Three for Three at Three-Forks

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 4^th, 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 16^th. 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.

Whose Antelope is it Anyway?

It was less than a week after shooting my moose that I received a call from Matt. “Antelope Hunt this weekend – can you go?” Let’s see – I was getting married the following weekend, I had just finished butchering the moose and was getting stuff together for the ceremony and subsequent party... I had so much stuff on my plate. I had forgotten completely about the antelope hunt, with all of the planning I had done for the moose hunt, so it really came as a surprise. Additionally, Deanna’s birthday was Monday, so this was technically her birthday weekend. So, as any good husband, or, husband-to-be, I discussed it with my beautiful Deanna. With the prospect of having some more fresh, good eating, hormone and anti-biotic free meat in the freezer, and the likelihood that it would be a one-day hunt (but okay if it was two), she assented. What a woman!

Friday evening Matt picked me up with his 6-year-old, Thad, driving what we refer to as “The Meat Wagon” – his large Dodge 2500 with oversized wheels. Thankfully all of my hunting equipment was put together and loading up equipment was relatively painless. What wasn’t painless, though, was approaching Eisenhower Tunnel. It was snowing. Hard. Giant flakes covered the truck as we crawled up to the tunnel. I thought to myself, “WTF??? It’s still September!!!!” I checked CDOT (Colorado Department of Transportation) to see what was going on. There was no update. After an hour of near-standstill, with ambulances passing us in the shoulder, I checked again. West bound I-70 was closed indefinitely. I suggested to Matt that we go over Loveland pass. Because that’s always fun in a snowstorm.

We passed the line of poor suckers waiting indefinitely for the road to open (driving the shoulder) and exited for Loveland pass. Maybe it was a mistake. We encountered white-out conditions as we crawled higher. 5-10 miles per hour was all we could manage, not being able to see two feet in front of us. I looked out my window to let Matt know whether the road was going left or right, whether he was going to go into the ditch and side of the mountain, or, whether he was too far away and about to drive off the side of the mountain. More importantly, we had to explain to the constant flow of chatter sitting between us (i.e., Thad) that now wasn’t the best time for uninterrupted stream of consciousness verbally expressed, and explain what we meant by certain areas of our body being “puckered.” Of course, that got him rolling with laughter. Oh, to be a kid and not to worry about whether the vehicle is going to fly off the edge of the road. I also happened to glance over to Matt’s side of the dashboard. The “your tank is damn near empty” light was on. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the night on the side of the road on a snowy pass because we were out of fuel. I mentioned it to Matt. Matt said. “We’ll be fine,” but gave me the “I really don’t need one more thing to worry about right now” look. Actually, I figured there were probably a few choice four-letter words thrown into the look as well.

In the middle of the road we came upon two brake lights. Pulling up next to them, two women in a Subaru, with a baby in the back seat, were freaking out. They felt like they couldn’t go forward any more. Their windshield wipers weren’t keeping up, and, they didn’t have a snow scraper. Also, they were blocking westbound traffic, and with us pulled next to them, we were blocking any sort of a passing lane and eastbound traffic. A line of cars were making their way up behind us, so I suggested to Matt that he pull in front of the ladies to continue the conversation. He obliged, and, as the line of cars passed, Matt scraped their windshield. I mentioned to them that they could just follow our taillights on the way up – we would drive slow enough to see them through to the other side. However, they decided to turn around. I’m not sure where they were going, but I imagine they didn’t get there that night.

Turtling over the top of the pass, the snow lightened. Soon enough, the snow stopped all together, and we made our way into Dillon. I was able to de-puckerize, and offered to fill up Matt’s tank. He declined, and said that I was just along for the ride. He just asked that all I pay for was my food. I was confused, but, if he doesn’t want me to pay for gas, I’m all good with that. After fueling up and a bite to eat, we continued our journey to Craig, with only an additional 2.5 hours added to our trip.

12:30. Trav-o-Tel Motel. Matt had called ahead and had them open the room, so all we had to do was go inside, set our alarms, and hit the rack. Thad’s chatter had stopped about an hour previous, as he gave into Mr. Sandman, resting his head on my shoulder as we trucked along just before Steamboat Springs. Rabbit Ears pass wasn’t bad at all, thankfully. We set the alarms for 6:30, and would check in at the ranch around 7:30.

