Bear Grease - Ep. 378: This Country Life - On the Loose for Moose, Part 2

Episode Date: October 17, 2025

We're getting down to the meaty part of this Manitoba moose hunting tale. Brent left us all on the edge of our seats with his cliffhanger last time just when he'd gotten to moose camp. Rest assured there's no tricks this week and the rest of the story is waiting for you to push play. It's moose shooting time on MeatEater's "This Country Life" podcast. Shop This Country Life Merch Connect with Brent and MeatEater MeatEater on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, and Youtube Clips Subscribe to the MeatEater Podcast Network on YouTube Shop This Country Life Merch Shop Bear Grease MerchSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

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Welcome to this country life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves. From Coon Hunting to Trotlining and Just General Country Living, I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences and life lessons. This Country Life is presented by Case Knives from the Storemore Studio on Meat Eat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcasts that Airways have to offer. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share. On the Loose for Moose Part 2

I hope y'all are as ready as I am to get back after this Canadian moose. I've been busting at the seams to tell you all about the experience of the hunt from where we dropped off last week. And as luck would have it, we stopped just before we were literally dropped off at the cabin we'd be hunting out of for the following week. Cock your pistols kids, we're fixing to get to work on hymming up a moose in northern Manitoba.

The pilot leveled off the De Havillan Otter out of the sharp left-hand bank as we descended toward the lake while applying the flaps that I could see engage out the window. The engine slowed as we coasted downward until flaring right above the surface of the water. And for what seemed like forever, I waited for the rush of the sound of the lake water

contacted the floats as we skimmed just above the surface, 70 miles an hour. Now, out the window I could see in the distance, a boat pulled up on the bank and a man standing beside it. The floats eased into the water, and in a few seconds, we were at idle, trolling up to the bank where my friend and outfitter Craig McCarthy stood knee-deep in the lake and a pair of waiters. The pilot did an about face and backed the otter into the shallow water, tail first. Now, I don't know who was more excited. me, cameraman Dave Gardner, or Craig, to get all our gear off the plane and light the fuse on

this hunt. We watched as the otter taxied out on the lake and took off, taken with it the noise that had been drowning out the sounds of silence. And when it was gone, nothing but the wind pushing through the trees and the lake as it washed up and down the sand could be heard. For a moment, we all stood there just so good. it in. Craig had been away from home now for 26 days, guiding in the wilderness from the more northern province and none of it, then here for a week by the time Dave and I arrived, but he knew what we were doing. We were turning the page from all the months and meetings of practice and preparation to chapter one of this project. And everything up until now had been

written for us. Take this equipment and these items, be here on this date and here at this time. Fill out these forms, get them signed by these folks. Pick up these permits stand in this line. And we had done all of it. Everything that had been asked and required of us had been done. Now we were here and the rest of the story we would write ourselves with Craig's guidance, Dave's camera.

From now on it would be totally up to the three of us to tell this story. And moose or no moose, there would be one to tell. We toted all our bags and cases up to cut out trail from the beach 40 yards to the cabin. The air smelled fresh and it felt cool. We walked inside our home for the next week and I picked a bunk nearest the door and furthest away from the wood heater. Dave took up residence in the corner and Craig was already rooted into his spot on the opposite side of the structure from where Dave was. canvas cots adorned with air mattresses would be our slumbering scaffolds

and underneath them we'd stow our bags and extra boots and packs on the mud-stained plywood floor plywood walls with nails driven into the two before studs would be our closets it had all the amenities of solitary confinement if you'd been sentenced to prison on little house on the prairie and i loved every inch of it Craig whipped us up a bait of eggs and bacon for dinner since we'd skipped breakfast. He cooked it on a small two-burner gas stove, brewed a pot of coffee, and toasted some bread on the flat surface of the wood heater he'd stoked up after we got settled in.

