I just got back from Alaska with an unpunched moose tag, and I want to be straight with you about why. I didn’t lose that hunt on the mountain. I lost it at my kitchen table, months before I ever got on a plane.
The Tag I Thought I Already Had Figured Out
I drew a nonresident Alaska moose tag that only about 5% of applicants get. Alaska runs a pure random draw — no preference points, no credit for the years you’ve been putting in — so you either get lucky or you don’t. When my name came up I was fired up.
Here’s the problem. I’d killed a grizzly in Alaska the year before, in that same country. We’d seen a good number of moose while we were in there. We found some big sheds. And the following spring the guides told me they’d laid eyes on a couple of big bulls in that same area.
So I already knew where I was going. That’s what I told myself.
I didn’t do another hour of research on that unit. I didn’t call around. I didn’t kick around other drainages or ask anybody to talk me out of it. I had a spot, I had a memory, and I let the memory do the work that research should have done.
The Pilot Told Me the Truth and I Flew In Anyway
Flying in on the bush plane, I asked my pilot if this was a spot he’d recommend.
“No, this would not be my first choice.”
That stopped me cold. These guys fly hunters in and out of that country all season long. They see everything. And the second he said it, I should have been asking him a hundred questions — where are you seeing bulls, what’s actually working this year, where would you put me if it were you.
He went on to explain the area was very hard to glass and just a tough place to hunt. Then he softened it: “Now, don’t get me wrong. We’ve definitely killed some moose in this area, but it wouldn’t be my first choice.”
But the plan had me going there. So I stuck to the plan. I had 12 days. I figured that was plenty of time to get it figured out.
Twelve days is not plenty of time when you’re in the wrong spot.
Day One, Seven O’Clock, and a Bull I Should Have Killed
My buddy Clint Butts flew in a day behind me — fellow consultant, elk guide, one of a very short list of men I’d trust in the Alaska backcountry. He came to help me glass, run a camera if I needed it, and pack meat if I got lucky. We hadn’t hunted together in years and I was glad to have him.
We started calling midday on the first day. Around seven that evening, a bull stepped out at about 1,200 yards.
Through the spotting scope we counted four brow tines. Where I was hunting, a bull is legal at 50 inches or with four or more brow tines on one side, so he was legal — and he wasn’t just barely legal, he was a very, very good bull.
I don’t have a lot of moose experience, and this is where that showed. He seemed interested in the call and a little fired up. We had plenty of daylight. So I decided to sit tight and let him come to me.
He started our way. Stopped and raked some willows below us for a few minutes. Then he slipped into heavy timber and we lost him.
I was confident he’d pop back out within the hour. He never did. We went back to that same spot the next morning and called. And the next. And the next. I still don’t know whether he circled us and caught our wind, or just lost interest. That was the last time I ever saw him.
Eight Days on a Knob
We had a backup plan — a stretch of meadows we could move to. On day four another hunter flew into that country and killed a bull on his first legal day. That cut our hunting ground in half.
And in moose country you can’t just walk away from camp to fix that. You kill a bull four miles from the strip and you’ve created a problem you may not be able to solve. So you stay close, and you accept the ground you’ve got.
Which meant eight more days sitting on a knob, blowing a cow call into some of the prettiest country I’ve ever glassed, and getting nothing back for it. Rain came and went. Wind came and went. We were out there every single day.
I’ll be honest with you: moose hunting that way is the most boring hunting I have ever done. Over 12 days we turned up a few cows, one grizzly, and a couple of black bears. That was it.
As the days went by, so did the hope. Somewhere in there I realized I’d picked the wrong spot, and that this was going to be my first real failed hunt since 2023.
When I did that math I actually sat with it a second — that’s a long run of hunts that came together. I was proud of that. I was probably due. It was still a bitter pill.
What a Failed DIY Moose Hunt Actually Costs
People hear “DIY” and think cheap. This hunt ran me around $10,000 by the time I paid for airfare, food, hotel stays, transporters, and luggage. Ten grand, and I never drew a bow.
And the money is the easy part to talk about. The real cost was two weeks away from my family and two weeks away from my business. I paid that too.