The Deakins Ranching for Wildlife hunter check-in was crowded with hunters standing around. All had a hopeful look on their faces as we pulled up. Not good. Antelope hunters don’t really need to worry about finding antelope at first light – they are usually out grazing until 11, and then they bed down in plain sight. Their natural defense is running away at top speed, so, they typically bed down where they can see anyone approaching from a long distance, but also keep mindful of the wind and may bed just below the top of a rise. However, elk and deer hunters want to catch the animals at the first pre-dawn light as the ungulates make their way from the all-night feeding areas to the bedding areas. Typically, if you don’t find the deer or elk first thing in the AM, you are waiting until they wake up in the late afternoon as they move back to their graze. So, as we pulled in at 7:45, and the crowd saw that we were hunters just like they were, several pulled out their cell phones and began punching numbers furiously. My assumptions were right. The outfitter that the Deakin’s ranch had hired was not present to check in the hunters. I’m sure some of them had been there for a few hours already, and the sun bright in the blue sky… any semblance of a morning hunt was pretty much unsalvageable for those chasing the elusive wapiti.

I pulled out my hunter packet for Deakin’s ranch to see if there were any numbers to call. Matt looked at me incredulously. “You have a license?”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a license!”

“Why do you think I came along?”

“Because I asked you to go with me.”

“Don’t you remember that I sent an email after I drew the tag for the hunt?”

“Well that was a long time ago.”

“So why do you think I put my rifle and ammo in the truck when you picked me up?”

“I don’t know. Back-up rifle in case mine didn’t work?”

“So that’s why you didn’t let me pay for fuel?”

“Yeah.”

“So you thought it was all a ruse? I was trying to pull a fast one getting you to pay for all my expenses?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh–huh.”

Matt smiled sheepishly.

After talking with the hunters (yes, they had called the Division of Wildlife [DOW – which is actually now a combined agency and is referred to as Colorado Parks and Wildlife, or CPW] but no one was available to take their call, and, the outfitter’s number had been disconnected), we discussed the possibility of just going out on the ranch without turning in our paperwork (we had to sign a release, etc., for hunting on their ranch). However, that would technically be trespassing… maybe. We had traveled through fire and ice to get there (well, maybe not fire), and were looking for ways to justify hunting on their ranch without following all of the rules… I mean, they didn’t show up. What were we supposed to do? Just leave? All our efforts in vain? Or hunt and beg forgiveness if caught because of extenuating circumstances? I knew that there was a branch office of the CPW north of Craig (number was not listed on the CPW website that I could see), and I was out of coffee, so I suggested we go back into town and check in with officer-friendly to see what we should do. At the same time I was discussing this with Matt, Thad found the biggest mud puddle he find, and stepped right in. Both feet squarely in the middle. His tennis shoes were gone; completely covered. There were no words…

So, after filling up with coffee, it was a quick stop at the CPW office. The office didn’t open until 10; I copied the number from the sign, and, on our way back through town, we saw the tell-tale CPW truck sitting out in front of a residence. Matt suggested we stop. I talked him out of it. I’m sure the last thing the CPW officer wanted was a couple of hunters showing up at the door of his private residence complaining that the RFW ranch we were supposed to be hunting on wasn’t open. Thankfully Matt found my reasoning acceptable and we dropped in at Murdoch’s Ranch Supply Store. It’s a great store – they have everything you might need for running a ranch, including boots. Matt and Thad picked out a pair of boots to replace the brown clumps adorning Thad’s legs, and we headed back to the ranch.

A shell-shocked woman was able to check us in. She apologized that her son wasn’t able to open the ranch that morning; she said he was stuck on the side of a hill from outfitting the previous evening. I’m sure when she did show up that there were a lot of extremely vociferous hunters expressing their opinion about not being able to hunt opening morning. We were gracious when checking in. I figured there was nothing to be said – I was sure she heard it all repeatedly this AM. We simply asked her where she thought our best bet was for finding antelope. She suggested we head north on the dirt two-track roads and scour the areas between the ridges. So that’s what we did, slip-sliding on the wet muddy trails out into the sagebrush beyond.

After passing through a gate (after numerous stops on high points to glass), we were faced with a decision to keep on the ‘road’ we were on, or, split off on an even rougher two-track leading east. We opted for the eastern route, made our way to the top of a ridge, and left the vehicle to glass. I spotted three, two bucks and a doe, about 500 yards away. There may have been more on the other side of the ridge they were climbing. I could have gotten in prone and made the shot, but, my range finder was still missing. Matt had his, plus, it would behoove me not to piss off the driver by simply shooting an antelope without also giving him somewhat of an opportunity. So I went back to where he and Thad were glassing and told him about our first opportunity of the morning. We watched the antelope meander over a ridgeline, so made a plan to go through the gate, sneak down the opposite side of the ridge, pop over the top, and, if they were there, things would get real very quick.

