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