I tried to keep my head up out there, but Clint could tell I was down. At one point he said, “Hey man, most guys would kill to have 12 days in the rugged landscape of Alaska.”
I agreed with him at the time. It didn’t actually land.
It landed the next day, back in Colorado, sitting in traffic.
Sitting there in a line of brake lights it finally hit me. Yes, I ate my tag. Yes, I spent real money and real time away from my family. And I also just spent 12 days in the remote wilderness of Alaska — country most men never lay eyes on — watching weather roll across it.
And right then I’d have traded every bit of that traffic to be back on that knob, blasting a cow call at nothing.
Alaska Moose Hunt FAQ
How hard is it to draw an Alaska moose tag?
Very hard for the good ones. The nonresident moose tag I drew goes to about 5% of applicants, according to Alaska Fish and Game’s own drawing supplement — roughly 500 applications for 25 permits, two years running. Alaska uses a pure random draw with no preference points, so you can apply for years without drawing, and a first-time applicant can beat a guy who’s applied for a decade.
What makes a bull moose legal in Alaska?
It depends on the unit, and getting it wrong is a serious violation. In the unit I hunted, a nonresident bull had to carry antlers with a 50-inch or greater spread, or four or more brow tines on at least one side. Count the tines through good glass before you ever think about a shot, and carry a tape so you can confirm it on the animal.
How much does a DIY Alaska moose hunt cost?
Mine came to roughly $10,000 and I never killed anything. Airfare, bush plane transporters, food, hotel nights on either end, and oversized luggage add up fast, and none of it is refunded when you eat your tag. Anybody who tells you DIY Alaska is the budget option has not paid for a bush plane.
Is a DIY Alaska moose hunt worth it, or should I book a guided hunt?
If you’re going to hunt Alaska on your own, the research is the hunt — you’re buying the spot with your homework, not your money. If you don’t have the time to do that homework properly, you’re better off putting the same ten grand toward a guided moose hunt where somebody who lives there has already found the moose.
How many days do you need for an Alaska moose hunt?
Ten to twelve days in the field is a reasonable window, and I’d call that a minimum for a fly-in. Weather can pin you down for days at a time, and the bush plane flies when the bush plane flies, so build slack on both ends of the trip.
What happens if another hunter flies into the same area?
Nothing, legally — on public ground he has as much right to be there as you do. But it can gut your hunt. A hunter flew into our backup meadows on day four and killed a bull, which cut our workable country in half and left us with one knob for the rest of the trip.
Why do moose hunters stay close to camp?
Because a bull moose is roughly 1,000 pounds of meat and you are carrying every ounce of it on your back. Most fly-in hunters won’t kill one more than a mile or two from the strip, which shrinks your real hunting area down to a fraction of what the map suggests.
What I’d Tell You Before You Book Anything
I’ve spent years now helping hunters put together trips, and I still made the most basic mistake in the book. I let one good memory stand in for real preparation.
Here’s what that memory actually was: a few moose seen incidentally, on a different hunt, for a different animal, two years earlier. That is not intel. That’s a feeling. And I built a $10,000 hunt on it.
So whether you’re headed to Alaska on your own or looking at a guided trip anywhere else, ask the question I didn’t: who has actually hunted this, this year, and what did they see? Then shut up and listen to the answer — especially when it’s a bush pilot telling you it wouldn’t be his first choice.
That’s the whole reason our consultants are working guides who hunt these places themselves. Not so we can sell you something. So somebody in the conversation already knows what the pilot knows.
If you want to talk through a hunt before you commit to it — Alaska, Canada, or anywhere out West — reach out to us and ask the hard questions. Browse what we’ve got on the Hunt Adventures page, look at the Arctic moose hunt in Nunavut or the Alaska grizzly hunt that started this whole story, and get your name in the Dream Hunts Sweepstakes while you’re at it.
And if you drew a moose tag this year and you’re still wrestling with your setup, I wrote about whether to bring the rifle before I left. If you do get one down, read how to get your meat home first — then put it to work with the wild game cookbook. We get into a lot of this on the Hunt Podcast, too.
I’m not going to pretend I’m at peace with eating that tag. I’m not. But I’d go back tomorrow.
Hunting is not a hobby. It’s an obsession.