But not all things go according to plan. When we popped over the ridge, rifles blazing (no, not really), there were no animals in sight. They disappeared into the sagebrush landscape, and, not knowing which way to go to find them, we turned to head back to the truck. Matt grabbed my shoulder. “Look there!” He pointed. A herd of antelope were heading the direction of the truck from the west. We figured that we could get back through the gate, to the truck, and intercept them somewhere around that area. Walking as quickly as we could on the opposite side of the ridge to mask our movement, we moved as quickly as Thad could allow with his little legs.

After stopping at the truck to dump my pack, we snuck west. Matt grabbed my shoulder. He motioned us to get down. “Antelope are right over there,” he whispered. “In just a second you will see their heads pop up over the sagebrush. Thad, plug your ears.” I took a kneeling position and steadied my 7MM Remington Ultra Magnum, ready to send a 180-grain Berger bullet at over three-thousand feet per second (big enough to take down a bull moose) into the side of a 100-lb antelope. Sure enough, a head appeared in my scope, 20 yards away. Her body stopped just behind a sagebrush. I steadied my crosshairs just behind the shoulder and squeezed the trigger.

BLAM!

The heard took off. Matt stood up and took a shot at the running antelope. BANG!  I stood up and walked over to where I expected to find an antelope lying on the ground.

Nothing.

No animal. No blood. No nothing. Could I have missed? Really? I mean, I’ve had some spectacular misses in my day. Most hunters have. But really? Missing at that short of a distance? Really?

Matt helped me look, and we searched everywhere for some kind of sign. Nothing. We then regathered – he was sure he had missed the running shot as well. So we walked over to where we last saw the heard disappear over a small ridge… about 300 yards to the north. As we popped over the ridgeline, the heard was already at full run, about 800 yards away. No sense in giving chase. On the way back to the truck, I thought I would look for any sign that Matt had taken an antelope. I guessed where approximately the antelope were when he shot, and started looking around.

Antelope. Dead.

I called over, “Hey Thad, what’s that?”

“Hey Dad! Dad! An antelope! Right there! Dad, look!”

We walked over and sure enough, a dead antelope with a big hole in its side, right behind the shoulder.

The first antelope with Matt

The thought crossed my mind that perhaps this was mine. Nooo…, had to be Matt’s. This was where the antelope were when they were running, when Matt shot. He looked at me quizzically. I gave him a hug.

 “Congratulations!”

“Do you think this one is mine?”

“Well, this was kind of where they were when you shot” I said. But I looked at the big gaping hole in the ribcage, thinking that I know that my bullets perform that well, but I didn't think Matt's 30.06 rifle bullets were designed to expand that much.

We picked up the antelope and carried it back to the truck. I took a picture with him and Thad, the whole while double-checking my mind about the shot, thinking that I couldn’t have missed… maybe I needed to double-check the area. So I walked back over to where the antelope was, or where I thought that it was, when I fired. Matt and Thad joined again. Nothing. Matt then ventured into the road. “Leif, come here.” There were two pancake-sized splotches of blood in the dirt, in the middle of the dirt on the two-track.

“Huh, so… maybe that is my antelope. Because when you shot, all the antelope were already across the road.” We walked back over to where the antelope were when Matt fired. No traces of blood, hair, anything. No dead antelope otherwise. I guess that one that I found was my antelope. That totally amazed me. I wouldn't think that an animal that small, with that big of a hole in it, would be able to run as far as it did before expiring.

Thad didn’t like that one bit. He thought his dad should have that antelope. He didn’t want to go home empty handed. He couldn’t see why it was my antelope instead of Matt’s. I suggested to Matt that he drive down the road a bit and I would stay to quarter up the antelope that was now mine. Thad volunteered to stay behind and help.

I said a prayer, Matt and Thad joining in, and put tobacco on her forehead and eyes. I then readied all my knives and saw sharpening stones as Matt drove off. Thad had a pocket knife and saw, and, I showed him how to cut around the base of the leg of the antelope. I then told him that he could use his little saw to try to cut off the lower legs when we were done. He assisted as much as a 6-year-old’s attention span would allow (about 5 minutes before he was playing in the dirt). I was about ¾ of the way done when Matt returned, unable to spot the antelope herd. So he assisted with the rest and we loaded up the antelope into my cooler.

Same Antelope, but with the real shooter

 

After a quick bite, we advanced further up the road and Matt spotted a couple of antelope about 1000+ yards away in the middle of an open field. Judging by the road and the topography, we could probably drive within 300-400 yards. So down an even worse 4x4 two-track across the sage we went, and stopped the truck. The antelope could see us – they were looking directly at us. They didn’t spook… they were simply curious. Matt and I talked about his approach. The antelope were stock still. He could approach probably to within 150 yards through the tall grass. He opened the truck door. BRAWHHWWHWHW. Guess he has to oil the hinges! The antelope took off running north. He cursed under his breath. So with the animals moving north (they had slowed down to a walk again), he could hide his movement by walking up a ridge due west and then look down on them. Death from above. I told him Thad and I would wait in the vehicle as to not spoil his stalk. We watched Matt as he ascended the hill, waiting for a shot.

