(Almost) Trampled by elk

I had been hunting for 10 years (since the young age of 14), and had never shot an elk. I wasn’t sure why it was so difficult. Maybe it was the area we were hunting (we had previously been hunting near Ute Peak, where the elk roamed mostly on high mountain ridges). Maybe it was my belief that elk hunting was difficult, and thus made it my reality. I didn’t know, but, after eating tag soup for so many years, I wanted to finally conquer that thus-far elusive prey.

Our hunting party had changed areas from central west Colorado to northwest Colorado, as, that was where the Bears Ears, Black Mountain, and White River elk herds congregated in the winter. Having around 50,000 head of elk move into a general (albeit still large) area stacked the odds towards us, but we still had to actually get to where we were going.

Back in my mid-twenties, a challenge awaited when Matt Archer and I when we left on the Friday evening before opening day, December 1st. As we motored up Rabbit Ears pass in my ’93 Isuzu Rodeo, fat flakes assailed us. It was another Colorado storm of blinding snow. Pulling a trailer wasn’t much of a burden, though, as we crawled up one side and down the other towards Steamboat. Snow plows had cleared the way thus far, with plenty of gravel on the highway. Visibility was our biggest concern, being that it was 10 PM and the only lights were my own, the 3-D tunnel effect in full force as each passing mile strained my eyes.

North of Steamboat, Matt piped up, “Wounded deer.” I looked at him quizzically. “Back there, on the other side of the road.” I hate to see wounded, struggling animals; I always like to stop and put them out of their misery. Rodeo and trailer went 180, (no one was on the highway) and parked on the southbound shoulder (not that there was much of one with the several feet of snow built up). Matt pointed out the struggling deer. It was a young deer with a broken leg, trying to climb up the side of the hill next to the highway, but failing miserably. Aww – poor thing. The young ungulate had been hit by a vehicle, and the driver didn’t bother to stop and check on it. Most drivers, in my observation, don’t stop to check on the animal after they hit it… I’m guessing that the reason for not stopping is because they wouldn’t know what to do, don’t carry anything to put the animal out of its misery, or they don’t care. My belief is that since we built the roads through their territory, displacing them with something wholly unnatural to their environment, we at least owe it to them to try to undo any damage done to them. Don’t get me wrong – I know that Mother Nature is a cruel beast. Animals kill and wound each other without mercy. Snow, hail, freezing, starvation, and heat kills so many of nature’s children… Mother Nature takes care of its own with alarming prejudice. I feel it’s our duty to assist those we can, even if it’s simply to slice their throat or put a bullet in their brain. So that’s what I did; I loaded my 30.06, traversed the road, put the crosshairs on the ear, and squeezed the trigger. Lights out.

Matt and I carried the deer across to the trailer, and I grabbed my Marine Corps K-Bar to slice it open. No sense in wasting meat, and I knew that I could get a tag from the State Patrol for the carcass. An urgent alert system went off in my head, and I felt I needed to hurry, so it was the quickest field-dressing job to date. We were parked just around a bend on the highway, and if any vehicle came along, we had the possibility of getting smashed. After getting the deer into the trailer, we climbed back into the Rodeo, fired it up, and I turned the wheel to flip a U-Turn. Lights and rumbling in the rearview. I floored it. The snow plow, hugging the edge of the road, narrowly missed the ass-end of my trailer as it rounded the turn. Any semblance of a gut pile left on the side of the road was now off the edge. Thankfully Matt and I weren’t part of the blood and guts now buried in the freezing snow and ice.

A game pole adorned the Trav-O-Tel motel’s landscape, and the little deer swung frozen in the night air. I didn’t set an alarm, so about 9:30 the next morning, we awoke to begin our hunt. I had a general idea about where to go, so I let my instincts guide us through the hunting area, up a two-track dirt road through the steep hill country. I pulled up to a rise and we crouched as we neared the summit, pulling out our binoculars. Looking towards an area known as the Godiva Rim, we scanned the country side. A small herd of elk, about two miles away, dotted the base of the rim. Pointing them out to Matt, he said, “Yeah, that might be a herd of elk, but right there is THE herd of elk.” I looked to where he was pointing. About 500 elk were milling around just to the east of the herd I’d spotted. The ones I’d picked out were like a satellite herd. Amazing!

