“If I had known moose hunting could be done this way, I would have gotten into it much sooner.”
I’m back from Newfoundland with my head full of memories. Kilometres of walking in the woods, endless laughter, boots full of mud, and a moose we harvested ourselves, by the sweat of our brow. But I’m also coming back with a heavy heart. Because I know I’ll never be able to live this experience back home, in Quebec. Not because the game isn’t there. Not because there isn’t enough land. Because the way we manage access to our public lands doesn’t allow it.
Newfoundland: one tag, one draw, where the woods belong to everyone
In Newfoundland, moose hunting works a little differently than in Quebec. Residents have direct access to public lands, but the right to hunt is still limited: the whole territory is divided into zones, and every year you have to enter a draw to get your tag.
That one bit of uncertainty changes everything. Nobody can claim a piece of public forest as their own, since nobody knows for sure they’ll be hunting there next year. No “my spot,” no “my territory.” The woods go back to being what they should be: a common good. In my opinion, it’s a far more equitable form of access than what Quebec offers us.
There were four of us, outdoorsy women, not necessarily big hunters. Marie-Ève had hunted a few times in the area; she was by far the most experienced, and she was the one who got drawn, since she’s been living in Newfoundland with her partner for a few years. For two of us, Martine and Marion, it was their very first hunt. We set off with our camping gear, planning to sleep in the woods for four days, with one rifle and our hunting knives. That’s it. No ATV. No chainsaw. No pile of gadgets. Just our backpacks and our drive. We walked for kilometres through vast, wild country. Moose beds everywhere, fresh tracks in the mud, that feeling of being exactly where you’re supposed to be, moving at the animal’s pace instead of the engine’s.
Then, on the first afternoon, at 2:30 p.m., we harvested our moose. We field-dressed it ourselves. We quartered it, loaded the quarters into our packs, and carried it out of the woods on our backs, kilometre after kilometre. Every step was heavy. Every step was worth it. To me, this is the purest, most natural, and most affordable way to hunt moose. That night, we got back to camp at 10:30 p.m., completely exhausted but filled with an indescribable sense of pride.
For a long time, moose hunting was presented to us as a guy thing, all big camps and machinery. Something we were invited to, at best. In Newfoundland, we didn’t need anyone to open the door for us. We planned, we walked, we shot, we field-dressed, and we packed it out. There’s something deeply powerful about hauling a moose out of the woods with your girlfriends, your back wrecked and a big smile across your face. We didn’t prove to ourselves that we could do it. We just did it. And that’s exactly what I’d like to be able to offer other women here.
And in Quebec? Public lands that aren’t so public
I would love to organize a moose hunt on public land in Gaspésie with my crew of girls. Same formula: our packs, our tents, our rifle, our legs. Unfortunately, it’s unthinkable. Not because of the moose. Because of the fear of coming back to the car to find slashed tires or a smashed windshield, because we dared to hunt on a piece of land someone considers theirs. On paper, these lands belong to everyone. On the ground, many areas have their unofficial “owners.”
So I’m asking: in this context, how can anyone claim it’s easy to get started in moose hunting? How do we expect to reach outdoor communities, women, and new hunters, when the only safe option we can offer them is paying several thousand dollars for a stay at an outfitter or at SEPAQ?
These services have their place. But when they become the only “real” safe option, we’re no longer talking about access to the land. We’re talking about a privilege.
What if we gave the woods back to the people?
I’m not saying the Newfoundland model is perfect, or that it would work as-is here, because yes, they have a much larger moose population than we do. But it proves one thing: when access is truly shared, the land opens up to everyone. To women, to beginners, to people without a camp or an outfitter budget. Quebec has everything it needs: vast forests, plenty of moose, and a new generation eager to learn.
I came back from Newfoundland with one wish: that Quebec’s land be truly shared. That other ways of hunting, simpler and more accessible, finally get their place. That we no longer feel like we’re walking into someone else’s home when we set foot in the forest, but that we feel at home. And that the next generation, a bunch of curious people who just want to learn, find open doors instead of jealously guarded “spots.”
The forests are there. The moose are there. The people who want to hunt differently are there too. There’s just one question left, and it isn’t only for the government, but for every hunter who’s attached to their own patch of woods:
