Thank you all for coming to Dad’s Party today. Too bad he
couldn’t be here in person, but I’m sure he’s here in spirit.
Dad was a wonderful man, an excellent teacher, father,
friend, and associate. Here are some things I learned from Dad over the years.
One: Be patient: Dad was one of the most patient men in the
world. I don’t know how many times I lost my expensive dental retainer. But he
always made sure I got another one.
Two: Live: He would ask his hunting buddies, “How many
hunting seasons do you have left?” He wanted to live life to its fullest,
taking in as many adventures as possible.
Three: Keep a level head: Dad was always one to think things
through, think before he acted. One time he and one of his buddies got lost
while hunting. His friend said, “Let’s run to the top of that hill and shine
our lights as far as we can!” Dad said, “Well, we could do that, but our
flashlights won’t shine that far, and besides, the top of the hill is covered
with trees. Let’s just follow the creek down and I’m sure it’s a tributary to
the larger creek by the campsite.”
Four: Be a light in the darkness. Dad loved his lanterns.
This is a continuation of keeping a level head, and a metaphor for his life.
When he and his buddy were trying to make it out, Dad spied a light through the
trees. One of the guys at his camp had noticed it was getting late, and didn’t
know what to do, so he put a lantern on top of his camper. Dad saw it and made
his way back to camp. From then on, he loved lanterns. But that is how he lived
his life. He was a light in the darkness, shining brightly. One of his friends
commented, “I will never forget the genuine kindness that your Dad embodied. He
was quiet and unassuming in his natural ability to extend himself to others.”
Five: Don’t be a wuss. Dad was macho, in his own way. You
hardly heard him complain. Even towards the end, getting his lungs drained,
sometimes the nurses numbed the wrong areas before they shoved a needle in his
back. He didn’t say word one. When the nurses asked how he was doing, he would
always say he was fine, even if he wasn’t. He named Erik and I the names he did
partially because you couldn’t put a “Y” on the end. “Eriky” just doesn’t flow.
A Y at the end of a male name was wussy.
Six: You can put a box around almost anything. In church,
Dad didn’t pay attention to the sermons. He would bring graph paper and design
boxes. He would stand when you were supposed to, sit, greet, be kind. But he
wasn’t into it. I think that’s how he lived his life. He would categorize
everything and find a box to put it in. He would build boxes for anything and
everything, including lanterns.
Seven: Stay Organized. Like I said, Dad had a box for
everything. It was all neatly labeled. When we would go camping, he made sure
the campsite was as organized as possible. All food had a box or cooler. All
equipment had a box or bag. A place for everything, and everything in its
place. Of course, that also means that in the attic above the garage, there are
file boxes of finance records going back to 1975. That’ll be fun to sort!
Eight: Community and Friends are important. Dad loved get-togethers
and deck parties. It was important to him to keep friends and family close. He
even looked at my friends as a second father, and treated them as such.
Nine: Practice. Dad practiced what he thought was important.
He hired shooting coaches to get better at skeet. He practiced his speeches for
his insurance sales. He wanted to make sure he was practiced and polished and
performed at his best.
Ten: Do. Dad was a man of action. But that action took many
forms. Planning first, of course, and then execute. He would also do for
others, even at great cost to himself. My wife first met Dad when he offered to
help her move. He’d never met her before – but he showed up, with a trailer,
just because I asked if he had time to help move some furniture. He was just
that kind of guy.
So, if you are ever going through life, and find yourself in
a rough or unpredictable situation, you can always ask yourself, “What would David Hanson do? How can
I be a light in the darkness?” Ask yourself, “How many seasons do I have left?”
And don’t be a wuss.
"That Makes Two" - Leif and Matt's Mid-December Elk 2014
Mid-December, on a mid-40-degree morning, Matt Cosley and
I hunted the Snake River Ranch, and from the ‘convoy’ in the early morning, we
were dropped off at a place called “Erik’s Draw” on their 50,000-acre ranch.
The ‘guide’ told us to climb up a ridge and watch for the elk to pass through
the area. As we climbed, we heard a baby elk ‘mew’ – cow-call, and we figured
that the elk would be on the other side of the ridge. We walked down to a
saddle and looked, but didn’t see any elk right away, as that was the exact
moment that the sun came through the overcast and blinded us. I scanned with
the binocs, and we walked further down the steep saddle to get a better angle
at the bottom. Still not seeing elk at the bottom of the draw, I scanned the
opposite hillside. There was a herd of elk, looking right at us. It was 8:00
AM.
Quickly Matt and I got down –
Matt kneeled, and I laid down in prone, laying parallel to the hillside, and
took a range with my Leica rangefinder. 363 yards. I adjusted my Huskemaw scope to 1-click past 350. I
attached the bi-pod on my 7mm RUM and tried to find them in my scope. Because
of the angle of my body (fighting the inclination to roll right down the hill),
trying to steady the rifle, and then, facing east, having the sun shine right
into the scope, I was a mess. Matt was kneeling and his leg was cramping at
being at such an angle. He asked me twice, “Leif, where are you at? You ready?
Talk to me…” and I’m trying to get an elk in my crosshairs, zoom in without
losing the elk, losing them, zooming out, finding them, zooming in, and reaching
over with my left hand to cover the front of my scope so the sun doesn’t glare.
It seemed every time I would find the elk in my scope, the sun would shine
right in and blind me.
Finally while I was screwing
around trying to get everything set, Matt took a shot. I found the herd again
in my scope. The elk were still looking in our direction. I found an elk (I
didn’t care at this point how big or small it was – just that it didn’t have
horns and I could put my crosshairs on it), and squeezed off a round.
The hillside and saddle from where I shot to where the elk lay
THWAK!
I heard the bullet impact, and
Matt said, “she went down.” The herd started running off the other direction.
As the shot was more than 300 yards, Matt wasn’t quite sure where to hold and
probably fired over the cow he was shooting at. When he shot, the elk didn’t
move, but when I dropped the elk, the herd turned and ran.
We made our way down the steep
hill, to the bottom, and started climbing back up. Matt found my elk and called
me over. We started quartering, and when it was all said and done, I was
hauling out two backstraps, two tenderloins, and a rear leg, in my backpack,
plus my rifle, and Matt was hauling out two front legs, plus backpack and
rifle. Matt handed me the other rear leg, to try and make it all back in one
trip, but it was too much weight for me. I dropped the leg and said I would
simply come back for it. Decent-sized cow elk
We headed up the draw to
less-steep climb and made our way back to the truck. This was an extremely heavy load. I dropped the rear let to come back and get it.
Matt struggling with both front quarters
After dropping the meat on
the tailgate, we heard a shot, and a guy shouting. I asked Matt, “Where’s your
rifle?” He grabbed it and we went down the road a bit where the guy on top of a
ridge (about 700 yards away) was shouting and pointing. About 50 yards down the
road, we looked up a ridgeline and spotted a gimpy elk making its way through
the thickets. Matt and I kneeled. He asked, “How far do you think that is?” “I
don’t know,” I responded. My rangefinder was back at the truck.
BANG!
The elk took a few steps and
went down. Matt went back to the truck and got his pack, and rangefinder. He
measured the distance. 290 yards. I looked at my phone – it was 11:30. I said,
“you go get that elk killed, and I’ll go back and get the hindquarter that I left from the elk I shot.” I made
my way back to the truck and Matt took off in the direction of the elk he shot.
When I approached the saddle on the way back, I heard a shot. I
texted Matt, asking him if he shot the elk. He responded with, ‘yup. That makes
two.’ Matt's nicely-sized cow elk
I retrieved the second quarter
and drove down the road where Matt had dragged the elk (with the help of the
guy who made it gimpy – but told Matt that since Matt dropped it, it was his
elk.) I went and helped Matt quarter the elk (he already had the front leg and
one backstrap off) and we hauled it back to the truck. By the time we got all
the quarters to the truck and leaving, it was 2:30. On the way out, the tailgate on Matt's truck popped open, splashing the contents all over the muddy road. We didn't realize the folly until we arrived at the main road heading out of the property, when I hopped out of the truck to close the gate. Back we went, looking for a lonesome cooler, and discovered its contents strewn over a muddy hill.
With Matt's meat wagon, I wasn't too worried about getting stuck, but slipping and sliding back up the hill on the way out made me question whether we would make it. But, thankfully, after it was all packed up and nominally wiped off, we drove home "heavy."
Noah's First Elk - That Makes Three. Noah shot his first elk
December 28, 2014, in the morning.
We drove up Friday in late December, between Christmas and New Years, and hunted
the 3/301 area along the road to Indian Rock and Bald Mountain Basin. Prior to leaving the house, though, I had snow tires put on the truck. The guys at the shop found a stow-away in my undercarriage, though. We stayed the night in Craig, and the next morning, on the way to the hunting area, we
stopped to put chains on just outside the gate to the road up to the top of the
fingers (Noah learned the important art of chaining a vehicle). We then drove
through The Notch and up the hill following, which overlooks both sides of the
basin, with the north side viewing the Godiva Rim.
Every time we stopped to get out
and glass, we heard shots coming from the northwest – Simmsberry Draw, Suttles
Basin, or the north side of Bert’s Folly. As we weren’t seeing anything on
Notch Hill, the basin, or anywhere else, we decided to turn around and head
north towards the shots.
As we drove west from the gate,
towards 318, we spotted a herd of 20 huddled together on a hill to the north,
about 400 yards away. I stopped the truck and Noah got out and took a knee. The
herd ran down the hill and huddled up about 350 yards in front of us. None
separated out for Noah to shoot. The herd then ran west and broke south, single
file, running, out of range. Noah got back in the truck and we gave chase, as
the road headed west, then takes a left to the south. Where it turns back to
the west I stopped, and, the herd was running south. Noah took a shot, and one
of the elk turned around, but then kept running with the group. Noah and I gave
chase on foot, as they had stopped about 600 yards away. But as we approached,
they took off again to the south.
We searched the tracks for any
sign of blood, or a body, or anything that would indicate a solid hit. There
was nothing. I imagine that Noah’s bullet may have grazed the top of the nose,
or hit an ear, or something minor. Certainly not a lethal hit. As we were
searching for blood, a body, or some indication of a wounded or dead elk, we
saw some guys drive by my truck on ATVs. As we got back to the truck, we saw
them, about a quarter-mile to the east, huddled behind their ATVs with their
rifles resting on top. We drove towards them, and Noah saw that they were
aiming at some elk. A large cow and two smaller elk. I stopped about 50 feet
from the ATV-people and took a range on the elk. They were 456 yards away. I
approached them and told them the distance. One of the guys, who told me later
he had a 300 Weatherby Mag, took a shot. He hit the large cow in the lower leg.
The elk then came closer, and I told Noah the range was 350 yards. He steadied
his 30.06 on the back of my truck. I told him to aim about 3 inches above the
back of the elk and he fired. The elk went down. The 300-Weatherby guy shot
again and the big cow went down. A third guy drove his ATV closer, and shot the
3rd cow, and it went down.
We drove the truck towards the
elk, and the ATV guys also drove closer along the fence road. Then as we walked
towards the elk, and all three elk had their heads up. Noah was the only one
who brought his rifle. Noah took aim on the first cow and took out its neck.
The second cow we approached, and as it was looking at us, we gave the rifle to the other guy and he shot it in the
neck. For the third elk we walked up right on it and the third guy put a bullet in its brain.
I told them about the tobacco ceremony I perform with each animal I or
anyone in my group kill, and invited them to participate. They all agreed, and
we took tobacco and said a prayer of each of the elk (us in English, they in
Spanish).
The guys on their ATV also had a
sled-attachment, so we loaded up the elk in the sled and they dropped off
Noah’s elk at our truck. We thanked them for hauling out our elk, and proceeded
to gut the elk. They hauled their elk up to their trucks and gutted them, with
the agreement that they would come back and help us load our elk when we were
done. They did just that. As we finished with the elk, they approached on the
ATV and helped load it in the back. We covered it with a tarp, strapped it
down, and headed home. We figured the elk would cool – it was 11 degrees
outside and the temperature was dropping with the snow coming in.
We arrived home early enough so that we could quarter the elk in the garage. The next day we began to butcher and fill the freezer.
The 3rd Season Elk Season in GMU 3/301 yields few
results, as it’s largely a wintering area for the migrant elk herds. However, a
few local herds hang out in the area, and for one first-timer elk-virgin, that
made all the difference.
For this season, originally, only Jack and Jerry had
purchased cow-elk tags, planning their annual 10-day camping trip. The rest of
the hunting group typically sits that hunt out, as it’s a low-yield
time-commitment. Most of the time you have a better chance of seeing a white
stag in Mirkwood than elk in the hills surrounding the Bald Mountain basin.
But, an email chain started amongst our group of hunters, one thing led to
another, and the next thing you know, everybody and their mother is going
hunting the third-season.
However, when push came to shove, the first
weekend, November 1st and 2nd, only Kaoru and I were
hunting along with Jack and Jerry. Saturday morning, after a brief rainstorm and brilliant sunrise, we
hunted “The Notch” (walking across the top of notch hill to the other side and
back) and other parts of the Bald Mountain Basin… and we didn’t even see any
deer there, let alone elk. Unsurprising, but not unexpected.
Brilliant Sunrise over Sunbeam, CO
Leif and Kaoru (with his Wapiti Express 2004 hat) on Notch Hill, background of Bald Mountain Basin and the Godiva Rim
Jack and Jerry hunted “The Fingers” on Saturday morning and
saw a ton of deer and many deer hunters. The morning was filled with shots
echoing across the land as both deer and elk hunters tried their luck. They then
headed to Simmsberry Draw and saw two cows racing across the sagebrush. By the
time Jack’s vehicle came to a stop and Jerry got out, the elk were miles away.
They spoke with a few hunters who had harvested cows and bulls – but not many.
Most hunters we spoke with hadn’t seen elk, or, only singles for an instant
before they were gone behind a sea of Junipers.
Kaoru and I hunted Suttles Basin overlook in the afternoon,
then on to Simmsberry Draw. The place was a zoo with hunters and hunter camps
setup for as far as the eye could see. We hunted towards the eastern edge where
Simmsberry Draw is adjacent to the entrance to Bald Mountain Basin next to the
Godiva Rim and hunted there until sundown, without seeing anything but other
hunters.
