Hangover Draw

The 3^rd 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 1^st and 2^nd, 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 4^th Finger while Jack/Jerry hunted the 3^rd. 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.”

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.