Patience Pays for Kolstads & Co.

Abbi Kolstad and her proud father, Jon, certainly earned a memory of a lifetime. Together, they followed-up on whispered rumors of moose sightings, a few phone calls, and the generosity of our vast expanse of neighborly inspiration possessed by the local population. Lead upon lead found the determined duo engaging in adventurous expeditions to nearly all corners of their large hunting district in search of a good bull moose.

They trekked to Medicine Lake, Colridge, Outlook, Whitetail, Four-Buttes, Richland, Opheim, Hinsdale, Nashua, North of Malta, Dodson, Havre, the Hutterite colonies, with most leads turning up only Montana's scenic beauty. They were weeks, days, and sometimes just hours behind our region's nomadic moose. Early on, the occasional young bull was found, but Abbi had decided to hold out for a good bull, one that represented the broad-paddled bull moose of her dreams.

One can't blame her, really. She possessed a moose permit that she had less than a 2% chance of drawing, and there are only three permits offered for our region of 11 counties. Some people have waited 30 years to draw a MT moose permit . . . others are still waiting. On the other hand, one could argue that she is rather young and has a long time to hunt, even after the required 7 year waiting period to re-apply after drawing a moose permit. In addition, region 6 is the only one with an asterisk, so to speak. In the regulations it reads, "Note: Moose may be difficult to find".

When Abbi decided to pass on these early bulls, it made Dad a little nervous. Her confidence in finding a mature bull, however, was contagious and Jon whole-heartedly embraced any future outings spent seeking a majestic Montana bull with his daughter. Plans of horse-backing into certain areas and canoeing winding rivers materialized and became obsessive of their thoughts. Abbi was all in and game on, which warmed a Daddy's heart to its very core in anticipation of a most memorable time spent afield with his daughter. It was about the experience, the chase, the precious moments. A big bull would certainly be some serious dark chocolate frosting on this slice of life's cake.

Ultimately this father-daughter team employed classic shoe-leather hunting combined with patient hours behind the binocs while perched on Eastern Montana's always prickly and recently muddy hills. They were told of a good bull hanging out on a portion of the Milk River bottom not far from their Glasgow home. Perfect, as the swift hands of time were relentlessly counting down to the end of the season.

They had spotted a group of moose at the birth of the day's light while walking the bottom. It appeared there were four moose . . .two juveniles, one "Bullwinkle", and a larger bull. The obscured view left uncertainty about the larger bull's age or the size of his paddles, but the initial impression was that he was a bull worth going after. The bachelor group dissolved into the thick timber and out of view. Father led daughter to higher altitude, and together they hunkered down amid the yucca plants, cacti, and native grasses while glassing the more colorful river bottom where the moose had been seen.

I joined Jon and Abbi on the hillside and we picked apart the timber below us. I agreed to go down to the river bottom and try to locate the moose. Since the days of my youth, I had tallied countless hours in these woods and it was a special place to me. Knowing the Kolstad's and their story, I deemed this a special hunt and I was happy to help. Once on the bottom, I located the moose and observed them from a distance.

It really was a blessed day it seemed. The wind was perfect, the temperature moderate, and the moose took refuge in a patch of timber I knew well. I formulated a plan. Abbi and Jon met with me and agreed. A short hike brought us to the steep and uneven banks of the winding Milk River.

The lower river bank kept us out of view from where we thought the moose might be and helped contain any noise we might make. The wind, so habitually fickle most days recently, seemed to play in our favor and remained constant and strong into our faces. We moved upstream, paying mind to the shore ahead in case the moose decided to come down to the river. I eased up to the top of the bank once we reached the timberline. I peered into the mixed stand of cottonwood and ash trees. No moose. We agreed to continue further upstream and glass the woods for the moose.

Young cottonwood saplings planted by the flood of 2011 made it difficult to crest the riverbank, and it apparently was a good year for the cockle-burrs. A little further up and another peek. Bingo! There was the bull, resting peacefully in the timber, his back to us and facing the wind. Odd, I thought, as whitetail usually lay with their eyes pointed downwind while their noses protect their back..maybe the other three moose had his back protected. I couldn't find them.