Typical Juniper Tree where we hunt
Saturday night the wind blew hard on and off throughout the
night while dining on Jerry’s Chicken Cacciatore with Rice (which is
appropriate, as, Cacciatore means “hunter” in Italian). It made hunting Sunday
morning a quieter affair, masking the crunch of footsteps, but it didn’t seem
to matter. Kaoru and I hunted the 4th Finger while Jack/Jerry hunted
the 3rd. We saw deer in the sagebrush valley below the fingers, but
no elk. The rain and brief hail as we were hunting drove us back to the tent to
sit out the storm until about 10:30. After it stopped, we then went north to
County Road 21 (which then intersects 4) along the Little Snake River to see
the country on the edge of the unit. No elk, but plenty of antelope.
Approaching Highway 13, we drove north to Baggs, WY, to get some
much-needed coffee, then headed south to County Road 3. We then headed west to the
spot where Kaoru shot his first elk (and where Matt’s Elk-Fever got the better
of him, popping off standing shots at 300 yards), to honor the 10-year
anniversary of Wapiti Express. No elk to be seen. Jack had checked in with the
Hunter Information office in Craig and they had said some elk were already in
the private land along 13’s east side, but neither Kaoru nor I saw any there.
Either they crossed 13, or, they headed back to the high country.
-------------------
The next weekend, Matt Cosley decided to join Jack, Jerry,
Kaoru, and I. Matt left early Friday and hunted an area known as Eagle Park,
north of Maybell. He didn’t see anything, and we met him in Maybell that
evening before our trek to the camp site, meeting up with Jack and Jerry, who’d
been there all week without seeing any elk.
Saturday morning Kaoru, Matt, and I hunted Simmsberry Draw
without seeing naught but deer and other hunters. The roads in places were
slick as snot, and we slip-slided away down the roads from the top of the draw,
and that afternoon we decided to hunt Eagle Park again.
After arriving, and spotting a Golden Eagle, we hunted an
area sloping slightly uphill, ending in a sharp drop with rock outcroppings on
one side. We were curious how the other side ‘looked’ and we spread out across
the area to investigate.
Matt, Leif, and Kaoru getting ready for the afternoon hunt.
Matt and Kaoru getting geared up
Matt, walking up the two-track with his lever action 30.06
Kaoru, hunting up the valley in Eagle Park, with his 300 Win Mag
About 15 minutes later, Kaoru and I heard over the radio,
“there’s a bobcat staring me down, and he’s growling and pissed. Come see!” I
radioed back, “Where are you?” “That’s a good question,” Matt replied, “Where
are any of us?” Great… he’s staring down a bobcat and waxing philosophic.
Kaoru pipes up, “Why don’t you whistle? We can then track
where you are relative to us.”
As Matt whistled, we tried to walk to his location, but it was difficult, as it was a sea of junipers blocking any sound waves. He then radioed, “the cat got tired of waiting for you and left.” I asked if he took a selfie with the pissed-off beast, but he indicated that he had his hands on his rifle in case the bobcat attacked. When we found him, I asked, “So no picture of you with the cougar?” He started talking about self-defense, and I mentioned something about euphemisms for cats and being unable to keep his hands out of his pants. He shrugged his shoulders and grinned.
Leif with his 7mm RUM with Huskemaw Scope atop, and Matt, overlooking a valley
Towards sundown, we watched an open field, waiting for elk
to come out and start feeding (but, being that there was a full moon, I was
unsure if that was going to happen until after sundown). At 5:10, I happened to
check my iPhone, and saw a message from Jack: “Elk Down.” I texted back “We’re
coming.”
It was dark by the time we made it back to the vehicles,
and, it took about an hour to get over to Simmsberry Draw area where Jack and
Jerry were waiting. By the time we arrived, they had already gutted the animal,
and were waiting for assistance to drag it to the truck and put it in. Kaoru
shook Jack’s hand, “Congratulations!” Jack responded, as he shook Kaoru’s hand,
“Jerry was the one that shot it!”
“Oh – based on your text, we thought it was you!” We all
shook Jerry’s hand, offering him congratulations, especially since it was his
first elk! That’s always a milestone, with as tough as it is to get an elk for
most hunters. Also, that he is 70+ years old… that’s quite the achievement.
Jerry with his first elk
That night Jerry busted out the burgers and steak, and, some
celebration wine. Kaoru and Jerry are wine drinkers. Matt and I stuck with
beer… Matt an oatmeal stout, me with Budweiser. I’m not much of a drinker, so
beer was fine, although Jerry gave me a shot of spiced Crown.
On Sunday morning we arrived at the water tank about 6:00,
down the draw from the dam where Jerry shot his elk. The first thing that
transpired was all three hunters running off into the bush to squat. It was not
a pretty site. Too much alcohol the night before… and being in our 40s now…
none of us have quite the stomach we once did.
Then, as Matt and I loaded up our gear to hike up the draw,
Kaoru begged off the hunt, feeling queasy (he said he felt like he was going to
throw-up). He would sit in the truck, watching the field and junipers to the
north, while Matt and I walked up the 2-track going up the draw. Kaoru said,
several times, “I’m never going to drink like that in hunting camp again!” Of
course, as Matt observed, every time Jerry offered more wine, Kaoru was more
than happy to offer his clear Solo cup.
Matt and I hunted up the draw, stopping and glassing several
times, and the smell of elk was in the air in several spots. We arrived at the
dam and crossed, moving towards the gut-pile of Jerry’s elk, scattering the
crows and magpies feasting on the pile-of-happiness. We set up so that we could
watch two locations, both up the draw, and, the field that opened up north-east
of the dam. Matt pulled out one of his honey-crisp apples and began to eat his
breakfast.
We weren’t standing there for more than 5 minutes when we
heard a single shot. Matt and I looked at each other, and I grabbed my radio to
listen whether the shot came from our buddy. Matt said, “That was Kaoru!” I was
unsure, as I thought I’d heard the shot up the valley. I guess it was the echo
bouncing, as Kaoru announced over the radio, “elk, elk!”
I asked, “Did you get one?”
“I think so! I need to go take a look.”
“We’ll be right there!”
Matt muttered “F*ck,” and tossed his apple so he could free
his hands for the brisk walk back down the valley. Kaoru over the radio, “I’m
looking for the elk, I’m sure I hit it.” Then a minute later, “I found it. Elk
down.” Matt and I smiled at each other. We were both hoping the elk stayed in
the area after the shot.
15 minutes later we found Kaoru by his antlerless elk. After
congratulations, we dumped our backpacks and asked which way the elk went. As
Kaoru texted Jack to let him know we had an elk down (but apparently Jack had
left his phone in camp) Kaoru pointed the direction. Matt and I followed the
tracks to the top of the ridge and we split up, Matt going to the bottom of the
valley on the opposite side, me heading towards the top of the valley. I didn’t
see any elk, and Matt radioed that he was towards the bottom. I pushed the
valley down, hopeful to drive elk towards Matt, but they were long gone. We
rounded the valley floor to come up the other side to Kaoru, to assist in the
quartering of his elk.
