The tiny plane buzzed through the air like a great dragonfly, riding the intermittent atmospheric swells in rhythmic motion, until touching down onto the narrow airstrip nestled in the Muskwa River Valley of British Columbia, Canada.
As the Cessna touched down and taxied back toward the rustic hanger, I had my first good look at the lodge on the hill that would act as a base camp for the following 10 days of my scheduled hunting trip. Welcome to Prophet Muskwa at Sleeping Chief.
I had scheduled this trip a full 13 months before my 2006 mid-August arrival and although I knew that the lodge was a world class wilderness resort complete with a spa and fitness center, my purpose for traveling to the interior of BC was not to appreciate the amenities, but to fulfill my dream of hunting Canadian Moose and Mt. goats.
Besides, I knew from what I had been told by the Outfitter that I would likely be moving to a spike camp the following morning to begin my hunt, so massages and pedicures, tempting though they sounded, were simply out of the question…at least for the time being.
After meeting the staff, I was shown to a comfortable and spacious room where I quickly began sorting through my duffle in the interest of preparing my gear for the following day’s hunt. I had just laid out my clothes and was checking my rifle when I responded to a knock at the door. Just outside stood a young man who introduced himself as Roger, a polite 20-something outdoorsman who indicated that he would be my guide on this great Canadian adventure and would do his best to ensure that my time in the mountains was as memorable an experience as he assured it would be a successful expedition.
Although he struck me a gracious and humble man, it was also clear that Roger was confident in his capabilities. As a result, I felt my optimism rise in a tide of faith I seldom feel on hunting trips of any kind and were it not for the physical exhaustion of my last few days of travel, I am certain I would not have been able to sleep a wink. But when I turned out the lights and nestled into the satisfying stillness of my surroundings, I drifted off immediately, content for the time being on the notion of what might lie ahead, and the world of dreams that would occupy me until the morning.
Day one began with Roger and I saddling the horses and launching out early in search of moose in a high meadow several mountains behind the main lodge. We rode along quietly, taking in the captivating views from the steep ridges, watching the abundant wildlife, and listening to the sound of the saddle leather creak with each stride of our equine partners. The air was cool and clean and the two hours it took to arrive at our destination passed effortlessly. It seemed so quick in fact that almost before I knew it we had dismounted and were tying our horses in a long, narrow valley in preparation for our ascent to a vantage point where we could glass for the largest member of the deer family.
Roger had previously spotted a bull in this location and was certain he was still in the vicinity as we began our vigil. And as luck would have it, after several hours of peering into the dense mountainous brush, there he was, black against the native foliage, antlers palmed and cupped upwards toward the clear Canadian sky.
Roger assessed the bull from our location on the opposite mountainside and graded him to be a good representative moose, but not the biggest moose on the mountain. Still, we decided to attempt a stalk and further evaluate the bull by closing the distance. If we got close enough for a shot, the decision about taking him could be made at that time.
It took longer than expected to breech the distance that separated Roger and I from where we last saw the bull. Ascending through the dense Canadian bush proved to be an exceptionally physical task for my 46-year-old lungs and by the time we reached the elevation where we expected our quarry to be, he, like a mountain mist, had mysteriously vanished. So, we made our way back down the steep ridge to where the horses were tied to begin our ride back to the lodge and to plan our strategy for the following day.
Day two. After consultation with Kevin, the Outfitter, it was decided that the best opportunity for me to take a good bull would be for Roger and I to pack out of base camp with a few days of provisions and plan on moving to a spike camp several hours away. So, we loaded the pack horses, mounted up and began our trek toward a simple canvas tent in the remote wilderness known as Grizzly Creek.
The three-hour afternoon ride was beautifully warm and full of all of the sights and sounds that people hope to experience in uninhabited places. There were meadows with wild horses, breathtaking views of cathedral peaks, frigid rivers crossed, and even a lone grizzly seen lurking shadow like and surprised a mere mile from camp.
Setting up at Grizzly Creek was a relatively simple matter, even though the torn canvas on the tent indicated that this area had obviously been the playground of a mischievous bear at some point before our arrival. I snapped a few pictures of the damage and then assisted while the horses were unpacked and hobbled to graze for the evening, saddles, sleeping bags, and provisions were all put in their place, and finally, a campfire was built, dinner was prepared, and we settled in for the night.
