Joe Shead

After the shot, I jumped in my canoe and raced across the narrow channel so fast you could have waterskied behind me. But once I reached the mainland, I was nervous about what I might find. I hoped like heck not an injured moose.
And then, there he was, velvet antler pointing skyward, the animal stone dead. Still, I approached cautiously, making sure I was entirely certain he was dead. Had I been shooting at a target, it would have been a terrible shot.

Given Minnesota’s low moose numbers, I’ll probably never have the chance to hunt these kings of the forest around home. That’s OK, though. I experienced enough moose hunting to last me a lifetime during a fateful hunt many years ago.
When the recession of 2008 hit, I found myself out of a job. The following summer, a buddy and I road-tripped to Alaska. It was a seat-of-your-pants expedition. We didn’t know if we were going just to be tourists for a couple of weeks or what the plan was. We didn’t care.