Kaoru with his elk
About an hour later we had the elk quartered, backstraps,
tenderloins, and heart bagged. While processing, Kaoru said, about the shot, “I
was just barely hanging on to consciousness, blinking back the urge to shut my
eyes, when I saw movement. I opened my eyes and saw an elk standing in a small
clearing. I slowly opened the door to the vehicle and rested the rifle in the
door opening. I looked through the scope and didn’t see anything. My scope was
on 14x power! I pulled the rifle down to adjust the scope and that’s when the
big cow looked in my direction, then moved out of the opening. Thankfully as I
chambered a round and moved the rifle back up to the opening, another elk walked
into the gap in the junipers. I saw that it didn’t have antlers, put the
crosshairs on its chest, and squeezed the trigger.” In regards my questioning
about him feeling sick, he said, “Once I saw the elk, adrenaline started
pumping, and I was wide awake.” I responded, “The best way to cure a hangover
is to shoot an elk.”
Back at the truck, after making multiple trips (and avoiding
the area in the ditch where Matt and Kaoru took their morning constitutionals),
Kaoru carefully packed the elk in the cooler and we made a game-plan to find
the herd. Based on the way they were heading, we headed towards Simmsberry Draw
for further investigation. Several hunters were up the draw, on foot, walking
around the ridges. We assumed that maybe they’d see glimpses of the elk and
were giving chase… but we didn’t talk to anyone to verify. We glassed and watched,
and, coming to the end of the draw where the road heads north to Godiva Rim, or
south up the fence line towards the Bald Mountain Basin overlook, we decided to
head back towards the draw where we were that morning. We assumed all the
hunter activity up Simmsberry Draw would keep the herd from crossing the draw
into the basin or areas north.
After arriving back at the dam, I walk into the Junipers to
relieve some pressure. I then hear, whispered excitedly, “Leif! Leif!” I
usually don’t need a cheering section when I’m handling my business, but then
Kaoru says, “Elk!”
I turn around and see a herd of 9-12 elk running full-tilt
across the draw. Kaoru measures, “400 yards.” I grab my rifle and get in a
kneeling position, dialing my scope to “4” but the elk have already gone over
the ridge. Damn! Matt and I grab our gear and head in the direction of where
the elk crossed over, approaching the top of the ridge with utmost
sneaky-stealthy as we could muster. But no elk to be seen. We quickly pick up
the trail and begin to follow. And follow. And follow more.
We end up crossing the road near a tall water tower and
pond, and continue southwest. But, eventually, we judge that the elk aren’t
slowing down. They’re not stopping, and, we can’t outrun a determined herd of
wapiti. Giving up the chase, heading back towards the road, we discover that,
based on the gate across the road, we’re on private land. It’s a good thing we
stopped the chase, I guess. We didn’t cross any fence lines or markers
indicating as such – of course it’s up to the hunters to know where private
land begins, not the landowner to mark it. Regardless, we made our way back
towards the truck, and radioed Kaoru to come pick us up. We then ventured
towards where the elk were heading (southwest), and again, came across the
gate, blocking access. After driving around and checking out other sites, we
decided it was time to go pack up the camp and head home.
Afterwards, we realized we needed to name the landmark where
both Jerry and Kaoru shot their elk. I first thought of naming it “Jerry’s
Draw,” but with mutual agreement, we decided on “Hangover Draw.”
The sum of a man’s life is his sense of adventure, and, his courage
and willingness to take those aspects, craft his visions into action, and when, beyond comprehension, all the pieces fall into place, to reap
life’s reward from the effort put forth.
Often romanticized, the idea of hunting, the vision it
evokes, is the emotion it captures, is larger-than-life. I have had people tell
me how they envision me hunting, their powerful and thought-provoking
idealizations. The lone hunter, standing on top of the ridgeline, rifle over
his shoulder, searching for the elusive elk, the sun setting in the west, the sun’s
rays creating a profile... It evokes a sense of freedom, independence,
ruggedness, and getting away from it all. Sometimes it all comes together like
that. Sometimes… Perfection, and the knowing in the hunter that regardless of
whether an elk drops from the thunder of a rifle, or, the elusive Wapiti lives
another day, success is already gained. Simply being alive, in love with life
itself, and the experiences life brings, is enough.
The sun shines on those who put forth the effort to make
their vision a reality. Sometimes, though, the effort is rewarded by sunshine
after the fact.
“You only have two bullets?” Chad eyed my Dad with suspicion
in the cold, dark, pre-dawn grayness.
“Isn’t that enough?” My dad grinned, and showed our guide
the rest of his bullets. Just over the ridgeline in the first efforts of light
a herd of elk were feeding amongst the aspens. Chad did not find the humor in
the retort, and whisper-barked at us to figure out who was going to shoot
first. I asked my dad if he wanted first crack. He told me to go ahead, and,
Chad readied the shooting sticks as I laid my rifle across them. Easy-peasy. The
elk moved into the crosshairs on my Huskemaw scope. I flicked the safety to
fire position…
The day before, though, was not so easy. Rabbit Ears Pass,
the nemesis of so many vehicles in the winter, was no different on this trip.
As Dad and I drove down the west (Steamboat Springs) side, we spotted a sedan
buried up to the top of the front wheelwell. I slowed to a stop, and we
surveyed the situation. He was burning his wheels trying to back out, to no
avail.
“Looks like you’re stuck.” Captain Obvious, right here,
front and center.
He eyed me with the, “I’m too embarrassed to say anything,
and if I do say something smartass to his ‘thanks for pointing out the obvious,
dumbass,’ remark, he might think that I’m being ungrateful and drive away
without helping me, but I really need his help, so I’m just going to smile
sheepishly and agree” look. “Yeah,” he said, but his eyes gave it all away.
Boyscouts will tell you, “Always be prepared.” Leif and his overachieving,
somewhat Type-A personality says, “Be prepared enough for yourself and everyone
else who isn’t prepared because I myself was once unprepared and got really
stuck one time and it will never happen again.” As such, I learned long ago
that it is most important to bring along “get unstuck” gear, and although I’ve
used it more on other cars than my own, it’s always appreciated by those I’m
helping. I attached the “jerk strap” to the rear of his car, and to the front
hooks on my F-150, telling him it would be two or three pulls and he’d be out.
It was more like 8 or 9 (which is saying a lot). After yanking his sedan out
from knee-deep compacted snow, he thanked me profusely. He never really did
explain how he got stuck. Something mumbled about a snowplow and oncoming
traffic. I’m sure, though, that, if he is like me, he learns an awful lot
through embarrassment and humility and the accepting of help from others. I’m
always willing to lend a helping hand, and, am not afraid to ask for help when
I need it. But it seems like a lot of “men” refuse to ask for help. I get it.
Pride and wanting to overcome obstacles on your own, figuring out your own
solution, is part of becoming a man. I understand. But learning and gaining wisdom
is also a part of that as well.
We drove straight on through to the Three Forks Ranch, which
is a high-scale, exclusive hunting lodge close to the Wyoming border. At this
juncture, I wouldn’t be able to afford a private hunt at this ranch. However,
through the Colorado Parks and Wildlife’s Ranching for Wildlife program, I was
able to get a license for a cow elk, as was my Dad. The snow was piled up on
the road, and sheet ice underneath from the Steamboat turnoff towards Hahn’s
Peak. Even in 4WD, a few times I almost ended up in the ditch. Two hours north,
passing some brave souls camped out, we checked in at the ranch. We had hoped
to make the evening hunt, but aside from the pull-out on the pass, we also
stopped in Hot Sulfer Springs to sight in. At 200 yards, Dad shot a tight group
and he was satisfied that any elk would drop. I had sighted in before my moose
hunt, and, decided to not sight in, saving minutes in the hopes of arriving with
enough time for an evening hunt. The evening, though, was cloudy, snowing, and
gray. Visibility was maybe 100 yards, if you were lucky. No evening hunt today.
