Fall Days & Fancy Cameras
SEPTEMBER 19 – I’d followed the big bull all day, since before sun-up. I photographed it raking alders with its antlers and watched it chase a group of cows across a shallow lake. After all but one cow scattered, the bull paused on the far shore, then suddenly flopped down and rolled on its back like an enormous, half-ton dog. Satisfied, it righted itself, found its legs and stood back up caked in blue muck and dripping with foul-smelling urine to face the remaining, curious female.
That kind of activity continued all morning and past lunchtime, uncommon behavior for crepuscular creatures more prone to nap from mid-morning until late afternoon. But this bull – a mature animal whose rack embraced a chunk of sky five feet wide – was hopped up on hormones. It continued to bust brush and roust dozing cows until an hour before sunset. Then, just as the light began to soften, sweeten, and saturate the fall colors, the big guy grunted, steam spraying from its nostrils, and bedded down.
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That bull – a mature animal whose rack embraced a chunk of sky five feet wide – was hopped up on hormones. It continued to bust brush and roust dozing cows until an hour before sunset. Photo ©Ken Marsh
I’ve spent decades watching and shadowing moose in Alaska, driven by two opposing goals: to photograph them, or to kill them. From my youth to early middle age, I stalked moose exclusively with a high-caliber rifle. Each September I traced their tracks and trails through muskegs and black spruce taigas. I found and killed many moose in those places, and in the adjacent alder draws and mixed birch-and-white-spruce hills.
Along the way, I encountered elements that would stir and inform the artist within me. Lakes, creek valleys, and beaver ponds backed by the Alaska Range – crown jewels Denali and Foraker, foremost – reflected magnificent scenes worthy of 20th Century landscape painter Sydney Laurence. Plant smells added ethereal dimension; think: muskegs and cold morning air spiced with the faintly pungent, medicinal fragrance of Labrador tea; or the sweet high-ground scent of frost-ripened rose hips blending with the dirty-socks sourness of high-bush cranberries. Sounds, too, were present, though rarely prominent. You must be very still and listen closely to hear the muffled squeaks and patterings of shrews, or the tiny late-September collisions of birch leaves falling and striking the forest floor. Mainly, the greatest contrasts were cast by the country’s long silences, broken only infrequently by the croak of passing ravens.
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I photographed the bull raking alders with its antlers and watched as it chased a group of cows across a shallow lake. Photo ©Ken Marsh
Ultimately, though, my purpose way back then boiled down to killing. I remember once creeping quietly along a game trail leading from a swamp – a nighttime feeding area – and up a ravine into the hills where I knew moose bedded during the day. Through boreal jungle I caught on a hillock ahead the flicker of a moose’s ear. I froze and watched, soon realizing the moose was a cow, off limits. To avoid spooking the animal, I kept still and watched. Within minutes, I discovered a pattern. The cow would feed, then stop as if mildly startled and turn its head away toward the top of a shallow canyon, ears cupped.
The cow was unaware of my presence and its behavior suggested it sensed something atop the canyon. That something, I suspected, was another moose. Possibly a bull, my target.
Painstakingly, careful to avoid swift movements or snapping twigs, I circled away from the cow and toward the canyon. An alder tangle filled the bottom, intertwined trunks and branches slowing my progress. I climbed slowly and silently as I could. Finally, on the ridge overlooking the crowded hollow, I peeked over the top and was shocked to be staring into the eyes of a young bull moose less than 10 feet away.
The bull didn’t move. Far too close to find in my rifle scope, I simply pointed the muzzle and pulled the trigger. The afternoon passed under the flash of my skinning knife, with moose gore to my elbows, black flies in my eyes, and several trips made packing bloody haunches through a mile of forest to the road.
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“I killed my last moose more than a decade ago, but those hunting memories live forever in my heart, gilded and burnished by time. I would never trade them. After more than 50 years, though, the sweat and blood, the bugs and dead weight of heavy packs no longer shine. ”
The cooling air grew abruptly vibrant as the bull gathered its feet and pushed itself up. Photo ©Ken Marsh
Of course, killing moose and photographing moose are disparate endeavors. The two share, however, one critical component: The pursuit.
Long ago, as the young outdoors editor of an internationally circulated regional magazine, my boss and I compared the attributes of fly-fishing over hunting. Fly-fishers have the option of catch and release; that is, they may stalk and enjoy the thrill of a striking trout, employ skill in battling the fish to hand, then – after admiring its gleaming colors and brass-ringed eye, gently release it to catch another day. The shooting and killing of an animal or bird, on the other hand, is a final act. Obviously, a dead creature cannot be revived and shot again.
“Wouldn’t it be cool,” the boss mused, “if we could figure out a way to catch-and-release hunt?”
It would be, I agreed. And now, decades later, I’ve learned that it is. For me, the conundrum’s solution is wildlife photography. The electricity of the chase and the pleasure of days afield remain unchanged. The delight of capturing a stellar image with my camera is comparable to making a skillful shot with my rifle. The prowess required for success are similar. So, what’s different? Digital images, theoretically, preserve moments afield for eternity. Meanwhile, a hunter might counter, correctly, that memories also last forever.
I killed my last moose more than a decade ago, but those hunting memories live forever in my heart, gilded and burnished by time. I would never trade them. After more than 50 years, though, the sweat and blood, the bugs and dead weight of heavy packs no longer shine.
Thank God for fall days and fancy cameras.
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Bull moose as I photographed it with Canon R6 and 500mm f/4 lens at 1/1250, and ISO 6400. Photo ©Ken Marsh
Back on that mid-September evening, as I followed that restless bull, the sun dipped into the trees, turning the light to honey. The “golden hour” cherished by photographers had begun. Not that the big bull seemed to care. Worn out and dozing, head bobbing and dropping into the moss, the big guy remained bedded.
All that cavorting. Perhaps, I thought, the moose wouldn’t stir until after dark. At that moment, sticks crackled in an alder thicket behind me. I turned to see a cow and subadult calf emerge and enter a stream of light dancing at the lake’s edge. The bull lifted its head. I watched as the three moose made eye contact. The cooling air grew abruptly vibrant as the bull gathered its feet and pushed itself up.
At that moment, the world before me became a magical place, silent but for my clicking shutter. Then the big bull approached the cow and, as if in celebration of newfound love, tipped back its head in the stance caught in the final image, above. It was a classic bull moose pose, one now preserved forever in my mind – and in pixels, to share as a tribute to nature, life, moose and men.
Here’s wishing you, my readers, many such magical moments to come in 2025.
—km—
