The Amusement Park Bull

As the wheels of the Cessna skipped down the runway toward the hanger, Craig and I exchanged a knowing smile.

“I think we just found our elk grounds for this year.”

“Yup. Time to put down some boot tracks and get a closer look.”

It was early August. We just landed after an aerial scouting trip, an exciting first for us. Craig would have a chance to get better acquainted with the area the week before season opened, but I wouldn't see the country up close until I had my tag in pocket and my bow in hand. I have a healthy respect for those with the time and dedication to thoroughly scout their hunting grounds preseason. For us this year, the adventure was in the exploration of new land. Our style of elk hunting relies heavily on calling anyway, so knowing where the herds are ahead of time isn't a requirement. 

 

I carried a heightened anticipation into this year's hunt as Craig's son, and my Godson, Wyatt, was going to join us for a few days at the beginning and end of the hunt. He was with us a few years ago for a deer hunt, but this was his first big elk hunt. Unfortunately, a tough physics class meant the senior had to head back home for mid-week classes.

We arrived and set up a comfortable base camp at the trailer. There would be no spike camps this year on account of Craig's ruptured disc. While I would miss the adventure of camping out, I sure didn't lose any sleep about it going to bed on a memory foam mattress cover!

With camp set, we drove up the mountain and struck out on a random ridge to see what we could locate in the last few hours of light. In short time we generated two responses, and came across a young bull and a cow on the drive back down in the dark. It was just enough to build our optimism for the coming week.

The following morning we located a few more bulls, but none that we could get on. We did give a hunter using a hand held cow call a story to tell about the “bull” that he had screaming above him...

It was that second evening when the excitement level ratcheted up a notch. We followed an established trail system in to a ridge that, based on our interpretation of the topo maps, led to some promising habitat. Moving off the end of the knob we struck up our first response. Game on!

Wyatt and I moved in; Wyatt with his bow and me behind the camera. The bull was responsive, but stationary. Soon a second joined the conversation. We found ourselves playing “Army Bugles.” First we'd chase the one to the left, then the one to the right, then left, right, left...

For some reason we had a hard time judging distances in that area, and when a third and fourth bull chimed in, we decided to play the same game with them too. In the end, it turned out we were just along for the ride that evening. But it was a ride that I'd stand in line for all day long! And what an intro into elk hunting for Wyatt! 

 

The weather was 23 degrees brisk again the next morning. We made way in the dark in our layers, and before the sun could put shadows on the ridge tops we had two more bulls bugling. Damn I love elk hunting when they're vocal!

We set up on one that was moving in when he went silent. The wind had held, so we were perplexed as to what had buggered him. It was then we heard the cow calls above us. There were a couple other hunters that had moved over the bull, and the morning thermals had carried their scent to him. It was unfortunate, but they were just chasing bugles like the rest of us. When they realized it was other hunters they were stalking, they backed out in a hurry.

Shrugging off the lost opportunity, we turned our attention to the other bull. We hadn't been able to draw him to us earlier, but after sneaking inside of a hundred yards, we soon had him raking a tree. Once the bull was satisfied he had punished the young alder sufficiently, he decided to come down to introduce himself to Craig. Wyatt's headed snapped toward me with eyes wide. As loud as he could be without saying a word, he mouthed, “He's coming!”

I pointed the camera uphill and followed the 6x6 down through the thick timber. Wyatt's timing on drawing his bow was spot on, but still the bull stopped three steps short of a shot. What happened next, I can't be sure, but clearly either Wyatt or I moved because the bull locked in on us. Craig did his best to distract him, but the bull correctly trusted his sixth sense and turned back up the hill.

We hiked out and sent Wyatt home to study physics with memories of what could have been churning in his mind. The weather had warmed to the mid-70's by that afternoon, and after watching the young man drive away from camp, Craig and I decided it was good afternoon to take a nap, change into cargo shorts, have an early beer and meet some of the other folks camped near us. Young Joey was certainly the most colorful of the bunch. The 8 year old could make elk sounds with just his voice with an uncanny accuracy! We gave him a reed, taught him some basics and sent him back to his camp squeaking some new notes.

