This story, “Holiday Moose Hunt,” appeared in the December 1965 issue of Outdoor Life.
CLOUDS OF POWDERY SNOW gusted around the multicolored Christmas lights decorating the homes in Fort Williams, Ontario, as we drove through the predawn darkness. Winter had slapped an arctic blast on the area, piling the drifts knee-deep along the streets and sending the thermometer chattering to 29 below.
It had taken a cooperative cab driver and a set of battery jumper cables to get our car going again after it had sat out all night next to the Royal Edward Hotel. But now it purred steadily, the heater and defroster wide open, as the headlights shone on the Route 17 sign and a black-and-white distance marker reading, Atikokan — 127. That was our target, a remote iron-mining village on the edge of a vast wilderness reported to contain one of the heaviest concentrations of moose in North America.
The glow from the dashboard light played on the faces of my wife, Lil, and 16-year-old daughter, Barbara. I wondered what lay ahead. This spur-of-the-moment trip had brought us 650 miles from Illinois, and for a fleeting second I had a feeling of apprehension that perhaps I shouldn’t have brought them into this harsh country in the dead of winter.
A few weeks earlier we’d been sitting in our living room going over some Canadian travel folders and dreaming of next summer’s fishing. While thumbing idly through the Ontario fish-and-game laws, I noted that the 1964 moose season there ran for three months, from October 1 to January 3.
“Let’s go up!” Barb yelped. “I’ll be out of school on Christmas vacation, and I’ve never gone on a big-game hunt.”
We laughed, but the more we kicked the idea around the more sense it made. Barb’s a tall, leggy junior at Plainfield, Illinois, High School, and her chief academic interests center around music, which she hopes to study in college. But sometimes she prefers music in the form of the whisper of mallard wings in the early dawn or the roaring cackle of a ringneck rooster climbing out of a wild-grape tangle. During the previous two seasons, she had scored on ducks, pheasants, and rabbits, but she had never followed big-game trails. When the Midwest deer seasons were in full swing, she was in school and could never get away for a week in the timber. But a Christmas-vacation moose hunt? Why not?
The problem was to find out if there were any hunting camps open and, if so, what the possibility was of bagging a bull in the bitter weather of midwinter.
Two years before, we had met lean, light-haired Eddie Kaluza, the 48-year-old owner of Eddie’s Island Camp on Sandford Lake, 35 air miles north of Atikokan. Eddie had been in Chicago on business at that time, and we had swapped yarns about lake-trout and walleye angling in northwest Ontario. But Eddie had also mentioned moose, lots of them, and had said there was little hunting pressure. Now I wondered if that woods-wise bachelor would consider taking a trio of city folk in for moose, especially if two of them were female.
I phoned him at Atikokan, and he accepted the idea with enthusiasm. “Come on in,” he said. “There are moose all over the place. We haven’t had any hunters since the freeze-up in November, and some of the bulls are dying of loneliness.”
We sealed the bargain on the spot. I was to drive to Crystal Lodge Airways just east of Atikokan, from where bush pilot Earl Thurier would fly us to the camp. Eddie said he had a plane, too, but added that Thurier’s was bigger and would be able to handle all three of us and our duffel in one trip.
The days of the Christmas season skipped past as if they were hours. Late in the afternoon on Christmas Day, we were stuffing boots, parkas, mittens, wool shirts, guns, and ammunition into the car trunk. We turned off the Christmas-tree lights and began the drive out of the Chicago suburbs, up Interstate Highway 90 to Madison, and northward to Duluth and Fort William.
Day was breaking and the snow was thinning as we swung off Route 17 and onto Highway 11, which runs directly to Atikokan. An hour later we turned into the Crystal Lodge Airways base. A cold, yellow sun peered over the rim of pines in the southeast and glinted on two red-and-silver bush planes that stood frosty and silent on the lake ice.
The door of the two-story lodge cracked open, and Earl Thurier poked his rugged, grinning face into the bitter air. “Come in before you freeze to death,” he yelled. We piled out of the car, grabbed our bags, and scooted up the steps. Earl’s family was just finishing breakfast. While his wife Mary was clearing away the dishes, Earl and his sons, Gerald, Ed, and Loren, began pulling on their boots.
