Bio: Frank Galey’s Nephew; Staff at the Ranch, 1950’s and 1960’s. Descriptor: A dangerous moose becomes moose meat in deep snow while threatening my son.
Fran’s Story: MOOSE MEAT: There is a lone lodge pole pine about 150 yards from the Moose/Wilson Road on the left side facing the ranch. The tree has grown in the 43 years since my son, Francis, scrambled up as I pushed from behind. The snow was waist deep in mid-February, and it was long after dark. I had just picked up Francis in Moose where the Jackson school bus had dropped him off and his books and papers were scattered all over the snow. It all started a few days before when a particularly cranky moose kept showing up on the sled trail between the plowed road and the ranch. She had charged my dog Charlie and me once near the barn where we had a turnaround for the sleds. We had to jump out of the trail into the deep snow and she followed Charlie, using her feet like a pile driver. The snow was soft and Charlie was OK. We got to know her pretty well because she would telegraph her charge. First, her head would drop and sway from side to side. Then she would squat her hindquarters and urinate. Then she would charge with hair standing high on her neck and shoulders. It was very intimidating. We had two snowmobiles: an old Polaris and a newer Yamaha. These were the old pull start machines and they rarely both ran at the same time. I needed to get Francis to and from Moose every day, and Frank would pull a toboggan with a machine once or twice a week to deliver groceries. On the evening in question, after leaving the car, Francis jumped on the back of the Yamaha cradling his books as he had done all winter. This time, however, less than a minute into the trip our way was blocked by the angry moose, her head swaying side to side. I had just enough time to push Francis backward off the machine but luckily not enough time to turn the machine off. The glare of the headlight kept her from seeing us as we wallowed through the deep snow trying to reach that lodge pole pine. She hit the machine with a fury, breaking the windshield and leaving snot and hair all over the front. Again, the sound of her pile-driving front feet was like a heavy machine gun and just as fast. Getting Francis to the tree and hoisting him up seemed to take forever even though it was about 30 feet away. Once Francis was safe and the moose was gone, I went back to the machine, turned it off and stood quietly, listening and smelling. Moose have a strong spruce smell at that time of year as they eat a lot of spruce tips. I did not want to run into her again, so I told Francis that I was going to Ted Hartgrave’s to get a gun. I asked Francis if he was OK. I will never forget his reply: he asked me if the moose could reach him and whether the bears were still hibernating. When I answered to his satisfaction, he consented to my departure with the assurance that he would be fine. When I told Ted the short version of our moose encounter, he called the Park Service who told me to wait for someone from the Park. I said that I would not leave my son up a tree and that I would kill the moose if need be. Nobody from the Park ever showed. Writing this now, I remember that Joe Baker was at the White Grass at the time and he showed up on the other snowmobile just after Francis and I gathered his school books and papers littering the snow and started back to the ranch. My wife, Lori, must have sent Baker since we were so late. Not long after the incident, a moose (probably the same one) was keeping two REA employees from checking the electrical power transformer on the ranch. Frank had taken one snowmobile and the toboggan down to the vehicles to get groceries in town. Frank was late getting back and, after having played tag with the moose and the REA all day, I knew that the moose was between the Moose/Wilson Road and the ranch. We were getting pretty “nerved up” about this moose. Frank and I both had powerful handguns. Frank had a Ruger Black Hawk 357 mag and I had an old S & W 45 cal revolver with a reducer clip and 45 auto ammo. I started down the road to look for Frank on foot in a blizzard since the REA had one sled and Frank had the other. I took Charlie with me. Right where the main ranch gate used to be, we came across the familiar moose. Charlie took off after her as I looked for a tree to climb. I got about 10 feet off the ground and looked down to see the moose stopped directly under me. I shot her behind the ear thinking to knock her down and then finish her off later. But it was an incredibly lucky, instinctive shot, and she fell stone dead, never moving a muscle. At that point I was certain that I would find Frank stomped by the moose in some drift. I started walking again and, through the blowing snow, saw a second moose coming towards me. Turns out it wasn’t a moose at all, but Frank all bundled up, crouched, and loaded for bear. The moose had run him off the track, dumping him and his groceries in the snow. He had snapped a passing shot at the same moose that I had killed and was now lying in the middle of the track. The moose ended up quartered and under my cabin, and we ate on piney moose meat for part of the winter. I have hated moose meat ever since. Fran Fox.