A Triple Play In Newfoundland - 11/21/2001

Take an unforgettable ride in the wilderness with a man on a quest for a grand slam of a different kind. And at the same time, find out what outfitter from Maine made it all possible.
By Rick O'Hara

The long trip home from a moderately successful Colorado elk trip spawned vigorous conversation on where to go next year. We had taken one nice 5X6 bull between the three of us. We were not unhappy with the trip we just finished; we were just tired of seeing blaze orange everywhere we looked. As usual, the conversation yielded nothing concrete except we would be going somewhere more remote.

A few weeks after settling in our normal routine, we found something that seemed interesting to all of us. (All of us consist of Buck Washam, my fire chief and long time friend, George Leverton, my neighbor and myself.) We were exploring the chance to moose hunt in Maine.

After communicating several time with C.J. “Charlie” Weisemann a Maine guide, we realized we had a better chance of winning the Illinois Lottery than drawing a moose tag from that state. However, Charlie would not let us down. There is an alternative to Maine he explained. That alternative was Newfoundland.

Again, after the proper communications, deposits and personal information exchanged, we were locked in on an affordable hunt in a Canadian province I had to look up in the Atlas to re- familiarize myself with. After all, it had been over 25 years since high school geography class.

I could not leave well enough alone, as usual. Last year's elk trip produced many boring hours for me after I harvested that nice bull the first day of the hunt. I spoke with the outfitter in Newfoundland to see what options were available. I opted for what he referred to as a “Newfie Grand Slam”. I was going to fly into a remote camp and hunt for moose, caribou and bear. That should keep me busy for the seven days.

We chose to drive, because the meat produced by these animals is far to good to leave for an outfitter's friends and relatives. We were going to return with all the meat we could. A cooler was manufactured from plywood and 4” Styrofoam. The cooler filled the eight-foot bed of my diesel pick-up truck and a trailer followed with additional supplies. Buck and I began our three-day drive. George's schedule, would again, force him to fly.

C.J. Weisemann has been booking trips to Newfoundland for 10 years. Call 207-935-4300 for details.
photo by MaineLodges.com

A SLAMMIN' WE WILL GO!
After months of anticipation we pulled out of my driveway on our 2,300-mile trip. We had to allow ourselves ample time for Canadian Customs and a ferry crossing from Sydney Nova Scotia to Port-aux-Basques Newfoundland just weeks after the events of September 11th. Our anxiety proved unfounded. Everything went as smooth as could be expected. In fact, we arrived at our pre-arranged destination hours early.

Jack Strike's Lake, just north of Burgeo, was our meeting place. From here I would be flown in, Buck would be escorted by one of the guides and George, with gun in hand, had already been picked up from the airport in Stephenville. We unloaded our gear and parked my truck. There, Buck and I wished each other good luck as the helicopter circled to land.

Our two-hour trip from Port-aux-Basque had produced countless scenic encounters. Cobalt blue lakes, meandering streams, boulder-choked rivers and small mountains covered with dark green spruce. The early October nights had turned the birch trees bright yellow and an occasional maple fiery red. The dazzling combination could produce volumes of post cards. I hoped my low-level flight would do the same. I was not disappointed.

Seconds after lifting off, all signs of human influence were behind me. The view from the air gave yet another perspective of this beautiful part of the world. Now, several brilliant blue lakes could be seen at once. Few streams or rivers flowed far without bearing a dramatic waterfall or dynamic set of rapids. The countless acres of marshes were scored by caribou trails. The rock outcroppings were wrapped with red and purple fall colored shrubbery.

Getting to first base for the author was taken care of with one crack of the bat.
Lee's Layden Lake Lodge photo

As our speed slowed and the blades flared upward, I knew we were close to my final destination and home for seven days. The chopper set down in a marsh close to the timberline and the engine killed to safely transfer equipment. The three departing hunters and two guides assisted in transferring gear. The three took their seats as the chopper fired up and silences again overcome the scenic area.

The cabin could be seen just a few yards in the timber. There were three men helping me with my gear. I was sharing the accommodations with two guides and a cook. But everyone seemed to be in an undue rush to get inside on this warm bluebird day. Hastily, I was escorted to my bunkroom and as I set my gear down. Only then was the rush was made clear. Dean MacDonnald, the youngest of the trio and moose guide explained, “One of the hunters that just left missed a bull tending several cows about a mile away.” He went on to say “That was less than an hour ago he may still be there. Are you ready? Dress light.”

