Wayne Holt (r.) killed his bull on the first full day of hunting.

"Wow, they look like battleships," Wayne said as he stared in awe at the moose gliding across the tundra less than 100 yards away. The bull wasn't what we were looking for, but we took the opportunity to get closer and shoot some video. Then, as if by magic, the giant animal melted back into the willows and was gone.

Compared to sheep hunting, moose hunting was an almost leisurely affair. We'd roll out of bed at first light (well, maybe not first light), eat breakfast and adjourn to lawn chairs to begin glassing. Once we spotted bulls, which never took very long, we'd judge them with spotting scopes, and if one appeared promising we'd wait until he bedded before dropping down to the plain for a better look.

That's how Wayne killed his bull, a handsome 58-incher with great brow tines. We'd watched the bull slip into a broad spruce ravine, and when we didn't see him emerge, we made a play for him. We had been hiking the edge of the ravine for more than half an hour when Eric spotted the bull feeding about 75 yards away on the far side of a beaver dam.

Wayne let him have it with his .30-06. The first 165-grain Hornady Interbond didn't impress the moose much; he didn't even flinch, despite being hit squarely in the boiler room. The second didn't cause much of a reaction either, but after the third shot the bull began to sway, then dropped to the ground.

"Yep, that's pretty typical," Eric said. "Unless you're shooting something like a .338, you won't knock a bull down. The good thing is they don't usually run when you hit 'em."

Guide Jaydee Kirby uses a home-made "rake" to imitate the sound of a bull moving through cover.

Not usually--although, as I would soon learn, there are exceptions.

The next day I partnered with Jaydee and Jed to chase a black bear we'd spotted from camp. We were just closing to within shooting range when an errant breeze got the bear's attention. He stood up on his hind legs, his jet black coat glistening in the morning sun as he lifted his muzzle to test the air. Then he dropped to all fours and sprinted for cover as if the very hounds of Hell were after him.

Rather than go back to camp, Jaydee suggested we spend the rest of the day prowling a series of willow/spruce strips to look for bulls. It sounded like a good plan, but I wondered how we'd ever find them in such heavy cover.

Moose have great hearing thanks to the big ears that have earned them the nickname "swamp donkeys," and to foil that Jaydee carried a plastic motor-oil bottle with its wide end cut off and a stick duct-taped into the spout. By raking the vegetation with this contraption as we walked, Jaydee essentially imitated the sound of a bull, which would cause the real ones to stand up to see who was intruding into their areas.

We got a good look at two decent bulls within the first few hours, at least one of which I would've been happy to shoot. But Jaydee thought we could do better, and late in the afternoon, as we waded through a patch of chest-high grass, he motioned for us to get down as he peered ahead into a dark stand of spruce. Then he turned and said with a grin, "I think he's 60."