Boom

I looked at Thad, he looked at me, and I said, “sounds like your dad may have gotten one!”

Boom

“Well, I’ll get my pack on and we’ll see what’s going on.”

Boom

“Maybe your dad didn’t get one. Let’s go see.”

Boom

We started walking towards the 4th of July noises coming from the other side of the ridge.

Boom

Matt walked to the top of the ridge and motioned us to stop walking towards him. When he approached, he indicated that the animals were maybe about 300 yards, so he didn’t get a good shot on them.

Thad was disappointed again. He thought we would surely go home half-empty-handed. We tried to explain that we would just go and find some more antelope – that we weren’t going to leave without another one. The power, the ability, and the wherewithal were still ours to harness: we were going to do everything possible for his dad to get an antelope.

A drive north and east yielded no results, so back to the main highway (40) we went. Our plan was to go back to the ranch, regroup, and try another area. However, as we drove into the ranch property from the highway, Matt spotted a herd of speed goats resting in the afternoon sun, in a bowl-shaped area, ridges on three sides, about 250 yards from the road. I first suggested that Matt could go up to the fence between us, make a good rest, and then squeeze off a round. I then remembered that Matt hadn’t sighted in his rifle before hunting season. Also, the year before, when I was assisting in sighting in his rifle at the range, his point of impact had jumped 10 inches at 100 yards when I hadn’t even touched the scope to adjust it. I had been after him all spring and summer to send his scope in for repair, but he somehow found time to not do that before hunting season. So I suggested that we back up the truck and put the ridge between the truck and the antelope, so as not to scare them away with any errant hinge noises!

We approached the base of the hill and slowly crept up to the top. Just before the rise I knelt and peeked over the top. The antelope were 50 yards or less away. I told Matt that Thad and I would wait as he crawled to the top, took a knee, and squeezed the trigger. Which he did.

BANG

Thad and I stood up. Matt was still on his knees, aiming. The antelope ran around in circles and stopped. They had no idea where the shot came from. One doe broke away from the herd.

BANG

The stomach opened before our eyes, and all the guts dropped to the ground, still attached. Matt had disemboweled her, barely grazing her belly, but just enough to split only the skin. He ran down the hill as the rest of the antelope took off. At 25 feet, Matt took aim again. Brains and blood sprayed across the sagebrush behind her.

“Dude! I told you that you needed a new scope! Why two shots?” I gave him a hug in congratulations.

Matt with his antelope

“I tried to do a head shot first. I was so close.”

“But look how far your rifle is off! You aimed right behind the shoulder and you scraped the skin off her belly. So you are off at least 12 inches at 50 yards! That’s huge!”

“Yeah, I gotta get it sighted in before my elk hunt.”

Matt borrowed my tobacco and we said a prayer for the animal, then  he went to go get the meat wagon. Upon his return, we carried it over to the truck. The antelope disemboweler wanted to try out his new hoist mounted in the bed of his truck, designed for lifting big game animals, so we strung up the antelope by the hind legs. The skin was to be a present for a friend of Matt’s to taxidermy. Carefully we skinned the animal, quartered it, and put skin and meat in the cooler.

Matt's disemboweled antelope on the hoist. We talked about him getting one that would raise the animals higher for deer and elk.

When checking out, the guy who was supposed to check us in that morning was waiting. When I questioned him on why he wasn’t there, he didn’t give any reason. I believe the "he was stuck on the side of a hill" line was just that. His responses were simply, “I didn’t make it” and “It just didn’t happen.” Well, at least we showed up, we came, and we got the job done, despite what others did or didn’t do. I’m sure that had they rancher not shown up, we still would have found a way to be successful.  Thad learned an important hunting lesson, whether white out conditions or limited access, that’s what it takes to be a good hunter: work around obstacles until you meet success.

An Unexpected Charge? That's Bull!!! Moose Hunt 2013

I’ve been applying for the mythically rare Colorado moose license for 8 years. The chance of getting such a coveted prize was 1 in 22,000. To me, it was just a chance for the Colorado Division of Wildlife to borrow my $250 for a few months as a short-term loan before returning it to me, minus processing fees, telling me that I was unsuccessful and better luck next year.

Much to my surprise, I opened the letter from the DOW with an antlerless moose tag enclosed, letting me know that I was successful in drawing the Silver Spur Ranching for Wildlife antlerless moose tag. I chose to apply for antlerless because most hunters want the big bull trophy with antlers. I was more interested in the meat, and, the hunting experience.

