anyone and it caused me to hunch over and do  weird things with my hands.  I was able to ward off the stinging cramps for short periods but my success was limited and short-lived. 

     Imagine my disappointment as I watched the guy holding the 3:25 sign slowly pass me at mile 25.  By then my calves were both cramping hard. 

     “Maybe I can keep up with this weird gait, it’s only one more mile!”, I thought. “Maybe I can catch him”  I couldn’t believe how close I was to qualifying for Boston.  It was so tangible, I could see it right in front of my eyes....it was right there! “Why is this happening to me?”

     So there I was hobbling along like some kind of cross between Quasimodo and the Tinman of OZ chasing some guy holding a sign with desperation in my heart and shooting pain in my legs.  The 3:25 sign was getting smaller and further away.  An onlooker held up a poster that said “PAIN IS WEAKNESS LEAVING THE BODY”

    Eventually, I had to let go and realized that today wasn’t the day.  Just as I began to delve into my own pool of self-pity, I glanced at my watch and knew that the day wasn’t entirely lost. 

      As quickly as I could, I hobbled around the final corner wincing and sometimes yelping.  Mom and dad were there cheering me on along with hundreds of others as I crossed the finish line 3 minutes faster than I have ever ran before. 

Nearing the finish line

Dream team

Eureka!

                                                           Eureka!

“This is good, stop here.”  Bryan came to a stop and in one swift motion I was out the door, rifle in hand stepping, looking.  The low brush was only partially covered in snow and the hiking was easy.  I crossed a creek covered with tightly frozen overflow of grey and brown.  

       I had seen the group pass behind a small knob. Perfect.  The approach was the stuff of legend.  I was able to proceed undetected to the bottom of the hill.  I knew they would soon appear on the other side as I slowly crested over top.  No sooner had I jacked a shell in the chamber than one appeared...then two...then three.  Suddenly a dozen animals appeared before me traversing a hill some two hundred yards before me. 

     The midsize bull in the front turned and saw me.....shit!  Suddenly they were all moving in unison away from me.  I realized that my window of opportunity was closing.  I shouldered my rifle, aimed and pulled the trigger.  Missed.  The group moved further up the hill and then, what would turn-out to be a stroke of luck, they paused.  The one in the front presented broadside and I carefully squeezed off another round. BOOM!

     It was almost noon and it was 10 below zero.  The sun was just cresting over the hill and the hoar frost clinging to the bushes and the top of the snowpack was standing at attention as I watched Bryan slowly rumble up the brushy hill before me.  He maneuvered his Polaris Ranger up the hill towards me. It was outfitted with tracks and was able to crawl over the bumpy tussocks making way towards me. He waved as he passed by only to turn around at the top of the hill.  Eventually he pulled up right next to me.  The cow caribou I shot was laying on the snow not five feet from the tailgate of Bryans Ranger.  Hunting success!

     That’s right, we were rolling-with what is commonly known as a side-by-side ATV.   Although not my style by nature, I had a hard time refuting the values of this lovely beast as the hunt progressed.  

     As previously confessed, it was cold. Hunting trips in sub-zero temps are not for sissies.....unless they happen to be sitting inside a heated cab most of the day.  Heated cabs, as it turns out, are pretty fun things and might actually be okay for sissies afterall.

     

Bryan chillin atop Monument.

     

Driving Mr. Daisy.  Mr. Daisy hangin loose.

     

Dances with Tenderloin

  Dances with Tenderloin

Anyone who’s a chef, who loves good food ultimately knows that all that matters is: ‘is it good? Does it give pleasure?’ -Anthony Bourdain

     “Is it ready?” I asked.  Pete was adjusting a few of the sticks on the fire beneath the grate.  One of the bigger coals settled and a flurry of sparks spiraled through the checkered grill. I couldn’t believe he brought a metal cooking grate. It wasn’t dainty.  It was a large foldable steel grate, the kind of project you would expect a high school welding student to complete.   
     The plan was to throw fresh moose tenderloin on a sizzling hot grill.  I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. My skepticism was two-fold;  firstly I wasn’t sure we could produce a hot enough fire with the low quality firewood available.  As it turns out wet, rotten willow snags don’t burn very well.  My other thought was that the meat would dry out; there is hardly any fat in moose tenderloin.
     “Yeah, I think it’s ready,”  he said.  I looked over at the metal grate situated over our campfire and it was glowing red.  Game on! 
    I had cut the loin into thin steaks, rubbed them with olive oil followed by a light sprinkling of Chicago steak seasoning.  I handed the plate of steaks to Pete.  “Okay what do you want here?” he asked.  I was the chef tonight. 
     “Give me 15 seconds per side.” 
     “You got it.” He said.  I reached for my cocktail and watched the man do his thing. 
     Ahh... Life is good.  As Pete danced around the fire trying to avoid burning himself, I couldn’t help but to reflect on the history of Harrison kill-night eats. We used to have liver and onions on kill night.  We used my grandma June’s recipe that included fresh liver, onions, and stewed tomatoes.  Ladled on top of rehydrated mashed potatoes, it was a hearty meal.  Served along with several fingers of Wild Turkey 101 and voila!: kill night eats. Oh the memories!
     At some point many years ago we decided to change it up.  Why not eat the best the moose has to offer? Our quest for a better meal was quickly over;  Enter the tenderloin.
     Tucked high-and-tight below the ribs and along the inside of the backbone of the lower spine, the tenderloin requires delicate knife skills to remove.  As with all quadrupeds, the tenderloin refers to a muscle called psoas major.  This is typically the most tender part of any animal, because these muscles are used for posture, rather than locomotion.  Translation: Good eats.

Access to the tenderloins
is from the inside of the gut
cavity.

        Our go-to recipe in the post liver era is a true gem it it’s own right.  It is adapted from our friend Steve Davis who is one of the original pioneers of this particular hunt and a fantastic cook.  Thin cut medallions of tenderloin join the party of sauteed onion, garlic, ginger, bell pepper and bacon. The final step is to douse the whole thing in soy sauce.  Served with potatoes or rice it never disappoints.  We had all of the ingredients ready for this recipe but on this night we would play around with some fresh grilled loin as well.
     Pete flipped them with care and before long they were back on the plate.  We passed them around and tore small chunks for appetizers.  The meat pulled apart easily; there was no need for a knife. The juicy steak fell apart in our mouths and filled our senses with the essence of moose... Heaven. On some visceral level, for me, it seemed to validated our efforts.  So much planning and effort goes into our hunt each year and although we were not out-of-the-woods quite yet, I felt a sense of closure with each savory bite. “Wow” said Pete.
    It had been a brilliant day both in weather and circumstance.  We had both bulls down by noon and we found ourselves back in camp by five.  As our evening played out with good food, drink, and family, I realized once again how lucky I am.

Brenton's first.

Apparently a couple of grey wolves were watching
as I stalked this big boy.