In Oregon, I had the unique experience of capturing the two bulls I got close to on camera. The first was a decent 5x5 with a small herd of cows that was browsing in a clear-cut. The second I picked up on a trail camera 12hrs before I located him and his harem in an expansive stand of old Doug Firs.
The weather this year ran the gamut. Hot and dry early on, cold and heavy rains midway through, cool with dense fog toward the end. The clouds at least offered some different perspectives of the coastal mountains.
The big Rosie's just weren't talkative during the time I was down, though I did work up some other hunters with a Herd Bull reed from Phelps Game Calls. I left them before I called them in across the big creek, but they continued to bugle after me as I left..
In the end, to only sustenance I could provide the local vultures was the carcass of a Ruffed Grouse. The 37yd shot was on the mark, but the thick undergrowth swallowed my arrow, leaving me with what I believe to be my most expensive grouse to date!
It was time to leave Oregon behind and head East to Montana. We suffered a late change to our game plan due to some of Craig's work commitments, but it was probably just as well. With the weather that blew in, we would have found ourselves camped in a few feet of snow in the location we had originally planned to target. Besides, work first - play later..
Our season opened warm and dry. The Yellow Jackets and Baldfaced Hornets were prevalent, but not wholly obtrusive. For some reason, we stumbled across as many broken nests as whole nests.
Craig had scouted and hunted the area two or three weekends prior in an effort to find a bull for his son. After setting up camp the first evening, we went for a drive so I could familiarize myself with the topography. We stopped at an old skid road that side-hilled a major ridge and went for a little hike. A short way in, I let out my first locator bugle of my Montana season, and immediately drew a response from high on the ridge.
Not a bad start!
We quickly shot up the ridge to intercept the bull. Well, "shot up" probably isn't entirely accurate. It was more like a moderately progressive four-point crawl up the insanely steep hillside.
We set up with Craig forward just at the crest of a bench, and me calling from much further down the side of the ridge. It wasn't long before I saw Craig freeze and slowly add tension to his bow string. As he came to full draw I couldn't help but grin - with over 70 miles of boot tracks laid down in Oregon prior to this moment, the idea that a half-mile hike in Montana would yield a shooter bull spawned an ironic chuckle from somewhere deep inside.
I don't know how Craig's nerves were holding up, but the combination of anticipation and concern at the shot taking so long to develop had me standing on the toes, heels hanging high off the sheer slope.
And then it happened. The unceremonious let-down that experienced archers are all too familiar with.
At 35yds, the bull never presented a clear shot, and eventually retreated to the safety of the far side of the ridge. He was a solid six on his right with long club on his left that hung low enough below his head to be visible from the off-side.
With a week of opportunity ahead, we relished in the experience and enjoyed what would be one of our only clear night sky's of the week.
The next morning found us side-hilling below the same ridge line. The abundant sign we observed the evening before left no doubt there were more elk than the 6xClub on this ridge.
It was just a half-mile further up the ridge when the sound of Craig's Watermelon reed from Glacier Country Hunting Calls drew a response.
Are you kidding me? Barely a mile and a half into Montana and we were already on our second bull?
We made our second thigh-burning push up the ridge and set up. The bull closed the gap quickly and stopped perfectly on a small bench just 45yds above me. Perfect except for the low stand of Cedars concealing a clear view from both hunter and quarry..
Time passed, bugles were exchanged, and the mountainsides warmed under our last clear day. Soon the morning downdraft yielded its' advantage, and as the thermals switched the cautious bull was rewarded for his patience with the scent of our presence. He paused briefly to give us one last curious look before trotting off into the underbrush.
We picked up two more distant bugles that day, but nothing we could get close to.
Elusive little buggers. Amazed me how it simply seemed to appear from nowhere behind the trees..
The wet, wind and fog intensified. Whether the bulls couldn't hear our hails or we couldn't hear their retort, I can't say, but their shrill notes grew few and far between.
Near the end of our week we decided to start high on a ridge we had located some bulls on a few days earlier. We left one rig at the bottom and began the 50 minute drive to our starting point in another. The change in scenery beginning our descent was almost surreal.
We were far from the first to travel this path. Rest in peace Mr Hardin.
The long ridge ridge proved to be little more than a nine mile nature hike.
With a day and a half remaining for us, we planned one more hard push; a repeat of the 16 mile, 5,000ft vertical effort we logged a few days prior. We had already located bulls and copious fresh sign on the North side of the ridge, so held high expectations for another encounter.
We struck out long before light, but still didn't crest the ridge until late in the morning. After some food and rest, we swept the first two big bowls without success. It was as we reached the section that gave way to more tightly splintered finger-ridges that we finally struck up some action!
Over the next several hours we verbally sparred with four or five different bulls, twice pulling mature bulls to under 50yds. Whether lucky or wise, the big bulls never surrendered a clear shot.
During one set-up, the bull we were targeting retreated downhill a spell and proceeded to lay waste to a sapling pine. While he busied himself with thinning the forest, a lonely young spike-x-fork arrived, eager to meet the new bull in the neighborhood (Craig). He wandered between us for a solid five minutes before Craig, concerned he would cut our wind, bark and bugger the rest of the herd, sent him trotting off with a well placed rock to the rump!
At that point it was me that almost buggered the herd, as I had to dig deep to keep from laughing out loud! Don't know what it is about desolate ridge tops and long days that can give a grown man a fit of the giggles for little good reason..
On our final day we pushed up the crest of the ridge where we first located the 6xClub. The struggle to make the climb was as much a mental challenge at this stage as it was physical. Fingers were freezing, bodies overheating, bad wind, rain and no responses. After several hours we stopped to break.
We were studying the GPS trying to determine just how punishing the nest stage of our climb would be when we received our first response of the day. It started with one, then two, then a third.
Wolves.
Best as we could tell, we figured them to be 4-500yds below us. In a way, it was a fitting conclusion to the week. A definitive end to this years' journey.
We picked our way back down the ridge line, packed and made for Craig's place. The remnants of a Pacific typhoon were just beginning to whip the trees, but with a cold beer in hand and college football on the big screen, it was little cause for concern.
It was another great year in the elk woods..
Cheers,
-c2
