Dawn is breaking over a frigid wetland in British Columbia’s Chilcotin region. The sun ignites the low-lying mist as it evaporates over the golden grass; my phone is in hand capturing the moment before it passes. Beside me, my hunting partner leans in, looks at me, then my phone and in a low, measured voice whispers, ‘If you record this, I’ll fucking kill you.’ What follows is an undulating call echoing across the field, piercing the opposing timber. It is repeated twice more. The odd sound is what my hunting partner Darrell Collins, retired guide and outfitter, says is that of a cow moose.
At first, Darrell’s statement may seem threatening but he utters it endearingly with a smirk on his face. The 35-year guiding veteran is a friend; he and my father became friends at age five. Crouched in the cover of the pines, I listen intently, straining to capture the nuance and subtlety of the call. His reputation for calling moose has been the stuff of bedtime stories and parental reminiscing since I was a child. But the legend was not limited to campfire tales as Outdoor Life wrote that Darrell gave ‘one of the finest calling demonstrations I’ve witnessed.’
It’s the heat of the rut in early October, the unique time of year when it is possible to call in Bull Moose, often from several kilometers away. This is a fleeting opportunity to learn from the best, as Darrell spends more time tending his vegetable garden than tromping through the bush these days.
Learning to call from an older friend and mentor, Darrell deeply cherishes all he was taught. He’s since taken that knowledge and over decades in the wilderness, perfected his craft. Darrell is a purist, insisting that to achieve the intricacies necessary to produce the