I quickly changed, unlocked my 300 Weatherby Mag, grabbed my still over-stuffed backpack and the four of us were out the door. Less than twenty-five minutes after leaving Lake Peter Strike's (unfortunately while Buck was still standing next to my truck) I was moose hunting.

Maine hunters waiting outside of the Pleasant Mountain Guide Service lodge, ready to bust a moose of their own!
photo by MaineLodges.com

LOOSE ON A MOOSE
My career as a firefighter keeps me in fairly good physical condition. I thought my daily two to three mile run would prepare me for this hunt. After all, it was nothing like the nine to 11,000-foot elevation we experienced in Colorado last year. So I thought.

We exited the front door of the cabin and turned toward the timber. Even the timber was worthy of a postcard. Everything was covered with a thick bright green moss, and that's a problem. The moss covered logs, boulders and at times running water. Footing is an issue. I quickly learned to keep close to one of the locals and step where they did.

As we broke into sunshine we found ourselves in one of the countless marshes. Walking in these areas is springy, like walking on a wet bag of peat moss. Bob MacDonnald, the cook, was the first to point out the small black puddles. As the water flows and filters its way through the soil in erodes areas. If the water looks black it is deep, maybe up to one's waist.

The hillsides were drier but produced ankle- twisting shrubs. If a well-worn caribou trail could not be found, this vegetation yielded a stroll somewhat like walking on mounds of old bed springs. However, it usually meant solid rocks were close. And they were. We stopped to glass (or spy as the locals call it) the facing hillside. I was told this is the area where the bull was sighted and missed.

Bob and Walt (Dean's father) were going to stay on the large rock as Dean and I traversed the opposing hillside. We were met by several hundred yards of the springy ankle-twisting shrubs, then more spongy marsh (mesh to the locals) and a creek crossing -- all at a fast walk. As I saw the hill grow closer, I could see small pines and thought the walk would get easier. After all, the only solid ground we had seen since leaving the cabin was the large garage size boulder Walt and Bob were glassing from.

"He explained in very Scottish influenced English, our goal was to traverse the 400 to 500 yards of pine on the side of the hill to a marsh on top."

At the foot of the hill Dean stopped to glass as both of us caught our breath and wipe the perspiration from our brows. As he fired up a cigarette he looked at me and said, ”Things are going to get tough now.” ‘Now,' I thought. But I never said a word.

He explained in very Scottish influenced English, our goal was to traverse the 400 to 500 yards of pine on the side of the hill to a marsh on top. We began up the fourth-five degree angle stepping on the limbs of the spruce covering the hillside. Once in a while, a boulder would aid our step. But the majority of the journey was made via the pine branches.

I don't think I've been more pleased to get to a destination in my life, as I was to get to that marsh. I fought my backpack and my rifle the entire way. Dean pointed East down the marsh. Without speaking, we made our way to the area the bull was thought to be. A few calls were made without success. I was instructed, without speaking, to stay put, as he dropped into the pines to make a small drive.

Dean made his way back to my location and glassed towards his father and uncle. Suddenly, we were on our way back to the area we broke into the marsh. The two spotters signaled they had seen the bull in the area we just traveled. Frequently stops were made not to over run the bull. Then, I heard the words I had little faith in hearing, “There he is.”

In excess of 200 yards down the hill was a nice bull in a small clearing. He was nervous and ready to bolt. Dean said, ”Shoot, it is a nice bull”. But, I could not clear the pines. I had to find a boulder to get above them. I found such a perch just 10 yards up the hill. I had no pine to steady my shot; I had to shot off hand. I calmed myself and slowly squeezed the trigger.

I knew I would not taxidermy a moose head of this size. So I was not upset when all the bull offered was a neck shot. Instantly upon the report of the Weatherby, Dean was shouting at the top of his lungs. I could not make out what he was saying at first. I looked again. The moose was down!

Two hours after arriving at camp, I had a 900-plus-pound Bull Moose on the ground. Better yet, it had been an instant harvest without tracking, one shot through the spine. While quick, I still had two more animals to pursue. A few pictures were taken then the task of field dressing began. The meatpacking would be left till the next morning.

Two down, one to go, and seemingly plenty of time to take his bear, but the author reached a weather-related stumbling block.
photo by Lee's Layden Lake Lodge

HERE A 'BOU, THERE A 'BOU
The next day was Sunday and hunting is prohibited in Newfoundland. Everyone slept a little late and had a good breakfast. We returned to the moose and began the chore of skinning and packing the meat. As the mesh bags were filled they were moved about 30 yards to a flat area. The white bags show up well on the vegetation allowing easy spotting from the air for a chopper pick up.