A requirement for the hunt was to attend the moose seminar, so, per our agreement, Kaoru and I attended one day in late August. Kaoru had been applying for a moose license for as long as I had, and, we agreed to hunt together regardless of who drew the first tag. A lot of the people in the classroom at the Denver Merchandise Mart had been applying for 20-30 years. Old men with gray hair dotted the landscape when we walked in; a look in their eyes like kids on Christmas morning. Excited chatter filled the room as they exchanged names and numbers and wishing each other good luck. Kaoru and I sat down, and soon enough a woman (the only woman attending) sat down in the chair one over from me. It was my assumption that she sat near me because she only saw us from the back, and, thought that with my long hair she was going to be sitting next to someone of the same gender. She was a little surprised when she sat down, looked over, and two dudes welcomed her with a “good morning.”

Moose hunting techniques, behavior, processing, and, what was required of each hunter was all part of the seminar. The DOW wanted kidneys, a section of liver, a tooth, and a chunk of brain from each moose harvested. Also, hunt data, such as how many moose we saw, what gender, location, etc., was expected to be recorded. The day wrapped up and we were off to wait for the magical first day of the hunt.

The previous year, my ex-wife and I divorced. A lot of my hunting stuff was disorganized and in disarray because of the shuffling, moving out of my house, moving back in, having my rifles in different locations, etc. Additionally, I had met a lovely woman, Deanna, in the middle of my divorce, and we had started dating. With a lot of detail that I don’t wish to discuss in my blog about the divorce proceedings, I was able to move back into my house, and, I invited Deanna and her two boys to move in with me. Both of her sons, along with Deanna, had taken the Hunter’s Safety course and passed with flying colors. Additionally, I asked Deanna to be my wife, and, she said she would. We planned the wedding for October 5^th. My moose hunt started the weekend of September 21. Leading up to my once-in-a-lifetime hunt was more wedding planning than moose-hunt planning, but I was able to pull most of my stuff together. What helped was that the weekend prior, one of Deanna’s sons had drawn a muzzleloading elk hunt tag, which forced me to gather my stuff together a week early. Two items were missing: my range finder and my binoculars. I searched high and low, but to my chagrin, both remained lost.

Friday morning before the hunt, I loaded all the camping equipment in my F150, picked up Kaoru, went and bought food for our week-long hunt, and headed up to North Park Colorado, to the town of Walden. I hadn’t sighted in my rifle for 2013 hunting season, and we found a range near Walden that went out to 500 yards: perfect for my 7MM RUM Sendero with Huskemaw scope, shooting 180-Grain Berger bullets. My last shot at 500 yards was one inch low, one inch right, from the bull. Good enough for me.

We had to check in with the hunt coordinator at the Silver Spur Ranch, and he showed me and a bull-moose hunter (Brent, and his buddy Ron) a 7-mile section of the North Platte where they had seen some moose. We agreed that the next morning, Kaoru and I would start hunting the north end, he and Ron would start in the south. The two other moose hunters would be hunting along the Canadian River system east of Walden.

Setting up camp in the dark at the Lake John State Wildlife Area, by the headlight of my truck (I discovered then that one of my bulbs was burned out), it was 9 PM before the tent was up. I fired up the propane stove and double-cheese-burgers were soon consumed before we turned off the propane lanterns with the alarm set for 5:20.

The moon over Lake John SWA

Kaoru, finishing camp setup

Your's truly, grilling burgers

 

Dark and cold, early, and we had forgotten coffee on our shopping trip, we struggled out of camp. I was munching strawberry peanut butter fiber bars (7 grams of fiber each – the last thing I wanted was to be constipated while hunting), and we headed towards the north end of the property. We dropped off the trailer, packed with 4 150-quart coolers, at a ranch house, and meandered through their twisty-turny property to get on the main road heading south. The last area was a frozen-mud pasture full of horses, lining up at the double-gate on the far side, wanting to get through to the greener grass on the other side. Kaoru opened the gate, I drove through, and one of the horses snuck past before Kaoru could close the gate. Horsey stopped on the opposite side and started munching grass. Kaoru and I discussed our options. I called our hunt guide and left a message telling him that a horse was out, I wasn’t a horse wrangler, and, asked if he could tell the rancher there to go get his horse. I had moose to hunt, and didn’t have time to mess around with an errant horse. I figured that if they didn’t want horses to get out, they could have put them in a different pasture.

Down the muddy and bumpy road we went, stopping at every available area to glass over the river bottom glassing for big dark 4-legged beasts wandering in and out of the willows. Eventually we happened upon the other hunters, who were set up with a spotting scope. They said they had seen a group of moose down on the opposite side of the river, including at least one bull and several cows. Brent wasn’t interested in going after the moose opening morning – they had several days to hunt and wanted to take their time. So they welcomed us to go after the moose, and they would watch the hunt from their spotting scope. That sounded good to me!

