A Moose Hunt Story
Snowshoes from Chestnut Canoe Co. in New Brunswick, acquired in 1977. Photo courtesy of Les Oystryk.
Folks who hunt moose know what I mean when I say snowshoe moose hunting. I will relate a moose hunt I went on with my brother-in-law Marcel many years ago. He’s also called Martial, like my second name. Pronounced Merci-al, in the old Cree way, or like Marcel, white man style.
This particular hunt happened in the winter of 1980. As a matter of fact, it was New Year’s Eve and we were heading home after a successful moose hunt. We started our hunt from a cabin on McInnis Lake, Saskatchewan, Canada. There is nothing special about the cabin, except that it was a log cabin and we were accompanying Otto and Adolph who flew in to McInnis Lake to check their trap line.
On December 28, 1980, we got on a Beaver aircraft in Pelican Narrows with our food, rifles and sleeping bags. We headed for McInnis Lake, 128 kilometers straight north. McInnis Lake lies just 40 km from the Manitoba border and 50 kilometers south of Deep Bay on Reindeer Lake. There were four snowmobiles at the camp and we were to bring them all home for New Year’s. Things did not turn out the way we wanted, as you will see.
The weather was 40 below, frigidly and morbidly cold it was. Most old-timers will tell you not to travel when it is -40, but we had to get home for the New Year’s Day kissing of our loved ones. That is our custom, and -40 was not going to stop us.
The plane ride went smoothly. The trip is, as I mentioned, 128 kilometers. It took forty-five minutes with the De Havilland Beaver, which seats six with the pilot. We carried sixty gallons of gas in six ten gallon steel drums. With our rifles, blankets, grub and gas, the Beaver was carrying around 1500 lbs. It was just at the borderline for maximum weight. There were five of us including our pilot Larry Stevenson. The oldest guy in our hunting party was my brother-in-law Martial, who was 33. I was 28, and the youngest. The other two were in the middle and we felt confident in our manhood that day. All three other than me had grown up on the trap lines and were very experienced trappers and hunters. I was the novice.
John Martial Merasty at age 19 (top left), with his family.
So off we flew into the winter day. Darkness comes quick on December 28, just seven days after the shortest day of the year. We got there at two PM, unloaded and soon had a fire roaring on the wood stove. Otto and Adolf filled up the gas tanks on two snowmobiles and went for a ride on the lake. Early next morning they would check their traps and I would go moose hunting with Martial. We went to bed that night confident we would get some fur and moose meat.
Next morning we were up bright and early. One of the guys started a fire using birch bark and dry pine kindling. The smell of a new fire and its crackling sound was music to my ears. We ate porridge and bannock toast on lard, with tea. It’s a meal fit for a king.
It was still dark when Otto and Adolf got on their snow toboggans (or as we call them, ski-doos), and away they went. They took lunch with them and wouldn’t be back till dark. Dark was five PM. Martial and I cleaned the dishes, tidied up the cabin, and got ready to go hunting.
Tanned moose hide leather gun case with fringe. Photo courtesy of Northern Gateway Museum at Denare Beach.
Martial had a 30.30 rifle and carried it in a beautiful moose hide gun case. It was handmade with fringes on the outside to make it look impressive. I was impressed. In Indian circles if you wish for your neighbors goods you tell him how beautiful his gun case is. Under our custom he will laugh approvingly and he will give it to you as a gift. I bit my tongue and made no comment. I needed moose meat. My rifle was a .308 Remington bolt with a 4 shot detachable clip. I had a last minute rifle case made from discarded old blue jeans. Oh, well I thought it’s not the gun but the man behind the gun. It’s an old Cree saying. George Linklater used to say that with a twinkle in his eyes. That guy was always smiling.
We put on our snowshoes, our rifles, and a small packsack over our shoulders. We headed toward the Bucket Lake portage, which heads towards Manitoba. We broke trail, walked five miles up the trail, and saw two fresh moose trails a mile apart. Martial asked me, the greenhorn, which trail we should hunt. I said, let’s hunt the one closer to camp. I figured it would be easier to pack the moose meat if we killed a moose closer to camp. It didn’t matter to me if the other trail was fresher. Only Martial knew that, but he didn’t say anything. He said okay to my suggestion, and off we snowshoed into the afternoon sun.
Aerial photo of the winter landscape at the Whitesand Dam on the Reindeer River, about 30 km northeast of McInnis Lake. Photo courtesy of Les Oystryk.
It was cold. That day was at least -36 below zero. We were dressed in woolen pants with two piece cotton underwear. I wore wool stockings on my feet with leather-top boots. I had the store bought snow shoe harness tied securely to my boots. Martial wore moose hide moccasins with felt liners. We both wore canvas parkas, but he had a fur trim around his hood.
We had lunch around a campfire and we ate bannock with lard and drank tea. This is the menu that Indians call BLT. It’s good.
