Of fishing and musing about moose

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While trolling for landlocked salmon in late May, a sport and his guide came upon a cow moose swimming across the lake’s narrows, a short stretch 200 yards or so wide. Considering the cow was only about halfway across, the sport couldn’t believe his eyes when its humped shoulders and back began rising from the water. Astonished, he turned toward the guide, who said, “You’re not seeing things. She’s wading. A bar runs from where she is all the way to shore. Some of it shows when the lake’s at summer level. But those critters know right where it is. They cross there all the time.”

On reaching shore, the moose paused and, with ears erect, regarded the canoe and its occupants with an air of annoyance. Moments later it turned and trotted into the thick weave of conifers crowding the shoreline. “Quite an animal,” the sport thought aloud. “As big and ungainly as they are, you’d think they’d have a hard time getting around in the woods, especially bulls with their massive antlers.”

“They’re surprisingly agile,” said the guide. “I’ve seen them go over blowdowns without missing a step. ‘Course with those long legs – their front legs are longer than their hind legs – and big splayed-out hoofs, they’re well suited for wallowing around in bogs and swamps. And those hoofs are like paddles when they’re swimming. You saw how that cow was clipping along, leaving a wake. You do a lot of hunting. Ever hunt moose?”

“No, I haven’t,” the sport replied. “Matter of fact, I’ve never applied for a permit … never had a desire to shoot a moose. But to each his own is the way I see it.”

“Exactly. Personally, I don’t care about shooting a moose, but I’ve learned a lot about them by guiding. You’ve probably heard them described as swamp donkeys, but all kidding aside, they’re an interesting and impressive animal. North America’s biggest game animal, in fact. For whatever it’s worth there are four subspecies, our Eastern moose, Shira’s, Northwestern, and Alaskan. They’re thought to be descendants of Siberian moose that crossed the Bering land bridge into North America, which means they’ve been here a while.”

“Maine’s state animal, too,” the sport reminded, and then asked, “Is there anything to this talk about the moose herd declining? I’ve heard that hunters aren’t seeing as many as they did back along.” Shaking his head, the guide countered, “I don’t buy it. The reason they’re not seeing as many is that a lot of the cuts are getting grown up with popple. Consequently, moose aren’t showing up at 300 yards or so, like they did, say, 10 years ago. But there’s no shortage of them, believe me. The herd’s estimated at about 35,000 – I’d be willing to bet it’s more than that – and in spite of the rains that made miserable hunting conditions last fall, hunter success was still nearly 80 percent.” Nodding thoughtfully, the sport replied, “I don’t doubt it. I saw quite a few young moose on the way up here.”

“Yearlings, chased off by cows getting ready to calf again. Cows will breed when they’re a year and a half old, but bulls don’t get the urge until they’re 5 or so. Once they do, though, look out.”

“Tell me about it,” the sport concurred. “I was bird hunting one day and a big bull came legging it along an old tote road just a few yards from me. I’ve heard they have poor eyesight, so I guess he didn’t see me. It was early October, though, and the foliage was thick, so maybe that was a factor. Anyway, I could hear him grunting when he went by – ungh, ungh, ungh – like that, and didn’t he stink.”

Chuckling, the guide explained, “Late September into early October is the peak of the rut. They’re single-minded then, and unpredictable. They don’t eat and, as you noticed, some of them smell like an outhouse. As for eyesight, moose have a problem seeing ahead of them because their eyes are set to the sides of their heads. That creates a blind spot in front of them, like a horse has. Just the same, a moose doesn’t miss much because its eyes are independent. They can move in different directions at the same time.”

“Their eyes don’t glow like a deer’s, though, when they’re caught in lights,” the sport affirmed, adding quickly, “Make that headlights.”

“I was going to ask what you were basing that observation on. But you’re right, a moose’s eyes make more of a reddish glimmer than a bright glow. At any rate, what they lack in eyesight is made up for with their senses of smell and hearing.”

While working his fly rod to make the streamer dart like a spooked smelt, the sport mused, “Cows must be dropping their calves about now, aren’t they?”

“Right. From now into June.”

“What’ll a calf weigh at birth?”

“Oh, I’d say 20, 25 pounds. By fall they’ll weigh 300, maybe 400.”

“That’s amazing. How do they … what do they eat to get that big in such a short time?”