The next several days brought a slow down in the number of responses. Ridges and draws, saddles and knobs, looking for bugles uphill and down like we were on some slow roller coaster. 

 

On a random morning we drew the strangest of responses. It was a mew, but it wasn't a cow call. Craig called again, and now drew a short run of chuckles. Craig continued to poke at this bull with his calling, and over time was able to turn the bull more and more aggressive. Soon he was screaming at us and running – running – in our direction! At ~150 yards away I came to full draw! I could hear him smashing the limbs and logs on the far side of the ravine before clapping his hooves up the rocky face we were on. Unfortunately, he committed so quickly we couldn't adjust our position, and as fast as he came, he left after cutting our wind.

We continued to have days full of bugles, and others with only one or two before Wyatt returned. Our first day back out with the young man was nothing short of epic. After a slow morning we changed locations and happened to spot a bull on a distant ridge. We studied the GPS, made a plan and struck out for the long hike.

Unwittingly, we took the hard way in and were soon reduced to sweaty, breathless puddles of dehydrated good intentions. We were taking a break and trying find our legs again when the first bull sounded off. With instant rejuvenation we broke over the ridge and down toward the bull. As Craig wound the bull into a frenzy, other bulls began to sound off with their input. We again got caught in a game of Army Bugles, and went right when we should have gone left. Caught outside the timber in the sage with an aggressive bull screaming and closing fast, we could only hope he was seeing enough red that he would cross the open without care. Just then he stepped from the trees.

He paced just 40yds below us, but with the slope and the sage, all we could see was his solid 5x5 rack and exceptionally long G1's and 2's bobbing above the sage. Turning back toward the timber, he gave Wyatt an opportunity. The arrow found nothing but the rocky jolt of impacting the steep Montana mountain side.

We had just regrouped when another bull fired off so close we again couldn't make it out of the sage! Wyatt and I both came to full on the heavy 6x7, but the older bull didn't make the mistake of exposing himself in the open and we couldn't sneak an arrow in through the tree limbs.

The constant rush of adrenaline was exhausting, and we finally took some time to rest and eat. I was thinking a nap was in order when Craig came running wide-eyed back from nature's call to let us know that, well, nature was calling again! A quick check of the GPS and over the ridge we went...

Two more 5x5's came to investigate Craig's calling over the next few hours, and several more were heard too distant to approach before dark. The hills rang with the sound of elk bugling that night. I had experienced such a vocal display once before, but this one was even more intense. We stood for many minutes listening to the different bulls respond to each other. At some point we broke ourselves away and began the slow climb out under the glow of our headlamps, anticipation growing for what might be the next day.

The ride that day was off the charts, and I took to calling the area the Amusement Park. We dropped in the next morning expecting the same explosion of activity. Instead it seemed that all the rides were closed for maintenance.

We rested that afternoon one ridge further over than we expected to be. There had been a few responses, but nothing like the chorus of activity the day before. A couple of bulls periodically sounded off far below us as we ate lunch, and we'd respond occasionally. Eventually one seemed to grow closer so we decided to move in.

It sounded to us like there was a herd bull deep in the canyon, and we were moving in on one of the satellite bulls. I dropped down as far as I thought was reasonable, then moved a few steps further. The young bull took his time meandering up the hill. When he turned broadside at 30 yds, I already had my pin leveled on him. The bright orange wrap and four-fletch arrow seemed to leave a visual trail in the air as it rocketed towards it's mark. In just a fraction of a second the arrow would... take a left turn mid-flight and sail off into the timber?? What the heck? Aarrrgggghh! Where did that branch come from and why didn't I see it?

<sigh>

Little did I know that this would only be the start of the day's roller coaster ride... 

 

We decided that Wyatt and I would drop a little further down to hopefully pick up an opportunity at another satellite. After giving the first set-up some time, I motioned to Wyatt that we should move in closer. Craig began his advance as well, and soon we were all moving in sync, taking quick and careful steps every time the bull would bugle.

The herd bull was growing progressively more agitated. It was clear that if we put together our approach correctly it was likely we would put the bull on tilt and draw him in. We crept silently forward. Making our final stand, Craig gave the bull an aggressive challenge.