My long-john bottoms had disappeared on my moose hunt
earlier that fall. I could not find them anywhere. They may have crept out of
the tent whilst sleeping, or abandoned ship on the drive out of camp. I’m not
sure, but, I was without, and didn’t think about getting another pair until
driving back from the ranch. Always be prepared, right? F.M. Light and Sons is
an institution in Steamboat Springs. On the drive up from Denver, you can’t
help but to see the yellow signs every half mile. It’s almost worse than the
signage in South Dakota pointing you to Wall Drug. It meant, though, driving two
hours from the ranch back into Steamboat, getting the long johns, grabbing a
bite to eat, then driving an hour back to Columbine. Better that, though, than
freezing my ass off. F.M. Light and Sons didn’t have any wool bottoms, but,
they did have a one-piece red Dennis the Menace (or Union-style) long johns
with a butt-flap. Yeah… I’m sure my lovely wife Deanna would think they were
cute.
Cold cabins in Columbine Colorado awaited us that night, but
before we could retire to our beds, I wanted to get the chains on the tires. We
had barely made it to the cabins, driving slow, almost sliding off the road
several times. In the morning, it would at least be an hour’s drive to check in
at 5:00 AM. I didn’t want to take the chance of not being able to check-in on
time just because we went off the edge of the road down a steep embankment, or
at the very least, a ditch. The “Moose” cabin was our respite.
After we arrived, exactly at 5:03, November 4th,
2014, we weren’t the first to be there, but we weren’t the last, as we followed
tire tracks in the six inches of snow on the road. We were assigned to Chad, who
was a big man, sporting a large fluffy red beard, and a mix of jolly but
dead-serious attitude. Another guide, Dan, came up and I shook his hand. He had
been my buddy Matt’s guide the year before. What I most remember about him,
other than that he successfully guided Matt to an elk the year before, is that
to ensure Matt had a steady aim, and took a well-measured shot, is that he
cuddled up behind Matt, practically spooning him in the field. I don’t know if
he didn’t trust Matt’s shooting, or, that the shot was at a difficult angle and
Matt didn’t have a really steady hold, or, simply that Dan was going to try
with all his might, and do whatever it took, to ensure Matt was successful (and
didn’t have to chase a wounded elk with the impending nightfall). Regardless of
his reasons, and the extra cuddle time, Matt successfully shot his elk at 300
yards. However, I wasn’t really in the mood to cuddle in the field with Chad,
even though it was below zero that morning, so I was going to do everything I
needed to do to be successful.
We rode out in Chad’s Ranger (a cross between an ATV and a
golf cart) to a place called Beaver Flats. Although there was a windshield,
doors, and a roof, it was otherwise like riding in an open-air compartment. A
bench seat sat 3-across, and it was a little cozy. I was thankful I was sitting
in the middle – less exposure. But my feet were getting cold and we hadn’t even
started walking yet. I was getting nervous about whether my boots were going to
be good enough, visions of frost-bit toes, purple and falling off my feet,
flashed through my mind as we bumped and jumped down the road towards our
hunting area. I decided it best to stop worrying about what I had no control
over and have a conversation with Chad. He indicated that they had something
near a 90% success rate thus far, even guiding a guy on oxygen, who smoked the
entire time, to shoot a 350-class bull earlier that year.
The gray cold pre-dawn darkness was fighting with the first
light of the morning, which was just barely illuminating the sky, a half-hour
before sunrise, when Chad stopped the buggy. We had pulled up just shy of the
crest of a hill. He quickly moved up to the top of the hill, staying just below
the crest, and took a knee, binoculars up to his eyes. Quickly scampering back
down to us, he whispered, “Get your rifles ready and let’s go.” He turned and
went back up the hill.
My rifle’s sling had broken on my antelope hunt, and I’d
neglected to get it fixed prior to the hunt. I had also forgotten that it was
broken. Because, you know, always be prepared, unless you’re not. I picked up
my 7mm Remington Ultra Mag Sendero by the sling and the barrel went south, smacking the frozen,
snow-covered ground. That hurt. I quickly grabbed it by the stock and checked
the end of the barrel, making sure it didn’t have any debris in it. It didn’t.
Thankfully, in the pre-dawn darkness, I don’t believe anyone witnessed my
faux-pas. My cheeks were already burning with embarrassment. I opened the bolt on my
rifle as Chad came back to see what was taking us so long…
“You only have two bullets?” I grinned at Dad's response as I loaded up some 180-grain
Berger bullets.
Up on top of the ridge, Chad steadied the shooting sticks, and, without cuddling
behind me, I put the crosshairs on the elk. “What’s the range?”
“200 yards.” It looked farther than that, but, my rifle was
set at 200, so I steadied my hold.
BOOM
The elk didn’t drop. I was surprised. I started to check my
scope’s settings and pull out my rangefinder.
“No time for that! Put another one down range!”
I find my elk again and squeeze the trigger.
BOOM
The elk goes down.
“David! Get up here! Shoot an elk!”
I quickly get off the shooting sticks and grab my
binoculars.
“See the one down there coming out from behind the tree?
Shoot that one!”
My dad waits for the elk to clear out from behind the tree. Chad neglects to cuddle with Dad as well.
BOOM The elk drops.
“Good! Let’s get down there. Quickly!”
Dad and I look at each other in disbelief. We had two elk
down before sunup. Chad is all ready to go, and takes off down the trail,
cutting in towards the elk herd, as they have slowly begun to realize that
something was amiss in their world. They rest of the herd ambled up the side of
the hill and out of sight.
We cut across and down the hill, towards the two downed elk.
I’m still wondering why my first shot didn’t connect. It was probably the bump
that the rifle just experienced, although I probably should have put a few
rounds down-range at Hot Sulfer Springs, as sometimes scopes get bumped (other
than the barrel smacking the ground because you forgot your sling was broken),
pressure changes, altitude changes, etc. Regardless, I connected with my second
shot, and my elk was down, somewhere… It didn’t just go as I had planned it in
my head. That’s hunting for you. You can plan all you want, but at the end of
the day, when the shooting starts, what happens still boils down to a little
bit of chance, luck, and opportunity.
We made it to the bottom and tracked up the hill toward the
aspen grove, eventually finding my elk. It was down but not out, sitting up and
looking at us. At me. “Shoot it in the head,” Dan instructed.
“No.”
I took my Marine Corps K-Bar from its sheath, and walking
behind the ungulate, wrapping my left arm around its head, pulling the chin up,
and in one quick motion, slicing its throat.
Chad looked at me wide-eyed as I cleaned the blade off in
the snow. The elk bled out as I said a quick prayer.
Standing up, I turned to Dad, “Let’s go find your elk.”
We walked up the hill and found Dad’s elk. Again, down but
not out. I’ve said it before… elk are tough creatures.
“Shoot it in the head!”
As it was Dad’s elk, I didn’t choose for him the way it was
to be dispatched, keeping my knife in its sheath. He raised his rifle, but I
knew the problem he was having. The elk was 10 feet away. His scope was set on
15-power. He dialed it down, but was still having problems finding the right
place to put the cross hairs in the mass of hair.