“We’ll get rolling just as soon as I get the ship warmed up,” Earl said. “Eddie’s out at the camp, and he’s got one of the top guides — Floyd Kielczewski — for you. Floyd’s been out several days checking on moose. Plenty around. You shouldn’t have any trouble scoring.”
The forest flattened gradually below and became a vast map of green on white. Countless ice-bound lakes lay covered by 18 inches of snow, and occasional moose, deer, or wolf trails wound from one patch of forest to another.
We digested this encouraging news while we fumbled out of our city duds and into insulated underwear, canvas pants, wool socks, felt boots, and parkas. By the time we were dressed, Earl had the plane roaring and most of our gear loaded. Barb hopped into the copilot’s seat, and Lil and I climbed into the back next to the duffel. With a wave to his boys, Earl opened the throttle, broke the skis loose, and we shot down the crusted runway and into the air.
The forest flattened gradually below and became a vast map of green on white. Countless ice-bound lakes lay covered by 18 inches of snow, and occasional moose, deer, or wolf trails wound from one patch of forest to another. Fifteen miles out, we spotted two cow moose moving slowly across a small bay. At the sound of the plane they glanced up, tossed their heads, and trotted into the timber. A short distance farther, we saw a young bull standing in a frozen marsh, the sunlight glistening on his sleek, black coat.
“Look at the size of him,” Barbara gasped, her nose pressed against the plane window.
“Much bigger ones out there,” Earl said, grinning at her excitement.
The bull had barely faded behind us when the pilot cut the power, dropped the flaps, and brought us in on the snowpacked runway that led across the frozen surface of Sandford Lake to the dock at Eddie’s camp. When we were opposite the cluster of log cabins, Earl switched off the ignition, and four smiling faces appeared under the wing.
“Welcome to camp,” Eddie Kaluza said, sticking out a big paw as I slid out of the plane. Introductions were made on the move as we carried our equipment into a lakeside lodge, where a fire crackled in an iron stove. We met guide Floyd Kielczewski, who had come in from his winter trapline just for this last-of-the-season hunt. Floyd’s 32 and tough as a hickory ax handle. He lives with his wife in the tiny village of Crilly (population 22), on Canadian National Railway line between Atikokan and Fort Frances. In the spring and summer, he guides fishing parties in the Namakan Lake-Rainy Lake area, and in the fall he squires deer and moose hunters into the bush north of the railway. His winter trapline extends from Crilly into the lakes, rivers, and marshes of the moose country. Floyd had brought along his 12-year-old brother, Billy, and Billy’s friend, Gert Ehlebe, 11, from Atikokan. The boys were spending this part of their Christmas vacation at the camp doing odd jobs and hauling firewood. Eddie’s husky Prince stood aloof, accepting us with reserved courtesy.
Eddie looked out a frosty window and said, “There’s a good wind blowing and time to get in some hunting today. Want to go out with Floyd and scare up a moose?”
“That’s what we came for,” said Barb, zipping open the case on her .270 Winchester Model 70. “Think this will do the job?”
“Some people say the .270 is too light for moose,” Eddie told her. “But I’ve killed several of them with one. Can you shoot straight?”
“Well, I can hit a target at 150 yards,” Barb answered.
“I’ll back her with this,” I promised, pulling out my 12 gauge Remington slug gun.
Eddie grunted. “You figure to use that?”
“It does a solid job on deer,” I said, “and that big slug ought to be heavy enough to anchor a moose.”
I prefer the .270 for big game up to the size of moose, but on this trip I decided to let Barb use the rifle while I concentrated on downing a bull with the shotgun. A check with the Ontario Department of Lands and Forests assured me that the shotgun slug was legal for all big game.
Floyd picked up an empty quart-size oil can and said, “Let’s see you hit this, Barb.”
