This fall I opted to do Algonquin park over several weekends rather than an extended stay. I’d leave home on Saturday at 4:00 in the morning to get up in time for first light, spend the night and return home Sunday evening. I had god luck seeing moose every trip. But by late fall the moose move deeper into the park and after one trip of seeing nothing I called an end to moose hunting season. … Until it snowed. Then I raced back up hoping to catch one last glimpse of one last moose in first snow. It started out perfect. The park was covered in a foot of freshly fallen snow and I practically had the whole place to myself. As I drove into the park a bull charged onto the road. Though he disappeared as soon as he saw me stop, it was looking good. But it wasn’t. I never saw so much as a rabbit track. I tried all my favorite spots, staked out a few places hiding in the snow under camo. Practiced my moose calling. Nothing. I was totally skunked. Nonetheless it was beautiful and quiet, and I milked the day for every drop of solitude and sunlight. I headed home in the dark and I was midway through the park when I saw a car up ahead pulled off to the side of the road. Always a good sign, though I wished it had come with some daylight. As I approached I could see the bull behind the tree line – even less light back there. The other car gave up and left me alone with him. I could see he was a young bull and didn’t mind company. He ambled about feeding, occasionally glancing toward me, but I could barley pull focus and didn’t really have a good shot. Then he popped his head through the brush, appeared to glare at me, then disappeared into the dark. But not before I was able to focus in on the snow dusting his head
