Alaska Early Morning Adventure

 Alaska Early Morning Adventure

By Michael "Mick" Webster

It was one of those mornings that felt like the world had been wrapped in warmth. Our homestead in Alaska during the winter of 1968 — I still see it vividly like a photograph.

Our little lean-to cabin on Moose Creek, down the stretch of road the 3 local folks called Oil Well Road, sat quiet under a hard crust of frost. The snow had settled in thick, making everything look soft and unreal, like the earth itself was still sleeping.

Peggy was up before dawn, as she always was. I could hear her moving around in the dim light — the creak of the stove being stoked, the soft tap-tap of her boots on the wood floor. The windows had a solid sheet of ice on the inside, so I wasn’t surprised when I heard the scrape of her knife, scraping off about four inches of frost. She always said the glass looked like it had been frosted with diamonds.

But this morning, Peggy didn’t see diamonds. She saw something far more precious.

“Moose,” she whispered, her voice like a call in the dark. “Right outside.”

I rubbed my eyes and tried to shake off sleep, but I wasn’t too groggy to recognize the urgency in her voice. I rolled out of bed and stumbled towards the window, peeling back the frost. Sure enough, standing just outside the door were a mother moose and her nearly grown calf, blinking in the sharp cold and steaming in the morning air.

Now, we didn’t live in town, we had our share of wilderness wildlife. I’d seen moose on the trail, and bears up the creek, but this — this felt different.

I wasn’t even supposed to be out hunting today. The gun I trusted most, my Weatherby .378, was in Anchorage getting repaired — some US Air Force guys I'd met on a hunting trip had graciously offered to take it in for me, and I figured I’d be fine with the backup gear. Only thing was, my “backup” was an old, reliable .22 and a heavy .44 Magnum Super Blackhawk. Hardly the kind of setup you want for moose, especially not on a cold morning when everything seems too still, too thick with potential danger.

But here we were. A hundred yards from the porch, a mother moose and her calf, calm as could be. The spot where they stood was no accident, either. We’d staked our land on this very corner marker, carefully laid out when we first homesteaded here. That was before the frost set in, when the creek’s water sang its wild song, and everything felt so… alive. Back then, Peggy and I had picked this spot because it felt like a place you could build a life — it had that honesty to it. Even a black bear had agreed with us when he waddled out of the woods, pausing to eat berries from the bushes and fall asleep on his back. If a bear could call it home, well, who were we to argue?

I grabbed the .22 and loaded it up. A good shot was important, but a fast shot was better. With the calf so close, it felt like the universe was holding its breath.

I took aim. Five quick rounds to the shoulder. The calf staggered, went down, and the mother moose, startled, dashed off into the trees.

I had only a second to breathe, but no sooner had I started to dress the calf than the woods erupted. A thunderous crack of branches breaking under weight, the earth rumbling with the heavy, determined tread of an angry mother.

There was no time to hesitate. I threw myself down, grabbing the .22 and squeezing off the last rounds I had. I didn’t care if it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t looking for a fight with this moose, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to just roll over either.

She was too fast, though. In a blur, she was on me — a freight train with hooves. I fired the .22 into her, but it barely slowed her down. She leapt over me, like something out of a nightmare, her massive body clearing the space between us in an instant.

The only thing I had left was my Magnum. The big .44 was heavy, but it was all I had. I fired as she charged past. One shot, then two, then three — I didn’t stop until I saw her stagger and collapse fifteen yards away.

I don’t remember the next few moments. It was like time paused, and in that frozen space, I did what needed to be done. I made sure the moose wouldn’t suffer, performing the grim task with a kind of efficiency that came from years of living in the bush.

When the cold had finally settled into the bones of the land, and the world was still again, I took a breath. It wasn’t pretty. It was raw, harsh. But that’s the way it was — that’s the way it had to be.

I didn’t think about the work that lay ahead — cutting and storing meat, setting the traps. We did it all without fanfare, without expecting anyone to see us for the effort. This life, this wild and difficult life, was its own reward. After the work was done, Peggy and I sat on the porch with mugs of coffee between us, the steam rising in the quiet air, the creek’s sound soft in the background.

Michael, our son, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, came out and climbed into my lap. Peggy wrapped a thick wool blanket around us. The warmth of our little family surrounded me, making the world feel both large and small at once.

That morning felt like a story. It was jagged with the shock of danger, but soft with the quiet after. And golden — oh, so golden, with the kind of memories that you hold forever. It’s not a story you tell for glory. You tell it because it’s honest work, born of necessity and respect for the land.

And if anyone asks me about homesteading, about living off the land, I tell them the truth: it’s hard, but it’s real. And it fills you in ways no money ever could.

That morning on Moose Creek is still one of my favorites.