Every night we tuck into sleeping bags on side-by-side cots in the cabin, warmed by a wood stove, and snore ourselves to sleep. Every morning, we rise, boil water for instant coffee, yank on our hunting clothes, and climb into the boat. We putter through the reeds in the dark, kill the motor in the middle of the lake, and as we tie on fresh walleye jigs and watch the sun rise over the boreal wilderness, we listen. Our ears are listening for either the nasal bawl of a cow moose or the mewling bellow of a bull echoing in the forest. The plan, which in a week of trying hasn’t materialized, is to then row to the shore and call the bull onto the open shoreline, where we’ll kill him.