“Mother’s milk and summer’s prime pasturage of fresh buds, plants, and aquatic vegetation. It’s nature’s way of preparing them for winter. They get slim pickings when the snow flies, nothing but tips and twigs. In fact, the word moose means twig eater, it comes from the Algonquin language. But even so, moose are more than a match for Ol’ Man Winter. Their long hollow hair and thick undercoat insulate them against subzero cold and would you believe that on mild and sunny winter days they actually seek shade? The way I read it, they handle cold weather better than hot weather. In spite of shedding, they get heat-stressed in summer. Small wonder, as big as they are and with a body temperature of around 102 degrees … if my boiler was running that hot, I’d stick close to water, too.”

Mindful that Maine winters can decimate deer populations, the sport said, “I can see that those long legs enable moose to travel in snow that would be too deep for deer.”

“That’s for sure. A moose can get around in three feet of snow, but generally they tuck into the softwood shelters when it gets deeper than two feet. ‘Course you know deer start yarding when there’s about a foot of snow.”

“How long can a moose live anyway?”

“Twenty years or more, if they don’t get shot or road-killed or die from brainworm, a parasite they get from deer. There’s a snail involved somehow, but I don’t know the whole story on it. Hereabouts, the only predators moose contend with are bears. They take quite a few calves if they can get by the cows, but believe me, a cow protecting a calf is a mean critter when she gets those hoofs flailing – and you can imagine what a bull’s antlers can do. A smart bear doesn’t mess with adult moose.”

“They’re so big and powerful,” the sport replied. “What’s the average – Aha!” he exclaimed as the reel buzzed and the rod bent to its task. The net profit was a scrappy landlock that spanned 20 inches on the tackle box tape. When the fish was released, the sport continued, “As I was saying, until that salmon so rudely interrupted me, what’s the average weight of an adult bull?”

“I’ll say 900 or so. I think the state record is 1,300. Adult cows average around 700. The rule of thumb is that about half their weight is meat, the same as beef cattle.”

“You can have my share of it. Any moose meat I’ve eaten has been tougher than tripe.”

“Probably came from a rutting bull that had run himself ragged. If I wanted moose meat, I’d shoot a young one. Otherwise it’s a gamble. You can either cut it with a fork or you need a hacksaw to cut the gravy. Most likely the latter. That’s why a lot of it ends up as stew beef or mooseburger.”

“Well, anyway, all things considered, some of those bulls are wearing mighty impressive headgear. How old would they have to be to grow such huge antlers?

“Typically 5 to 12. What’s amazing is that they grow them every year. They drop their antlers in January and start growing new ones in March or April. By August they’re scraping off velvet and polishing new prongs and palms. By the way, during the rut those palms give off a musky scent.”

“They sure are strange looking animals.” the sport allowed. “So homely they’re handsome, even majestic. What about that big crop of hair hanging at their throats? What purpose does that serve?”

“It’s called a bell, but what it’s for is a good question. One guess is that it’s a sign of a bull’s virility. But cows have it, too; not as showy, though. It’s also thought that it wicks water from the head and neck. Another theory is that when a bull is rutting, he saturates the bell with his saliva and urine, creating scent that’s attractive to cows. Obviously he can drool saliva onto the bell, but what you want to know is how he manages to saturate it with urine, right? So I’ll tell you, he digs a pit and urinates into it, making a pool that he stomps and thrashes around in.”

“Talk about dirty old men!” the sport exclaimed with a facial expression indicative of unpleasant odor.

“Well, whatever works,” the guide said with a shrug. “They also send signals by splashing and urinating in water and by intentionally breaking twigs and sticks. They get feeling real full of themselves. Anyway, so much for moose. Let’s go back to camp and cobble a lunch and hope these salmon are in a feeding frenzy come evening.”

“Unbelievable,” the sport muttered as he began reeling in.

“What, the things moose do?”

“No. The things I learn while fishing.”

If this column is in any way interesting and informative the credit belongs to the cow moose that swam across Munsungan Lake while Jim Carter and I were fishing this spring; and to wildlife biologist Karen Morris, moose project leader, Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife.

Tom Hennessey’s columns and artwork can be accessed on the BDN Internet page at www.bangornews.com. Tom’s e-mail address is: thennessey@bangordailynews.net. Web site address is: www.tomhennessey.com.