Monday was deemed caribou day. Walt, Bob and I made our way three miles west to a large rocky ridge. This was our area for spotting. The Newfoundland variety of animal is the Woodland Caribou, a slightly small cousin of the more recognizable Barren Ground species. Scores of these fine animals could be seen moving in every direction. Before the shadows grew too long, we made our way back to camp. I grabbed a bite of dinner and left for the bear bait. No bears had hit the bait for several days now. I sat till I needed a light to return the quarter mile to camp.

Tuesday Walt and I again headed to the rock lookout. The day before, many good size stags were seen cutting through a valley about a mile southwest. We were going to give ourselves till noon then start in that direction. The mid-day was prime time for stalking. At 8:30 we spied a nice stag a mile straight west in a small valley. We decided to make a move on the animal and take a closer look. The cool wind was coming out of the northwest. We just needed to stay below the southern-most ridge till we were close. After 30 minutes of careful movement we slowly crested the ridge to find the stag grazing approximately 70 yards from us. I confirmed with Walt and we got into a better shooting position. I again checked with my guide to see if all was okay. He was attempting to catch the event on video. We gave one another the thumbs up and I took careful aim. The 180-grain bullet from the 300 sent yet another animal to the ground with a single crack.

We had ample time to prepare the meat for transport. There was cause to celebrate and after a few snap shots both Walt and I sat down to eat the lunch Bob had done such a great job preparing. Field dressing was performed and shortly after Dean showed up to assist with the cape and cutting.

A great sense of relief came over me. I now had till around noon on Saturday to get a bear. This has been the stumbling block for many in pursuit of a grand slam.

A fine bruin taken in Maine under the guidance of C.J. Weisemann of Pleasant Mountain Guide Service. For booking information click here.
photo by MaineLodges.com

BEARLY ENOUGH TIME!
The bait near camp produced another uneventful hunt on Tuesday evening. After speaking with Dean, the decision was made to move me to another camp -- one with an active stand. I would be flown out at the next opportunity and would end up at the same camp as my two hunting partners.

As luck would have it, we woke Wednesday to thick fog. It was persistent, never allowing for more than one hundred yards of visibility, unless it was pouring down rain. I read every magazine in the cabin, caught up on my sleep and paced and paced and paced.

Thursday brought an end to the rain, but the fog never broke. I pealed potatoes. I sat on the untouched bear bait. I sharpened every knife I could find in the cabin. I oiled my rifle again and again. I packed my clothes and repacked my clothes. And I knew my chance at a bear was fading fast.

Friday was no better. Heavy fog was preventing any flights. It would clear for a moment or two then close in again. I began to have terrible thoughts. If I don't get out till late Sunday, we may not be able to get our meat till Tuesday. Monday is the Canadian Thanksgiving most places will be closed. We wanted to be home on Tuesday. It is over 2,200 miles home!

Then the word I began to lose hope of hearing rang out – CHOPPER! Our response was not unlike the scramble seen on one of my favorite sitcoms--M.A.S.H. 4077. After six days, I was no longer trailing my guides. I led them to the landing area with my bags in hand. I passed them again when I returned for the remainder of my gear. I was going to get my chance at a bear and I was ready.

I agreed to sit next to the piles of meat in the rear of the craft. (By then I would have agreed to be strapped to the skids.) The 15-minute flight produced yet more unbelievable views. This time there were more animals to be seen, a large bull and cow and many caribou. After landing, several guides assisted with my gear and we scurried down the hill. It was now 2:30 P.M. The cabin was what one might expect at a much more elaborate setting, say where families vacation. It looked very comfortable and modern. The cobalt blue lake (several hundred acres in size) was just a few feet from the front door and the view would make anyone envious. Just inside the door was a large dinner table crowded with hunters including Buck and George. They both had moose tags and they were filled.

"Buck was quick to explain he was having the same ill-fated visions of not getting on the road in time."

I was introduced to another person at the table, Tyler. He would serve as my bear guide. He invited me to stow my gear, relax and grab a snack. It would be an hour or so till we drove a few miles to the stand. Little did he know how much I had been relaxing and snacking for the last two and a half days. But, not to make a nuisance of myself, I practiced some patients and self-restraint and sat.

My two Illinois partners and I shared many stories and laughs in the time I had to kill. Buck was quick to explain he was having the same ill-fated visions of not getting on the road in time. We could now took a deep breath and relax. I had this evening and the following morning to set on the stand and we would get out and make the Saturday night ferry crossing.

