Does this look too much like a moose?" My husband holds up a tan-colored work jacket. "Better go with the bright yellow windbreaker," I suggest.
We’re up ridiculously early on a Saturday morning in order to take part in the biggest game hunting activity Finland has to offer: moose hunting. I’m not a particularly avid hunter, my usual prey being limited to whatever’s on the sale rack at Esprit, but I can’t pass up the chance to catch a glimpse of one of these mammoths of the forest and find out a little more about hunting in Finland.
Swaddled from head to toe in cold weather gear, we meet our friend who drives us to the hunting grounds north of the city. Upon arrival, we’re greeted by a group of about 20 men, all dressed in pink, red, and orange and roasting sausages over a campfire. I think they’re a little surprised to see me but they tell me that last year there were a couple of women hunters in their group, so I don’t feel so out of place. I learn that many of these hunters have been meeting here on these same grounds for almost forty years. The presence of a couple of younger-looking faces tells me that the next generation is also being schooled in the ways of the forest.
After a cup of coffee, we’re given our marching orders by our hunt leader, an experienced hunter who not only looks after our group but also carefully coordinates the movements of several other groups scattered throughout the forest. I’m given a red hat, which I learn is a mandatory part of the hunting uniform, and a pair of wellington boots. Half of our group heads out for a field on the other side of our patch of forest. They will be the shooters and will be on the lookout for any sign of a moose. The rest of us will stay behind and form a line, walking through the forest in order to try to flush the moose out towards the shooters. This being Finland, the logistics are handled by mobile phone.
Our group fans out at the edge of the forest. I find our position on the line and wait for the signal to move. Everyone else carries rifles with them but we are armed with only a compass. We’re given the signal and we head out. The thought runs through my head that walking towards a group of people with loaded rifles in their hands pointed in our direction is perhaps not the smartest thing I’ve ever done but I trust in the level-headedness of our shooters and continue on.
We’re too far away from the other members of our group to see them, but we can hear their voices ringing out down the line, "OI-JOI!" in an effort to stir up the wildlife. We join our voices with theirs as we go. I have to say that my enthusiasm for shouting has less to do with stirring up wildlife and more with trying to distinguish myself from the moose in the eyes of the hunters.
We make our way through the woods and as we go we pass an ant hill about waist-high, now dormant for the winter. A little further on we spy a mound of pine cones, most likely the remains of a squirrel’s latest feeding frenzy. Black-capped yellow tits and pied flycatchers fly boldly towards us and perch on the lower tree branches to get a better view of these strange, lumbering, red-headed beasts. I stoop down to collect some blueberries and lingon berries, frozen but still delicious. We come to some very boggy ground and a couple of times I sink into the watery ooze. I gain a better appreciation for the moose who, with their long, graceful legs, can delicately pick their way through this difficult terrain.
Now we approach the field. I nervously start shouting louder just to make sure that the shooters know where I am. A voice calls out from some distance away, guiding us to a better route through the swampy ground. In a few minutes we have rejoined the other drivers and shooters. No one has seen any sign of moose except for a few old tracks in the snow. Try another location. On the way to our next destination, I learn that one of the hunters in our group has a dog with him that has a GPS tracking device in its collar. The dog is trained to start barking loudly when it finds a moose in order to keep it at bay until the hunters can move in. The hunter can track the dog’s movements through a map on his mobile phone.
We arrive at our next hunting spot and this time we have the opportunity to stay with the shooters. Standing in the middle of a field, we chat quietly until the shooter motions to us to quiet down. He has heard something. He loads his rifle, cradles it in his arms, and looks intently in the direction of the woods. We stand so still that we can hear the wind gently blowing through the grass and a few wild birds scampering up and down the trees. My heart beats wildly with anticipation.
After what seems like ages, but is probably only a half an hour or so, we hear some movement. Suddenly, a red hat flashes into view at the other end of the field. The drivers are back. It seems that they have had a glimpse of the moose but it has managed to evade them. I’m not sure if I’m more disappointed that I haven’t gotten to see this sylvan giant or secretly a little happy that the underdog has won today.
For us, the hunting day is over and our friend gives us a lift back to town. Most of the other hunters will head for their moose towers to spend the afternoon watching, waiting, and hoping for a big one to come along. We stop for lunch at our friend’s house and I reflect on how my image of a Rambo-esque shooting spree has been replaced with something that has more to do with communal effort and relationships. On the table, sandwiched between the usual rye bread, margarine, and cheese is a plate of last year’s moose catch. Of course, I sample some.