We'll have plenty of time to start our hunt this afternoon, he said. It's legal to fly and hunt on the same day here in Manitoba. I'm in, but I want to go shoot this rifle before we do. I want to make sure this thing is still good to go. after we finished eating but got our packs ready with all the plunder we'd be toting with us and headed off to the other end of the lake to check the zero on my rifle. It was an issue that had worried me since I'd left Little Rock the day before. I checked it in at the ticket counter and a very helpful lady who crossed all the T's

and dotted all the eyes on my paperwork and printed my boarding passes, did everything but yell Hulk smash when she slowned my rinds. rifle case onto the conveyor belt behind the counter. I swear it was so loud I thought it had gone off in the box. The only thing that told me different was knowing I'd remove the bolt before I secured the locks on the case. I wanted to throat punch her, but I wanted to stay out of jail more, so I settled on setting her on fire with my steely-eyed death-laser stare as I walked away. That showed her.

A mile down the lake and three shots later at 100 yards and we were in business. I had death raid disintegrated that ticket laid at the airport for nothing. I felt bad about that. Not ready. Anyway, the hunt was on. We settled into the boat and headed up to the lake three miles to the northeast for our first set. The wind and water sprayed a steady mist over the bow of the boat. It was cold on my skin and Dave stopped filming every so often.

to wipe it off the lens of his camera. There was so much to see an experience, and we were just getting started. We stepped out of the boat onto a big section of Manitoba granite and walked off into the sponge-covered muskeg and peat deposits that make you feel every step in the small of your back until you get acclimated to it properly. The air mattress that looked thin and inefficient at first glance

would be just what the doctor ordered and a welcome sanctuary later that night. The wind was howling by dark that evening and all of Craig's calls and grunts had gone unanswered. What I didn't really understand at the time was that he was more or less throwing out bait, so to speak, with every call for the next day. We were positioned on the edge of the lake, calling away from the water, but the wind was carrying his calls across the lake behind us. this was a two-fold scenario. We might call a bull in that was close to us on the same side of the lake as we were,

or the calls that drifted three-quarters of a mile behind us might pull one on to the bank that we could see from where we were. Also, a moose from two miles awake, and here the cause Craig was periodically cached into the wind, which could have a bull waiting in that area the following morning. It's believed that the paddle portions of their antlers act like heronades directing sound to their ears and just like an old gobbler hearing one cluck from a hundred yards away, a moose from over a mile knows exactly where that sound came from. So even if we didn't see or hear anything that afternoon, we were laying groundwork for the hunts that would come next.

We made it back to camp, had supper, and slipped outside down to the edge of the lake to watch the northern lights. I'd seen them twice before this trip, once in Alaska a few years ago in August and once in Saskatchewan in late June. The Saskatchewan sighting was faint, but it still counted, especially to someone who'd never dreamed he'd get to see them more than once in a lifetime, much less on more than one occasion. The best time and place to see them in Manitoba is in Churchill from January to March, but they're visible on average about. three hundred nights a year. We were less than 150 miles from there and I was amped to see them as I was a moose. No kidding. Churchill is also the best place to see a polar bear. I had a hankering to see one of those too, just not in the setting I was currently in. Also, not kidding.

The lights didn't disappoint. Dave, Craig, and I stood staring at the same spectacular vista in the sky, each of us seeing differently or feeling differently about what we saw. I called home later that night talking to my wife, Alexis, and I struggled to come up with the adjectives to accurately describe them. I realized there wasn't only my limited vocabulary causing my struggle. Dave is first and foremost a photographer. He's an excellent cinematographer, obviously, or he wouldn't be there to begin with, but taking still pictures is what he started out doing.

and the rimbrant of the steel frame couldn't capture the totality of what we were seeing. It was that overwhelming. There. It took me two weeks to come up with overwhelming, but that's the best way I know to describe. Last spring, Clay Newcomb and I collaborated with Jason Phelps at Phelps game calls in building each of our own favorite turkey diaphragms called prime cuts. Now, I'm going to tell you, I love mine because it's easy to use. I'm not going to win a turkey calling contest.

