A Canadian Moose Hunt 



mind of many a moose hunter memories of 

 times when the hunt was hard and the result 

 — a blank. It is my purpose in this article to 

 merely sketch one or two instances of this 

 sort, which, in contrast to days of unrewarded 

 watching, were red-lettered with excitement. 

 I only give the episodes because too often we 

 relate our victories alone, and missed shots 

 and barren tramps are consigned to ill-merited 

 oblivion, however real they were. 



After hunting the country around Lake 

 Kwingwishe, we at length camped on a small 

 pond near the east shore. Here we watched 

 and called every night and morning; then we 

 visited neighboring swamps and ponds, carry- 

 ing a canoe through the forest by compass. 

 It was always the same — wet and hungry, 

 tired out with tramping through tamarack 

 swamps, we would call half the night, some- 

 times startled with false alarms from hoot owl 

 or loon, and then lie down in a rain-soaked 

 tent without a fire, for smoke always scares a 

 moose. The first streaks of dawn came, and 

 again we were up and anxiously watching the 

 shore for the appearance of the monster we 

 were after. There were his tracks a few hours 

 old, but we could never catch him making 



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