"A couple of years ago my cousins and I planned a moose hunting trip just after the season opened. We were set to leave at nine in the morning, but you know how there is always someone who is slower than the rest of the crowd. We had to wait about ten minutes for my cousin Mark to get down to the beach. Before we knew it, though, we were on our way to Owl Slough.

When we got there we sneaked into some meadows, hoping to see something. But even though we peaked our heads through every bush and around every corner, we didn't see a thing. Finally, after almost a whole day's worth of boat riding in sloughs and checking meadows, we finally decided to start heading home. I thought that we were going to go straight home, but we decided to go into one last slough. There our luck changed. We saw a pretty good-sized bull perched near the bank of a tiny slough surrounded with wilted grass. Mark turned off his engine, and we slowly started drifting towards the huge animal. Trying to move as little as possible, Mark and John grabbed their guns and aimed at the moose. After about a minute of silence, an unexpected loud boom startled me, making me jump in my boots. I looked and saw the moose barely standing. It made one final attempt to remain on its feet, then dropped helplessly to the cold autumn ground. Mark then turned on his engine and slowly headed towards the moose. Not really knowing if the moose was completely dead, my older cousin John went over and checked it out first. Sure enough, it was dead. And then our work began."

By: Delores Paul