Can you imagine what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a moose charge? It happened to me while deer hunting. The bull that challenged me was provoked, apparently, by my deer grunting calls. Obviously, I lived to tell about it. My bull was being territorial during the post-rut season. There were at least two cases of snowmobilers being charged by moose this winter. The unusually deep snow drove moose onto the packed down snowsled trails. The big critters refused to be driven off the snowmobile trails and were willing to fight to stay on the “high ground.”

In one incident, a man and wife on a snowsled in northern Maine were attacked when they tried to pass a moose on a trail. The wife was knocked off the sled by the moose’s head. She was frightened but not seriously hurt.

The other incident involved my oldest son, Scott Reynolds, and his ice fishing buddy, Greg Goodman, both of Winterport. Both men were on a snow-sled trail after dark. They were heading into my camp at a lake in Piscataquis County. Here is my son’s account, in his own words:

“By 10:30 p.m. we made the trail head and looked forward to 10 miles of perfect snowmobiling to get us to our cozy camp. Thirty degrees, no wind, and two inches of fresh snow would make for a fabulous ride. Four miles into the woods, we came upon a steaming pile of moose droppings and a glistening wet bed. The big bed spanned the trail with one set of tracks heading toward our destination. The snow in the woods was hip-deep just one step off the trail. About 1,000 yards later, the glow of my Skidoo’s headlamp illuminated the black rump of a healthy moose, loping easily at 25 yards. I have great respect for these animals as they endure a long hard winter. I decided to stop, rather than stress the animal. We stopped and enjoyed the quiet night for a bit, hoping the moose would find another trail. Another half a mile and we were back in contact with the animal. Another wait, then we continued at a snail’s pace. Approaching what we affectionately call “Stink Bog,” we caught up with the moose for the third and final time. Bullwinkle decided that he was far enough from his bedroom. It was time to challenge his pursuers. His body language spoke loud and clear.

“A bull sheds his antlers in early winter and is not nearly as intimidating as the same animal in September with his majestic head gear. However, standing only feet from my idling machine, illuminated by the headlight, his ears were pressed flat back along a lowered head, his eyes like slits and neck hair straight uphe was plenty scary. My heart was pounding like a jack-hammer, and we were out of options with no way to turn around in the narrow trail. He approached three times as he pondered his alternate path – deep snow. Finally, with his massive head hanging over the front of my sled and hot breath pouring out of each flared nostril, I bailed off the snowmobile into the snow and frantically unsheathed my pathetic defense – a Snow and Neally axe. From my shaking knees behind the machine, I watched in awe as this beautiful and normally shy animal reared up on his hind legs, like a rodeo bull, and stomped to death my old trusty Skidoo. His front hooves shattered the wind shield and dislocated the handle bars. The rear hooves snapped the bumper like matchsticks as he bounded up and over the sled within two feet of my head. Reflexively, I raised the axe high as he roared past, then watched helplessly as the moose trampled Greg’s sled, killing the engine and headlight. In the glare of Greg’s light, I couldn’t tell if he was safely out of the way. When the engine died, it was pitch black back there, and I thought Greg might be hurt or worse.

“I yelled Greg’s name into the dark, praying the moose had had enough. Greg emerged from the dark holding the remains of his battered wind shield and I asked, “Are you OK?” He replied with a calm “Yup.” I said, “Drop that thing and let’s get the (BLEEP) outta here!”

“My heart had slowed a bit after two miles at speed so I shut down to discuss the whole episode with Greg and take stock of the damage. Under the now-quiet blanket of a moonless night we recounted what we had just witnessed, and thanked God for surviving unscathed. Our voices and hands were shaking and the laughter nervous. Thinking there was no way we could repeat this experience, we continued the last two miles with a keen eye for a sign. Wouldn’t you know, a mile further we encountered another nearly identical bull. The pause-and-follow routine ended abruptly when this one turned with purpose at about 50 yards and showed little caution as he approached. Quick students, we pulled as far off the trail as possible and buried ourselves in the thick firs. Bullwinkle’s cousin trotted past within two feet of the running sleds, and disappeared into the darkness. Adrenaline is fun to a point but we’d had enough and just wanted a warm fire and a cold drink. The last mile seemed to take forever and every corner was unnerving, but we made it. Hunting camp and the warmth of its blazing hardwood fires have never been sweeter than midnight of Easter 2008.

Correction

A recent column titled Open Water Fishing contained an error about fishing Moose River, the East Outlet and the Roach River. Most of these waters are open to fishing April 1, not May 1 as reported. Anglers consult your law book for more details.

The author is editor of the Northwoods Sporting Journal. He is also a Maine Guide, co-host of a weekly radio program “Maine Outdoors” heard Sundays at 7 p.m. on The Voice of Maine News-Talk Network (WVOM-FM 103.9, WCME-FM 96.7) and former information officer for the Maine Dept. of Fish and Wildlife. His e-mail address is [email protected].