The author's bear dressed out a touch more than 200 pounds. Big enough to give you the shakes when trying to climb into the stand with you.
photo by Lee's Layden Lake Lodge

THE FINAL LEG
Tyler and I left a little before five P.M. I was toting my Weatherby he two bags of cheese curls. I thought what a poor thing to be snacking on before dinner. This guy will never get the orange stain off his fingers. But these were an aromatic topping to the bait. Bears love cheese curls. And I'll take any fair advantage I can get at this time.

We reviewed our plan as he drove. We would not speak after leaving the truck. He would point to the stand as we got near it. I would take my seat as he enhanced the bait. He also informed me that a moose had been taken less than 200 yards from the stand five days prior. It was possible the bear would visit the remains or the bait.

All went as planned. I got comfortable in the stand and sat back to enjoy the view. The stand was constructed about six feet off the ground on the side of a hill of small pine logs. The area had been logged two or three years ago but the foliage was back and put on quite a show. I knew my chances of taking a bear were slim. I reminisced of the hunt I had so far and was very pleased. I found it to be successful as it was.

Sounds seem a little more intense and threatening when one sits atop bear bait. I found myself astute to the sounds of crows landing and trees moving from the breeze. I calmed myself by remembering the slim chances I faced. In fact, a bear had not been taken from this camp all year and tomorrow was the last day of the season.

Roughly 30 minutes had passed since arriving and the cool breeze blowing in my face forced me to put on another thin jacket. I scanned from side to side paying particular attention the bait area and the general direction of the moose carcass.

THE FINAL MINUTES
An hour had passed, leaving me another 60 minutes of hunting time. As I scanned towards the carcass, I caught movement. It was partially hidden in the brush 150 yards away. Unsure of the foliage height along the hillside, I was unable to judge the animal's height. It was most likely a cow moose moving through the area. Their backs look very black too. I, again, told myself there was nothing to get alarmed about.

I focused on the movement through my binoculars. As it moved into a small clearing the brown face and round figure was very visible. It is a bear! It was heading straight to the bait. I lost sight of any movement for a few minutes. Then, silently, it reappeared on the bait and just 20 yards up wind of me. It was a good bear that would dress out at about 200 pounds.

I dialed my adjustable scope down to the lowest magnification and waited patiently. As long as there was adequate daylight and the animal stayed close, I was going to wait. After all a larger animal might appear at any time. Several minutes passed as the bear rummaged through the bait. Once satisfied everything eatable was devoured, it moved towards me, turned to my left and began to walk away.

Still only 25 yards away, I waited. Then suddenly the animal turned, backtracked and headed directly under my stand. This was the first bear I'd ever seen in the wild, and it was now about to climb in the stand with me! A curious raccoon was the most dangerous thing this whitetail hunter from Illinois has had to deal with. I shifted my weight and flipped my safety with one silent movement. The bear now had both front paws on the stand's access ladder. The animal's head was just a couple of feet away.

My barrel was aimed at the top of the ladder. A few seconds, I'm sure, but it seemed like an eternity. Finally, it lost interest, turned and walked up wind away from my stand. Now standing, I turned and followed its movement. As it cleared the base of the stand, it paused. With darkness approaching as rapidly as the end of my trip, I placed my crosshairs a few inches below the base of its skull and squeezed my trigger. The Grand Slam was complete. The final hurdle lay motionless a mere six feet from the base of my stand.

After returning to the truck, Tyler and I field dressed the bear. Then we handcuff tied its paws around a sturdy pine pole and carried it back. Two stops were needed to make the hill with the swaying animal. As we swung it on the tailgate we, again, took some time to admire the quality of the thick black coat before beginning the trip back to camp. We left the bear in the back of the truck and descended the long hill to camp.

A few hunters were peering out the picture window as we made our way across the deck. Our late return as well as my uncontrollable grin and thumbs up told it all. Tyler and another guide retrieved the animal as the congratulations and celebrations seemed never ending. Everyone in camp found his or her way to the cold house where it was finally displayed for the night. What a fantastic way to end the season for all. The next day, Buck and I hit the road as scheduled. My heavy-duty truck was burdened with the eatable rewards of all five beautiful animals. The trailer, full of supplies, was crowned with the racks of three fine moose and a caribou. As the trip turned long, the thought of next year, again, surfaced. On this return trip however, “where” did not seem as important as “which.” Which week of next year's season were we returning to Newfoundland?