After a couple days of hard riding on horseback, we decided to sleep in a little and have an easier day hunting for my moose. I woke up so excited to have another day moose hunting with my dad and his friend. We woke up to a cold 9/11 morning and hiked to the edge of the Snake River when Rob spotted two moose across the river on a little island fighting the “epic battle.” They were grunting and grappling like two fighting brothers. I had to wait for the moose to separate to get a good shot. I felt comfortable shooting from my shooting sticks just like my dad and I had practiced all summer.
The two bulls started to wrestle further and further away so my dad (who had been practicing moose grunts in the house at all hours of the night for the last couple months) threw out a couple grunts … and it worked! They stopped fighting and came back closer towards us. I shot at the one with the biggest paddles. It only took one shot at 150 yards to get the moose down.
Then we had to wait what seemed like an eternity for the moose to take its final breath. I’ll never forget watching his beautiful rack slowly tip over as he took his last breath. It was at that moment that we realized, “How on earth are we going to get across the river to the island and get the moose back to our camp?”
So we saddled up our animals and forded the river on horseback. I, on my trusty (though awfully fat) steed, “Tuffy,” my dad and Rob on magnificent beasts of their own. When we rode up to where my moose was, I could not have been happier. I knew that I could not have done it without my dad’s or Rob’s help. We still marvel every time we think about it.