That was it. The bull lost his head and screamed with such force I swear my hair fluttered.

In moments he appeared. He was initially moving with a steady purpose, and I drew as soon as he gave me opportunity. His approach then slowed. Stealthily and deliberately he picked his way through a line trees toward where he last heard Craig, me standing directly in his path.

My arms began to tremble. He seemed to pause longer with each step. Even the adrenaline of the moment couldn't sustain against torment build within me. Nearly to my breaking point, the big bull exposed a clear quartering-to shot not 18 yards from me. With one gentle exhale, my body seemed to relax entirely. My pin settled, I squeezed my release and my arrow took flight.

The bull spun instantly, but stopped again at our cow calls before wandering back to his comfort zone.

It was here that I might have been on top of the world. Instead I was filled with doubt and concern and insecurity about how the bull reacted to the shot.

We waited. I heard reassuring words. They grew more certain when we heard what sounded to be a crash. After an hour the track began. Dark blood. A bad trail. Then nothing. A bloody bed, then two. Then nothing again. Another hour.

If the bull wasn't already dead, he would be soon. He had bedded twice not six feet apart. He was hurt. I was beginning to struggle myself. We regrouped to lay out our next grid pattern when we heard it. Seven long moans. It had to be.

We gave it 30 minutes more and moved in the direction of the sounds we had heard. While hopeful, I was sick at the prospect of an unfavorable outcome. Words like, “the highs and lows of bowhunting” flittered through my head. I was certainly near the bottom of the low.

“I got him! He's right here! Oh, man... Chris!”

For some reason I almost couldn't believe what Craig was saying. I made way toward the sound of his voice. Wyatt was already there. Craig walked up to give me a hug. “We did it.”

Yes we did. What a relief. What a day. What a bull.

Slowly, the relief was replaced by a steadily building eruption of joy and smiles. Pictures. Skinning. Boning. Building heavy packs and the long hike out. What a wonderful, terrible, wonderful day. 

 

It was heading back in the next day with Wyatt to pack out the second and final load when the irony hit me. Here we were in the middle of an area we had labeled “The Amusement Park” to pack out an elk that had sent me on likely the biggest roller coaster ride of emotions of my hunting career. That thought kept a smile on my face the 700 mile drive back home.

I know the ride may not always end the same, but I'll be up early to stand in line for it every year!

Cheers,

-c2

Decisions, Decisions... -- Montana Mule Deer 2013

As if somehow beamed in, the deer seemingly materialized from nowhere on the grassy knoll a few steps from the concealing timber.  When it raised its head from feeding I could see antlers rising above his ears.

"Craig!  Buck!  Buck, buck, buck!  On the South edge of the knob." 

Craig quickly rose from his afternoon siesta to glass the buck.

"Got 'em.  He's tall, but not very wide.  Smaller than mine.  Wait - there's a second buck on the left."

"Got 'em," I confirmed.  "Looks wider, but not very tall.  Not sure either is what I'm looking for."

"Understand.  Your call."

Ahh..  Decisions, decisions.  This wouldn't be the last time I mulled over whether to flex my trigger finger on this trip.  Deciding to make the long drive to Eastern Montana in first place, well, that was a no-brainer!

After the close of the Oregon blacktail season in early November, I spent my first two consecutive weekends at home since August.  It was a nice little break that I used to recharge and reorganize my gear before hitting the road to Montana.  

I left work early for the short 6hr drive to Spokane to meet with Craig before making the big push the next day.

One day, and one very long state later, we reached our destination.  We arrived a few hours after dark, still largely unaware of what to expect from the topography.  Striking out under a clear pre-dawn sky, we were greeted with a starting temp of 1*F.  Brr!

The first morning was a bust, with only a whitetail doe and fawn spotted.  It wasn't as though we expected to tag out in the first few hours of the hunt, but we certainly expected to see more activity than we had.  We decided to move to the North side of the unit and hunt the breaks that separated the high plateau from the valley. 