Around four o’clock, we decided we had lucked out for the day. We headed back to camp. We had found two spots where the moose had sat down and rested. It was too late to follow any more. I was glad when Martial said, let’s go back now. I said, okay. The trail home was packed down and frozen nicely, so we made good time. In forty-five minutes we were back at the cabin. It was nice and warm, as Otto and Adolf had gotten back earlier. There was store hamburger and rice cooking in the pot. No meal tasted better with bannock, lard, and tea added to the plate.
Tomorrow would be the 30th of December, and we had better be lucky as we would be heading home on December 31st. It was 90 miles, or 144 kilometers, to Pelican Narrows by snowmobile through the forest and rivers and lakes from McInnis Lake. It would take ten hours if we left by eight AM the morning of New Year’s Eve. We would be home before midnight for celebrations. The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, as you will find out.
Next morning Martial had the fire going early and we had another porridge and BLT breaky. Eggs freeze in the bush, and bacon freezes hard as ice. But oatmeal only needs hot water, sugar, and canned milk. We kept our milk from freezing. If it froze, we would open the can and put it on top of the stove until the milk melted and voila, instant warm milk. In the bush we drank our tea with sugar, but no milk.
Otto and Adolph left to check their traps, Martial and I cleaned up, and we were soon on the Bucket Lake trail. Martial told me he knew an old trail leading to a small lake where his late dad used to hunt moose. I said, let’s go there, and off we went. We took turns breaking trail when we turned off the portage.
Around eleven AM we got to the small lake, and it was blowing hard. We stopped and put on our parkas. We wore lighter winter wool hunting jackets, but we needed the extra parka to keep the -40 below from freezing our hides. We headed off across the lake and climbed up the bank into the trees. The trees offered us protection from the wind but we kept our parkas on. An hour later, we came across fresh moose tracks that were not frozen, even a little.
Moose tracks in snow. Photo courtesy of Bree Reza.
An old moose track freezes in the direction a moose is heading. The moose’s ankle compresses the snow ahead, but leaves no pressure behind it. An experienced hunter will know just by looking at the trail which way the moose is heading. Another method is touching the track with your hand or rifle butt. The snow will be frozen toward the front of the moose track and soft on the rear part of its track. Martial said, he’s heading up wind and I nodded. I was learning fast. A moose heads upwind when it is ready to bed down to chew its food of willow and tender birch branches.
A moose doesn’t eat hay or moss like a caribou. In the winter, all its food is everywhere on top of the snow. The willow tips are a favorite food and it breaks young birch saplings with its mouth and a swing of its massive neck. The branch does not break off and the moose eats the tender tips of the birch sapling. It is sweet to the taste, and must be tasty to the moose. Maybe that’s why moose meat is so tasty. Yummy! The willows it feeds on are not killed by the moose, and continue growing when spring arrives. The birch dies, but the moose is selective and only kills a few saplings each day. The moose serves a purpose as a steward of the forest, pruning and keeping the forest healthy.
We doubled back on our trail. In ten minutes, we headed off the trail for about a minute. We both saw the fresh moose tracks at the same time. Martial had loaded his 30.30 Winchester lever action, and had placed it back inside the safety of his moose hide gun case. Falling snow from tree branches can freeze the lever or firing pin of the gun, compromising your hunt.
He was ahead of me and told me not to load my gun until we had a clear shot at our moose. It is common sense not to have a loaded rifle barrel behind a fellow hunter, for safety reasons. I was hunting with an expert, and he wasn’t going to let himself get shot up in the bush 144 kilometers from home in -40 below weather.
Martial stopped, and pointed to a small rise a hundred meters away. There stood our moose, feeding on some willow branches. The moose hadn’t heard or smelled us. It was a thirty kilometer an hour wind blowing, and we were downwind.
Martial said, untie the flap on your gun case and load your rifle. I tried to hurry, and when I clicked a bullet into the rifle barrel, the moose heard it. He saw us, and took off fast.
Martial fired a shot, and as the moose ran about fifty meters in front of us, I fired my gun. I barely had time to aim, as it was running so fast. A moose can cover a lot of ground. In no time flat, it was back into the trees. Martial fired a second shot and then all went silent except for the wind. Did we hit it?
We went fifty meters, and immediately saw fresh blood. The greenhorn had made a lucky shot. Over the hill, a hundred meters farther, our moose was expiring. It was kicking its last, and we shook hands, as is customary in a good hunt.
It took us two hours to skin the moose. We covered the meat with the hide and fresh snow. We took the breast, heart, kidneys, some meat from the sirloin, and headed home. We had an axe, and we made a trail for the skidoo to follow to the moose kill. We had to hurry back before Mr. Wolverine or the wolves made short work of our hard work.
When we got back at five-thirty PM, the other guys were not back yet, so we made a fire and cooked the brisket in a big pot. We made a big pot of tea and waited for Otto and Adolph. Cree hunters and trappers are notorious for teasing each other. Teasing makes a hunter try harder, so he can have bragging rights. When the trappers got home, they pretended not to notice the meat boiling in the pot. We didn’t say a word, and finally Adolph asked his brother what kind of moose we had killed, and how far from camp. We all started laughing when Otto said the moose must have lost all its senses. That’s why we killed it. That broke the ice and we ate our meal and went later with two snowmobiles to get the meat.
