The Cheechako

Al Hansen

Well-known member

The old timer looked me over and then said, “When you go moose hunting around here, the “only” thing that counts is how close the dead moose is to your truck. Everything else you can forget about but not this.” I was sipping a cup of coffee in a small roadside café in Cooper’s Landing, Alaska, which is on the Kenai peninsula. I loved going to this small hole in the wall, café, because of the owner----Lilly. She was an elderly lady who had one of the foulest mouths known to man. The reason I enjoyed this spot so much was her uncanny ability as a cook. She knew how to make huge caramel rolls, that while still warm, would have the butter dripping off of it. My gosh they were good and I ate my fair share in those early years of mine back in the 60's. I would deliberately not eat in Anchorage—drive the 106 miles to Cooper’s Landing and then indulge myself with bacon, eggs, hashbrowns, and toast, all the while sipping on her coffee that was oh-so good. This was the only time in my life where I had dessert for breakfast which was always one of her caramel rolls.
The good news is that I never gained an ounce because I was constantly hiking up and down the mountains, walking across glacial streams, always scouting for this and that in my quest to fill the great thirst I had for Mother Nature.
“Did you hear me, Cheechako?” the old man asked. “Yes, sir,” I replied and left the café to go and try to catch a few trout with my flyrod.
I found out that one could do allot of scouting while enjoying other things----mainly fly fishing. I was heading up to Russian Gap to snoop around for a while. It was one of those spots that you needed to walk up a couple of thousand feet before you hit the valley. Not many people were willing to do that so it made the perfect spot for me to go and investigate.
It was on a fishing trip to the confluence of the Russian River and the Kenai River where Carl and I were fly fishing for reds (sockeyes). We made our own flies and both of us were using very light 8 ½ foot Fenwick rods. It was while I had set the hook in a red that he began telling me about Slaughter’s Gulch. As my fish was doing one of those tail dances across the Kenai, he said, “If I was going after a moose, I would go to Slaughter’s Gulch.” He then helped me land the salmon and the seed had been planted.
This spot (Slaughter’s Gulch) got its name during the Gold Rush days. The gold miners needed meat and with the abundance of moose, sheep, and black bear, they darn near wiped them out back then.
It was at first light that I parked my 67 Bronco, put all of my gear on my back, and headed towards Slaughter’s Gulch. Carl never mentioned that at what level I would hit the valley but after reading the topo map I found out it was 1800 feet of steep climbing.
One sure learns quickly how to take advantage of animal paths. They are efficient and fairly easy to navigate. Finally, I broke out onto this gorgeous valley with breathtaking mountain scenery on both sides. I turned back to look where I had just come from and below me I could see Kenai Lake and then the mountain range where only two weeks before I had taken my first ever goat and Dall sheep. That brought a subtle smile to my face.
I turned back to look down the valley and decided to sit on a large rock to glass the area. To my right, up in the clouds, I could see the outcroppings of jagged peaks with some Dall rams bedded down. Down the valley and to my left meandered a sow black bear with her twin cubs scampering about. Momma was in the process of trying to dig out a marmot from its hole as I watched.
Down in the middle of the valley were two ponds about a quarter mile a part. As I walked on towards the first one I noticed an abundance of blueberries and with that came a ton of black bear scat. It was loaded with berries, leaves and twigs.
Just past that first pond and along the creek I found an absolute ideal campsite. A small clearing, next to the stream with some hemlock for added protection against the elements if needed. I then set up my two man mountain tent and commenced to make a comfortable camp. I decided to make something to eat and brewed up some hot tea to go with it. While eating, I pulled out my Bausch and Lomb 15/60 power spotting scope and proceeded to get ready for magic time-----that time in the evening when all critters begin to stir.
I could feel the chill in the air as the sun dropped behind the mountain range. I decided to put on my down jacket, even though it was in August because I had worked up quite a sweat from the time I had left the highway much earlier in the day. I sat with my back up against a large rock and began scanning the eastern slope with my binoculars. The alder patches were pretty thick in areas but each of them gave way to small openings here in there. Just above the alders was the beginning of the alpine area and that, too, looked inviting.
