MOOSE – ARCHERY RECORD

1. Ernie Jones 206 5/8″ 2020

From Left to Right Charlie Siegner, Jake Siegner, Scott Holmes, Ernie (EJ) Jones, Ron Holmes, Neil Duerksen and Mike Holmes. Absent from the picture, a legend and mentor, Bruce Dykeman.

Fifty weeks of preparation: from the last day of the previous year’s hunt, to the highly anticipated and coveted first day of this hunt, creates a culmination of mixed emotions; anxiousness, excitement and sleepless nights, only to prepare over and over again, and continue from one season to the next. Hunting is not only a time-honored tradition in our home, but also a legacy that passes from one generation to the next. My first moose hunting experience, at what was once “Dad’s moose camp”, could only be achieved based upon the prerequisite of a successful hunt of a white-tailed deer. In that, you had learned valuable lessons in the field, including but not limited to, investing countless hours in stands/ground blinds, reading books, obtaining the proper gear and clothing, playing the scent game, studying the patterns and habits of deer, knowing the difference between a squirrel, turkey and/or a deer at distance, countless hours on the range perfecting and honing your skills to give you the confidence that when the time arose, you were ready to make an ethical and lethal shot, along with dedicating time, energy and resources to becoming an experienced enough archer to join the ranks of the highly acclaimed “moose camp” at long last.

Now, we were the elders – the experienced hunters and the camp was getting anxious with just a few days left in our annual moose hunting excursion. Everyone was feeling the weight of the season slowly coming to an end as the cold winter air and the countless flocks of Canadian geese flying south overhead, served as constant reminders that the pressure of finding our quarry was intensifying.

Although we had seen several good bulls, we are also a relatively young group, with several inexperienced and even first-time moose hunters in our respective group. This led to opportunities from our veterans in camp, to our newcomers, that were subsequently and hilariously mired with unforgettable circumstances that would have left any seasoned hunter watching, laughing and/or crying due to the outcome.

One instance, in the first week of non-stop hunting, was when a huge bull was called in to a first-year moose hunter, sitting in his first tree stand hunt, that he had just put that very afternoon for his very first time. He was convinced, as most are, that the tree stand was plenty high and was confident that it would be suitable for his quarry…perhaps a deer, but certainly not for the big boy that was called in. His stand was located roughly 40 yards away from my calling position, directly in between me and a 3-and-a-half-year-old giant, nearing 50+” across and looking for love. The young fella in the tree stand was stunned and perplexed when he looked down and discovered, somehow, this absolute behemoth was directly below his tree stand…lapping at the scent wick that was dangling off the tree! Oh, my heart, watching this mature bull get so close and the hunter having no idea he was there until he grunted whilst rubbing the very tree he was in, was both hysterical and fascinating at the same time. The young hunter tried dutifully to secure his compound, string an arrow and get his release on the string all while this majestic bull pondered his next move. To our mutual dismay, the young hunter tried to position himself to what looked to be an impossible angle and give himself an opportunity to shoot directly below him, a mere 3 yards away, but unfortunately, his metal bow grazed against the side of the metal tree stand, and you can well imagine what happened next. Yep, that 1,000-pound bull wheeled and bolted right back to where he had just come from, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, and was never seen again.

The experience is something we all go through in learning, failing, conquering and appreciating this enriching pursuit and lifestyle. As Canadians, we are privileged to enjoy in the most bountiful and picturesque nation on earth, where we can dream and relish past and future successes or be humbled by the wit and senses of Canada’s largest, most elusive and in my experiences, most dangerous game animal, the majestic and powerful Ontario Moose.

The first encounter with our record moose came the night before our actual conquest. My brother-in-law (Ron Holmes), and his best friend’s son (Jake Siegner) and I, embarked on a call, in an area we knew held great potential. Promising signs were prominent, with fresh cow and calf tracks, along with bedding areas, that were littered with big bull tracks with numerous scrapes and breaks. We understood that it would be an arduous task to remove an animal in this location, if indeed we were successful, due to the difficult terrain and accessibility. After a 45-minute quad ride through rushing creeks, with banks so high, it was obvious that winching would be our only viable solution upon our return trip. We had to traverse through old beaver ponds, a mile of foot-high swamps, where we had to cut a path through an entanglement of mature tag alders, only to then walk half a mile to our calling location. There was no deterrent that could dissuade us, and we arrived at our well positioned calling location, set between two well established and active beaver ponds, and the sign again was fresh and plentiful.