“David, shoot it in the head! What’s going on?” Chad was
getting impatient. I knew Dad wouldn’t shoot until he had a good shot, and, was
sure of his target. The elk wasn’t sitting still. If it had been me, and I
didn’t have the opportunity to slice its throat, I probably would have put my
boot on its neck, forcing the head against the ground, put the muzzle against
the ear, and squeezed the trigger. It was how I dispatched the first deer I shot
when I was 14, and the method worked well. Killing should be swift. As quick as
possible, I try to ensure that any quarry I’m after meets its maker.
BOOM
Thump. The elk was down. I said a prayer over it. Chad indicated he
was going to go get the Ranger as close as possible, starting with my elk
first. He asked if we could drag Dad’s elk down, close to the edge of the aspen
forest.
Leif with his elk. Note the broken sling.
Picture time! Now we could celebrate a little. We took
pictures as Chad walked back down the hill, up the other side, towards the
parked Ranger.
Dad with his elk. It was so cold, his fingers didn't work correctly for about a week after the hunt.
We dragged elk as close as we could to the edge of the trees,
waiting for Chad to get close. It didn’t take him long. Guiding for the past 10
years up here had made him well acclimated to the rigors of high-altitude
hunting and getting around the mountains. He ran a couple of long towing strap
from the bumper and wrapped it around each elk, and pulled the elk down to an
open area where we could process the animals.
Saying a prayer, thanking the animal
After the vehicle stopped, Dad and I walking behind, I
approached the elk with my American Spirit all-natural tobacco. I rubbed the
tobacco into the forehead of the animal, sprinkled the tobacco on the eyes,
saying a prayer, thanking each animal for their meat, their skin, the
adventure, and for the opportunity.
Chad observing the prayer ritual, waiting patiently
Chad waited patiently as I completed my ritual. It’s
important to me to ensure prayers and blessings are sent with the animal, any
animal, that has given me the opportunity to take its life so that I may eat
its fresh and unadulterated GMO, hormone- and antibiotic-free meat.
Loading up the Ranger
Afterwards, I searched my backpack for my Gerber
gutting/skinning knife. Chad asked me if I brought one – I was sure I had, but
the location eluded me. Whipping out a knife, he indicated that he could gut
each one in 5 minutes. Anytime I can watch a professional work, I take the
opportunity, so I held the legs as he made quick work of the beasts. The only
thing he didn’t do that I would have done is remove all esophagus tissue. The
below-zero temperature worked in our advantage, but I noted that I would remove
that when processing. We then loaded both beasts in the back of the Ranger with
a long cable attached to a winch on the front bumper that came over the top of
the vehicle, lifting both beasts easily into the back. Really slick. We were
done by 7:15 AM. The sunrise shined brightly over the eastern mountains, the
sun glinting off our smiling teeth.
First one loaded. Pulling the cable to get the second elk.
The celebratory mood continued on the way back, as Chad and
I discussed long-range shooting and meat processing. He radioed the ranch on
the way back, stating he was “coming back heavy.” Two other guides met us at
the ranch house, and they assisted us in getting the elk in the back of my
truck. We shook hands with the guides and headed back to the Columbine cabins.
I figured we could quarter the animals in the bed of my truck and dispose of
the unused parts of the carcasses out where the wintering coyotes and birds
could feast on the leftovers. I’m always happy to share.
The day was long. I processed my elk first, showing Dad how
to quarter an animal. After mine was done, Dad followed my instructions to a T
and butchered his in the same manner. The only interruption came when the
Columbine Cabins manager came by with firewood, asking us what we were doing. She
saw the blood in the snow and asked us to clean it up. I let her know we would
have it covered before we left.
Around 4 o’clock we were done. Dad and I picked up all the
pieces, threw snow over any splotches of blood, and started the long trek home.
We dumped the bodies off a side road for any interested critters and continued
on our merry way.
…
My buddy Mike Finch had a license for the same ranch, and as
I’m always up for an elk hunt, we planned to go together. He scheduled his elk
hunt for Saturday November 16th. I was to pick him up Friday
afternoon, we would go sight in, then venture on up to Columbine Cabins.
However, I got a late start, as I had to attend a lunch meeting that ran long,
go home, pack the truck, change, and drive to Mike’s house in the little
mountain community known as Shady Brook. After loading up his gear, we had to
stop for gas, then stop at the local Wal*Mart to get ammunition for his 7mm
rifle. The last vestiges of sunlight disappeared as we left the parking lot.
Sundown comes early in the winter months. There was no time for sighting in,
for either of us. Mike asked if he could borrow my rifle (which I happened to
bring along as backup). I let him know that as long as he didn’t mind carrying
it sans sling, it should work. I forgot to mention, though, that I had bumped
it on the previous hunt, and it might be a little off in the aim.
As chance would have it, we came across a young man with a
high-and-tight haircut stuck on the side of the road as we headed up Rabbit
Ear’s Pass. His front-wheel drive Pontiac was in the ditch. Indicating he had
borrowed it from one of his fellow Marines, he thought it would be fine to get
to Steamboat that night. He was from Kentucky, and didn’t know a thing about
driving in the Colorado mountains. I tried to pull him out, but his car slid
deeper into the ditch. A wrecker pulled in behind us. We told the best bet was
to either have the tow-truck take him back to Kremmling, or, drive him all the
way over the pass, car in tow. With some Semper Fi’s (like me, Mike was also in
the Corps), we left him to figure out his next move. That damn pass had claimed
yet another vehicle.
Our guide the next morning wasn’t Chad. It was the last
guide on staff at the ranch. He introduced himself as "Chase." All
others had taken off for the season. Mike was the last elk hunter - the last
hunt of the season. We indicated to Rick that on the way into camp, a herd of elk
crossed the road in front of us, less than a half-mile from check-in. However,
Chase decided to go with the sure thing. The herd of elk that Dad and I took two
elk from were still feeding in the same area in the mornings, so instead of
chasing an unknown herd, he thought it prudent to go after the herd they had
patterned. On our way to put the gear in his Ranger, a red fox was sniffing
around my truck. Rick indicated that its name was Skittles, and had made their
lodge its home territory, having a den close-by.
Back to Beaver Flats. Chase stopped the Ranger short of the
ridgeline. Déjà vu. We crept forward and sure enough, there was a herd of elk.
But not in exactly the same place. The herd was up the mountain about a quarter
mile from where Dad and I shot ours. I had thought we would just pop over the
ridge, shoot, and we’d go get the elk. However, that was not the case. That
meant a hike. I didn’t bring my orange back pack with me… and I had 3 rounds loaded
in my 7mm RUM. That should be enough.
Chase, Mike, and I trudged up the side of the ridge, getting close enough to
make a shot across the valley between the two ridges. Up, up, up the ridge.
Then up some more. And then more up. Finally we arrived at a decent shooting
spot. Mike got settled behind the scope as I got my iPhone out to film the
shot, and we started looking at which elk would be the best one to shoot.
“290 Yards.”
I adjusted my scope’s turret for Mike. Chase, getting close to Mike, asked, "What can I do to make you more comfortable in making the shot? Uh-oh... cuddle time. Mike indicated he was good (no extra comfort needed) and squeezed off a
shot. The elk was hit, and it ran about 30 yards and laid down.