Related: The Top Moose Cartridges and Bullets
We trooped outside and he put the can on the snow 75 paces away. I held as steady as I could, sort of “wished” the shot in, and squeezed the trigger. The can flew backward three feet, a big hole ripped through both sides. I was smart enough to quit while I was ahead, and while the effect of the shot was still fresh I handed the gun to Eddie and suggested he try a shot. Eddie slammed the can on the first try, and Floyd almost tore it in half with another shot.
“That thing shoots all right,” Eddie said, looking at the shotgun with new respect. “Let’s get some lunch, and then you can head for the bush.”
Just then Barb came out of the cabin in her hunting outfit, and the two men doubled up with laughter. “What have you got on your head?” Floyd howled, pointing at her long, blue-and-white knit cap with a fluffy, white tassel.
“That,” Barb said indignantly, “is my ski cap. It keeps my ears warm, and don’t you dare make fun of it.”
Floyd and Eddie shook their heads and started up the path toward the cabin. Though they were well-versed in the ways of moose, deer, bears, and bobcats, it was obvious that trying to understand a teenaged female was out of their element. Floyd swore it was the first time he had guided a hunter who wore two feet of knit headgear.
To get into moose territory over deep snow, Eddie used a pair of ski-equipped power sleds that had been welded together side by side and hitched to a ski-rigged wooden cart. Controls were extended so that the driver could sit in the cart. The homemade rig was powerful enough to move a couple of moose.
After lunch we warmed the engines and loaded up. Lil, who loves any kind of fishing but has only a fleeting interest in hunting, took some ice-fishing tackle and headed for a canvas shanty that Eddie had erected on the ice 200 yards from shore. Floyd, Barb, and I hopped on the power sled and aimed for Little Gull Lake, where the guide had spotted two cows and a bull earlier.
The sun was in the 2 p.m. position when we pulled up near a timbered point in a small pothole just off Little Gull Lake.
“We go on foot from here,” Floyd announced, checking the cloud movement for wind direction. “We’re about a mile downwind from where I think the moose are. We should be able to move in on them if the wind stays up. From now on, we don’t talk. I’ll indicate what to do by hand signals. Any kind of sound — voice, sneeze, cough — will spook them clear out of the country.”
Since we had four days to hunt, I decided to leave the shotgun in the sled so that I could handle both the black-and-white and color cameras in case we lucked onto a moose and Barb got a shot. Floyd had his Model 1903 .30/06 Springfield in case Barb needed backing. Single file, we broke trail through the heavy snow along the lakeshore to a small bay, where we swung into the thick jack-pine forest.
Floyd edged along slowly, moving a dozen steps or so and then stopping to watch and listen intently. The wind sighed in the treetops and shook loose cascades of snow that came showering· down around us. The forest floor was marked with odd shapes where the snow lay over stumps, rocks, and wind falls. About 200 yards from the lake, we hit a set of moose tracks that were apparently only an hour or so old. The tracks angled toward an opening in the trees ahead. We tensed as Floyd added more caution to his already careful movements.
The tracks ran up a ridge that curved back toward the lake. Floyd stopped, shook his head, and indicated silently that the wind would carry our scent to the moose. Quietly, we backtracked to the lakeshore and moved along it to a point directly downwind from the ridge. Plunging into the forest again, we worked toward the top of the slope. At the crest, we eased into a clearing where there was good visibility for 200 yards. Nothing was stirring except a raven that sailed into a thicket below.
Floyd was puzzled. He had expected the moose to be somewhere in view. We moved slowly across the ridge and picked up the tracks again. They looped around and doubled back, passing less than 30 yards from our original trail, and headed upwind toward a small valley. We plodded through the deep snow, often falling over buried obstacles and stopping periodically to get our breath. Two more sets of tracks joined the original trail, and all three headed into the valley.
The sun had disappeared below the timber, and the air was getting sharp. The puffs of clouds were changing to long, hazy strings that promised more snow. The woods were growing dark, and I was beginning to wonder if it was time to head back when Floyd raised a hand and cocked his head to one side. Somewhere ahead there was a rustle of branches that was out of tune with the normal motion of the trees in the wind. We stood motionless, listening and watching, for perhaps five minutes.
