Five thirty PM, October 30, 2014, I quickly finished dinner. I laced up my boots, grabbed my coat, my 20 gauge, single shot brush gun, some #8 birdshot for my left pocket and two slugs for my right. Delilah watched me intently with her beady little brown eyes and ears on full alert like a Labrador ready to go get some ducks. Every little move I made, Delilah studied intently. She was bound and determined to not let me get out the door without including her in my plans.
I stuffed a flashlight in my back pocket as it was almost dark and the wind was beginning to howl. I told Annette that I was going to Wood Lake to flip the boats for winter and she said "Now?!"
I confirmed that and told her that cold weather was coming in and I just couldn't find time to get down there during the day. So with what little daylight I had left, I put on my coat, grabbed my gun and at the bottom of the stairs, Delilah looked up at me with great anticipation. I didn't see that eight pound dog sneak by me. I found her little dog coat, put it on her and opened the door to a full-blown blizzard.
I couldn't believe how much snow had come down in a half hour, but it's not unusual for this time of year. There was a half inch of snow on the windshield and hood of the truck. I picked up Delilah and put her in the cab. She was shivering as I started up the truck. The diesel engine came to life with a rumble and while it warmed up, I checked to make sure that I have all the Wood Lake boat keys, my bird shells, Delilah's leash and my defensive rounds, the slugs. Ever since I began hunting small game in October, I've almost always carried a slug round with me. It's probably illegal but I have no intention of ever using them for anything illegal. In a worse case scenario, I would use them to save my butt when the chips are down.
October is the moose rut. That is the time when bull moose like to assert themselves as king of the woods. They have their full antlers and are driven by the call of mating season. This is the time when the strong dominate and show off to chase all the other bull moose away from "their" territory. They demonstrate their prowess and strength by pummeling, pounding, kicking, biting, and stomping on anyone who is considered a threat to them and their "woman". Unfortunately, they think humans, trains, and cars are a threat to their women. We are talking about totally nuts and the size of an angry battering ram.
One time, my brother Bernie and I were in the car heading towards Ely with Big Grandma. (she was my dad's mom and bigger in size than my mom's mom. It stuck forever.) Big Gramdma had a souped-up game warden car with three on the tree, double belts on everything under the hood, a big engine, and about 12 neatly drilled holes in the steel dashboard where the control switches once were mounted. The labels were still there. There were on-off switches that shut off the tail lights, the head lights, the brake lights, etc. and those that turned on the siren, the flood lights, grill lights, etc. None of those were there anymore but the red plastic labels conjured a youngin's imagination about wild car chases in the night, hiding in the woods and adrenalin pumping moments with wounded bears attacking and angry men with guns wanting a showdown on a narrow, overgrown road in the middle of nowhere. It was good stuff and Big Grandma owned it in full.
We were barreling down the Fernberg in Big Grandma's blue ex-game warden Ford approaching Camp Four Creek which is at the base of the hill and just on the Ely side of Wood Lake Portage. It was mid-October and when Big Grandma drove, she had this nervous grip on the wheel and used to alternately tap her thumbs. It was a twitch of sorts and it always made me a little nervous. Back then, we didn't have airbags and the seat belts were nowhere to be found and probably stuck in the crack of the bench seats down with the gravel, dust bunnies, assorted coins and probably some bullets and old, dried-up ballpoint pens. When Big Grandma was anxious, her thumbs were a-tapping.
She must have been feeling something because the thumbs were going and down by Camp Four Creek a gigantic bull moose with rack like Atlas' arms stepped out and centered his bawdry magnificence over the center line and struck up a pose that said "Call of the Wild" and stopped. He was huge and crazed by the rut with the fear of nothing in his eye. Big Grandma hit the brakes and I braced with locked arms against that steel dashboard, and little brother Bernie pushed his face up against the back of the vinyl-clad, bench front seat. When the car came to a complete stop, we were about 100 feet away from the new owner of the Fernberg road. And, he was making no consolations, no exceptions; he would move at his determination.