It's just not going to happen. But when I run this call, I get the sounds that gobblers are looking for. I have a great turkey hunting track record. If you go listen to real turkeys out in the woods, they're not going to win calling contests, right? That's who I listen to. I can make those sounds on my cut. I also hunt with Phelps's cut, and I hunt with Clay's cut because they're all three great cuts. Check out prime cuts at Felps.

I think you'll be glad you did. And you'll find out that the Steve Ronella cut is an easy-to-use cut for beginning callers who just want to start making good turkey noises and getting action. The next morning we were up before the coffee got ready. It had frosted heavy outside and lightly on the inside. Craig stoked up the fire and had me prop the door open

in short order. The interior of our 14 by 16 tarp covered cabin would hold all the BTUs that little stove could churn out. Seeing my breath when I woke up was a welcome sight and vastly different from the long hot summer that is still taking place outside the house here in Arkansas. Our departure would be delayed that morning due to a heavy fog that only lessened throughout the day and never completely lifted until late in the afternoon. By midday, we'd ventured out to the opposite side of the lake,

from the evening before. We were three-quarters of a mile from where Craig had called less than 24 hours ago, and while we stood at the edge of the lake, we heard the lonesome, melancholy sound of a cow moose, followed by the grunts of a bull that was closing the distance to her. Both of them in an area that would have been catching our wind long before they came to us, so we opted out of trying to lure them to our spot. It was still early in the hunt,

and we had plenty of time. We slipped back to camp after having been treated to the cause of those moose and watching two dozen spruce grouse pick up enough grit to make a litter box for a tiger. Those rascals were everywhere. We even had one strut by like a boss gobbler that was so close I could have kicked the field goal with him. It was quite a show. That evening we boated around with nothing to show for moose,

and as we passed the source of a river that fed off the lake, Craig spotted a moose from over 500 yards away. I don't know how he saw it, but he did. Finally directed me and my binoculars into the area he was looking at, and Dad, Gump, I didn't see two of them. Well, pieces of two of them as they stayed hidden except for open patches here and there and a long way away, one bull and one cow.

Craig cut the engine, and we floated downstream and made a, and made a call, but the bull never responded other than pushing her further down the river and smashing some trees along the way. You could see the tops of them shaking. Things were picking up, and we had a starting point for in the morning. The wind was forecasted to be perfect for a play down that river the next morning. The bull we saw would probably still be in the area, and even if he wouldn't leave her and come to us, another bull chasing after her might.

We just needed the wind to cooperate. The next morning was warmer than the day before, and the wind was blowing harder than it had since we'd gotten there, but the direction was exactly like they'd forecasted it to be. We built a pot of coffee and waited on daylight, and by the time you could see clearly across the lake, we were pushing off the bank, motoring the short ride toward the river.

We pulled up on the bank across the river from where we'd seen the pair of the night before, and Craig started calling ever so often. In the turkey woods, I call that prospect. Just slinging a call out hoping for a response. We knew there had been moose there the day before, but the landscape is unending. They could be anywhere by now. It's kind of like playing pool while wearing a blindfold.

Being at the table is only half the battle. You're just poking and hoping something goes in. We sat on a point where you could see the lake and down the river for over a quarter of a mile. Until midday and we hadn't seen a hair of a moose. We had several trumpeter swans fly so close overhead before we headed back to the cabin I felt like I could have raked them out of the sky with a yard broom. Big, beautiful birds. What more can I say?

Craig fed us a half a loaf of wood stove toast, three sittens of eggs and enough bacon to rebuild the hog it came off of for dinner. We retired to our spots for a nap, And by 3.30 that afternoon, we were shoved off the bank for the second time, headed to the point on the river where we'd sat earlier. The wind was honking like a New York City taxi driver, but still in our favor, and by 4 p.m., we were pulling back up on the bank where we'd tied up that morning. We eased down the bank to a drier piece of ground about 30 yards past where we'd sat the morning.