Day three. Before dawn the horses were saddled and we were on our way up the mountain to a location where we could glass for moose. The strategy was that we would try to locate a bull in a high meadow, watch him until he bedded for the day in the shade of the tag alders, and plan an approach that would put us in shooting position when the bull stood up to either reposition or continue feeding.
We tied our horses near a shady creek as we began the steep ascent to the mountain adjacent to the area we wished to glass. The sun was on the rise and visibility was good as we completed our climb and positioned our spotting scopes to begin to watch the opposing mountain face in search of wildlife. Within minutes of getting set up Roger surprised me by announcing that he had spotted not just one, but three bulls feeding in the area we planned to hunt. And if this were not good enough news alone, he quickly assessed one of them as a real dandy.
We continued to watch the bulls for a couple of hours, paying particular attention to the biggest moose of the group, an animal with tall antlers, uniquely long points, and a large, heavy body. He was a mature and amazing creature, mythic in his primal ancestry, and spectacular in both size and substance. It was clear even from the mile or more that separated us that this was not just a moose, but this was a trophy moose, and he was the bull we would go after.
The bull bedded at a high point in the dense tag alders and despite his size, we lost sight of his black coat as it fused into the dark shade of the foliage. We noted the landmarks around his location, packed up, and made our way back to the horses to ride across the valley, where we tied off again and began the long and steep climb up the mountain and toward the bull.
Hours passed as we toiled up through the vegetation, carefully glassing at each opening to make sure the big bull was not up and feeding. Finally, after crawling across relatively open ground, we arrived at a brushy ridge that offered concealment and appeared to be within 200 yards of where we had last seen the bull. Sweating and tired, it was now late afternoon, and we decided that this would be the place to wait in the shadows for the bull to rise from his bed in the hopes of giving us a shot.
But as often happens in the world hunting, things do not always go as planned, and when the bull rose and Roger picked him up in the spotting scope, he had moved several hundred yards further up the mountain and was now standing at the edge of cover. If he chose to make a few steps forward, he would be over the crest of the mountain, completely out of our view, and our opportunity would be lost. There was nothing to do except to stay low and try to run for it.
Roger and I closed the distance in record time, climbing up the mountain, down through steep, hidden crevasses, and back up again, until our lungs and legs were scorched against the strain. Finally, we arrived at a narrow, brush-choked ledge to see the bull still there feeding and beginning to turn broadside. I checked the distance with my range finder. It was 260-yards so I leveled my rifle on a rest, took a breath and squeezed the trigger of the .270 WSM caliber Winchester Model 70. The hit was solid and Roger told me to reload and shoot again.
After the gun’s report, the majestic bull began to wobble, his normally sturdy legs collapsing beneath him, and he began to roll down the side of the mountain and toward the edge of a cliff. As fate would have it, his great body was stopped by a group of pine trees growing just adjacent to the edge and I was grateful that this mighty beast would not plunge further down the side of the sharp and difficult terrain.
Roger and I were ecstatic over the success of this stalk and the clean kill of such a remarkable moose. We celebrated with bright smiles and brief hugs and then quickly turned toward the stark reality that we were alone in grizzly country with a moose down and darkness fast approaching. We needed to get to the bull as quickly as we could, but even this would prove to be a difficult task given where the beast lay rested. Because of the dense growth of tag alders, the steep cliff where the moose rested, and the departing daylight, we would not be able to get the horses to the location of the downed animal. And worse yet, my guide, who I just learned had unexpectedly been relocated from another camp by the outfitter to lead me on my excursion, was without his normal pack, knives, rifle, and other essential gear. This meant the normally tough job of dealing with a dead moose was about to become a whole lot tougher.
Roger and I hiked to the bull and as we climbed up over the lip of the ledge where the huge animal’s body was resting against the trees, I was overwhelmed with the awesomeness of this creature. His great frame lay dark and motionless amid the shadowy pine boughs, his uniquely shaped, velvet-covered antlers proudly crowning the massive, prehistoric head. What a fascinating and beautiful animal, I mused, and what a privilege to be able to hunt him. I was humbled and honored to be in this experience.