Ron set up his tree stand approximately 60 yards away, down wind and along one of 3 paths that came together in the natural funnel where we had situated. Jake was in a ground blind roughly 50 yards away, covering the second trail backing onto the beaver pond and I was on the northern tip of the two beaver ponds, allowing me access to either side of the ponds for calling and positioning for a shot. Normally, I set up the best opportunity to the shooters with me, having them downwind and on the game trails, as the tendency of the bulls in WMU 23 was to try to wind the cows before committing. After getting into our respective positions, we waited patiently for roughly 45 minutes to let things calm down before starting our calling.  We were ready, yes, but did we know what was about to ensue, heavens no.  I couldn’t have dreamt of the scenario that was about to unfold.

The first hour of cow calling was relatively uneventful, trying to entice bulls in from a distance, I used loud 2–3-part bellows, listening intently after each series of calls. Patience is always the most prudent way when hunting and is often rewarded in kind. Within the next few calls there was an unexpected response, a loud moan of disapproval was being broadcast from the opposite side of the beaver pond. A mature, and unimpressed cow was now skirting the edge of the trees, walking back and forth, and repeating her low tones and facing directly at me, a mere 80 yards away. At that point, we started a calling duel that lasted over 20 minutes, until it was interrupted, by the sudden, and unmistakable glunk of a mature bull. He was closing the distance from 200 yards away, rapidly, and was headed towards both calling cows – which one would he choose?

I emptied my arsenal of sweet-sounding cow calls to entice the bull my way, while my foe on the opposite side of the beaver pond retaliated in kind. The bull kept coming, glunking and thrashing all the way. When he was 100 yards away, he started across the beaver pond, committed, but to whom?  At one point I thought I had won the battle with the cow as he veered towards my calling position. I think the cow saw this too, and she pulled out her trump card, she poignantly appeared from the thick tree line and immersed herself into three feet of water, drinking subtly and then, the deciding factor…she started to urinate in the water, coupled with a memorable soft call, that immediately got the bulls full attention. She had won and the bull bee-lined directly to her at that point and I was unable to call him off. Upon greeting the cow at the edge of the pond, the size of the bull hit home, and he was picturesque. What a sight to behold, with both there, in their elements, sovereign and spectacular in the natural surroundings, and I was simply in awe. There was no question that he was certainly the king of the woods, yet he was too far for an ethical shot, but I still had a few tricks up my sleeve! Their silhouettes disappeared into the thickets, and I was grateful for the viewing experience of a lifetime and slowly walked back to talk it over with Ron to amend our game plan.

We decided that he was not coming at that point and who could blame him, as she was a beautiful specimen, and obviously, the dominant female in those neck of the woods.  Our plan of attack required us to change tactics. We couldn’t compete with the allure of the cow, but we could challenge him to fight over them. Moving back behind Ron’s stand location another 100 yards down the game trail, we started our barrage of thrashing and grunting to get the bulls’ attention. Moving steadily back toward Ron’s stand and beyond, my thrashing intensified as I neared the initial calling location. It worked but he was not happy, nor was the cow. He started glunking and was now moving towards our direction along the edge of the beaver pond, how exciting! I moved back to my calling location, past Ron in his stand, and he knew very well what was commencing and he didn’t need to say a single word, his eyes told me he understood exactly what was happening. He readied an arrow and gave me the nod of approval that told me, if that bull came into his area, there was no doubt he was ours.

The bull was now out of sight, on the edge of the beaver pond, proceeding towards Jake’s ground location enroute to his challenger. His grunts were getting so loud that it felt like he should be appearing out of the woods at any second, but they just kept getting louder, incredulously, almost unbelievably louder. He certainly wasn’t missing any branches along his journey either. The sounds of those palms crashing through the woods was an undeniable announcement that he was playing for keeps and his intentions were clear, there was going to be a battle, and he wasn’t backing down. The back-and-forth grunting was exhilarating, my adversary and I were echoing each other’s grunts, one after the other in an attempt to intimidate the other. The resolve and determination to be the alpha and continue to sire was too strong.  Neither would be deterred, and the only resolution would be resolved, face to face.

