It wasn’t caused by the wind. Nor was it from a bird fluttering. The sound was produced by a moose sweeping through fir boughs. Soon another black spot appeared in its wake. A caramel paddle confirmed its sex. It was day one in Newfoundland, and we were already on a bull moose.
My guide, Gord Pelley, and I crept closer, tiptoeing through the foggy meadow. Chlurp, chlurp, chlurp. It was like sneaking across a sod-covered waterbed, every step sinking into the spongy ground.
Gord floated a moose call across the narrow bog, “Ouuahh.” When the guttural sound shot back, Gord knelt down and whispered for me to sneak ahead. I could hear the moose descend the slope by sound alone. Then, the first tree shook in the dawn glow, its needles shedding droplets like a wet dog. Soon, another trembled, this one closer. I readied my Mossberg for a shot.
Then, nothing. As Gord kept calling, I probed the green jungle with my Pentax 8×32; time ticked by.
A dark spot silently emerged on the edge of the meadow. The bull. His slow, plodding gait carried him along the edge of the bog with ease. My finger tightened on the trigger as he passed …Read the Rest
Source:: Guns and Ammo