We sat there idling in the big blue ex-gamewarden cruiser. We are all quiet and in awe of this monstrous ruler of the woods waiting for him to finish crossing. Then, Big Grandma's white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel turned to nervous thumb tapping with increased frequency. Must be something big gonna happen, I thought. Big Grandma shoved in the clutch with her left foot, pulled the shift handle back and up for reverse, hooked her right arm over the back of the seat on the ex-game warden car and looked back with no humor. She stepped on the gas and eased out the clutch rapidly making the rear tires squeal and the posi-traction laid down smokin' blue rubber tracks as we peeled off backwards up that hill. As she turned to look back with her left hand on the wheel like a Kentucky bootlegger, I looked forward and that bull moose had all of his fur up from his tail to his ears. It stood up like six inches of whoopass as he put his massive rack down and began to charge. Big Grandma was way ahead of him, however and I didn't know she could drive like that. At 30 mph in reverse, Big Grandma easily put six blocks of space between us and that angry moose. Looking a whole lot smaller from our safe vantage point, the bull lifted his rack and proudly sauntered off to the south side of the road disappearing into the thick woods. He won yet another battle without firing a single shot. Big Grandma let him believe that anyways.
This was just one of the many, moose stories that I was either a part of or heard told by my family. The theory behind the slugs is that we could shoot a charging moose in either antler and ring his bell hopefully enough to get away. Since they lose their antlers, at least we wouldn't be wasting a moose because that would be a shame. So, that's the plan. No one has ever tested the theory so we don't know if it works. But, if running like a guy who just stepped on a wasp nest in a stump won't cut it, sometimes you have to have a back-up plan to stand your ground. Slugs and crossed fingers.
It's snowing hard on the portage now and visibility is not that great. Delilah is running ahead, disappearing, and then appearing from behind at full speed. She's making me a little nervous because we have coyotes and plenty of wolves. My worst nightmare would be if she decided to attack a moose and then after ticking him off, run to find me. Well, none of that fortunately was happening and I was covering ground fast because daylight was fading and those boats would be full to the gunwales with rainwater. Bailing would take at least a half hour and that would mean coming out in complete darkness.
We get to the final hill and in the leafless October woods I can see through brush to the familiar water below. Delilah takes off in an excited full gallop down that hill and turns right to where the boats are parked. I followed knowing that the two gallon bucket in my hand would be put to good use in only seconds. That's when I saw the unbelievable.
There our boats lay on the shore where I'd left them months before. But, instead of being full of water, they were upside down on dry ground. Somebody bailed them out and carefully flipped them over, still locked to the eyebolt in the stump! I was flabbergasted. This has never been done before. If anything, passersby returning from canoe trips will leave plastic bags of garbage in the boats so they don't have to portage them out. Nobody EVER bails our boats and then flips them. I wanted to know who so I could properly thank whoever it was. I still have no clue.
I stacked the boats on top of each other away from the little creek that flows from Rookie pond because the water is so low it may overflow and back up into a glacier covering the boats in ice. With it getting darker still and more snow falling, I called for Delilah who went missing in the last 30 seconds of boat wrestling. For about five, tense minutes, I thought a wolf snapped her up. But then, she suddenly appeared from some micro-adventure in the brush.
With darkness falling and snow joining in, I put a leash on Delilah and begin the uphill jaunt back to the trail head. As we were rapidly walking, the wind suddenly kicked up and like it does at this time of year, it didn't stop blowing - hard. It was howling through the trees. We passed through a stretch of Christmas trees and I debate taking out my flashlight but hold off. The trail is all white and I can still just make out the rocks and roots. We both hear trees snapping and crashing to the ground in the distance. Then, suddenly, to my right, I hear new crashing about 30 feet away. I look into the woods there to see if trees are tumbling my way but the visibility is only about 10 feet between the driving snow and the lack of light. This particular tumbling sound became continued crashing and the thunking of heavy hooves. Delilah even took notice and I was glad that I put her on a leash, It was getting way too dark to run, shoot, or shoot and run, so "no trouble" would be the preferred state of my existence right then. Big deer? Moose? I don't know, but it was big and ran the other way and that was fine with me.
We continued up the portage through the horizontal snow my fleece jacket turned completely white. Despite the potentially fear-inducing conditions, I felt a particular calmness as Delilah and I were all alone deep in the woods. Maybe it is my lifetime of experience in this element that makes me feel so at ease. Maybe it was having the faithful Delilah next to my ankles. Maybe it was my trusty 20 gauge slung across my back, or a combination of all those. Then, there is always the memory of Big Grandma tapping the steering wheel with her thumbs. Whatever it is, this is where I must belong.
Delilah and I finally make it to the truck and head home. Wood Lake is done for this season. A big thanks to whoever flipped our boats.
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