We had moved only a few hundred yards up the ridge-line when we caught movement.  A quick scan with the binoculars revealed an eagle standing in a grass-less patch of snow.  He stared back at us briefly before lifting his great body into the air to ride the thermals to a safer vantage in the distance.  A closer inspection of his former roost confirmed our suspicion: he had been lunching on a dead deer.

We could see the deer was buck, and it looked to be a decent one.  In Montana it is legal to take the antlers and skull of a deer that has died of natural causes.  Unfortunately for this old monarch, his end came from a well placed rifle shot.  I can only hope that the story of his demise is an honorable one, but we'll never know.

We continued up the ridge, glassing the adjacent ravines as we went.  There was little in the way of sign and we reached the high flats without a sighting.  Taking advantage of the gentle topography of the flat, we quickly moved a couple ridges over to make our return.

Nearing the bottom we stopped to glass a recent burn.  Bingo!  Our first proper mule deer sighting!  Using our trekking poles as rests, we took our time glassing the small herd.

There was a young buck in the group, but not quite what we were looking for.  Still, it was encouraging to finally find some critters, and I was feeling good about my new binos with the 955yd spot! 

Not ten minutes after we left the herd, Craig picked up another group on the opposite side of the ridge.  We figured there were more than the two he saw and crossed the ravine to make a stalk.  We closed to about 400yds and set up to glass, this time using the spotting scope to get a better view (guess the excitement finally finding deer went to our heads on the first group - completely spaced the spotter!).  We couldn't put horns on any of the bedded deer and decided to trek further up into the new area and return to this group at dusk.  

We found two more groups of deer that evening, and discovered the group we had originally targeted also held a few more deer than we located previously.  Despite the slow start we both agreed that it was a successful end to the day.  

Call me a wimp, but the rise in temperature all the way up to 8*F the next morning did not feel like a warming trend!  We bundled up and struck out to explore a new area.  

The sun was just beginning to cast its warming rays across us when we picked up the first group of deer.  To be fair, "picked up" isn't entirely accurate.  More like "busted up."  Oh well.  It was early and we were seeing deer.  It felt like it could be a good day!

We were working through the edge of a recent burn, maybe three years old, moving in and out of the burn and the surviving timer.  The cold during down times while we glassed was nearly unbearable.  I hadn't bundled up properly for this cold and though I was comfortable while moving, the cold seemed to penetrate the very center of my bones when we stopped to glass.  

In order to stay concealed we were careful to keep in the shade.  I rested against a tree to keep my shaking arms still while I glassed a far knob.  

"Deer."

I guided Craig to the far hillside where I had spotted the doe.  Once in sight he settled in with the spotting scoped to get a better view and survey the surrounding area more precisely.  It didn't take long.

"Got one bedded."  And soon after, "Found the buck.  Good buck.  Really good buck!"

I took one short glance through the spotter at the massive 4x4 and pulled out the GPS to plan a stalk.  After talking it over we settled on a route.  

45min later we got as close as we thought we could get.  The big buck was still there.  He was somewhat concealed on the edge between the burn and some live timber.  And he was huge.  Easily the biggest deer I've ever seen on the hoof, or on the belly.  He was bedded and sleeping so soundly his head was down in the snow!

I ate an energy bar.  We confirmed the range.  I found my rest and settled in for the long wait for him to stand.  At some point we felt a little repositioning would work to our advantage, and in that precise moment he stood and moved.  

We caught glimpses of him moving through the timber, but never a clear shot.  Several hours later we called off the hunt on this giant.  I would be lying if said I wasn't disappointed in the result of this stalk, but it was a valuable learning experience.  

Through the rest of the day we saw a couple dozen more deer, including another 4-5 bucks, but all very young deer.  Day two ended filled with more lessons and more fantastic encounters!

We had found deer and promising, beautiful country our first two days, but the vast endlessness of the geography at our disposal filled us with a curiosity of the next, and we decided to strike out for new ground yet again.

The temps were beginning to warm as well.  Only 12*F.  Double digits!  Whoohoo!! 

With each new section we explored it was like we were in a different state.  Steep sage-laden breaks.  Low rolling timbered hills.  Old burns.  New burns.  Bare grassland flats.  Timbered steeps with acres of open graze land peppered throughout.  It was new and different and unique each day.

