Way up North to Newfoundland
If there was one animal I had always wanted to hunt since I got into hunting, it would be moose. I told myself that for my 30th birthday, I would go on a moose hunt—and that’s exactly what I did. While I would have loved to go to Alaska to hunt the biggest moose, well-known for their gigantic paddles, an Alaska hunt was out of my budget. However, Newfoundland is known for its healthy moose population and high success rates, so off to Canada I went.
After navigating Canadian border patrol and some last-minute canceled flights, I finally touched down in Gander, Newfoundland. You might remember Gander from 9/11, when U.S. flights were grounded, and planes were forced to land or turn back. Gander’s airport took in dozens of planes, and the whole town came together to care for stranded passengers. When I landed, I grabbed my bags and headed to a remote base camp for the week. It took a plane, a truck, an ATV, and a boat to finally reach the camp’s dock. That evening, we met our guides, had a feast, and went to bed dreaming of bagging a big moose the next day.
I woke up in a warm cabin, had breakfast, and got ready for my first hunt. Dion, my guide, was a tall, broad-shouldered guy who had been guiding moose hunts for over 30 years. Born and raised in Newfoundland, he was the kind of guy who’d give you the gloves off his hands (and he did!). He was also an absolute workhorse. On our first day, we boated, rode ATVs, and hiked into our hunting area. We trekked through rolling hills of pine trees and bogs to reach a vantage point. This is how most days went—spending 1-3 hours getting to more remote, game-rich areas off the powerlines to set up at a good lookout.
Once we reached our lookout, Dion would call, hoping a bull would come running in, thinking a cow was nearby. It was the first week of October, and the moose rut was just starting. The first day was slower than expected, partly due to the hot weather and lack of wind, which kept the moose inactive. We did see a small bull, a cow, and two huge black bears off in the distance. Every bear I saw in Newfoundland was over 300 pounds, keeping things interesting even on a slow day.
The second day brought rougher weather—cold, rain, and 30 mph winds. We sat on a mountain with terrible visibility until noon, and I won’t lie—I was miserable, thinking we’d see nothing but rain. Dion pulled out a stove and made some tea, the only warmth I felt until dinner. But soon after, I spotted a moose over a mile away. Dion called, and, to my surprise, the bull heard us and started running toward us. He charged through trees and bogs, closing the distance to 200 yards before getting confused when he couldn’t see the cow. He wandered around looking but was too small for me, so I passed. Later that day, another bull did the same thing. Despite the cold, those two encounters kept my spirits up.
The third day was uneventful, interrupted by other hunters and no moose in sight. Dion and I spent the day driving around on ATVs, and he told me about how his family used to trap across the lakes with sled dogs. Newfoundland is covered in bogs and lakes, and the bogs look like grassy fields but are actually wet, spongy ground. Dion shared the history of the moose herd, which isn’t native to the island but was introduced with just four animals. The herd now numbers over 100,000. We checked bogs with no success until, on our way back to camp, we saw a huge black bear—around 600 pounds—and a lone caribou, the only one I’d see all week.
On the fourth day, we headed back to the area we hunted on the first day. We spotted a cow as soon as we got off the boat, but she caught our wind and disappeared. We hiked up to our vantage point and soon saw another cow bedded across the bog. This was my second-to-last day, and I was getting antsy. Dion called in a small bull, but he was too small to take. After lunch, another smaller bull appeared at 300 yards, standing broadside. I considered it, but Dion’s comment—“Oh, he’s a tiny guy”—made me hesitate. The bull eventually caught our scent and trotted off. The rest of the day was slow.That night, we had moose for dinner—backstrap in the crockpot, moose brisket with biscuits on top, and even moose nose, a delicacy among the native guides. The nose was chewy but not bad. They warned me not to eat too much of it, though, as it could go right through you.
On my final day, Dion wanted to take me to his favorite lookout across the lake. Unfortunately, the boat motor wouldn’t tilt, so we had to hike back up the mountain we’d climbed earlier that week. It was a beautiful day, but all the moose we spotted were far off, heading in the wrong direction. After hours of hiking the ridge line, we ended the day walking the moose- and caribou-track-covered beach back to camp for a final steak dinner. I packed up that night and flew home the next day, excited to be back in my own bed, cooking my own food, and, of course, seeing my wife, Paige, and our dog, Shelly.Moose hunting in Newfoundland was an amazing experience. Even though I didn’t bring home a bull, the adventure, the people I met, and the new landscape made it all worthwhile. I’d love to go back and hunt moose there again in the future.
