Murray (right) called sporadically to keep the bull's attention, and when the moose presented a fleeting broadside shot, my longbow did the rest.

With less than 30 minutes remaining in the archery moose season, it seemed like I would be hanging my unused tag on the Christmas tree. As I listened to the realistic horny-cow moose calls issued by my hunting partner, I reflected on all the adversity Murray and I had faced in this less-than-stellar week of Saskatchewan moose hunting.

The relentless wind and frequent torrents of rain had finally subsided the day before. With ideal calling conditions, we finally experienced encounters with a couple of randy bulls, but neither of them came close enough for our traditional-style bows. In my mind's eye, I could still see that big bull standing broadside in the clear at 40 yards. When the cow that accompanied him realized that something wasn't right and headed for a safer destination, the trophy-class bull abruptly followed her; quickly disappearing with long, ground-covering strides that corresponded to the sinking of a pair of hunter's hearts.

My mournful reverie was interrupted and I was snatched back to the present by the distant grunt of a rutting bull -- or was it just wishful thinking? I looked quizzically at Murray, pointing in the direction of the sound I thought I had heard. He shook his head, indicating he hadn't heard anything. I motioned for him to call again, put my bow down, and cupped both hands behind my ears to accentuate any distant sound. Seconds later I heard the distinctive "uurgh" of a rutting bull a long way off. Murray cow-called again. A long, silent minute ticked by. When the bull called again, it was obvious he was coming -- and closing the distance fast!

Our original plan for that fall was to hunt a remote fly-in river location in the extreme northern part of Saskatchewan, nearly at the NWT border. A dry summer in the region caused water levels to drop considerably, and the air service was leery about landing a floatplane on the river. Even though I knew the area contained some tremendous bulls due to nonexistent hunting pressure, I'm also aware that scared pilots live the longest, and I deferred to their judgment.

We opted instead to hunt a region about 400 miles south of there that we both knew well. Referred to as "the hills" by locals, this land is a huge expanse of uninhabited, heavily forested wilderness that harbors whitetail deer, elk, Canada moose, black bears, and a host of furbearers, small game, and bird species. We decided to hunt the last week of the archery moose season, which ended on September 30. The region had received nearly 10 inches of rain over a weeklong period in mid-September, and the weather forecast wasn't looking good for the duration of our hunt.

The gnarly trails leading into the hills are usually fairly easy to travel by quad, but they were a real quagmire this year. It was a genuine mud-fest getting to our intended destination, about nine miles back in.

After setting up camp, we decided to check out a nearby river. By the time we returned to our camp at dark, it had started to spit rain. Within a couple hours it turned into a heavy downpour that would ultimately last for 24 hours. To add to our misery, my formerly always-dry tent sprung a leak, resulting in soaked gear and sleeping bags.