I would like to be able to report that Roger and I were successful in our effort to retrieve the moose and pack the succulent meat back to camp, but wilderness hunting is more about reality than it is about happy endings, and the truth is that we were forced to abandon the kill because of darkness, the threat of grizzlies, and our inability to get the horses to our precarious location. Although words cannot express how deeply disappointed I was to leave this noble beast on the mountain, I am glad that we were able to pack out his antlers, and to at least have the knowledge that the grizzlies of British Columbia would feast well on the fresh kill.
Day four was devoted to packing up and heading back to the main lodge where we would rest for the remainder of the day before beginning our quest for a Mountain Goat the following morning. The prior night had been long, disconcerting, and sleepless, so having the opportunity to rest and dine at the main lodge provided a wonderful respite to prepare for the rigors that lay ahead.
Day five. Roger and I saddled up and left the lodge early, heading back up the same winding trail that lead to the mountainous peaks where we spent our first day hunting. He had been scouting this area and knew that several billies inhabited the sheer shale peaks that towered above tree line and that if we were lucky and the weather remained moderate and dry, we would find and get a goat.
I have always been fascinated by mountain goats. Their white, wavy hair, their narrow spike-like horns, and the fact that they live in some of the most beautiful yet treacherous terrain makes them a supreme trophy at any size. They are agile, athletic, and amazing to see and the reason that most hunters don’t pursue them is that goats live in dangerous places.
It wasn’t long after we set up and began to glass that we realized we were not alone. There, on the peaks 6500 feet above us, were the apprising eyes of nannies and kids looking for the perfect rock ledge to spend the day. We remained motionless for hours and then moved cautiously when we moved at all until we were finally able to change locations, adjusting just enough to take in some other views of the mountain. When we did, things changed. We found a billy.
This was a billy that was with a family group, so we knew right away that although he was likely not an old male, the optics revealed that he was a good representative of the species. And since the size of the adventure has always meant more to me than the size of the animal, I gave Roger the green light to pack up the spotting scope and plan a stalk.
We crept on our bellies through the brush until we found a place where the terrain would permit an undetected ascent to the place where we believed the goats had bedded. Although it took us some time to push up the steep slope, struggling against the wind which had suddenly begun to howl, when we reached the summit we were rewarded with the sight of the band of goats, pale hair waving with each mountainous gust, and jumping from sheer outcropping to outcropping in an attempt to distance themselves from the human invaders.
Instead of fleeing with the rest of the herd, the lone billy jumped to the top of a large boulder, stood arrogantly broadside, his head tilted back toward our position. I leveled my sights on the shoulder of the mystic white creature standing in the wind 240-yards away and struggled to steady myself against the daunting breath of the high altitude gusts. It seemed to take forever before I could ethically squeeze the trigger of the Winchester and when I did, I watched the beautiful goat tumble and somersault 300 feet down the sheer rock face of the mountain and onto a steep shale slide where he fell into a four foot deep mountain fissure. He was finished.
For the second time in the short time since we had met, Roger and I celebrated the blessings of good fortune. Not only had we been able to locate and successfully kill a beautiful bull moose, but also add to our achievement by making a one shot kill on one of the most coveted and hard won trophy animals in North America…the Mountain Goat.
Getting to our prize was a treacherous endeavor as we moved gingerly over unstable shale and narrow ledges to first reach and then pack out the goat. Although the majestic views from high atop the mountain were something that cannot be described, so too was the effort required to safely traverse this difficult ground without slipping and tumbling, to likely doom. And just as I am grateful for the opportunity to have hunted in such pristine and untouched mountain heights, I am also grateful to have made it off the mountain unscathed, for such places often demand a lofty personal price, and in this event, I will always be humbled that I received a free pass.
The rest of my days at Prophet Muskwa were spent hiking, enjoying the spa, and appreciating the wilderness location and the wonderful people there. It was a time filled with astonishment on many levels as I immersed myself in the joys of the people, the spirituality of the mountains, and the indescribable experience of this atypical hunting destination. For the truth is, my 10 days on the Muskwa netted me far more than a moose and a mountain goat. It was a journey that galvanized my values, purified my sense of spirit, and renewed my belief in the healing power of nature and the importance of taking on personal challenge. So, on the last day, when my tiny plane took off from the grassy airstrip, and the lodge at Sleeping Chief began to fade with the aircraft’s ascent, I rested in the knowledge that this had not simply been a hunting trip, but this had been the trip of a lifetime.