Otto had a toboggan sled that was about 12 feet long with canvas covered sides. There was a steel hitch on the sled. We would use it to haul the meat. We also hooked on an empty plywood homemade sled with raised runners, which a partner could stand on.
Our trail had frozen and it was fairly easy to get to the moose kill site. We took only the dog sled up the hill and quickly loaded the meat. Back at camp, we off-loaded the meat from the dog sled and put half of the meat onto the plywood sled. We put snow between the ribs and hind and front quarters. Each man had their meat tagged, so that back home we wouldn’t have to worry about whose meat belonged to whom.
Map of travel route, 90 miles (144 kilometers) to Pelican Narrows by snowmobile through the forest, rivers, and lakes from Mclnnis Lake. Map made by Kristin Enns-Kavanagh. Base Map: Google Maps, 2020. Pelican Narrows and Area. Google Maps, Accessed 2 March 2020.
The next morning was December 31, 1980. New Year’s Eve had arrived and we were heading across McInnis Lake toward Butterfly creek and Butterfly Lake.
We had started the third ski-doo and had gassed up the day before. The fourth ski-doo would be mine to take home and I wasn’t looking forward to it. It belonged to my brother-in-law Gordon. Before Christmas, he had run out of gas and had left it out there on Butterfly Creek. Larry Stevenson had picked them up on December 18. We were to pick up the ski-doo and bring it home.
We hadn’t counted on such brutal weather, and our plans on getting home were going to be delayed. Gordon’s ski-doo quit running close to Gilbert Lake, and we had to leave it. The gas line kept freezing up. Being inexperienced, I didn’t know how to keep the line clear. We had no gas line anti-freeze and soon we were all experiencing frozen gas lines.
Whitesand Dam on the Reindeer River, March 2011. Photo courtesy of Les Oystryk.
Finally, at eight PM, we made Two Rivers, where we promptly got stuck in slush. They had opened the water at Whitesand Dam (on the Reindeer River) and it had traveled to Two Rivers. The company hadn’t counted on any trappers on the river after Christmas. It would be frozen soon after New Year’s, and then it would be like a highway. Little did they know!
Adolph blew a clutch. Now we were sixty miles from home with two good ski-doo’s and one with a blown clutch. Adolph removed the broken clutch out on the ice. We dragged the sled and broken ski-doo to dry ground. We had to recross the Reindeer River at night, with two feet of slush everywhere. Where could we cross safely?
With two ski-doo’s left, we crossed the Reindeer and headed back to Solomon Michel’s cabin. There we found an abandoned old ski-doo with a clutch which was a perfect match. Adolph removed the clutch from Solomon’s old ski-doo and we headed back across the Reindeer River.
So far, so good. We hit no fresh slush. We repaired the broken clutch, and by ten PM, we were on our way home. The home trail was easy to follow. We knew not to go out on the ice, but to follow the shore all the way to Atik Falls winter portage. We stopped there at midnight and shook hands.
We had used so much gas that we knew we didn’t have enough to get home on three ski-doo’s. It was -45 below and luckily (if I can say that) there was no wind. We would have frozen to death if there was a wind blowing. We were now three hours from home and one hour from the cabins at Manawan Lake. When we got to Manawan Lake we decided to save our lives and stay overnight in a cabin.
There were two dogs running loose, so we covered the sleds with dry logs to keep the meat safe. We made a huge bed on the floor and we all slept together to keep warm. Indian people know this as a survival method. We made a fire in the stove, but before the cabin could warm up we drank tea and bedded down. I slept on the inside and I was very warm. I don’t think I wrapped my arms around anyone as I drifted off to sleep.
Next morning we made a breakfast of porridge and BLT’s. Two hours later, we were in Pelican Narrows. We had missed the midnight celebrations, but I had experienced an adventure that would last me a lifetime.
Every New Year’s Eve, either Martial, Adolph, or Otto will remind me where we were on midnight January 1st, 1981. I get the chills just thinking about it.
John Martial Merasty with family, 1988. Photo courtesy of author.
Reference: On January 1, 1981:
John Martial Merasty was 28 years old. Married to Doris.
Martial Thomas McCallum was 33 years young. Married to Mary Ann.
Adolph (Chatsis) McCallum was 31 years young. Married to Susan.
Otto L. Morin was 30 years old. Married to Sylvia.
33 Years later: On January 1, 2014:
John Martial Merasty is 61 years old. Still with Doris 40 years.
Martial Thomas McCallum is 66 years young. With Mary Ann 44 years.
Adolph (Chatsis) McCallum is 64 years young. With Susan 45 years.
Otto L. Morin is 63 years old. Still with Sylvia 42 years.
Now we’re crippled, gray haired and old boned.
Can’t hunt except from a truck, John Wayne style.
But we still have beautiful young wives.
That’s all a man can ask for in life.
JOHN MARTIAL MERASTY is 68 years young. His stories are centered in Pelican Narrows, on the Saskatchewan, Sturgeon- Weir, Churchill, Athabasca River System trade route used by many early explorers.
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