Then, out of nowhere, silence…he was now only 25 yards away from the young hunter, standing silently, I continued to grunt, but now there was no response. Was Jake at full draw and caught the bull’s attention or did he wind us? What was happening? Utter silence for 10 seconds seemed like an eternity, grunting again, no response. Patience, patience, he’s simply assessing the situation, he’ll continue, just wait. The silence was broken with a thunderous crash and the sound that resembled a freight train going through the woods. Did Jake get a shot, was this the opportunity we had all been waiting for? Did he wind us, what happened?  After the bull ran off, I intently listened to the direction of his exit so we could recover him, but the sounds of his retreat kept getting further and further away, we were in for an adventure, and I couldn’t wait. I walked slowly over to Ron’s tree stand and his eyes were as big as mine. After lowering his bow and exiting his stand we got together and couldn’t wait to go over and see what had transpired. We didn’t talk, fearing that the bull may hear us and go further into the bush, so we simply walked silently over to Jake’s location. The anticipation was heightening, we were about to find out what had happened. The look on Jake’s face spoke volumes, we needn’t ask, but we all knew at that point that the bull had winded us before Jake had an opportunity to take a shot.  We walked over to where we thought the bull was last, and the proof lay right there, a mere 25 yards away from Jake’s location, a steaming pile of moose dung, with a path of tracks and broken alders illustrating where the masterful bull had gone Although it was only 25 yards away, the thick patch of alders would not have offered a proper shot with a bow.  Our hunt, for this day, was over. The bull was gone and we again had to go to the drawing board, because tomorrow was the last day of the hunting season. Down, but not out, we headed back to camp to share our unique experience with the rest of the camp and collectively decide what our next course of action would be. Of course, we were coming back tomorrow. A sleepless night was ahead of us all, after such an incredible encounter.

It was going to be a long day, and it turned out to be just that.  It was decided that we would go back to the same location, around the same time, as we had the day before.  Reminiscing and going over all the possible outcomes from the previous day laid the groundwork for our general course of action.  We would only change a few minor details.  We would bring the ground blind location closer to the caller to give better shot angles, if the same path from the bull was taken.  Ron’s brother Mike would join us on this occasion, replacing Jake.  Everything else was what destiny had to offer.

Alas, we were finally heading out, great expectations awaited us, what would come of this day would be revered and remembered forever. After leaving our quads, the three of us came together for a final tete-a-tete before going silent and walking into our calling area. Scent drags deployed, a final carbon spraying of our clothes, boots and gear, and we were now ready for our last hunt of the season. We all knew what was at stake, this was our last opportunity to feed our families and secure the most precious of all game meat, it was time to bring home our quarry.

Ron broke off first, headed to his stand and looked back just before going out of sight and gave that, “let’s get this done” look that his brother and I understood immediately. Mike then tucked away in an area in between Ron and I, set back comfortably just inside the tree line that would give him a grand view of the proceedings, if lightning were to strike again. I trudged towards the beaver ponds, setting up scent wicks along the way, some only 4 yards away from my shooting location. I set my bow down on the ground, along with my backpack, and re-dipped my scent drag in my cow-in-heat moose lure. I started laying down some of that wicked essence the bulls love so, on periodic branches and small tag alders approaching the beaver pond that had so much action the night before. I dreamt of the sound of that sweet, soft and convincing call the cow had made to entice the bull just 24 hours previous, from just the other side of the same pond.  I was going to do my best impersonation of that long, single, slow call at the same time she did, while urinating. Utilizing my dad’s old birch bark horn, it was filled with pond water then slowly released between my fingers, from chest height, to mimic the duration and height to the best of my abilities. Ok, now just like she did, soft and smooth, let out your heart, be the moose and call in that giant.