As if it were magic, right in front of me stood a cow moose and her calf. I had just looked there not but a minute before and saw nothing. Things were very quiet as they slowly worked their way down the side of the mountain away from me. I then proceeded to see a dark form in the alders and grabbed my spotting scope. I confirmed it when I saw the left ear of a cow moose who had just poked her head up high to look about. I then grabbed my binocs and followed her as she headed for a small opening. As she stepped out, I then noticed that there was another moose right behind her. As it came into the opening all I could see was its butt. Right about then it turned and looked in my direction and that is when I got my first look at Bullwinkle. He had a small set of antlers jutting straight out and his huge ears almost were as long. I then recalled the old timer who was telling me all about moose hunting at the café. One of his statements was this----“Just remember you can’t eat the horns.” The cow and two year old bull nibbled here and there and had not a clue as to my whereabouts.
I then worked out a stalk that would bring me to a spot about where the two would have to come out if they continued on the path that they were taking. I looked at the bull one more time and in the spotting scope he looked huge. The velvet on his antlers even made them look larger. I gave the terrain another good look and took off. Like a stalking cougar I made my way to an advantageous spot and it was here that I stayed-----waiting.
Just like a perfect ending to a movie script the cow and bull broke into the opening. I waited for the cow to pull ahead and get out of the way and there stood the bull looking down the valley which presented me with a perfect lung shot. With my rifle resting on a large rock and the crosshairs buried right behind his right shoulder, I squeezed the trigger. The loud bang echoed throughout the valley as I watched the bull’s knees crumple and he dropped like a ton of bricks. My Remington 7mm magnum had done its job. For a short time the cow stood there staring in my direction before she finally high stepped it out of there.
In total euphoria, I literally bolted up the mountain side with reckless abandonment until I reached my downed bull. As I approached the moose I stood there almost flabbergasted at its immense size. My gosh it was big!
Looking to the west I knew approximately how much time I had left so I hustled to gut the animal and then proceeded to quarter it and bag them so that the blow flies wouldn’t be bothering the meat too much. I grabbed one hind quarter, tied it to my back pack and sauntered my way back to my camp. As totally exhausted as I was, I still had time to smile as I washed up in the creek, then grabbed a cool cup of water to drink and climbed into my down sleeping bag. Nothing woke me until the following morning when nature’s critters began to stir..
It was way before the sun came up when I headed for Carl and Ruth’s cabin. With a good night’s sleep, a belly full of breakfast, and the lingering taste of coffee made on a one burner stove, I headed back up the valley and then down towards my Bronco. I quickly found out how much I preferred walking up hill with a load verses walking down the steep mountainside. This was killing my knees. All I had was this large hind quarter on my back and a walking stick. Everything else I left behind.
I finally got to my vehicle and drove to my friend’s cabin. Since it was still very early in the morning, no one seemed to be up yet, so I placed the hind quarter under a tarp where they had a pile of firewood and headed back for quarter #2.
Once I got to the kill site it didn’t take long to have the second hunk of meat tied on my backpack. While I sat there looking at what was left and thinking that it wouldn’t be until the next day that I would be able to complete hauling out my moose, I heard a whistle. I stood up and saw Carl with his son, Bruce, looking for me. I gave a loud shout and waved. It didn’t take them long to get to me.
Since the left front shoulder took a real hit on the exit wound, there wasn’t that much to salvage. Because of this we were able to carry that entire animal and what I had in camp out in that one trip. On our way out, I used my rifle as a walking stick, and had a sleeping bag tied to the top of the hind quarter. That would have made a good picture but back then I didn’t carry a camera. With Carl and Bruce along each hauling out a good sized load, the trip went much quicker than I thought it would.
Just prior to getting to the Bronco my legs began to cramp but I decided not to say anything because right then and there I remembered that old timer looking at me. I started to chuckle wondering if 2 ½ miles was close enough to the truck?
Al
 
Thanks Al! That really made my day. Brings back fond memories of bringing a caribou 5 1/2 miles out. Nothing like having good friends.

Gene
 
Jack London has a story and he uses the same term for young/fresh gold miner who does not have a lot of common sense. Ever read much of his writing?

Great story, thanks for sharing.
 
thank you! wonderful story and a great memory...
well written also - it took me back to my Alaskan memories.....
 
Al, Great story and one that anyone who has had to hump out meat will understand. Your story brought back some memories of fishing in the dance line at the ferry. Thanks for sharing.
 
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