Over the river and through the willows to the herd of moose we go, we have found a way to the moose we shall slay, across the green fields we go, hey! We stopped just short of the field where the moose were hiding. We didn’t actually see the moose through the spotting scope – they were all in the willows when we stopped and talked with Brent. Kaoru and I gathered all of our hunting gear and we began to creep our way towards the likely area where they were hopefully hanging out.

Thrashing willows and low grunts stopped us in our tracks. Kneeling and getting as low as we could, a large bull moose appeared on the opposite side of an open field. Stopping and thrashing the willow branches with his antlers, we heard another bull moose approximately 200 yards down the river bottom, doing exactly the same thing. The rut was in full force, and these bulls were vying for the lovely lady moose to create future generations of mooselings.  I was vying for a lovely lady moose as well, but the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself and be seen as competition for the ginormous beast that had no clue we were in his immanent domain. Mr. Bullwinkle continued down the treeline and disappeared into the willows again. We waited for the other moose to show themselves, but, none ambled into view, so we continued towards the area where the bull emerged.

Two dark shapes appeared in the opening where the bull had come through, and we quickly knelt again. Two young moose walked through. The cow first, then the young bull. I put my rifle up to my shoulder and put the cross-hairs on the center of her chest. Nope, not this one. I was holding out for a larger moose. She turned around and walked back through the opening. The young bull took this opportunity to try and mount her, but failed miserably. Another large black shape passed behind the opening in the willows. It was the big cow. But she was too quick, and hearing splashing water, we assumed she had crossed the river. Sure enough, Kaoru and I ventured to where she had been and noticed the low-water area where she crossed. Unfortunately, our waders were in the truck, so we continued to hunt the area heading towards the truck.

Arriving at the F150, we decided that the moose were heading south, so, why not go to the south end of the property and cut them off? Our waders on, we drove to the far end, where the road became lost in a flood plain. I stopped just short of the marsh and we continued on foot to the fence line. Over the barbed wire (not easy in wet slippery waders), we headed east through the thick willows to where the river crossed the southern boundary, sneaking as stealthily as possible the entire time (a difficult task in noisy waders). Upon reaching the river, the water was dark, the river was narrow, and starting the venture across, the muddy wetness quickly rose to the top of my chest-waders. It was time to slowly turn around and attempt to find a different path across the aqueous channel.  Downstream our luck changed; the river was wide, the water less deep, and we were able to continue the hunt in our regularly-scheduled fashion.

Walking east from the other side of the river, a bull, two cows, and two calves ran from the opposite side of the fence onto the hunting property. They were running at a full clip, crossing the fence with ease, about 400 yards away. Much too far for a running shot, and they were quickly on the other side of a bank of willows, continuing to head north. We headed east, and an opening in the willows allowed Kaoru and I to venture to a larger viewing area. There was no way we could pursue the moose at their speed, so the hope was that the moose would slow down and begin grazing, or perhaps work their way back south. Moose tracks indicated that the herd had come through, so we waited in the shade for their return.

Opposite us on the other side of the field, a large black shape with paddled antlers emerged. It was a bull moose, not the one we saw earlier, but a second, slightly larger moose, and it reared its moosy head. He looked left, then right, then left again, until he locked his gaze with us. Transfixed in his stare, a moment of trepidation, he charged. 200 yards, running at full speed towards us; “Fuck this dude, I’m outta here,” Kaoru exclaimed, jumping to his feet and taking off. I was still watching the moose, like an animal in the road watching the headlights of an oncoming car. Kaoru running between the moose and I broke my gaze and I followed him through the muddy gap in the willows, running as fast as my legs would take me. Time slowed and I glanced around quickly, looking for anything that would be a big enough barrier between the moose and I, but the willows were lacking in girth and height. I ran to the willow edge and knelt. I figured if all else failed, I had a rifle, and although I didn’t have a bull license, I would have to explain to the DOW officers that it was either me or the moose… or Kaoru, who only had a knife. I figured I had a 50/50 chance of not getting injured in a moose attack, but Kaoru… well, he has a black belt in judo, but tossing a 2000 pound charging moose might be above his skill level.

Thankfully, the moose changed course, and emerged from the willows about 100 yards from where we were. Still shaken from the experience, it was an afterthought to grab my iPhone and get a picture of the beast. By that time, he was on the far edge of the field, going into the willows. I was able to snap a few pictures, but it didn’t quite capture the moment. However, I found out that Brent shot that moose the following Tuesday. 

The moose that charged us. You can barely see the antler by the edge of the clearing.

The same moose that charged us: Brent ended up shooting it.

