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Johnny the Bumbling Hunter: The Funniest Moose Hunt I Ever Guided

Dedication: I dedicate this story to Yuri the Great Archer, who one day will get his moose. May your aim be true, your patience long, and your stories even better than this one.

I have guided a lot of hunters over the years. Some of them were good. Some of them were bad. And then there was Johnny. Johnny was something else entirely. I still laugh when I think about that hunt. And I am pretty sure that moose is still laughing too.

It started like any other hunt. Johnny flew into Bangor from someplace down south. He showed up at my truck wearing brand new boots that squeaked when he walked and a hunting vest that still had the price tag on it. I should have known right then that this was going to be interesting. But Johnny was excited. He had been putting in for a Maine moose permit for seven years. This was his big chance. I shook his hand and said "We will get you a moose, Johnny." I had no idea how hard that would be.

Day one started badly. We got to the hunting spot before sunrise. I parked the truck and told Johnny to stay quiet and follow me. We walked about a quarter mile down an old logging road. I found a good spot near a beaver pond and whispered to Johnny "Sit here. Do not move. Do not talk. I am going to call a little and see what happens."

I sat down about twenty yards away from Johnny and started calling. Soft cow moans at first. Then a little louder. After about ten minutes, I heard something crashing through the alders on the other side of the pond. It was a bull. A good one. Wide antlers. Dark brown coat. He was walking straight toward us.

I looked over at Johnny to make sure he was ready. He was not looking at the bull. He was looking at his phone. His phone! In the middle of a moose hunt. I wanted to yell but I could not make a sound. The bull kept coming. He got to within fifty yards. Forty yards. Thirty yards. Johnny finally looked up. He saw the bull. And then he sneezed. A loud, wet, human sneeze that echoed across the pond like a gunshot.

The bull stopped. He stared right at Johnny for about three seconds. Then he turned around and walked back into the alders. Gone. Just like that. Johnny looked at me with big confused eyes and said "Do you think he heard me?" I did not even answer. I just put my head down on my knees and sat there for a minute.

Day two was worse. Johnny promised he would leave his phone in the truck. We went to a different spot, deeper in the woods. I found fresh moose tracks right away. Big ones. A bull had walked down this trail maybe an hour before we got there. I told Johnny "We are going to follow these tracks. Move slow. Look at the ground. Do not step on sticks."

We followed those tracks for about half a mile. Then I saw movement up ahead. A bull. The same one from yesterday maybe. He was standing behind a big pine tree, facing away from us. I whispered to Johnny "Get ready. He does not know we are here."

Johnny raised his rifle. Then he lowered it. Then he raised it again. Then he whispered to me "Which end do I shoot?"

I stared at him. "Which end? Johnny, shoot the front end. The end with the head."

"Oh," he said. "Right." He raised the rifle again. The bull turned his head and looked right at us. Not because he heard us. Because Johnny was waving his rifle around like he was trying to flag down a plane. The bull snorted once and disappeared into the thick stuff. I did not say a word for the next hour. I just walked back to the truck with Johnny following behind me like a sad puppy.

Day three was the masterpiece. I decided to put Johnny in a ground blind near a wetland that moose loved. I told him "Stay in this blind. Do not come out for any reason. I am going to go down the road a ways and call. If a moose comes by, wait until he stops and then take your shot."

Johnny nodded. He looked serious for once. I walked about three hundred yards down the road and started calling. Fifteen minutes later, I heard a shot. Then another shot. Then a third shot. I ran back to the blind as fast as I could.

When I got there, Johnny was standing outside the blind with a huge smile on his face. "I got him!" he yelled. "I got my moose!"

I looked around. I did not see a moose anywhere. "Johnny, where is the moose?"

He pointed to a big pile of something on the ground about fifty yards away. I walked over to look. It was not a moose. It was a dead beaver. A very dead, very large beaver. Johnny had shot a beaver. Three times. From thirty yards away. With a rifle meant for a thousand pound animal.

I just stood there looking at that beaver for a long time. Johnny was still smiling. "That is the biggest beaver I have ever seen," he said. "Can we mount the teeth?"

We did not get a moose that year. Johnny went home empty handed. But he left me with the best story I have ever told around a campfire. Every time I see a beaver now, I think of Johnny. I hope he is doing okay. I hope he found a different hobby. Maybe fishing. Where the worst thing you can do is catch a boot.

And if that bull moose from Zone 4 is still out there? I hope he tells his friends about the time some guy from down south sneezed at him and then tried to shoot a beaver. Some legends never die. And neither do bad hunters. They just keep squeaking around in their new boots, making the rest of us laugh for years to come.