Mike shot
again. The shot went over the back. Rick had Mike move position, get settled,
and squeezed off another shot. Hit. But still alive. They are such tough
creatures.
Ideally you have a 1-shot kill, but it doesn’t always work out that
way – just ask any hunter. Chase then asked me if I had more ammo. “Yes, but
it’s in the buggy.”
“Go get it.”
All the way down. Get the ammo. All the way back up. Always
be prepared… yeah. At least Dad, when Chad had asked him, was able to produce a box with a smart-ass remark. I had nothing...
When I arrived back at the spot where they had been, they weren’t
there… Dammit - were they off somewhere cuddling?
I looked down at the tracks. I saw they had gone down the ridge and up
the other side. But they weren’t on the opposite side either. I figured they
were somewhere over yonder and I made my way towards yonder. Chase came into
view, scampering down the ridgeline with his mountain goat speed and
sure-footedness, the kind of surety guiding for a few seasons brings you. I met
him at the bottom of the ridge and he said Mike had the elk down, but just
needed one more shot. I handed him an ammo box. Quickly he went up and over the
ridgeline, disappearing, making it look easy. I saw the general direction he
headed, so, I short-cut up steeper, but less distance, area of the ridge, and
was able to find Mike, and see the elk laying down with its head up. Mike was
aiming, so I filmed what I thought would be the kill shot.
The elk still had its head up. I approached Mike and Chase. A
few more times, to no avail, Mike put rounds down range. But the elk wasn’t
moving. So, we decided to venture forth, and at 20 feet from the elk, Mike put
a bullet in its head. Down, finally. Unbelievably, the elk was STILL alive when
we approached. My K-Bar made swift work of the jugular and esophagus. My rifle
will definitely need to be sighted in before next year’s hunting season.
Three licenses, three elk. Three for three, at Three-Forks
Ranch.
Chase went back to get the buggy as Mike and I drug the elk
close to where the Ranger would be able to drive. After the tobacco and prayer,
we field-dressed the elk, loaded it up, and Chase radioed in, “Coming in heavy.”
It was 8:15.
Mike with his elk
After arriving, we were treated to some freshly baked coffee
cake and hot coffee. The guiding staff at Three-Forks Ranch were done for the
season, and ended on a high note. They indicated a 90+ percent success rate –
only a few hunters didn’t get their elk – and both because they didn’t show up
for their hunt. We left the ranch and headed on our merry way. South of the
cabins, I stopped to take off the chains, as the road was clearing up. Mike
assisted, and as I reached up to put the chains in the bed of the truck, a
pungent aroma assailed my olfactory organ. I looked around as to what may have
so strikingly made my eyes water. On the side rail of my truck bed was a brown
smear. I checked the sleeve of my orange jacket. Another brown streak. I had
seen Skittles the fox hanging around my truck (probably smelled the blood from
the previous elk hunt – I hadn’t washed out the bed of my truck since then),
and left me a present equitable to what I’m sure he thought was a tease. No
dead elk meat for Skittles – just the scent of blood. Yeah – Skittles had the
last laugh as I grabbed a handful of snow to remove fox-crap from my sleeve.
You can be prepared, but you can always be more prepared.
You can plan, but conditions in the field can change your plans on a whim. I’ve
had hunts where I’ve spent a week roughing it, camping out in 0-degree weather,
never seeing an elk. And as of this year, I’ve had hunts that essentially ended
5 minutes after beginning. The truth is that, like most things, hunting is what
you make it to be. It can be dirty in the details but romanticized in the
telling. Frustrating during the process but rewarding upon completion. They can
be easy hunts, or so hard it damn-near breaks your spirit and you have thoughts
of never wanting to hunt again. But the lure of the hunt, the anticipation, the
chance to yet again prove your place in the food-chain, brings you back again
and again.
I had been hunting for 10 years (since the young age of 14), and had never
shot an elk. I wasn’t sure why it was so difficult. Maybe it was the area we
were hunting (we had previously been hunting near Ute Peak, where the elk
roamed mostly on high mountain ridges). Maybe it was my belief that elk hunting
was difficult, and thus made it my reality. I didn’t know, but, after eating tag
soup for so many years, I wanted to finally conquer that thus-far elusive prey.
Our hunting party had changed areas from central west
Colorado to northwest Colorado, as, that was where the Bears Ears, Black
Mountain, and White River elk herds congregated in the winter. Having around
50,000 head of elk move into a general (albeit still large) area stacked the
odds towards us, but we still had to actually get to where we were going.
Back in my mid-twenties, a challenge awaited when Matt
Archer and I when we left on the Friday evening before opening day, December
1st. As we motored up Rabbit Ears pass in my ’93 Isuzu Rodeo, fat flakes
assailed us. It was another Colorado storm of blinding snow. Pulling a
trailer wasn’t much of a burden, though, as we crawled up one side and down the
other towards Steamboat. Snow plows had cleared the way thus far, with plenty
of gravel on the highway. Visibility was our biggest concern, being that it was
10 PM and the only lights were my own, the 3-D tunnel effect in full force as
each passing mile strained my eyes.
North of Steamboat, Matt piped up, “Wounded deer.” I looked
at him quizzically. “Back there, on the other side of the road.” I hate to see
wounded, struggling animals; I always like to stop and put them out of their
misery. Rodeo and trailer went 180, (no one was on the highway) and parked on
the southbound shoulder (not that there was much of one with the several feet
of snow built up). Matt pointed out the struggling deer. It was a young deer
with a broken leg, trying to climb up the side of the hill next to the highway,
but failing miserably. Aww – poor thing. The young ungulate had been hit by a
vehicle, and the driver didn’t bother to stop and check on it. Most drivers, in
my observation, don’t stop to check on the animal after they hit it… I’m guessing
that the reason for not stopping is because they wouldn’t know what to do,
don’t carry anything to put the animal out of its misery, or they don’t care.
My belief is that since we built the roads through their territory, displacing
them with something wholly unnatural to their environment, we at least owe it
to them to try to undo any damage done to them. Don’t get me wrong – I know
that Mother Nature is a cruel beast. Animals kill and wound each other without
mercy. Snow, hail, freezing, starvation, and heat kills so many of nature’s
children… Mother Nature takes care of its own with alarming prejudice. I feel
it’s our duty to assist those we can, even if it’s simply to slice their throat
or put a bullet in their brain. So that’s what I did; I loaded my 30.06, traversed
the road, put the crosshairs on the ear, and squeezed the trigger. Lights out.
Matt and I carried the deer across to the trailer, and I
grabbed my Marine Corps K-Bar to slice it open. No sense in wasting meat, and I
knew that I could get a tag from the State Patrol for the carcass. An urgent alert
system went off in my head, and I felt I needed to hurry, so it was the
quickest field-dressing job to date. We were parked just around a bend on the
highway, and if any vehicle came along, we had the possibility of getting
smashed. After getting the deer into the trailer, we climbed back into the
Rodeo, fired it up, and I turned the wheel to flip a U-Turn. Lights and
rumbling in the rearview. I floored it. The snow plow, hugging the edge of the
road, narrowly missed the ass-end of my trailer as it rounded the turn. Any
semblance of a gut pile left on the side of the road was now off the edge.
Thankfully Matt and I weren’t part of the blood and guts now buried in the
freezing snow and ice.
