Moose call sing-a-long
We are now lowing in earnest like flirtatious lady moose and have progressed from practising indoors with the aid of YouTube videos, like some weird bush karaoke, to bellowing from the porch with the aid of our moose bugle. We have fashioned the bugle in traditional style from birch bark and duct tape and are interspersing our “lonely lady” calls with huffing “I’ve got a girlie here” male calls with the aim of making any wandering bulls think there’s a gorgeous cloven hoofed gal on the porch but some other bastard’s got there before him.
We are calling morning and evening, from the porch and the river, with the aim of getting a bull right up into the yard and preferably into the hanging rack so we don’t have to move him far if we get him.
Anyone who wants to join in go to the links at the bottom and sing-along-a-sounda-horny-moose with us. We’re also thrashing brush with an old scapula bone to mimic a bull crashing around with his rack (antlers). That’s another signal to Mr Moose that he’s about to be pipped to the post. So if you have a scapula, or even an old moose rack out on the porch join in with that too. Mornings and evenings, come on everyone!
So far I have managed to call in a canoeist. He was shouting to say hi as he floated down the river, which sounded a bit like a moose (not that we are getting obsessed with this or anything) so I tried a few lady calls back. Thankfully no one got shot before we realised we were all human.
Sighting in the rifle
We spent some time and ammo sighting in the 30-06 down on the beach last week. Neil set up an old box as a target at 30 yards, and having never used a scope before we tried to fathom how to get it accurate for me. 30 yards is a commonly used range, at least by us. A bullet tends to arc out of the gun and then drop so you pick the range you want to shoot at and then know that closer than that, the bullet will hit higher, and beyond that it will start to drop. Some very clever folk know the exact measurements for that but I’m afraid that’s too far into the science of ballistics for me.
We used a lot of ammo. Having only ever had guns with iron sights before, the scope was a bit confusing. I was shooting low to start so adjusted the side scope dial away from “L”- low. We kept turning, but the shots just didn’t get any lower, weirdly they just kept going to the right. Yup, took us 5 expensive bullets before it occurred to either of us that “L” might also mean left and that other dial, once we took the cap off, might say “elevation”. Surely people as smart as us should never be allowed to own firearms.
Problem solved, my last shot hit bullseye and we went up to the yard to see how much Homer was enjoying the thunder of gunshots ricocheting between the cliffs.
Not, was the answer. We found a quivering husky trying to bury himself under the house we built him.
Homer’s traumatic trip to town
Things have largely improved for Homer. We learned from his previous owners that he never goes into his house, not even at 50 below, so we can stop trying to bribe, coax and shove him into it. We have given up and built him a “lean to” extension with the off cuts from the kennel which he is willing to compromise on.
He did, however, have an extremely traumatic day in Dawson City with us. Homer is a bush dog and, as far as we know, has never experienced the razzamatazz of city life. He is unlikely to but he will get dragged into Dawson occasionally to have his rabies and 3-way shots. Though Dawson City lacks the fast paced, cosmopolitan excitement of London or New York, it does have trucks, buildings, and lots of strange people who want to lean over you, making noise and pushing their hands in your face (or saying hi to the lovely husky that looks a bit like a wolf.) This was all a bit anxiety-inducing for an inexperienced dog with an extreme aversion to buildings. To cap it all, he was dragged by rope into a scary big house and poked around by the vet.
Neil and I later suffered our own moment of anxiety when the bill for shots and worming pills came to nearly $200.
For us, it was a long day with a huge list of things to do. We left at first light, oblivious to the bank of fog that sat just around the corner on the river and resulted in some “blind” navigation on Neil’s part with me on the tiller saying in a rather high voice- “can you see the bank at all?” “Are we coming up to the island???”
Friends had informed us that our truck, parked some 20 miles downriver, had a flat tire so we had to change the tire out on Terry the Truck before we could set off. Getting the tire fixed was our main reason for heading into town, but of course once we were going I began to draw up a long list of other things we could get done- fill up the spare jerry cans with extra gas, bits of hardware for the truck, laundry! (hurrah, no hand-washing in creek water for a bit!) and a multitude of other little jobs.
We knew there were spruce grouse on the road on our 60 mile drive and so we brought the shotgun for a bit of hunting. They like to eat the gravel as it helps with their digestion and they have yet to discover Rennies. The poor things are rather dim and we had to make an effort to shoo them up into the trees so we could shoot them down rather than run them over flat with the truck. I shot one out of a tree, and to my amazement, his friend was still happily perched 3 feet away wondering what I was up to with the big noisy stick. It’s so easy to shoot them it feels rather unsporting so I just took 3, though we might have had 40.
All this fucking around, combined with the relaxed friendly pace at which every business in Dawson conducts itself (so charming, unless you’re in a fucking rush), combined with everyone we meet thinking we are tourists because of our accents and asking us how our vacation is going and whether we have driven up the Dempster Highway to Inuvik yet etc. etc. meant we did not get back to the boat landing until late. Too late. 9pm. It is now dark by 10pm and being out on the river with no lights and not a clue about gravel bars, rocks, sand banks, outboard motors and anything generally is just not safe.
Fortunately Homer was oblivious to the main trauma of the day which was, getting dark with miles still to go before we got home, we hit rocks and nearly tore the propeller off. We are smart enough to have a spare one in the boat, but changing that out when it is cold and getting dark would not have been very easy in reality. In fact it would have been impossible as when we did change it out the next day, we realised we didn’t have the right sized wrench on board so not that smart, eh?