We moved up yet another lonely ridge, this time in an old burn with endless vistas to glass on either side.  Near the top we decided to split ranks and follow separate paths back down.  Craig had glassed a single doe early on, but other than her, the hills were still.

I wound up on a high knife ridge while Craig continued down the lower and wider ridge below.  The process of navigating side to side through the weathered rock formations to glass the ravines and valleys below was reward enough for braving the brisk morning cold.

Nearing that point of the ridge where the descent shifts in dramatic fashion from steep to "what did I get myself into?!", I stopped to glass the vast expanse that spread before me.  It seemed my binos had no sooner reached my eyes than they were jerked away by the bark of a .300mm Mag several hundred yards below me!

Craig was moving East on the burned-out ridge, already devising his strategy for the timbered end that was sure to hold deer.  His intense focus on what was to come was broken by the bounding of what was to be!  

From the unconcealed expanse to the South came bounding a buck.  A good one!  Using a conveniently located downed tree as a rest, Craig tracked the buck through his scope, and when the buck paused to look back, Craig set him down for good.

With a smile on my face I put the binos back up to see if the echo of the report had brought any deer to their feet.  I immediately found a group of six not 300yds out that included a small buck.  Moments later I picked up a lone deer in the cool shade of the timber at the end of the ridge that Craig was on.  Soon another appeared, but was quickly run off by the deer I had first located.  

Bucks.  At almost 800yds it was difficult to size them through the binos.  Time to move.

I made way toward Craig, backtracking to keep my silhouette concealed.  The temperature had risen above freezing by now, and my excited hike down and up to the next ridge reduced me to a tired sweaty mess.  Upon reaching Craig however, those concerns were quickly forgotten. 

We took a moment to admire the critter and take a few pictures.

"Ready to go get my buck?" I asked.

"Hell yeah!" Craig instantly responded.

"See that knob?  He's 200yds on the other side."

It took a minute to explain the details; that I had seen a group down the ridge just after his shot, and all we needed to do was make the short stalk.  As soon as it all came together, we were off.

We inched from one side of the knob to the other trying to find the best combination of clear sight lines and concealment.  There was a very young buck and a doe that we could see.  It was likely that more were just out of view, so we decided to settle in and wait them out.  It wasn't long before the relative warmth of the sun began to lull my hunting partner toward a brief afternoon nap.  

As if somehow beamed in, the deer seemingly materialized from nowhere on the grassy knoll a few steps from the concealing timber.  When it raised its head from feeding I could see antlers rising above his ears.

"Craig - buck.  Buck, buck, buck!  On the South edge of the knob." 

Craig quickly rose from his afternoon siesta to glass the buck.

"Got 'em.  He's tall, but not very wide.  Smaller than mine.  Wait - there's a second buck on the left."

"Got 'em," I confirmed.  "Looks wider, but not very tall.  Not sure either is what I'm looking for."

"Understand.  Your call."

Ahh..  Decisions, decisions.  At last I decided that I was looking for something else, and watched as the bucks fed away into the timber.  This wouldn't be the last time I mulled over whether to flex my trigger finger on this trip.  

We returned to convert Craig's deer into heavy packs.

Over the next few days the temps continued to warm.  The snows on the chilly North slopes gave way to the dry grass it had blanketed just days before.  We explored new country with each new dawn, and with every boot track added to our education in this "mulie university."  We refined our approach, got more aggressive with our stalks, found more deer more consistently, and even got on another couple impressive 4x4's, but the clear shot never presented itself.

We toasted our last night in Montana, recounted the shoulda's, woulda's, coulda's and everything we learned along the way, and decided then and there that an adventure like this was too much fun to experience just once.  We'll be back next year!

It was just before dawn the next morning when we finished packing the truck for the long day back across this very long state.  Behind the Rubbermaid's full of gear and the coolers full of meat, I tossed in the one trophy I wasn't taking home solely in my memory banks.  For all the effort, I wasn't leaving Montana without a little bit of bone!

Cheers,
-c2