Up a tree: The joys and heartbreaks of hunting from a tree stand

Out & About, by Eowyn LeMay Ivey

It was a little after 7 a.m. and a cold mist was drifting along the river below me. Golden leaves fell from the branches and onto the smooth, black water. After spending four days in this unforgiving birch tree, though, I could no longer appreciate this subtle beauty. I was sore, shivering and sick of moose hunting.

For days I had been doing cow calls and sitting on a lumpy branch, and last night I had informed my husband via cell phone that there wasn't a bull for miles.

But one was about to prove me wrong. I had just finished my obligatory cow call and was settling back into my hunched, uncomfortable position, expecting nothing more than falling leaves and chirping birds, when the silence of the morning was broken by the sound of antlers, big antlers, ripping through brush.

I sat straight up, my aches and pains suddenly gone. Could it be true, or, after all this time alone in a tree, was I hallucinating? I struggled to hear over the sound of my own beating heart, but there was no mistaking it -- a bull moose was coming straight toward me on the opposite side of the river. I could hear him grunting excitedly and swishing his head from side to side, moving the alders all around him with his antlers.

I chambered a round and fought the urge to jump out of the tree and run toward what could be my first moose. Maybe, just maybe, the past days of patiently sitting in this makeshift tree stand would finally pay off.

I first began eyeing tree stands a year ago after an unsuccessful hunt on a tributary of the Big Su. Talking about it with my husband later that winter, we decided a stand might give me the advantage of a better view on the densely foliaged river flats, as well as make me less perceptible to the animals. So I started leafing through the Cabela's catalog, of course, looking at cushioned, comfortable tree stands ranging from $50 to several hundred dollars. Some even have cup holders and rifle rests. Perfect, I thought.

You don't need that -- all you need is some plywood and a couple of two-by-fours, my husband informed me. Oh, I said, a little disappointed.

In the end, though, there wouldn't even be the luxury of plywood. Instead, when my husband and daughter dropped me off, they left me with a canoe, my gear and a few bolts driven into the side of a leaning birch tree. When I climbed up the bolts and into the perch, I straddled the branch and called down to my husband that there was no way I could sit like that for long. It would only be for a couple of hours at a time, my husband said. I laughed, and then looked down into his straight face. Then I frowned. You could tie a float cushion to the branch, he suggested.

At first, even the discomfort wasn't enough to ruin the experience, however. In the early morning hours and fading light of dusk, I sat still and silent as I watched eagles swoop down on flocks of frightened mallards. A mouse ran busily through the leaves on the ground far below me. In a slough behind the tree, a family of river otters splashed and swam, breaking the thin ice each time they resurfaced.

On warmer days, swarms of chickadees would move into the branches of my tree, twittering, fluttering and pecking at the bark with their sharp beaks. When they flew close to my camouflaged arms and legs, looking as if they might dig in, I shifted nervously and shooed them away with my hands and feet.

Several days into the hunt I faced a question of tree stand etiquette. That afternoon, paddling my canoe upstream to my tree, I was passed by a motorboat with two men in it. We politely waved at each other and they drove out of sight. An hour or so later, sitting in my tree stand, I heard them floating back downstream as they flyfished. When they floated within yards of my tree, I was thinking of greeting them when I realized they were talking about me. There's that lady's canoe, they said. She must still be out here somewhere. Wonder what she's doing.

I was stunned -- they didn't see me. Should I interrupt to say, "Here I am. Right over your heads?" Or should I wait for the awkward moment when they spotted the woman in camouflage lurking in the branches?

Typically when I'm alone in the woods I dread running into strangers. In this case, though, I realized I had the distinct advantage, what with being well armed and up a tree. So I just held my peace, and they floated on, never spotting me.

As they disappeared around the next bend, though, I knew I had missed my chance. If only a big bull would have walked out just as they were floating by. I could have neatly shot it, enjoyed the look of surprise on the men's faces and then gratefully accepted their help in field dressing it.

Even cold and alone this morning, though, I was still eager to get my moose. And there he was, just on the other side of the slow-moving river. But he was hesitating, he wasn't grunting and he wasn't thrashing his antlers.

I quickly ran through everything I had heard and read about calling in moose. Maybe he already has a cow and is waiting for me to come to him. It was time to change tactics. If I make him jealous, he'll come running, I decided. So I picked up the antler my husband had given me and began whacking it against my tree. I did a few bull grunts, then waited and listened.

My bull wasn't biting. He was meandering farther away, up into the trees and away from the river. I could hear an occasional, softer grunt, and then he was gone.

Later I would take my canoe across and look for him, calling and whacking my antler, all to no avail. Talking with my husband after the fact, we speculated that maybe the moose didn't have a cow with him but instead was a younger, unsure bull that didn't want to fight. I had apparently made the wrong call, but it was the closest I had ever gotten to shooting my first moose.

Going into next season, I know a little more. I know to keep calling when a bull comes in, and to stick with cow calls as long as possible. I also know patience and days up a tree might ultimately pay off.

Most importantly, I know to pass on the bolts and float cushion. It's time to get out the Cabela's catalog.

Eowyn LeMay Ivey covers outdoors and city government for the Frontiersman. She is grateful to her husband for his support and encouragement, and also for the moose he already put in the freezer.