 

After the excitement of the situation wore off, Kaoru and I agreed that the moose we were after had probably bedded down, and we didn’t want to push them… we could come back for the evening hunt. It was 10:00 AM, the sun warming the area, and moose tend to bed down in the heat of the day. Additionally, when there is a full moon (like there was the night before), the moose move at night, and bed down early. It was best to head back to the truck.

Headed west, Kaoru discovered that crossing the barbed-wire fence had ripped a hole in his waders, thus we needed to find another lower, wide spot in the river to cross. The lowering adrenaline and the heat caused by walking in the rubber and coated nylon waders were wearing on us both. The sun beating down on our sweating heads made the river crossing that much more palatable, and we found a spot to cross back, keeping the water line below the tear in Kaoru’s waders.

Turning the truck around, driving back the way we came, we happened across Brent and Ron, who tracked the herd to a large cottonwood tree in the middle of the property. As we were telling them about our adventure, they received a call from the hunt guide, telling them that they were on private property. The guide had told us the wrong fence line for the boundary; the property we were on belonged to the neighbor to the south. What did that mean for us? That the herd of moose we were tracking had bedded down on private land. (!)

The ranch hand, a fellow named Valentio, came along in his truck and explained further, in a thick Hispanic accent, that unfortunately the area where we were was off-limits. He then explained where the boundary was, and to make our way off of the land the ranch didn’t own. I explained that the moose we were after were bedded down right by the cottonwood tree. You could see in his eyes that his hands were figuratively tied. He shrugged and let us know that the landowner was kind of strange, liked his privacy, and in order to keep good relations, it was best if we weren’t on his property. *sigh*

Back to Walden, we stopped at a Tire and Auto Parts store to purchase a tire-repair kit for Kaoru’s waders, and, a new headlight for the truck. With my handy-dandy Gerber multi-tool in hand, Karou pulled out my headlight and replaced the bulb. His Honda needs a new bulb about every two months, so he’s extremely well versed in dismantling the front assembly. I reassembled it as he went to work on his waders on my tailgate.

The wind must have been blowing about 50 miles per hour: my eyes were drying out and my sunglasses didn’t block much. Kaoru was struggling with the messy tire patch kit, so I assisted as best I could. Finally he got the patch in place, with plenty of rubber cement, and I put my tire-chain bag over the top of the patch so that it would seal flat. The bar and grill in town provided relief from the sun and wind, and, a tasty bite of food before we headed back to camp.

Our Camp Site

 

Back at camp, Kaoru plotted the boundaries of the hunt area on my forest-service map, using his Garmin 530 HCx. We were indeed hunting in the area outlined to us by the ranch when they sent us their maps. When we went back out for the evening hunt, after picking up the trailer from the north end, I called our hunt guide to confirm. Sure enough, he told us the maps we were sent were incorrect. With that in mind, we drove passed Vantio’s house and stopped to ask him again what the boundaries were. Valentino offered to drive Kaoru down and show him the boundaries of the property to the south while I unhooked the trailer. He came back with new knowledge, and from there, we went a-lookin’ for moose.

I tried to have a good attitude, but was pissed that we couldn’t go where we wanted. That we were gypped. That we made all that effort that AM only to be stymied in our evening hunt. That we wasted all that time only to be told that our efforts were in vain – that we could have been injured or killed by a charging bull moose and couldn’t even go seek retribution. Not that we would have actually sought retribution against the bull moose for protecting its territory against two hapless humans, but that we only wanted an opportunity to seek out what we had discovered in our morning hunt and be successful. Alas, with knowledge comes responsibility, and we knew now where the boundaries were, and as ethical hunters, we would not cross the boundary again. Yes, there was another 6 miles of river-bottom to hunt, but there had been no reports of moose on the north side.

The best way to hunt moose in that area was to find a high point and scan the area, and then plan the hunt. It’s called “spot-and-stalk” hunting. But all the high points along the way resulted in zero results. It doesn’t mean there were no moose in the area; only that we didn’t see any. It didn't help that I was using a junky pair of 7x35 binoculars. We crossed the river again and searched downriver (the river flowed north) for any moose sign while the sun sunk lower and lower on the horizon. It was the end of the day. No moose. I made my way back towards the bridge, heading back to camp, dejected and still pissed off that we didn’t see any moose.

Moose! I slowed the truck down and stopped by an opening in the willows on the west side of the river before the bridge. The first big bull from this morning was standing about 150 yards away, next to a clump of willows.

I snapped a quick picture, snuck 50 feet from the center line of the dirt road, and steadied my rifle on my knee. Where there was a bull, there might be cows. I watched the area, and sure enough, I saw the cow moose skirting in and out of the willows. Sweet! The cow would disappear, reappear somewhere else, disappear again, etc. Finally I saw an opening in the willows where I saw a head appear. No antlers! Then the head disappeared and the body moved behind it. A perfect view of the lungs right behind the shoulder.