All three of us saw the antlers at the same time. The dim, grayish-brown shapes moved erratically as the bull raised and lowered his head. In the gathering darkness, it was hard to tell which way he was facing. His body was partly obscured by a cedar sapling which he had apparently pushed over to feed on.
Floyd motioned Barbara to a spot where visibility was clearer and indicated that she was to look through the scope. Barb slipped off her mittens, raised the rifle, took a look, and lowered the gun.
All three of us saw the antlers at the same time. The dim, grayish-brown shapes moved erratically as the bull raised and lowered his head. In the gathering darkness, it was hard to tell which way he was facing.
“All I can see is a big, black body,” she whispered, her hands trembling a little as she stared at the swaying rack.
“Aim about two feet below and a little to the right of the antlers and let him have it,” Floyd whispered back. I got busy with the camera, but in the gloom it was impossible to get Barb, Floyd, and the moose together.
Barb put the rifle to her shoulder and slid her thumb up the stock to the safety. Floyd and I watched her intently while trying to keep an eye on the moose at the same time. Though she had taken her share of small game, this was her moment of truth in the big leagues, and we had no idea what emotional effect the moose would have on her.
More than one grown man has turned pale, got the shakes, fired into the air, or become frozen to the trigger at the sight of a bull moose. Barb was flushed and excited, but she stayed cool, took a deep breath, let out half of it, and squeezed the trigger.
The .270 roared, jerking her head with the recoil, and there was a crash of underbrush as the bull pitched forward into the cedar and out of sight.
“I got him!” Barb yelled. “I got the moo—” But the last word stuck in her throat when the bull lurched to his feet and began moving away. He was broadside to us now, and we had a clearer view. He was black and huge. Barb’s second shot plowed into his rib cage, spattering the snow with red. He skidded to his knees but got up again.
Barb was stunned. “Give him another!” I yelled hoarsely. She worked the bolt but never got the shot off. The moose banged into a couple of saplings, and Floyd let go with his .30/06, finishing him with a shot through the neck.
We moved up on the animal with rifles ready, but the bull was done. Barb’s eyes grew as big as baseballs as she gazed at the trophy.
“Holy cow, it’s so big!”
“Nice moose — 900 to 1,000 pounds,” Floyd said, and he bent over to bleed the animal. Barb grabbed an antler and tried to lift the head out of the snow.
“Is that where I hit him?” she asked, pointing to the hole in the rib cage.
“That’s where the second shot went,” I said. “Where’d the first shot go?”
Floyd was inspecting the carcass.
“The first one took him high on the back leg,” he told her, “and went the length of the body. Any one of the shots would have killed him. I put that last one in just to make sure. Couldn’t tell from back there just how hard he was hit.”
The sky was growing darker by the minute, and small flakes of snow were drifting down. Floyd worked fast with his knife, opening the body cavity and pulling out the entrails. Then he separated the heart and liver and impaled them on branches so that we could carry them easier.
“We’ll prop him on his knees,” he said, “so that he’ll cool properly and the birds won’t mess up the meat. Eddie and the boys can come in tomorrow and haul him out.”
The body cavity was spread open with sticks, and we tugged the moose onto his knees. That done, we wiped the blood from our hands and picked up the rifles and the heart and liver. As we started plodding through the snow back to the lake, several ravens appeared out of the forest and, with guttural croaks, dropped in to feast on the offal.
Supper that night at the lodge was a delicious feast of buttered potatoes, green beans, and fresh, golden-brown lake-trout fillets by courtesy of Lil, who had taken the trout through the ice on a small, silver plug.
During the meal, Eddie filled us in on the history of the area. Atikokan had come into existence a little over 15 years ago when a road was dynamited and bulldozed through the wilderness from Fort William to reach the rich iron deposits in the bed of Steep Rock Lake. The road made accessible a vast piece of fishing and hunting territory that formerly was touched only by fly-in parties from Fort William or Fort Frances.
