“Don’t shoot,” the guide screamed. “I’ve seen you shoot. You can’t hit anything that far, eh?” At least I think that’s what he said.

I’d had trouble translating Newfoundland’s version of English since I’d arrived, so it wasn’t long until my guide and I resorted to hand signals. If he held his arms wide over his head, and turned slowly from side to side, for example, that meant he’d spotted a big bull moose.

It was an arrangement that worked well until we located a big moose. I was focused on the animal, which meant I had my back to my guide, and the Newfie-English was coming hard and fast. If you remember the wooden spoon-wielding Swedish chef on the “Muppet Show,” then you understand. “Gmee, gmo, gneek gazoo,” he said. I ran to a small tuckamore pine for a fore-end rest, but the tree wilted under my Remington M700’s weight. The sight was too much for my guide to handle. “Gmuck gmoose gshute!”

I recognized the word moose and “gshute,” so I ran to another tuckamore. The chef-speak grew in intensity when the second tuckamore genuflected. I had no choice but to shoot from the sitting position. It took one box of ammo to re-sight my rifle when I arrived, so I understood my guide’s lack of confidence in my skills—especially after four days of enforced death march over the muskeg.

But my M700, chambered in 7 mm Remington Magnum, is deadly accurate. My family’s idea of fun when we lived in Arizona was to put balloons up, drive until the Jeep’s odometer said 1/4 mile; then bail out and shoot the balloons. Long shots always resulted in theme music from the movie “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.” I promised my son I’d carry on the tradition if I hit a long shot in Newfoundland. My crosshair settled on the saddle the cows had used to escape. The bull wasn’t in sight yet, but it was coming—it followed those cows everywhere up until that point.

It walked into the field of view, stopped quartering and looked right at me. I let half of my breath out, repurchased the trigger…and squeezed. The bull didn’t move. Through the glass the bull stared back as if to say, “What do you think you’re doing…you can’t hurt me.” It didn’t move, flinch or even blink.

My guide was screaming into my ear, “Gshute, gshute! Gnu gmissed!” I looked back…and re-settled the crosshair just in time to see the bull topple over.

My Newfie guide doesn’t own a DVD or VCR, so you can imagine his shock when the next sound he heard was my rendition of “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly” theme music. It must have seemed like the vocalizations of someone suffering a nervous breakdown, instead of a simple family tradition, as it echoed across the muskeg. I didn’t look up from the scope until the song was finished.

“Gnu OK?” he asked. His nervous look told me he was looking for his spoon.

“Hey, Blondie!” I screamed as I stood up.

“Gnuts, gnor gnuts!” he said as he took off toward the moose.

This post-rut moose hunt was undoubtedly the toughest hunt of my life, but the friendly folks in Newfoundland made it more than worthwhile. It’s an experience I’ll never forget, and one I heartily recommend for all hunters. Tell ’em Gnor Gnuts sent you.