The temperature continued to warm in spite of the wind coming off the lake, and by warm, I mean it was in the mid-60s, which is Arkansas cool, but we weren't in Arkansas, not by a long shot. Now, Craig said with the wind blowing like this, the moose are more than likely bedded down. He figured they'll be back in there feeding before dark if the wind starts to late, just like yesterday, but probably not before. Then he said, we should get comfortable,

but keep an eye down the river as warm as it is, they may come out to drink. I fastened my rifle onto the tripod and set it up where it would be adjusted to me while standing, and I pointed it in a safe direction away from where we were and found a log ten yards away that would hold three fannies above the wet ground. I sat down closest to my rifle, and Dave and Craig each had a spot a little further down the log. Now, before I left Arkansas, I downloaded a ballistics calculator app on my phone, my friend and Sig Sire engineer Matt Burns, who helped me sighted my rifle, set it up for me,

and helped me load all the data from my rifle into the calculator. Now, when I arranged a target, I could input the data, distance to the target, wind, elevation, and the calculator would tell me how to adjust my scope for the yardage I was shooting. That's basic stuff for all you long rifle shooters out there, but I ain't no rifle shooter. I ain't never shot at a deer more than 100 yards away. I never went to sniper school. I'm a bow hunter. And all my police training and operations was on the entry team.

Close quarters battle in bow hunting. This was all new to me. But Matt had me dialed in. We've been there less than 10 minutes. Dave and Craig sitting to my left and me studying the ballistics app on my phone by putting in different yardages and familiarizing myself with a data output, really just killing time waiting on the golden hour. Dave and Craig were talking, but with the wind, I couldn't hear what they were saying.

I punched in some numbers and were staring at my phone when I heard Craig say, There's a bull on the river, get your rifle. I looked up thinking he was messing with me to see him sprinting by me headed toward my rifle with Dave in hot pursuit. I glanced down the river and walking out of the timber was a dinosaur with moose ant. The only thing between that moose and the sun was the outside of the moose. He was lit up like he was in a movie. The sun turning the edges around him, a sharp yellow that glistened in the sun like a 1,200-pound nugget of gold.

I remember watching him take his second step into the river when I realized I needed to do what Craig said and get my rifle. I turned, stepped over the log to get my weapon when Craig passed me again, carried. it and Dave right behind him with his camera on his shoulder recording. I jumped behind the rifle, settled the crosshairs on the moose as he walked further out into the water. He was knee-deep, a third of the way into the stream and just standing there looking across the river at the other bank. Craig ranged him and said, 460. I put 460 in the calculator.

I read the response and adjusted the scope turret. That moose didn't look like he was 460 yards away. He looked like he was as close as the next door neighbor. How far? Craig said 460, ranged it twice. I checked the calculator and the scope turret settings and I was right on it. I took a deep breath. I exhaled most of it and clicked the safety off

and settled the crosshairs right behind the shoulder of the biggest game animal I'd ever looked at through a scope and a hot weapon. I don't remember putting my finger on the trigger, so when the rifle went off, it surprised me. The Six-hour cross-chambered in 300 PRC is a big round. It's a loud round, but not only did it surprise me when it went off, the sound was minimal at best, and the recoil not existed. I heard the 220-grain bullets slamming to the moose,

who, as far as I know, didn't even flinch. I saw a water kick up beyond where he stood in the river, reinforcing what I just heard. I shot right through him. I chambered another round and settled across there's once again, but the bull turned away from me and faced down river, still standing a third of the way out into the water. Time stopped.

I could hear my heart beating in my ears. And whether I said out loud or in my head, I guess we'll find out next year when we all watch the film, but I said if he turns either way, I've got him. Slowly he turned to the left and started to go back the way he came. And once he was broadside, I sent him another one. What? I heard it hit him in less than a second after I shot, just like the first time.

