A buddy has an old hunting cabin on a lake in Maine. They’re so far in the grey woods and swamps that there are very few deer, but many moose and bear. (The deer are in town, feeding on hydrangea.) Since, it’s hard to draw a moose or bear tag we go out on what are more ‘armed hiking’ excursions than true deer hunting.
In around 50 years and not for trying, he has shot 1 deer there. That situation was much like our friend here, sitting and smoking. He sat down at a fireroad crossroad and pulled a cig. Puffing away, his Monarch of the North popped out and was dropped. That was 20 years ago. So much for tales rivaling Percival, Selby or Ruark. I go up there for the ruffs and to smoke, drink scotch, Laugh & Scratch, and fire up the old iron cooker.
Of course, it is possible to be chased by a moose (that you can’t shoot) because your buddy has soaked himself in “Doe in Raging Estrous”.
Friend likes custom rifles and Cabala gadgets and had the scent on and a brand new expensive designer make that weighs less than it should and has the power of a german 88. Walking back to the cabin on the 2 track, Bullwinkle pops out behind us In Love, hearts circling his head and blind as a bat. We looked at each other, spent 1/4 sec considering “fight or flight” and the moose stomped. We ran.
We found that swamp donkeys are a lot faster and more determined than many may believe. After a few steps, coincident but independent decisions were made to chuck our rifles in order to increase our velocity. Running downhill into the cabin, we slammed the door just before Bullwinkle backpedaled into the cabin wall outside with a big thump and long skid marks... Can’t remember a time I’ve laughed harder.