More than 20 years in the making, how I shot my 1st moose

By Julie Harris, Bangor Daily News Staff

In the moment of truth, my .308 semi-automatic gun jammed. My fault. Not enough oomph in racking a bullet into the chamber.

But it couldn’t have been at a worse moment. I was trying to kill my first moose.

Fortunately, my subpermittee Walter “Bo” Longley of Litchfield was ready, and delivered a crippling shot. He helped me unjam my gun quickly, and I executed the kill shot with precision at 177 yards.

Time of death, 9:09 a.m., my husband Mike Dowd informed us.

It was the culmination of a pursuit that spanned more than two decades. I had entered the state’s annual moose lottery for about a quarter of a century before finally being drawn in June.

I have done other kinds of hunting, primarily deer and upland birds, and a little turkey. But none of those experiences came close to hunting moose. The hunt was as unique as Maine’s iconic animal.

Unlike any other kind, moose hunting brings together siblings, generations, friends who are family — all for a single purpose: to get a moose. 

Bo and Christine Longley are friends who are family — like a brother and sister to us. I have hunted with them a lot, so sharing this hunt and the moose with them made my experience special. It likely wouldn’t have been possible without them. Bo, who has been on multiple moose hunts, had jumped on securing a guide, place to stay and a butcher before I had even returned from the drawing in Fort Kent.

He also helped me find my new-to-me gun and sight it in and made sure I was mentally prepared for the hunt. We talked about kill zones and moose behavior. He sent me daily pictures and videos of moose the last month before the hunt. I studied them, decided whether I would shoot and what my shot would be.

Bo also posed questions that would need instant answers, such as “Would you shoot a spike horn? Would you pass up a small- or medium-sized bull and hope for a larger one? Will you want a bull with beautiful antlers for your wall? What is your goal — trophy, meat or both? Do you want me to shoot first if I have a better angle or wait for your first shot?”

I pondered each one and answered it based on my hunting ethics and my goal, arming myself with self-knowledge before the hunt.

Our permit was for Zone 1, Maine’s northwestern-most corner and at least 5 hours away from our home. We had hired Wicked North Outdoors, a small, family-owned Allagash guide service. 

Owners Pete and Sandy Cyr and their son-in-law Matt Papsadora, who lives in Presque Isle, had a plan for us. We would stay in the Cyrs’ log home just beyond Little Black checkpoint into the North Maine Woods. They had been scouting weeks for moose.

We had prepared food in advance, had all of the warm clothes and boots a person could envision, Hot Hands, snacks, thermoses, guns and ammo. We also brought our Brittany dogs — four of them between the two families — and upland bird gear in case we got our moose before the end of the week. The Jeep was stacked to the ceiling.

I had purchased a used .308 semi-automatic rifle for this hunt and had had very little time with it on a shooting range, thanks to life’s many obligations. Pete took us to his outdoor range to see if Bo and I had what it took to bring down a moose. I shot three rounds — all kill shots Pete said — and Bo took a couple before Pete gave us passing marks.

We were excited and I was just a little nervous, but by 8 p.m., we had packed our backpacks, laid out our gear for the morning and piled into our beds in anticipation of a 2 a.m. alarm. We left at 3 a.m. Monday to drive more than an hour north, well into the North Maine Woods toward the Canadian border.

Shooting time was around 6:20 a.m. so we had a wait. Matt and Sandy, who arrived first, said they had seen some moose. Bo, Pete and I waited in Pete’s truck because the cloudy skies made it too dark to see, then began walking. A moose crossed the woods road we had just traveled, but it faded into the low light. We didn’t know if it was a bull or a cow.

We could almost taste rain in the air, and for a few minutes, it seemed like we might have our moose within the hour and the grand hunt would be done. I hoped deep inside that it didn’t happen that way.

And it didn’t.

Rain began shortly after we started walking old tote roads and paths, peering down alleys between swaths of trees, checking out clearcuts, reading tracks, browse and rut signs and scanning woods edges for hours. We stopped occasionally in places where Pete and Matt had seen moose to try to call in a bull. It was still rut season, so the bulls were looking for cows to mate.

Meanwhile, Mike and Chris waited at a crossroads in the Longleys’ truck. At some point, they explored some of the many area roads, looking for moose but mostly seeking out birds. They had a truckful of trained Brittany dogs just itching to hunt too.

