For several years my dad used to take me 150 miles or so up the Algoma for fishing trips. One year, I was about 10, we took my brother in law with us. On about our 10th portage we came to yet another pristine little lake. While my dad and the guide set up camp, Butch and I took one of the canoes across the lake to a cove surrounded by a hill with a close stand of young pine. All of a sudden we heard this tremendous crashing and breaking of branches only to see a bull moose in full antler come crashing into the water towards us. You could have gotten up on skis behind that canoe.
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