A Rite of Passage

By Lori Robertson

A small farm located in Northwestern Alberta was where I grew up. That made me a farm girl and meant that I was supposed to be less squeamish about certain things. We were poor back then and we lived off the land. That included the occasional rabbit, deer, moose and, on one occasion, a lynx.

I first had the opportunity to test my hunting acumen when I was 12 years old and a neighbor boy invited me to go rabbit hunting. I had decided that this would be a great opportunity for me to bring back some wild game for my parents and siblings. I grabbed my father’s shotgun and headed out the door with thoughts of putting meat on the table. We had walked only about a mile down the old winding dirt road when we spotted a rabbit. I shouldered the shotgun and fired. I hit it but not with deadly accuracy. It scrambled under the brush just off the side of the road. I felt a slight knot building in the pit of my stomach. All I could hear was a crying sound coming from the underbrush. I wanted to flee but common sense took over. Even at 12, I realized that I would have to locate the rabbit and end its suffering. At that moment, the neighbor boy I was hunting with sprang forth with his gun in hand and fired. The underbrush fell silent. He promptly proceeded to skin the rabbit and we headed back home with a meal.

From that day forward, I left the hunting of wild game to my father. I did not have any qualms about cutting up and packaging wild game for the freezer, just the part of bringing the game down. Thoughts of that rabbit haunted me for years. I had made up my mind hunting was not for me.

However, a few years ago, my husband, Don, suggested I go along with him and one of his friends, Al, on a moose hunting trip. I was thrilled and I anticipated contributing to the hunt as a spotter. After all, I had always spotted moose and deer deep in the bush whenever we traveled.

We arranged to meet up with Al early in the morning, leaving home at 3 a.m., and arriving at our hunting destination, Fox Creek, around 6 a.m. We had a bit of a wait before we could begin the hunt, so we used the time to secure items in the box of the truck, fill up with fuel and head down the gravel road to the Berland area to locate a place to set up camp.

It took a fair distance before we found a suitable site. It was approximately a mile off the main road, deep in the bush on an old lease road. We set up our camp nestled in a spruce stand. It was early November, the snow was less than a foot deep and, it was not too cold. I was thankful for that as I found myself wondering how the heck we would drive out of there if a snow storm suddenly developed as they do in Alberta. I threw that thought aside as the guys started to get ready for the hunt. The excitement level was growing around me and, to my extreme surprise, I found myself feeling the same way.

We geared up and jumped in the truck, me seated in the middle with binoculars securely in hand. Our plan for that day was to wander down some of the old cut lines to see if we could spot any tracks or movement of wild game. We surveyed all day with nothing to write home to mother about, so we wound our way back to camp with thoughts of tomorrow’s hunt.

It seemed like we had just fallen asleep when I was awakened by Al stumbling out of the camper. It wasn’t long before I could smell the coffee brewing and the bacon cooking. By daybreak we had breakfast down the hatch and coffee in hand, ready to try our prowess again.

This morning ritual became mundane, especially four days later, when the back of our truck was still empty of game. We were becoming genuinely disappointed; our first day excitement was waning.

It was the morning of the fifth day. There was crispness in the air and the sun exploded over the hills. We went through our morning routine again, as if we were programmed. All day we wove in and out of cut lines and down old roads, locating nothing. Just as disappointment began to set in again, I abruptly sat up straight and pointed to the end of the road. My vocal chords seemed to have become paralyzed. There he was, nonchalantly grazing on some young willow, just a few yards off the road. Excitement returned; the thrill of the hunt rapidly escalated.

My husband forced the truck to do a lip stand as it came to a bone-crushing halt. I had never experienced such a swift frenzy of movement as the guys bailed out of the truck with rifles in hand. I covered my ears in anticipation of the shots. Rifles raised to their shoulders, scopes placed precisely before their eyes, the shots rang out. I watched in awe as the moose jumped back a bit, then took off at full throttle.

Now the work begins!

Al ran off, pursuing the moose on foot. My husband clambered back into the truck, driving it about 350 yards ahead and straight into the ditch. He yelled at me to jump out of the truck to track. Track? What was he talking about? I was the one along to scope out the situation, not to track it! But the excitement of pursuing this beast into the bush was contagious, so I was ready to participate as needed. As I ran, I shouted, “What am I tracking?”

“Blood trail! Tracks!” came Don’s punchy retort.

Okay, but dusk had rapidly descended upon us and I couldn’t see a blood trail or any tracks. I ran back to the truck and grabbed a lantern. Then I ran back towards the hollering and commotion emanating from that eerie-looking brush. I then heard Al’s excited yells: “I found him! I found him!”

I pinpointed his location by his voice while running with my lantern swinging wildly back and forth and banging against my leg. At that moment I couldn’t help but yell back, “I found you! I found you!”

“Very funny!” he replied, before falling to the difficult task of securing our trophy.

It was now dark and we faced the daunting challenge of dragging this huge animal back to the truck. I clearly understood why everything became, at that moment, such a flurry of activity. Landing a moose is not just about the excitement or about filling your tag. It’s also about getting the animal loaded before something else wanders out of the bush to lay its claim to it. We would need the truck to pull our moose out from the heavy brush.

I backed the truck up as far as I could, just about 100 feet from the moose. It was a good thing they had brought the chains and ropes! With moose in tow, I drove slowly away from the thick brush and trees into an area more amenable for dressing and loading the beast. While Al and Don dressed the animal, I stood guard with rifle in one hand and the lantern held high in the other so the men could see what they were doing.

They had just begun as peculiar sounds ascended from the darkness just beyond the light cast from the lantern. Immediately, fear edged its way into my very soul. The scent of the fresh kill had obviously attracted some animal to the site and it was now impatiently pacing back and forth, awaiting an opportunity to try to steal its next meal. I strained to see what was making this ominous noise.

Our discussion of the hunt had turned to a discussion of the hunted – us! What was out there? A grizzly bear? A vicious wolverine? With my feet securely glued to the ground, but my knees feeling like jelly, my mind raced as I considered “fight or flight” impulses.

The guys had wisely picked up their pace. And I continued to stand my ground, wondering whether I was going to have to shoot or throw the lantern blindly into the darkness. The odds were highly in favor of a shot. Adrenaline was surging through our blood like wildfire. I prayed that whatever was outside my vision of light was not going to attack.

The prayer was answered; there was silence.

As fast as that animal made itself known to us, we disappeared into the night, our moose securely in the truck box. It would not be the scavenger’s next meal.

With the task finally accomplished and an attack thwarted, we were en route to our camp. No more disappointment. No more dismay. What an awesome reward we had taken! And the manner in which we had taken it, so enshrouded with thrill and fear as it was, will make for an exciting story to pass on down to the grandchildren.

Am I a hunter who has made her rite of passage? You bet!