438 Forest and Stream T 
A MOOSE HUNT IN NEW BRUNSWICK* 
HOPE LONG DEFERRED BRINGS AT LAST ITS RECOMPENSE IN THE COM- I 
PLETE REALIZATION OF A SUCCESSFUL TRIP INTO THE NORTH WOODS 
E ver since I was a kid big enough 
to pack a .22 I had longed and 
hoped that the time would come 
when I could afford the pleasure 
of a big-game hunt in either Maine or 
New Brunswick. I wanted to feel the 
thrill of bringing down a big moose, the 
monarch antler - bearer of the North 
American continent. Using Forest and 
Stream as my guide, I scanned each 
number from cover to cover, scheming, 
planning, collecting and storing data ob- 
tained therefrom, until I felt as though 
I knew the moose country like an old- 
timer. 
Several years later the cherished dream 
of my youth was actually realized — to my 
heart’s content. Occasion then brought 
me from the Pacific coast, where I was 
stationed for a time, to Grand Falls, 
N. B., a little town of not more than 
2,500 people, located in good moose coun- 
try, about ten miles from the state line 
of Maine. 
Its existence grew out of the potato 
and lumber industry, and although it 
had the appearance, at first glance, of be- 
ing a slow, sleepy, shiftless little place, 
it could boast of a greater number of 
honest-to-God-He-men than the major- 
ity of towns its size, for here were the 
real Canadian pioneers, a hardy mixture 
of Canadian - French sprinkled among 
them. Were not these fellows recog- 
nized as the most active and daring lum- 
berjacks of all? Watch them ride a sub- 
merged eight-inch log down a swiftly- 
moving current, dodging in and out, 
narrowly missing large chunks of float- 
ing ice, balancing themselves with only 
a pike-pole, then maneuvering so as to 
bring their log close enough to the bank 
to jump clear, and judge for yourselves. 
I found this country intensely inter- 
esting, and my spare time during the 
eighteen months spent there was mostly 
occupied with fishing and hunting. Roy 
and Frank Reed, two close friends of 
mine, went into conference with me 
whenever opportunity permitted, and 
they took great delight in giving me 
startling stories of their several moose 
hunts. 
My anticipation of a moose hunt grew 
to such a pitch that I could hardly wait 
for the hunting season to open, and 
although I made no elaborate prepara- 
tions for the event, I would catch my- 
self dropping into a hardware store, cas- 
ual like, purchasing an occasional neces- 
sity, such as a hunting knife, a hatchet, 
or box of cartridges, etc., weeks before 
the hunting season opened. 
F inally our plans were all carefully 
made for September 16th, and we 
were to start early on the morning after 
the season opened for the headwaters 
of the Salmon River, a country where 
Frank, the older of the two boys, knew 
every portage, trail and bog. Then — 
By JACK CRAGO 
something happened. Women entered 
the case. They threw a large unexpected 
chunk into our carefully greased wheels 
of progress that knocked us stupefied, 
and when we came to we found that they 
had made up our minds to take them 
to Fredericton to the Provincial Exposi- 
tion, an affair that lasted from Septem- 
ber 15th to September 20th. The argu- 
ments that those women used in their 
behalf would have made an attorney- 
general blush with envy. If we were 
going hunting, they insisted, it was only 
fair that they should be taken to the 
Exposition, and when a woman insists — 
well, its do or die. 
We started for Fredericton, as per or- 
ders, on the 15th, and on a little station 
platform, about half-way between Fred- 
ericton and Grand Falls, a hunter was 
standing beside a dead moose. He had 
bagged his game early that morning and 
was waiting to ship it to his home in St. 
John. The sight of the wonderful head 
Courtesy of H. A. P. Smith 
Calling him up 
of this monstrous animal fired my am- 
bitions to such an extent that I could 
think of little else but moose during the 
trip. I would dream of moose by night, 
and more than once was awakened by 
Frank with a healthy poke in my ribs 
just as I was about to knock down a 
big one with a club or tackle one bare- 
handed, as I thrashed around in bed. 
And if the party happened to be walking 
down the street and it came to a sport- 
ing goods store, right then and there the 
party halted until I had satisfied my 
curiosity, or until I had been dragged 
away. They all swore that I was moose- 
crazy, and I think I was. 
The hours dragged like weeks, and oh, 
what a relief I felt as we sat in the train 
ready to depart for home ! 
A S I consult my diary I find that on 
the evening of the 21st we were all 
packed ready for a quick getaway the 
next morning, but then came another dis- 
appointment. Not women this time; 
worse — potatoes. “Paw” Reed came 
driving into town, and upon being in- 
formed that Frank and Roy had returned 
from the Exposition, he located the party 
and lined us all up at the little hotel bar. 
After a sudden outburst of generosity 
by settin’ ’em up three consecutive times, 
we just knew that something was wrong. 
Finally, leading Roy over into the 
corner, he confidentially began : “Now, 
you know that if we don’t get those 
spuds into the cellar before you go, it’ll 
be too late when you get back. Just 
think what it’ll mean if it snows or 
freezes,” etc., etc. 
I listened intently for some moments, 
then ventured to ask Frank just how 
big a patch of potatoes they had. 
“Only a small patch. Eight acres,” he 
answered unconcernedly. 
I stared at him. “Eight acres of po- 
tatoes,” I repeated unconsciously a few 
seconds later. To harvest eight acres of 
potatoes on our old farm in Michigan it : 
would take at least a month, I reflected, ■ 
and the backaches, the sore, stiff knees, 
the fingers done up in cotton rags, all ^ 
came back to me as though it were yes- , 
terday ; the thought gave me a nauseated 
feeling as I saw the high hope of ful- 
filling my lifelong desire being crushed , 
hopelessly. ! 
“It’ll take a month, won't it, Frank?” ' 
I queried a few moments later with a 
sickly quiver in my voice. 
“Naw; two acres a day,” he answered ■ 
with a smile at the look of discourage- 
ment on my face. '“All the neighbors 
help, and we dig ’em with the team,” he 
added. 
“Tell ya what I'll do,” butted in Paw 
Reed. "If ya help me to get the spuds 
in the cellar I'll drive the outfit of ya 
over to \'ealla Fonteau's place the minute i 
we're done. Zat fair enough?” and he 
glanced from one to the other of us. 
Fonteau’s place was the last outpost of 
civilization on the Salmon River portage 
before entering the forest, and we had 
already made arrangements with the 
owner to haul us into camp. However, 
after much parleying, it was agreed that 
with the potatoes in the cellar there 
would be nothing to prevent us from 
hunting as much and as long as we liked, 
and the agreement was sealed with sev- 
eral jolts of good old Scotch. 
Next morning, as soon as the frost left 
the ground, “the crew” was all on hand. 
A heavy team was attached to the digger 
and soon a yellowish, white stream of 
tubers were tumbling from the rear of 
that digger that would have made any 
Michigander’s eyes snap with amaze- 
ment. 