A game pole adorned the Trav-O-Tel motel’s landscape, and
the little deer swung frozen in the night air. I didn’t set an alarm, so about
9:30 the next morning, we awoke to begin our hunt. I had a general idea about
where to go, so I let my instincts guide us through the hunting area, up a
two-track dirt road through the steep hill country. I pulled up to a rise and
we crouched as we neared the summit, pulling out our binoculars. Looking
towards an area known as the Godiva Rim, we scanned the country side. A small
herd of elk, about two miles away, dotted the base of the rim. Pointing them
out to Matt, he said, “Yeah, that might be a herd of elk, but right there is
THE herd of elk.” I looked to where he was pointing. About 500 elk were milling
around just to the east of the herd I’d spotted. The ones I’d picked out were
like a satellite herd. Amazing!
We formulated a plan. The straight approach to that herd
would have been hunter-suicide. It was across a large swath of flat land known
as the Bald Mountain Basin. They would have seen us coming and quickly vacated
the area long before we could have moved within rifle range. Plus, at the time,
I was using my 30.06 – a reliable cartridge, but not known for its long-range
capabilities. The plan was to make a “C” approach. We would hug the hillsides,
circling around to them, and approach from the west, using the cover of the
juniper trees and folds in the land to mask our approach.
We started from the top of the hill on the far left, and, circled left to right, hugging the hillside until we approached the herd.
Traversing the side of the hill, Matt exclaimed, “Leif!
Look!” I glanced to the right. Three dark shapes were moving downhill quickly.
Elk! Although they might have been in range when Matt first spotted them, by the
time I would have been able to take a knee and taken a shot, they would be out
of range. Plus, I didn’t want to risk alerting the large herd of my presence if
I took a shot and missed. So we continued through the snow towards our quarry.
Along the way we came across a herd of deer. About 20 were grouped together as
we approached. We stopped. They looked at us. We looked at them. I didn’t want
them to spook – again, running away at top speed might alert the large herd of
elk (even though we were still at least a mile away at that point, I didn’t
want to take any chances that would deny my chance at the main prize). The deer
eventually moved off, and we moved on.
Around to the base of the rim, we moved up and down the
juniper-covered fingers, slowly making our way towards the elk. We spotted the
elk at about 11:30 that morning – it was now about 3:30. The herd wasn’t visible
for the last hour or so, and we were taking it on faith that the mass of
animals were still hanging around. Every finger we crested, the approach was slow
to the top, peering across to see if that was the final finger before the plain
began. Cresting what was the final finger, we spotted a few elk amongst the
junipers across the ridge. They were looking right at us. Our cover was blown.
I couldn’t judge what the distance was, but I figured I could hit the elk, so I
took a knee, steadied the rifle, and squeezed the trigger. The few elk that
were there took off.
Matt and I raced down to the bottom of the finger and ran up
the other side. Out of breath, we came over the top, emerged from the junipers,
and there was the herd, looking right at us. I looked for the elk that I’d
shot. Blood, but nothing else, was on the ground. I followed the blood trail
out into the sagebrush. In the meantime, the herd bunched up and ran directly
north, towards the rim. I scanned the herd. An elk trailed the herd, limping,
but still managing to keep up. We knelt down in the sagebrush, wondering how
the herd was going to manage running up the slope that eventually ended in a
cliff face. Up they ran, and when encountered with the impossible angle, they
turned around, a massive sea of elk running, moving swiftly across the
sagebrush, and thundering… towards… us…
Matt and I looked at each other. I wasn’t sure what to do,
except think, “this is going to hurt. I might die.” Closer and closer they
came, my eyes becoming saucers. The ground was vibrating, I was getting more
tense, Matt and I looking at the herd and looking at each other. This was it.
We were going to die, trampled by the elk. In the end, I didn’t get my first
elk, my first elk got me.
At 50 yards, Matt stood up. I stood up. We were skinnier
targets standing, and, maybe they might move around us. At the last second,
they veered. The herd thundered past. You could smell the elk in the air. Then,
tagging behind, the elk I’d shot was running. I swung my rifle and as the
crosshairs crossed the chest cavity, I squeezed the trigger. The elk
immediately turned and ran directly away from us. The rest of the herd
thundered off. The silence was deafening. My heart was racing. I looked around.
Matt was grinning at me. There were no elk in sight.
“What do we do now?”
“We find my elk!”
Walking in the direction of where I last saw my elk run, I following
a straight line. After 200 yards, I said, “Start looking for an elk piled up by
a sagebrush.” Sure enough, I came across a dead elk. My first elk, piled up
around a sagebrush plant. My sense of accomplishment was out of this world.
My first elk - after 10 years hunting the elusive beasts
The yellow pack-frames came in handy to put all of our gear in, and, strapped the lower half to one for Matt to carry.
We gutted the animal and propped the chest cavity up on a sagebrush
bush to let it cool down. I knew there was no way we could haul it out that
evening, so I made a mental note of where it was, and, we headed back to my
rodeo. Being able to make a direct line towards where we thought the Rodeo was
parked was easier than the stalk (we weren’t quite sure where it was though, as
the scenery and topography kind of all look the same). Luckily I caught a glint
of reflected late-afternoon sun off one of the mirrors, and we made our way
towards it. Getting out, though, was a hap-hazard guess, as I wasn’t quite sure
how I got there. We ended up on a “shelf” road. This road was essentially a
two-track on the side of a 45-degree hill, and the road was at about a
30-degree angle. As we started crossing it in the dark, I realized what road we
were on. I had seen the road previously, and thought to myself that I would
never traverse it. Now I was traversing it in the dark hauling a trailer. I was
on the “down” side, Matt was on the “up” side, and, he had one hand on the grab
bar, the other hand on the door handle. He told me in no short terms that if we
started rolling down the hill, he was opening the door and jumping for safety.
I would have no such luck, as my door and window were pretty close to the ground.
I expected to start tumbling at any second. Luckily, we made it across the side
of the hill and back to familiar territory.
At the motel, we cut loose the deer from the pole and took
it to the State Patrol. I told him the mile marker where we found it, and,
after checking it over, trying to manipulate the frozen joints to verify the
broken leg (it obviously wasn’t taken for a trophy or intentionally poached),
he issued me a license.
The next morning we went to retrieve the elk. I drove the
Rodeo as close as I could; however, the dirt two-track put us at a half-mile
away. We found the elk still propped up over the sagebrush, and, Matt and I
talked about how to carry it out. I ended up cutting off the lower half of the
elk and strapping it to a pack frame, and cutting off the two front quarters,
loins, and backstraps. I carried all the equipment and meat back to the truck,
except for the ass-end. Matt shouldered that heavy load. Additionally, a
rancher had dug out a trench at the bottom of a hill where water passed
through, so there was a 4-foot gap we had to navigate. I saw Matt take a flying
leap and successfully landed without incident. It’s a good thing he was a
hockey player and had huge quads and calves to carry that much weight.
Thankfully I was also able to jump gap without falling on my ass, and we were
on our way.
After my first elk, I shot 12 more elk within 7
years (a lot of years I was able to get two elk tags per season). It seems that
all I needed to do was be successful once, and after that, I couldn’t help but
to be successful. I had broken through the elk-barrier, and filled my freezer
with delicious meat for many years after.