But there was no rush of sportsmen to the area. The road dead-ended at Atikokan, offered no access from the west or south, and was considerably out of the way for Americans coming in from the east by the roundabout route from Duluth to Fort William. However, recognizing the recreational values as well as the importance of mining activities in the area, the Canadian government began extending the road westward to Fort Frances. The work was completed last summer, and the road now provides a shorter, more direct route for fishermen and hunters from the Midwest.
Though local hunters work close to the highway for deer and moose, the best moose territory lies 20 to 40 miles north of the road. There are a couple of rough forest trails into the area that can be used by four-wheel-drive vehicles, but up to now most hunters have gone in by outboard boat, canoe, bush plane, or powered snow sled. There are half a dozen resorts scattered over the area, and canoe outfitters and floatplane service are available. The Atikokan Chamber of Commerce is a good source of information on hunting and fishing facilities.
Eddie told us that though the new road will make the area more accessible to sportsmen, there is little danger to the fish and game populations. To the south is 2,000-square-mile Quetico Provincial Park, and to the north and west is a 1,400-square-mile wilderness area within which no resorts or permanent establishments can be built. Eddie’s camp is on the edge of the latter area.
He takes care of eight to twelve anglers a week during the spring and summer, and parties of four to eight moose hunters in the fall. The November freeze-up makes it impossible to get hunters into the area by boat, Eddie and Earl Thurier are promoting the idea of using powered sleds for late-winter shooting.
After supper, we verbally rehunted Barb’s bull and rehashed some other moose hunts of past years. Lil told about catching trout in the dark ice shanty and the fun of watching the silvery fish dart for the lure she was jigging in the clear water below.
“Looks like you’re the only one who didn’t get anything today,” piped Floyd’s little brother Billy, as he grinned at me
“I’ll get my moose tomorrow,” I answered. But I hadn’t figured on the weather.
In the morning, a wet blizzard raged in from the southwest. The air was warm, but visibility was cut to 400 yards. Though going out in a blizzard was a little risky, Floyd and I loaded our gear, including a pack of emergency supplies, and headed for White Otter Lake. He and Eddie had spotted a herd of seven moose there a few days before, and one of them was a bull which had what they figured was a near-record rack.
We didn’t make it to White Otter. Two miles from camp, the sled ground to a halt. The heavy snow had pressed down on the lake ice, forcing up water and forming half a foot of slush. The machine plowed into it and stalled. Floyd cut a sapling and used it as a lever to 1·aise the machine while I cleaned the slush off the tracks, but it was no go. We stalled every 200 feet. After two hours of futile effort, we gave up and went back to camp. The next day, the snow and slush were so bad it was difficult even to walk anywhere, except on the packed plane runway.
Eddie felt bad about the situation and said he had never seen winter conditions like these. (A check with Canadian government officials affirmed that 1964 was indeed an unusual winter and that during a normal season snow-sled travel on the lakes is usually easy.)
The snow began to lift about noon on our last day, but there was no time left to hunt. Earl Thurier flew in, and the afternoon was spent cutting up Barb’s moose and loading it and our gear into Earl’s plane. Another snow squall was on the horizon when Lil and Barb climbed into Eddie’s plane for the trip out.
Earl took me for a short flight over White Otter so that I could see the territory Floyd and I would have hunted. In an eight-mile radius from camp, we saw 35 moose, including an immense bull that rose out of his bed, shook his antlers at us, and trotted regally into the forest.
At the Crystal Lake base, we said goodbye to Eddie and Earl, packed our duffel, and put two frozen hindquarters of moose in the car trunk.
Read Next: Rabbit Hunting with My Boys Every Day of Christmas Break
Though our trip had been hurried, we found that midwinter moose hunting has some advantages. It’s easier to locate and bag a moose with good tracking snow on the ground, there’s little chance of losing a wounded animal, and the meat from the trophy keeps in excellent condition. Furthermore, we didn’t see another hunter the whole trip.
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” Barb said as we turned onto the road to Fort William. “Let’s make a resolution to come back next year and stay at least a week so that dad can get his moose too.”
The Best Deals on Outdoor Gear Gifts
