THE LAND NORTH OF SUPERIOR<o:p></o:p>

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There is nothing in today’s world as priceless as information.  When you visit my world the cost of information could be dear.  This is what happened in the land north of Superior, you are welcome in it.

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The day had started out in typical northern fashion, wind and rain.  Not the pounding stay at home rain but that “I’ll burn of soon fog/drizzle�?that sometimes stays for days on end in the fall. I had left my camper a half-hour before daybreak, my gun encased, the thermos full of hot, black coffee.  The beaver pond I had been calling at last night was about seven miles up the road and I had the wipers on medium interrupted cycle the whole way to the turn off.  I debated about the wisdom of the ¾ mile hike through the mostly overgrown roadway.  I was here let’s go.<o:p></o:p>

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The hard plastic gun case kept my gun dry, the wool-like lining kept it from rattling and shaking the scope out of alignment.  The alders over growing the road got me wet and kept me wet, the footing was slippery, my boots were huge clumps of clay by the time I reached the pond.  Blue daylight was just washing the edge of the skyline as I eased into a hole made by a fallen evergreen hung up on another.  There wasn’t any real cover left with the needles gone, the location for lines of sight was really good.  I had found a large butt end and rolled it into the v-shaped shelter the year before last for a surprisingly comfortable seat.  The pond itself was fifty feet or so down a slight slop, I could hear water trickling over the dam on my left. On the other side beaver pond the young willows and alders the moose came to feed on were a black wall.  Only the glassy shine of the water was visible from the blackness of the trees when I made my first call.  A short, soft grunt, followed by two more.  The waiting game had begun.<o:p></o:p>

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That morning it was indeed a waiting game, waiting for an answering call as the morning progressed.  Waiting for daylight, then waiting for the foggy/drizzle to burn off, then waiting to dry off.  The whole time waiting between calls.  The fog burned off with a vengeance and my clothes were steaming by 10:30.  I finally left, my orange hunting coat tied with a piece of rope hung over my shoulder.  My blaze orange hunting vest stayed on only to comply with the law.  At my pickup the still hot coffee tasted just great, the couple day old Persian was fit for a king.<o:p></o:p>

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Instead of heading for camp I turn up the road, heading for an ice-cold spring.  I would fill up my empty water jug before going back and maybe shoot a few partridge for super.  On the way up I got two grouse, just what the doctor ordered for super.  The spring, with water so cold you can’t drink a cup full in one swallow, is right beside the road, and I quenched my thirst while filling the water jug for camp.  A couple of double handfuls of water washed some of the sweat from my face and neck.  Another hunter stopped to fill up and we spent some time talking the usual fall things.  The warm weather and meat spoilage was on the top of the list.<o:p></o:p>

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It was past one when I came around a corner in time to see an orange clad figure stumble out of the bush.  He had a cheesecloth wrapped moose leg on his back; his rifle was carried low in his right hand.  He waved me down.  His face was flushed and sweating, and his breathing came in heaving gulps.<o:p></o:p>

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“Can you give me a lift to my truck?�?SPAN>  he asked in between breaths.  “It’s down in the *&(^% pit.�?lt;o:p></o:p>

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His moose leg, the front quarter of a big bull, safely in the back of my truck we set of.  He drank from the dipper I had used to fill my water jug.<o:p></o:p>

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“That’s quite the walk,�?I mentioned as he rolled down the window, “You’re four miles from your truck�?lt;o:p></o:p>

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The story was simple.  They had left camp after full daylight, four guys out for a scouting run, and maybe a few grouse for supper.  They had crossed fresh track right by the gravel pit.  They had parked their truck in the pit, and the hunters had separated.  Two had loosely followed the track, one on each side.  The other two had hiked up the road some five hundred yards hoping to set up and ambush.  The moose had swung wide to the west, around the waiting hunters and the carried on roughly north.  The hunters behind, well versed in tracking had seen black moose hide twice, but no chance for a shot. They had quietly trailed the animal without spooking him. The moose however had made a fatal mistake; he had wanted to feed on some willows on the side of a small narrow lake.  A single shot from Tim, not his real name as you may have guessed, had dropped the heavy male on the lakeshore.<o:p></o:p>

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“You mean you came from Dawn Lake, fiction again, carrying that front quarter?  Sure sounds like you did.  Are the others following you out?�?lt;o:p></o:p>

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“I was to get the truck and drive up the road and honk the horn every ¼ mile until I heard a shot and then wait.  We know that moose is way back in there and we want to get the rack too, if we find a short way out.�?lt;o:p></o:p>

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“Well let’s go see if they are at Dawn Lake, if they are you’ll get your rack and anything else you want.�?lt;o:p></o:p>

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I wheeled the truck around in a three-point turn and headed north.  Two miles past where I had seen him stumble out of the bush I took an overgrown road.  Willow and alder made music against the side of my old 4 by.  Slowly the road came to higher ground and then to an old cut.  The old style scarifying left straight runways at ninety degrees to the road.  Most were full of ten-foot high spruce.  One was obviously used as no spruce had survived the traffic.  Some two hundred yards down this we came to another road and again I swung left.  A half-mile later we came to a dilapidated old bridge.  I parked the truck and shut down the engine.<o:p></o:p>

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“Your crew is about a hundred yards in there if we’re at the right lake.  Let’s see if we get an answer,�?I honked my horn.<o:p></o:p>

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The answering shot came almost before the horn’s echo died away.<o:p></o:p>

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It was a bit crowded in the truck.  Two of the hunters were up front with me; the other two shared the cap, along with a big bull.  The rack, a full forty inches, was tied to my boat rack on top.  The map later revealed the walk they would have had.  The rack would definitely have been left along the way.  So might the liver, this was before the cadmium warnings, that sizzled in the pan as the grateful hunters shared the bounty of their hunt. They would have a couple guys take the bull into a cold service in town and come back to stay till the end of the week.  They were also going to stop at the MNR District office and buy some maps, the MNR sold maps in the old days.<o:p></o:p>

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They did agree that a lot more homework was required before they returned to the land north of Superior for next years <o:p></o:p>