If he flinched, I couldn't tell him. I worked a bolt as fast as I could and I sent him another one. What? He was now walking up out of the water and disappeared on the bank into the timber. A flood of the water. emotion, amazement, disbelief, and wild-eyed excitement came over us all. I can't tell you what I said because I don't remember. I recall saying I wish my brother Tim was with me and I scrambled to find the shell casings

to give him. I found one and it's his. I guarded it with my life until I got it home and by the time he hears this, he will already have it in his pocket. We waited 20 minutes before Christmas. said let's go find your bull we loaded the boat and we drifted down river toward where we'd last seen him played it over in my mind a thousand times before we got there and I felt as confident as I'd ever been about shooting but intimidated by the

monumental task that we'd all just undertaken what comes next are we going to have to track him how tough is this animal that just walked off toting 636 grains of stopping lay down that was traveling at almost 2,800 feet per second when he ran into him. Dave was in the front of the boat filming backward toward me in the middle and Craig running the motor. Dave saw him first and then Craig. I was straightening my guts out trying to see what must be so painfully obvious to everyone else in a boat. Where is this thing? I was searching every inch I could see for a clue.

And then I saw him. It was 15 feet from the edge of the water laying on the dry ground. And all of a sudden, the guy that gets paid to talk and tell stories couldn't think of anything to say. I walked up to him and made sure he was dead. Before I reached down to touch him, I stared at this beautifully massive animal that lay at my feet. It was a lot to take in. Now was when the real work starts, but in a flash of consciousness, I relive the last 50-something years of my hunting career that all led to this pinnacle of accomplishment. I saw all the people, friends, family, everyone that played even the smallest role in getting me to the spot I was now standing in on the bank of an unnamed river that fed off an unnamed lake.

I certainly didn't get here by myself, and without all those people, my dream hunt would still be just a dream. It took us two and a half hours to scan quarter and remove all the meat and load it in a boat. We each took our spots with Dave sitting beside me on the way out. The sun was just fading away at dusk, and it was easier to see and navigate the river without any headlights. I sat there still in grateful disbelief in what I had just experienced. Outside of my family, there's no way to top the feeling I was having at that moment. And then I looked up. Northern lights were out early and they were brighter than they'd been since we'd gotten there.

They would shine a couple more nights but nothing like they did then. It was a dancing ribbon of beauty. celebration and gratitude. And it made me feel very small and mostly insignificant. And not in a bad way, more like it put me in my place in the grand scheme of things. I was affected by that trip in the purest way. While it was somewhat emotionally intimidating, it solidified my position as a participant in the daily grind for survival

in a place where survival isn't easy. Once the hunt was over, we've flown back and we left. Dave and I dropped off all the meat except for the backstraps at the meat station in Erickstale, Manitoba. I'll be picking the rest of it up later this year when Craig brings it down when he goes grocery shopping with his rifle in the lower 48. The skull and hide I left with Thomas Myers in Stonewall, Manitoba. I'm having it tanned and skull clean. That skull will hang on my new office wall. And in that form, it's my way of tipping my hat to the folks to send me there.

The backstraps I had frozen and stuffed them into two 30 quarts off coolers and flew home with them. One backstrap in each. One weighed 49 pounds, and the other 51. 100 pounds of the purest protein around that tastes better than ice cream. Well, there you have it, the mousse-hound. But wait, there's more. You'll get to see it next year is a feature-length production,

and I can't wait for you to see it. I'm proud of what I believe we captured in a place where everywhere you look is a picture, and every sound you hear is a song. Thank you so much for listening to me, Backwood University and Bear Greece. There's some new This Country Life t-shirts available on the website if you like that sort of thing,

and the tickets are going fast on the Meteor Live tour that's dipping down south of the Mason Dixon. I'm a plum give out after all that. Until next week, this is Brent Reeves. Signing off. Y'all be careful. First Lights fieldware collection is made for the work that happens long before opening day and continues when the season ends.

Products built for early mornings, full days and real use. Hard wearing where they need to be versatile where it matters. No shortcuts. Just gear designed for. the work that earns the season. Built to perform, built to last. Check out. First Lights new fieldware gear at firstlight.com.