BANG!

The moose moved forward and out of sight.

I went back to the truck. An excited Kaoru asked, “Did you get it?”

“I think so!” I put my rifle down and grabbed my pack, getting ready to go find my moose.

“Dude – that bull is still there.” I grabbed my binoculars and viewed the area. The big bull was staring right at us. There was no way I was going to approach the area with the bull still giving us the evil eye. I learned my lesson from the morning hunt. Kaoru honked the truck horn. He just looked at us. Nothing scares a moose. I thought then would be a perfect time to go find Valentio and ask for assistance. We drove up the road a short way and found him, with his brother, wife, sister-in-law, their kids, all standing around. They asked if that was me that shot. I told him that I believed I had a moose down, but that there was a big bull in the way of making sure, and that I needed some assistance. He said sure, and asked if his family could come see as well. I told him the more the merrier. Plus it would be more people to charge at should the moose decide to retaliate.

Driving back to the area, we slowed and came to a stop. I pointed out the area where I believed my moose was, referencing the bull that was still standing there. He mentioned that we could drive right up to it, and he led the way down the road, turning south, down 150 yards, then cut into an opening in the willows. He stopped his truck and got out. The bull must have decided to go down-country, as, the presence of all the vehicles entering his territory was too much to take on. Kaoru hopped out and ran up to where the guys were standing, looking at something on the ground, and then looking back at me. I grabbed my rifle from the back seat and started walking towards them. The way they were looking at me, I was thinking, “What? What is it? What are they not telling me? What did I do?” When I approached and looked down, I saw what their eyes betrayed.

I’ve shot elk bigger than the moose that was lying on the ground.

I was in shock. I knew I had shot an antlerless moose when I squeezed the trigger. But I was expecting a larger animal. The sheer lack of size made me speechless. I walked over to it. Kaoru said, “Be careful dude – it could be still alive.” I looked down at the gaping hole in the side, right behind the shoulder, and thought it was doubtful. I poked its eye with my barrel. No reaction. Valentio said, “It’s legal, right?” I nodded yes. “Okay, then. Congratulations!” His family started taking pictures. Brent and Ron showed up as well. Everyone was coming to take a look at the little moose I shot. My once-in-a-lifetime moose.

It is still a trophy.

Any animal whose life I take, to feed me and my family, is a trophy. To me, trophy is not measured in horns, or antlers, or size. It's about the hunt. It's about being with friends and family having a shared experience out in nature. It is simply the fact that I appreciate every bit of every animal that presents itself to me, that I may eat it knowing that it is not force-fed on a feedlot, and killed in a slaughterhouse. It lived its entire life in the wild. It died in its element. I honor that. Kaoru knelt down and said a prayer over the moose. I also said one, but I was going to do my tobacco ceremony in private, back at the camp.

They helped me load up the moose into the back of the truck, and we drove into town. I called Deanna to tell her the good news, and, called my dad to let him know that he didn’t need to drive up and help pack out the animal. We originally planned that had I gotten a larger moose, and needed assistance, he would drive up and help. We bought ice and headed back to camp. I dragged the moose out of the back of the truck, and, once on the ground, I pulled out my bag of American Spirit tobacco. As I rubbed the tobacco on its fuzzy head, sprinkling tobacco on the eyes, I said a prayer thanking the animal for its life, the food it provides, the sustenance that it gives, the beauty of its hide that I will preserve, and that the animal moves on to green pastures and has many happy returns here to the earthly plane.

Quartering the moose, and removing the back loins and tender loins, took about 2 hours. We then we removed both kidneys and a piece of liver for the DOW. I then reached up inside the lung cavity and removed the heart. With the coyotes yipping and yowling in the distance, I knew the carcass wasn’t going to be around long. We set the quarters on the plastic bags, on top of the tarp, on top of the trailer, to cool in the night air. I folded the hide onto itself so that it wouldn’t dry out, after it had relinquished all body heat, and put it in a plastic bag. I did the same with the head, and, finished by tagging the hind quarter that had the identification of sex. It was 11:30 – time to eat some dinner and go to bed.

The sun shining bright, but still cool, we cooked a victory breakfast and packed up camp. After dropping off the head, etc., with the DOW in Walden, we drove home through forests of changing aspen leaves. The boys helped me carry the moose coolers onto the back porch Sunday evening, and, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday I butchered my moose into steaks, roasts, and ground. All I need to do now is wait for the chronic wasting disease (CWD) results to come back, and I can then feast on my once-in-a-lifetime moose.

My trophy.