When a Plan Successfully Falls Apart
By Ed Prebola 10/30/07
The planning began in mid December; the anticipation began a few minutes later. By the end of January there were flight reservations, air taxi reservations, topo maps and aerial photos. By the end of March there were countless phone calls to game biologists, park rangers and anyone else who could share some info on the area I’d chosen for my ultimate do-it-yourself hunt, Alaskan moose. By June, the yellow folder atop my desk marked “Alaska- Moose” was stuffed full of notes, gear lists, maps, receipts, reservations, regulations and the like. The largest topo was pinned on my wall, and I spent hours planning the hunt. We’d set-up camp here, first day hunt there, be sure and walk this ridge by day three. My hunting partner for this trip, Rich, chuckled every time he would stop by the office and I’d show him the revised “first day scouting route”. If you are anything like me then you’re a firm believer that planning every detail helps make a good hunt great.
August 31st progressed without a hitch as we arrived in Anchorage on time. Day two was even smoother with a short flight to Dillingham followed by very helpful folks from Bay Air meeting us at the airport, shuttling us to there base where we checked our gear, and returning us to town where we completed our grocery, fuel and last minute purchases list. Sleep that night was scarce, anticipation high; we’d fly out in 14 hours.
Day three arrived. The day we’d really been waiting for. And that’s when things began to fall apart. Somewhere in the planning stages I’d assumed that our inflatable boat and motor was stashed at the lake for our use, not accompanying us on our flight in. How could I have missed this? 400 pounds of “camp” had to be eliminated to stay under the 1200 pound maximum weight allowed by the air taxi. Since Rich and I total 450 pounds this would be about half of our camp! It was a scurry to reduce the weight, cutting out half of our propane, heavy coats, the large tarp, the tent vestibule, the spare lantern and more. We trimmed it down to just 70 pounds over, and went to the float plane pond while keeping the cots and five of the ten gallons of boat fuel as backup for weight trimming if we absolutely needed it. Extreme relief met us at the dock when Tom, our bush pilot, asked our weight and nodded “fine” as we told him we were over by 70. Just a few moments later Tom eased that Beaver into the air and the “guts” of this trip had begun.
For the next fifteen minutes everything seemed to be back to the plan. Relief followed by hunting anticipation returned to me. Tom’s voice crackled over the headset saying “Get the map from that door pocket and tell me exactly where you want me to drop you.” I showed him the small bay we’d camp in, and when his voice crackled “Dropped a camp there yesterday and one here, one here and there’s already one here…. Think there’s one here, also”, everything began to fall apart again. My brain went into high gear and as I studied the topo, I chose the bay next to the planned point and asked if we can do a one loop survey and make our final decision then. From the air, that bay looked fine and Tom touched the Beaver down smooth as silk and Rich and I resumed “the plan”. Three hours later a good solid camp was set up and an hour after that the rain began.
We woke on day four, our first scouting day, to the tune of rain peening off the tent. The rain was so hard that we thought about skipping coffee since neither of us even looked forward to the 10 yard dash to the lake for water. Three hours later we actually left the tent and headed into the now horizontal rain to accomplish our preliminary scouting. The well thought out, mindfully rehearsed plan began to fall wayward once again – alders are near impossible to pass through, at least conveniently. The stealthy lowlands hike from camp through the berry-bush covered hillsides that I envisioned dozens of times from my desk during planning was replaced by a bitter, life-sucking romp through a forest of intertwined mop-handles. The only redemption that those alder trunks received from me was granted by the rain water dropping from the alder-tops – running directly from my neck to my elastic band! The highlight of day four was a toss-up between a warm bowl of soup that evening and a cow moose we’d caught feeding in a small meadow. We were wet with bruised shins and the conversation consisted of “Well, at least we know there’s one moose here”, and “We need to be really careful hiking through this stuff, we don’t need a broken leg to end this trip.” Day five was a repeat of day four, hold the rain falling from the sky.
Day six arrived and this was the day – the opening day of Alaskan moose season in our unit. We left camp just after first light and reached our vantage point in just over an hour. We glassed up one cow early, and around noon we spotted two bulls out about 700 yards. They seemed to be moving in our direction and although they’d only given us a brief two minute look through a window amongst the spruce flat they called home, at least one appeared to be a shooter. We dared not to pursue them head-on, as we viewed 300 yards of choking alders before we even reached an area that offered over 10 yards of visibility, but rather opted for the “watch and learn what they do” method, interspersed with an occasional call and rake. We spent the rest of that day glassing diligently, and though we returned to camp with much higher expectations, we never did see another patch of hair or antler that day.
The morning of day seven greeted us with light rain and visions of blooded knives. We returned to our obstacle ridden, mop-handle forest route to the vantage point of yesterday and began glassing. On the hike we noticed that choking alders not only make travel difficult, but also hinder one’s ability to retrace an established route. We arrived at our protruding rock a half hour later and a half mile’s worth of extra steps than the day before. Glassing nothing more than a swaying spruce, I told Rich that we needed to find an alternate entry route to this spruce flat that we’d call our hunting area for the remainder of the trip. About noon, we headed straight down, through the alders, and fought our way to flat ground. We “round-housed” the route from camp to our vantage point and we found easier access along the spruce flat directly from the lakeshore. We’d have to boat the 1 ½ miles from camp to our entry point, but we shaved the grueling alder-ridden route completely. After a hot meal we returned that evening, established a new high vantage point, and glassed diligently until near dark. Although we didn’t find a moose, we did find new anticipation, if for nothing more than saving our shins.