We all gathered at an intersection for lunch, then gave our tired legs a rest in the afternoon and rode around trying to spot moose in clearcuts and other places, covering some miles. Mike and Chris followed us. We saw two bulls, but didn’t have shots at either, although we all jumped out of the truck and made an effort each time. One we chased after into the woods but didn’t find it again.

We were wet and tired and excited to be moose hunting, and kept at it until shooting time ended a half hour after sunset. Each turn in the road, each clearcut held promise until a scan yielded nothing. It began to snow on our way back to the lodge.

On some level, I was disappointed, but really I wouldn’t have traded a thing about Monday. I got the full experience of moose hunting — the changing weather, the hunt, the frustration, the thrill of the chase, the relentless fallen trees and tall brush in places, mud and rutted areas, miles and miles of roads, the heaviness of a gun I carried for hours. 

It had rained overnight and was snowing early Tuesday morning.The North Maine Woods where we would hunt was under a thin blanket of white, but it quickly disappeared with daylight.

I was ready to get down to business.

We started in the same place we had hunted the day before. Seeing nothing, we went to another we had visited on Monday. I requested that my husband walk with us on this road. He isn’t a hunter, but I wanted him to experience the hunt with me.

So, Pete with binoculars, Matt carrying my tripod for me to rest my gun on for shooting, Sandy with her GoPro and phone camera, Bo with his .30-06 rifle and tripod, Mike with his anticipation and I with my .308 walked about a mile into a clearcut on an old tote road, watching for signs and movement, ready to set up for shooting at a moment’s notice. 

When we reached the end of the road, there was a sea of slash and downed trees in front of us before it gave way to more woods. Pete slowly scanned it with his binoculars. 

Then he saw it: a medium-sized bull a couple hundred yards out.

We hurried to set up tripods and scan the horizon with our gun scopes. We had a few moments of excitement because everyone could see the bull moose except for Bo and me, who were the shooters. Finally Bo saw it and fired his gun, hitting it in the spine. The moose went down and we thought it was over, but it raised its head.

Bo’s tripod, as it turned out, was a little too close to mine so that when he shot, it blasted away my ability to hear out of my right ear. I was trying to listen to people’s directions, because I still was not seeing the moose. Then I saw it, its head and neck visible. I aimed the .308 at the center of its neck and dealt the fatal shot.

Three cows scattered and headed for the woods. We didn’t even see them until then. It all happened in just a few seconds.

There is an inevitable rush of adrenaline, joy for the prospect of meat and a little sadness for having taken a life. But I have farming roots. I understand those things well.

We slowly made our way through the nearly 200 yards of slash and downed trees and bog to get to the moose. I thanked the animal for the sacrifice of its life to put meat on our tables, and thanked God for the success of our hunt. Then I turned toward where we had been standing and saw a beautiful rainbow peeking from under the clouds.

It felt like affirmation. And I got to share it with my family. Bo has been a brother to me for a few years now. Brittany dogs brought our families together. He watched out for me when I was widowed, and welcomed my new husband with open arms. I can always depend on him to be there for me, with advice or help or a good laugh. 

Now, I could share this once-in-a-lifetime experience with him. It was emotional for both of us.

But with a moose on the ground, the real work was about to begin. The day was warming up and we needed to get the animal out of there. I also needed to take blood and lung samples for a University of Maine graduate student who asked hunters to volunteer to take samples for a study. I had picked up my kit containing test tubes and instructions from the DIF&W office in Bangor about a month before, and Chris helped me take the samples.

The guides used a half canoe, steel cable and a winch to pull the 590-pound dressed-out moose across the landscape and eventually onto the trailer. The setup made it possible for the moose to glide easily over slash, downed trees and stumps.

We took the moose back to the lodge where Wicked North had two posts with a beam across to hang and weigh the carcass. They hosed it out, cleaning it up a bit before we took it to the registration station, where a biologist pulled a tooth from it. We will find out its age later.

The butcher in St. Francis at Hill’s Custom Meat Cutting said he would try to have our meat ready before we departed from the Allagash, and we left with the skull cap and antlers for my mount. We have 428 pounds of moose meat to split between us.

With the moose behind us, we got in some upland bird hunting before we returned home.

Now it’s time to get ready for deer season, which starts for residents on Nov. 2.