Only in the north
One gulli-bull moose
On a late September morning I set out to shoot a moose—with my camera. I knew my chances were slim; years of moose-hunting had prepared me for the probability that I would return home with nothing more than a few hours’ exercise. But, living in the Bulkley Valley, I also knew I could choose any direction on the compass and have a chance of seeing a moose.
I parked at the edge of a small cutblock near the Telkwa River and walked slowly, with my ears tuned to the sounds of the morning. I stopped every five or ten minutes to call, trying a variety of bull grunts and cow calls. After just 40 minutes I heard a moose grunt, perhaps 300 metres away. This was too good to be true.
I called back and started toward him, then stopped and listened. He was coming! I was unconcerned about the noise I made as I closed the distance between us; he knew I was there, thinking me a moose. I quickly set up the camera where there was a gap between the trees, the kind of channel I would look for if I were hunting with my rifle.
Then I saw his antlers move between some nearby trees. Grunting one last time, I ducked behind the camera to start shooting. I had my rifle as a safety measure, and it would have normally ended the encounter at about this moment but, from here on in, I was on new ground.
He continued to come, his low, two-note grunts sounding every few seconds. Then he was there! He stopped at the other end of the open corridor and I let loose…click, click, click.
He lifted his head and his eyes opened wide, not seeing what he expected. Then he stepped behind some trees and my picture-taking episode seemed over.
But I was thrilled at getting that close to a bull on my very first morning of trying for moose pictures. I assumed, now that he had seen me, he would trot away into the timber. I grunted again, hoping to keep him around a bit longer, and moved past the thick patch he was hiding behind.
There he was, waiting. I set the tripod down and reset the camera. Soon he trotted back the way he’d come. I shot a few more pictures at a distance when he stopped to my call one last time.
I went on to another cutblock, heard nothing in answer to my calls, then started back an hour later. I heard the long call of a cow moose, followed by another bull grunting in the area where I found my first one. I made my way toward him and set up the camera again. I tried calling but there was no response.
Suddenly, some bushes crashed in the surrounding timber. I swung the camera around in time to see another bull emerging to the edge of the clearing. The low two-note grunt began again.
I answered him and started shooting. He kept coming…I kept shooting. He stopped behind a willow bush lit up with brilliant yellow fall colours. He gave me shots facing straight at me, and even turned his head for a profile. He turned away, then trotted back to the timber.
As he neared the woods I gave my cow call again. He stopped short and came back a few paces, posing once again for an extended period of time. I tried again to grunt him closer, with no response. He turned and walked calmly back into the forest.
Later that morning I had my film in for processing. The antlers showed that the two bulls were indeed one. Bob McGouey, who processed my slides for me, joined me that afternoon to see if, by some wild stroke of luck, I could get my moose to come out again.
With dwindling daylight we approached the same site. I called and waited. A crash in the timber had us suddenly aware that something was coming. Apparently he was wary after having been fooled twice the day before. We waited, listening to the silence.
Some quiet grunts to our left spun our heads to see the bull staring at us from the road. We quickly adjusted our cameras and zoomed in. I relocated my camera so I could take pictures of Bob taking pictures.
Our moose stood there, head up, very aware of us. He turned away a few times, then looked back to us. I assumed he would walk away again rather than be fooled further. He showed no sign of responding to my coaxing calls.
Remembering the work done by Giselle Benoit, a researcher of moose communication in the parks of Quebec, I put my arms up to imitate antlers. Yes, I felt foolish, but what did I have to lose?
Rocking slowly side to side, I made my way to a small tree and raked it with a stick. I suddenly had his complete attention…and he started slowly walking toward us.
His grunting was nearly constant. He walked stiff-legged, rocking his head back and forth, answering my intimidation signal. It was just like the research video. With my arms still up as antlers, I rocked my way back to the camera to shoot the pictures of a lifetime.
The bull stopped and stared, to determine if he had scared me away, I assume, or maybe to measure how intimidating I was. I continued playing the game, returning to the tree to scrape my “antlers.”
Again he advanced slowly, rocking side to side and grunting. It seemed that once he began reacting to the visual stimulus of my “antlers,” he was oblivious to our scent on the road and our cameras.
He found a small willow at the edge of the road. He looked a bit goofy thrashing the little bush, then looked up again, seeming to ask, “Are you impressed now?”
As fascinating as this was, an element of danger started to come into play. I took my rifle off my back hoping that shouting and a warning shot might make him back off.
The bull made his way across the road, still walking stiffly. He thrashed an alder bush with his antlers, then disappeared into the trees.
A version of this story originally appeared in BC Outdoors.
By: Bob McGouey
22 February 2007