To my absolute and utter astonishment, an answer, definitely an answer, immediately after calling.  I hadn’t even finished emptying the horn of water and he was responding. Responding enthusiastically, from the same spot where the cow was yesterday, inside the tree line, only 80 yards away. Quickly, yet calmly, I started back as I didn’t even have my bow with me at that time and was boot high in the pond. He was grunting, and he was coming. I continued my low, even soft cow calls, almost “meowing” as the cow had done the day prior. It was working, he was grunting and now appeared through the trees at the opposite edge of the beaver pond. As I had already started my slow and steady retreat to my calling spot, I was eager to retrieve my bow and ready myself for an encounter I would not soon forget. Every glunk was reciprocated with a soft and gentle cow call, his mood and attitude today were altogether different, today he was looking for love. I finally made it back to my trusted Hoyt Ultratec, arrowed my 125-grain thunderhead and was astonished to see that the bull was already approaching the area where I had just mimicked the cow urinating. He stood there for about 3 seconds, nostrils flaring and head raised, he was delighting in the smell of the cow-in-heat lure that was on my scent drag and was obviously invigorated. I was definitely going to be the first with an opportunity to shoot, so I steadied myself and continued to call after every grunt made. The bull was coming directly at me, now only 30 yards away but with too many trees in the way I would have to wait until he was basically on top of me before I could take a shot. He stopped, only to thrash and destroy a bunch of tag alders holding a scent bomb, raking and raking, leaving a pile of debris and destruction to show his might, his power, and his intentions. My heart was pounding as he was only 20 yards away and closing, quartered towards me and moving steadily at me. I would have to wait until he walked past my location, or risk being spotted while pulling back my bow. I had removed my scent drag and set into a tree, only 5 yards from where I stood, he was heading right towards it and I knew this was my last moment to pull back before he would see me.  After a deep breath, I pulled back to full draw, as he was now so close I could feel his footsteps on the ground. I knew I would have to wait until he passed right in front of me to get the quartering away shot that would ensure a lethal hit. I held, at full draw, to what seemed an eternity, as he stopped and licked the scent drag…please, please keep walking. My prayers were answered and he eventually kept walking and grunting, the time was now, he was walking past, and I needed him to stop. My arms were shaking, for being at full draw for so long, he was too close for sights, use your instincts and get him to stop. A quick grunt stopped him in his tracks, a perfect quartered away shot presented itself, and without hesitation, the trigger on the release was pulled and the arrow flew. A perfect shot, right behind the shoulder and penetrated ¾ of the way in. He dashed ahead, right in front of Mike in his blind with the arrow dancing up and down as he passed by him, another quick cow call to hopefully stop him was sounded as I put another arrow on the bow. He stopped, roughly 30 yards away and grunted, I gently called again, and he stayed there, grunting back, seemingly confused as to what had just happened. We continued for 5 more seconds until he stumbled, took another step and finally laid down in his final resting place. A perfectly executed double lung shot stopped him only 30 yards from where he was shot, right on the game trail from which we came in. Our moose was down, but we still had no idea just how big he was. We were merely grateful that on our last day of hunting, we were going home with our bounty, the healthiest and most nutritious meat available.

I walked up to Mike, startling him, as he was still staring at the moose that had just run past him, basically 7 yards away, and we both went to get his brother out of his tree stand. Ron had seen, and heard, every moment but couldn’t see that the moose was down. We reassured him it was down and then went together to discover a “Bull of a Lifetime”.

It is a great honor to share this achievement with a group of hunters to which I am extremely grateful for their friendship and kinship and to making this dream hunt a reality.

All of us owe a great debt of gratitude to the founder of the moose camp – my dad. It was his guidance and tutelage that led to this and many other successes in our moose camp. Thank you for always looking over us from above, keeping us safe and helping us appreciate the fellowship of the wild. To the greatest hunter, the absolute epitome of an outdoorsman, the greatest man I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing and moreover, the honor of calling him my dad, Paul FJ Petrie.

From Left to Right Charlie Siegner, Jake Siegner, Scott Holmes, Ernie (EJ) Jones, Ron Holmes, Neil Duerksen and Mike Holmes. Absent from the picture, a legend and mentor, Bruce Dykeman.