Day eight found us departing boat bound for the
flats. Just a half hour later we were cresting the knoll headed to the west
end as Rich said “Let’s check out this north ridge, see what we can see from
here before we go settle in.” Packs still a-shoulder, rifle still slung,
and binoculars still 
packed,
I took two steps, paused and stared directly at the biggest four legged
creatures I’ve ever carried a tag for. I dropped to ground level as this
bull stepped twice revealing the hidden prize – his twin. Two bulls just
400 yards away. The next 30 seconds spent trying to get Rich’s attention
without yelling or moving seemed an eternity. He knew instantly when he
looked my way what was happening. Drop, crawl, and he was beside me in a
flash. A quick plan and we found ourselves perched on the edge of a ledge
glassing these bulls as they so willingly helped us and began walking
directly toward us. Though they seem to move sluggishly as they meandered
our way, they covered quite a distance with each step. The first one passed
without giving us adequate chance to field judge him to be over 50” wide, as
regulations demanded in our unit. The first bull passed below us at 140
yards without ever knowing we were there. The second bull entered a small
clearing ten yards closer on his way, and a grunt from me made him stare
directly at us. I judged him at over 50”, told Rich, and the bull collapsed
almost simultaneously with the thunder of the .300 Ultra Mag. A quick,
whisper-muffled congratulation was followed by a quick stalk around the
ridge and wouldn’t you know it- the first bull was just a hundred yards
ahead, looking back for his buddy. Rich and I traded rifle for camera and a
shallow grunt made that bull give us the same “judge me” stare. He was over
50” also, and I squeezed the trigger of the Remington and watched him fold.
Two bulls in less than two minutes! Unbelievable! Exhilarating! The
successful culmination of months of planning, adjusting, re-planning and
re-adjusting lying just a hundred and fifty yards below us. The stars had
aligned and someone above was smiling down on us. Luck had finally come our
way. Or did it?
Two nights later as I lay in my sleeping bag
comforting sore muscles after packing my sha
re
of some 1300 pounds of moose out, I pondered our luck. I remembered
a few words that crackled over the intercom during our flight into camp.
When I asked for some last minute advice, Tom told me, “Ed, too many times
I see guys like you come up here with a plan, find out that it’s different
than you thought, find yourself ‘out of your element’, and your hunt falls
apart. Just remember, if you’re not hunting you’re not going to get
a moose.” Had Rich and I stuck to that 8 month old plan, we wouldn’t have
been where we were, we wouldn’t have crawled through those alders day after
day until we found easier access, and we would have probably spent more time
fishing instead of hunting 100% of our time. The key for us is that we
persevered; we adapted our master plan into thought-out alterations and
overcame unforeseen obstacles. We turned disgust into laughter as we tried
to dry out a fresh pair of soaked clothes. We remained fixed to a
modifiable plan and kept flexibility forefront in our minds. As we tagged
our bulls we agreed on two points. For Pennsylvania do-it-yourselfers these
were two tremendous trophies. And we were glad we modified our plan as
needed, adapted and overcame, rather than allowing disgust and the unknown
rule us. So, when you find the plan falling apart, take a step back. Look
at the glass as half full instead of half empty, it worked for us and it’ll
work for you.
ard
my calls. Three mornings later I had closed the distance between him and me
by sneaking in earlier and earlier, approaching his nightly roost and being
exceptionally careful not to spook the group. I’d also begun to pattern the
flock. They’d fly down at 5:30 am, peck around the clover patch for a half
hour and make their way downhill to the pond for a drink. The morning sun
on day six rose over my back as I lay completely prone, some weeds
strategically placed across my back and over the barrel of my Thompson
Center turkey gun. The hard work and early mornings seemed to have paid
off. I was in the zone. They flew down, landed perfect. But then trouble
– they zigged and I couldn’t zag! They passed by the working end of that TC
at about 70 yards, just a bit too far for a clean kill. That night I spoke
with my brother. He had the next morning off and we talked about a direct
intercept plan. Instead of “side-hilling” the flock, we’d get directly
between them and the pond. Dangerous because they may spot us directly from
the roost, but there would surely be no zig or zag. We set the decoys out
just before 5:00 am and hunkered down. Bill was on the right corner of the
clover, I was on the left (the birds seemed to favor the left side, but I
never told him that!). 25 minutes later the hens were pecking within inches
of the decoys. Both Toms were on their way in. At 5:40 there was no
mistaking the crack of that 12 guage. Bird DOWN! I stood up and
unfortunately (for me) pulled a perfectly unused round from my chamber.
After all the hard work, early mornings, ziggin’ and zaggin’, my brother
ended the season with the luck! Was I disappointed? Sure, but only for
about two seconds. Then it was on to high-fiving and some congratulations.
Over ten inches of beard and 1 3/8” spurs – it was a GREAT bird! I’m not
sure who was more happy, Bill or me. And as far as sibling rivalry goes, I
have to be honest. There’s none. Except that maybe next year I’ll say,
“…Nope, haven’t even seen a bird on the upper side this season…..”