I knew of a washout just ahead that would serve our purpose. Together, the three of us made our way to the washout. It provided the perfect vantage point, allowing us rise above the level of the forest floor with careful purpose. Our bull was still bedded, his wide and pointed paddles looking larger than life to all of us. An eager daughter and hopeful father shared their excitement in the moment. The bull was easily within Abbi's ability with her rifle . . . maybe 150 yards. But in these woods, 150 yards collects a lot of hardwoods and tree limbs.

Abbi, Jon, and I agreed to get closer. It was quiet, and this was going to be tough among the noisy leaves, grass, and deadfall that covered the distance to our target, a large cottonwood that had rested sideways between us and the bull; maybe half the distance between him and us. And where were the other moose? I had watched them walk into this quiet paradise with the big bull, but now I failed to locate them.

From this point on, it was going to be hands and knees hunting. I went first, then Abbi, then Jon. Each of us completed the long, deliberate, shoeless crawl to the fallen cottonwood, right into the bull's bedroom. Now it was the waiting game. One half hour passed as Abbi, with only the top of her head and eyes above the tree trunk, watched our motionless bull. Suddenly, ahead of us to our left, the Bullwinkle rose from his bed, less than 30 yards from our perch.

Abbi froze, covering her mouth. The wind was our ally. A long gaze towards us and he lost interest, only looking towards our hideout occasionally knowing something disturbed his day time nap. The slightest shifting of our bootless feet had potential to be heard. Father and daughter remained disciplined. The young, one-horned bull sauntered to the big bull and we thought he may get up. Abbi was ready, Jon in her ear helping guide her, but the young bull laid down. Again we would wait. About two hours had passed and concern for a shifting wind and fading shooting light was being discussed, alternate plans were forming, when it happened . . . the great bull stood effortlessly with a slow sway of his horns. Abbi was ready, with her Dad's rifle resting solidly upon the trunk. The young southpaw took aim, her father whispering words of experience to her.

I remember thinking how incredibly large the kill zone appeared on this immense animal before us. My mind repeated Jon's words to me earlier about how Abbi was a great shot, even out to long ranges. Together, Abbi and Jon had waged an extremely disciplined wait for the great bull to stand and provide an ethical shot. The rifle cracked, and the bull winced then ran forward into an opening, stopping hard at about 60 yards. We instructed Abbi to load another round, but she didn't need instruction as she had already worked the bolt and chambered another round. The tall grass obscured her view of the bull. Abbi moved down the trunk, settled, and squeezed another round. I could hear the thud of the bullet, but the strong bull turned away, ran a short distance, and stopped again. We knew he was hit hard, but with a large animal like a Canadian bull moose, you don't take chances, especially given their aggressive reputation. Another quick, well-placed round behind the bull's shoulder and he collapsed to the ground.

I had just witnessed a remarkable young lady with more composure than most veteran hunters with 20 years atop her experience. Emotions surfaced and a proud Dad hugged his "little" girl. Muffled words were exchanged and time froze in the moment.

The hunt ended just as it had begun, with Jon and Abbi walking beside each other under an Eastern Montana sky. They approached the bull, cautiously at first, then in awe of the sheer size of the Montana icon laying before them. Abbi had placed all 3 shots right where they needed to be. The hunt was everything they had hoped for. The journey, the experience, the memories, topped by the big, mature bull they had sought in this adventure. The thick, dark brown and black coat of the bull moose somewhat resembled the dark chocolate frosting they were seeking, I suppose. I was honored and thankful to have been a part of it.

The Bull was honored with respect and grace at the end of an epic hunt for a huntress at the beginning of her promising Montana outdoors lifestyle, a hunt that was led by an ever-mindful father teaching his daughter how to hunt the right way through woodsman-ship, respect, and appreciation . . . a method not so commonly seen these days. These things can't be bought, bartered, or otherwise acquired any other way. We can only acquire through them by learning from a good teacher, in this case a father. Abbi will take away the important things from it, remember them, and pass them on when it's her turn. And so goes the sweet cycle of a Montana hunting family.