At the time, the collision was so violent neither of us knew if we still had a lower unit on the motor, and once we saw the prop, whether it would run. There were chunks missing from every blade and one out of the back keel. Happily we were able to limp home. But it was a lesson well learned. Don’t try to do everything on a trip to town when it is getting late. Or if we do- scream at people to serve us quickly and anyone that asks about our vacation, just tell them to fuck off.
On a lighter note, the fall colours are still fantastic. We are surrounded by trembling golden foliage from the birch and willow, so bright it beams into the cabin. It's almost too much. It's like we've redecorated in a lurid 1970s mustard yellow and I want to go out and shake them all to the ground.
I'm managing to get a fair few down by thrashing around with my scapula in the manner of a randy bull moose, and it's that time again so do join in!-
Moose call singalong- the song book-
https://www.youtube.com/watch?
 |
| Moose bugle enhances the sound and doesn't make you look stupid at all |
Anyone who wants to join in go to the links at the bottom and sing-along-a-sounda-horny-moose with us. We’re also thrashing brush with an old scapula bone to mimic a bull crashing around with his rack (antlers). That’s another signal to Mr Moose that he’s about to be pipped to the post. So if you have a scapula, or even an old moose rack out on the porch join in with that too. Mornings and evenings, come on everyone!
 |
| Listening for the thunder of hooves |
Sighting in the rifle
We spent some time and ammo sighting in the 30-06 down on the beach last week. Neil set up an old box as a target at 30 yards, and having never used a scope before we tried to fathom how to get it accurate for me. 30 yards is a commonly used range, at least by us. A bullet tends to arc out of the gun and then drop so you pick the range you want to shoot at and then know that closer than that, the bullet will hit higher, and beyond that it will start to drop. Some very clever folk know the exact measurements for that but I’m afraid that’s too far into the science of ballistics for me.
We used a lot of ammo. Having only ever had guns with iron sights before, the scope was a bit confusing. I was shooting low to start so adjusted the side scope dial away from “L”- low. We kept turning, but the shots just didn’t get any lower, weirdly they just kept going to the right. Yup, took us 5 expensive bullets before it occurred to either of us that “L” might also mean left and that other dial, once we took the cap off, might say “elevation”. Surely people as smart as us should never be allowed to own firearms.
Problem solved, my last shot hit bullseye and we went up to the yard to see how much Homer was enjoying the thunder of gunshots ricocheting between the cliffs.
Not, was the answer. We found a quivering husky trying to bury himself under the house we built him.
Homer’s traumatic trip to town
Things have largely improved for Homer. We learned from his previous owners that he never goes into his house, not even at 50 below, so we can stop trying to bribe, coax and shove him into it. We have given up and built him a “lean to” extension with the off cuts from the kennel which he is willing to compromise on.
He did, however, have an extremely traumatic day in Dawson City with us. Homer is a bush dog and, as far as we know, has never experienced the razzamatazz of city life. He is unlikely to but he will get dragged into Dawson occasionally to have his rabies and 3-way shots. Though Dawson City lacks the fast paced, cosmopolitan excitement of London or New York, it does have trucks, buildings, and lots of strange people who want to lean over you, making noise and pushing their hands in your face (or saying hi to the lovely husky that looks a bit like a wolf.) This was all a bit anxiety-inducing for an inexperienced dog with an extreme aversion to buildings. To cap it all, he was dragged by rope into a scary big house and poked around by the vet.
Neil and I later suffered our own moment of anxiety when the bill for shots and worming pills came to nearly $200.
 |
| Fog round the corner |
Friends had informed us that our truck, parked some 20 miles downriver, had a flat tire so we had to change the tire out on Terry the Truck before we could set off. Getting the tire fixed was our main reason for heading into town, but of course once we were going I began to draw up a long list of other things we could get done- fill up the spare jerry cans with extra gas, bits of hardware for the truck, laundry! (hurrah, no hand-washing in creek water for a bit!) and a multitude of other little jobs.
We knew there were spruce grouse on the road on our 60 mile drive and so we brought the shotgun for a bit of hunting. They like to eat the gravel as it helps with their digestion and they have yet to discover Rennies. The poor things are rather dim and we had to make an effort to shoo them up into the trees so we could shoot them down rather than run them over flat with the truck. I shot one out of a tree, and to my amazement, his friend was still happily perched 3 feet away wondering what I was up to with the big noisy stick. It’s so easy to shoot them it feels rather unsporting so I just took 3, though we might have had 40.
All this fucking around, combined with the relaxed friendly pace at which every business in Dawson conducts itself (so charming, unless you’re in a fucking rush), combined with everyone we meet thinking we are tourists because of our accents and asking us how our vacation is going and whether we have driven up the Dempster Highway to Inuvik yet etc. etc. meant we did not get back to the boat landing until late. Too late. 9pm. It is now dark by 10pm and being out on the river with no lights and not a clue about gravel bars, rocks, sand banks, outboard motors and anything generally is just not safe.
 |
| Loading the boat at dusk- never again |
 |
| The morning after |
On a lighter note, the fall colours are still fantastic. We are surrounded by trembling golden foliage from the birch and willow, so bright it beams into the cabin. It's almost too much. It's like we've redecorated in a lurid 1970s mustard yellow and I want to go out and shake them all to the ground.
I'm managing to get a fair few down by thrashing around with my scapula in the manner of a randy bull moose, and it's that time again so do join in!-
Moose call singalong- the song book-
https://www.youtube.com/watch?
Interesting. I'd love to buy one of the decoys seen on your youtube posting and - of course - watching Neil doing that funny noise which might qualify him for the next European Song Contest.
ReplyDeleteKeep going and writing, watch out and stay save. uwe
Thank you. Can we still qualify for Eurovision after Brexit? That didn't come up at all in the debate. Could have swung the vote...
ReplyDelete