stump sticking out of the water just off our landing. Then suddenly the “stump” moved. A giant bull moose with an enormous set of antlers was enjoying a picnic lunch of aquatic plants not more than sixty feet from where we had launched our canoe. We took several pictures as we inched closer and closer, until eventually he felt we had come close enough. He lumbered out of the water and made his way to the protection of the bushes and trees on the swampy section of our island.
After unsuccessfully trying to spot him and listening for his movements, we decided to go fishing. The moose remained hidden while we fished, but shortly after we began preparing supper we heard a giant splash. Sure enough he was back to the same spot. This time we decided to take turns: one watching him from the comfort of a rocky outcropping lakeside while the other cooked.
Nearly an hour passed as we spent dinnertime watching this magnificent bull. His rack had to have been nearly fifty inches in diameter. We were fascinated with the enormous musculature of his neck and shoulders and the silky sheen of his blackish brown coat. Soon the temptation of the perfect photo was too much to resist, and we were back in the canoe. Once again upon spotting us this giant was off to dry land. This time, however, he walked right across the island and swam to the mainland. As thrilled as we had been to have him around, we weren’t too sad to see him go. The thought of sharing this tiny island for another night with such an intimidating animal was a bit disconcerting.
Too Close for Comfort
A few summers ago, I guided a friend of mine and his cousin from Italy on a three-day trip. Again the Deux Rivières was on our itinerary, but being the middle of a hot July day I was hardly optimistic that we would see any wildlife. Water levels were low, requiring occasional poling. Beavers had constructed several dams along the way, making progress slower yet. Bend after bend we paddled, pushed, and lifted with not so much as a chickadee sighting. Finally, as we rounded the last turn, we came across a large cow moose.
She spotted us immediately, which led me to believe this encounter would be a brief one. Surprisingly, she continued sampling the vegetation and, instead of retreating, crossed the river at an angle that led her closer and closer to us. At the same time I had been creeping us forward, and at one point we were within fifteen feet with only a small beaver dam separating us. Soon, despite my efforts, our progress halted and in fact we began drifting backwards. My friend in the bow turned back and gave me a stern look. “We’re too close,” he muttered. He had dug his paddle under a log and was prying us away from this gorgeous animal. I had never been this close to a moose before or since and in retrospect can understand his trepidation — these are massive, powerful animals, but with no calf in sight and her ambivalence towards us I never for a second thought we had anything to fear.
After several minutes the cow crossed in front of us again and went ashore, but rather than head for the woods she walked around us and re-entered the water to taste the plants right behind our canoe! We photographed and videotaped and, more often, simply watched in disbelief for more than half an hour.
“Stefano, do you want to go pet it?” I inquired of our Italian visitor. “I can bring you closer.”
He declined, unsure if I was actually serious, but there is no doubt in my mind that we could have nudged her with our paddles if we had been so inclined. Mindful that we were the intruders and that we still had some real estate to cover before suppertime, we reluctantly left this rare close encounter and headed off.
Our adventure had a profound impact on Stefano. I will never forget his wide-eyed grin and his fascination with his new surroundings. I don’t think he had ever been outside of Italy before, and his enthusiasm, not to mention our good fortune, made the trip a very special one.
And Then There Were Five
In the spring of 2000 we decided to get our permits in advance and enter via a rough logging road to Bemar Lake on the east side of the park. Just before reaching Saganagons Lake, in a narrow weedy area, we saw a mother duck with six cute little ducklings. We followed them for a time, delighted to see such a pleasant family going about their business.
Just as we were overtaking them, a loud splash was heard. I was the only one of our group of four who was looking the other way at the time. The others confirmed that I had seen only the tail end of a rare but brutal event. A large northern pike had come to the surface and taken one of the ducklings! Surprisingly, the other ducks continued on as if nothing had happened. Although far from being the most enjoyable experience we had witnessed, it was quite fascinating nonetheless.
In a similar event, two of my canoeing partners stayed at camp at the south end of Russell Lake while Rod and I went for an evening fish. Upon our return they excitedly relived a strange event for us. While standing on shore they had noticed several scattered ripples and then bubbles developing at water’s edge. Soon a frog emerged from the water and onto the rocky shore. Suddenly a huge bass flung itself a full six inches onto shore, capturing the frog in its mouth before shimmying back into the water!
Where Eagles Soar
Virtually all of our trips involve sightings of at least one bald eagle. These once rare birds are now a very common sight in canoe country. With their remarkable eyesight, it is usually the eagle that will spot you first, as my wife and I found out when we turned the corner from Russell Rapids to Sturgeon Lake. Being preoccupied with our ride down the strong current we were startled to hear what sounded like a kite cutting through a strong wind. We looked up to see a giant pair of yellow feet with razor-sharp talons a mere dozen feet above our heads. It was obviously a false charge, but if the eagle had been serious, we probably would have abandoned ship — that is, if we weren’t paralyzed with shock.
Sometimes, however, these giant raptors aren’t the toughest guy on the block. While on the south end of Walter we were stunned to see a herring gull (commonly referred to as a seagull) attacking an eagle. We conjectured that the eagle had attempted to steal the gull’s supper and the gull wasn’t giving up without a fight. Whatever the story, after several confrontations it was the gull who got its way with the eagle flying off in defeat without dinner.
Even more shocking was the time on Pickerel Lake when my wife and I saw an eagle being chased off by a kestrel hawk. This small but aggressive member of the falcon family (also known as the sparrow hawk) was much less than half the eagle’s size, and yet it was able to drive off the eagle, likely from its nest. By no means did the eagle seem frightened by the tiny hawk, but it did make a steady retreat without any hint of a counterattack.
What made the encounter even more peculiar was that every time the kestrel approached, the eagle would do a complete barrel roll! This happened on at least six consecutive occasions. The kestrel pursued the eagle and just at the instant of attack the eagle pulled its long, sweeping wings in and did a complete spin, dropping down a fair distance and creating separation between them in the process. Over half a mile later the hawk finally relented and headed back towards its nest, point well delivered.
Only once have I had the thrill of seeing an eagle take a fish from the lake. In 2010 we were crossing north on Minn Lake when we spotted a white head perched on the tallest pine off the point of an island. Eager to use my telephoto lens I asked my paddling partner to see if he could work us closer while I set up my camera. No sooner had I picked up the case than the eagle swooped down from its perch, touched the water with one precise motion, and soared off with a small fish clasped in both its talons. What a sight to behold.
Bald eagle, Fern Lake.
Bears in Their Backyard
Most people are well aware that bears have excellent climbing skills but don’t realize that they are proficient
