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.