Working the aluminum boat slowly into the current, we edge our craft to the shore of a big, banana-shaped island. It would be the perfect location to call a moose from and having heard a bull grunting in the area the night before — my heart raced with excitement.
We found a comfortable vantage point and set up to keep the wind in our favour. Using a fibreglass horn, I reproduced the mournful cry of a lovesick cow moose. The guttural noise echoed off the trees and up the river valley.
Every 20 to 30 minutes, I repeated this calling routine, hopeful a big bull would show up in response to the cow calls. After several hours had passed I became complacent and started to daydream. The warm rays of the autumn sun and the sound of flowing water had put me in a hypnotic state.
I stared down the small oxbow, filled with water, separating the island from the mainland. With 350 metres of shoreline I watched patiently for a bull to show himself on the water’s edge. As I sat staring into the wilderness something caught my eye. At the far end of the island was a massive set of moose antlers — more than 60 inches in width. I didn’t see the moose at first, as it blended into the forest cover but the antlers stood out like a neon sign. The moose walked out onto the muddy bank with a rigid form, swaying his antlers back and forth. I hadn’t heard a grunt or moan from the big bull, he simply showed up and displayed his presence with his antlers.
I was hunting with my trusty muzzleloader and knew that I had to cut the distance in order to get an opportunity for a shot. My hunting partner, Larry Leigh, and I scurried to the far side of the island and ran towards the end of the landmass where the moose was standing. The last thing I remember seeing was the massive bull extending his neck straight out in front of his body and flaring his nostrils, to try and pick up the scent of the lonesome cow.
I’d like to tell you that the antlers are now mounted in my trophy room but by the time we travelled the 300 metres and popped back into position the bull was long gone. The jig was up and although we heard the bull calling later that day, he did not return to the edge of the river. It was a great experience in the wilds of the Yukon; one that I will never forget and that I learned from as well.

By Brad Fenson