We formulated a plan. The straight approach to that herd would have been hunter-suicide. It was across a large swath of flat land known as the Bald Mountain Basin. They would have seen us coming and quickly vacated the area long before we could have moved within rifle range. Plus, at the time, I was using my 30.06 – a reliable cartridge, but not known for its long-range capabilities. The plan was to make a “C” approach. We would hug the hillsides, circling around to them, and approach from the west, using the cover of the juniper trees and folds in the land to mask our approach.

We started from the top of the hill on the far left, and, circled left to right, hugging the hillside until we approached the herd.

Traversing the side of the hill, Matt exclaimed, “Leif! Look!” I glanced to the right. Three dark shapes were moving downhill quickly. Elk! Although they might have been in range when Matt first spotted them, by the time I would have been able to take a knee and taken a shot, they would be out of range. Plus, I didn’t want to risk alerting the large herd of my presence if I took a shot and missed. So we continued through the snow towards our quarry. Along the way we came across a herd of deer. About 20 were grouped together as we approached. We stopped. They looked at us. We looked at them. I didn’t want them to spook – again, running away at top speed might alert the large herd of elk (even though we were still at least a mile away at that point, I didn’t want to take any chances that would deny my chance at the main prize). The deer eventually moved off, and we moved on.

Around to the base of the rim, we moved up and down the juniper-covered fingers, slowly making our way towards the elk. We spotted the elk at about 11:30 that morning – it was now about 3:30. The herd wasn’t visible for the last hour or so, and we were taking it on faith that the mass of animals were still hanging around. Every finger we crested, the approach was slow to the top, peering across to see if that was the final finger before the plain began. Cresting what was the final finger, we spotted a few elk amongst the junipers across the ridge. They were looking right at us. Our cover was blown. I couldn’t judge what the distance was, but I figured I could hit the elk, so I took a knee, steadied the rifle, and squeezed the trigger. The few elk that were there took off.

Matt and I raced down to the bottom of the finger and ran up the other side. Out of breath, we came over the top, emerged from the junipers, and there was the herd, looking right at us. I looked for the elk that I’d shot. Blood, but nothing else, was on the ground. I followed the blood trail out into the sagebrush. In the meantime, the herd bunched up and ran directly north, towards the rim. I scanned the herd. An elk trailed the herd, limping, but still managing to keep up. We knelt down in the sagebrush, wondering how the herd was going to manage running up the slope that eventually ended in a cliff face. Up they ran, and when encountered with the impossible angle, they turned around, a massive sea of elk running, moving swiftly across the sagebrush, and thundering… towards… us…

Matt and I looked at each other. I wasn’t sure what to do, except think, “this is going to hurt. I might die.” Closer and closer they came, my eyes becoming saucers. The ground was vibrating, I was getting more tense, Matt and I looking at the herd and looking at each other. This was it. We were going to die, trampled by the elk. In the end, I didn’t get my first elk, my first elk got me.

At 50 yards, Matt stood up. I stood up. We were skinnier targets standing, and, maybe they might move around us. At the last second, they veered. The herd thundered past. You could smell the elk in the air. Then, tagging behind, the elk I’d shot was running. I swung my rifle and as the crosshairs crossed the chest cavity, I squeezed the trigger. The elk immediately turned and ran directly away from us. The rest of the herd thundered off. The silence was deafening. My heart was racing. I looked around. Matt was grinning at me. There were no elk in sight.

“What do we do now?”

“We find my elk!”

Walking in the direction of where I last saw my elk run, I following a straight line. After 200 yards, I said, “Start looking for an elk piled up by a sagebrush.” Sure enough, I came across a dead elk. My first elk, piled up around a sagebrush plant. My sense of accomplishment was out of this world.

My first elk - after 10 years hunting the elusive beasts

The yellow pack-frames came in handy to put all of our gear in, and, strapped the lower half to one for Matt to carry.

We gutted the animal and propped the chest cavity up on a sagebrush bush to let it cool down. I knew there was no way we could haul it out that evening, so I made a mental note of where it was, and, we headed back to my rodeo. Being able to make a direct line towards where we thought the Rodeo was parked was easier than the stalk (we weren’t quite sure where it was though, as the scenery and topography kind of all look the same). Luckily I caught a glint of reflected late-afternoon sun off one of the mirrors, and we made our way towards it. Getting out, though, was a hap-hazard guess, as I wasn’t quite sure how I got there. We ended up on a “shelf” road. This road was essentially a two-track on the side of a 45-degree hill, and the road was at about a 30-degree angle. As we started crossing it in the dark, I realized what road we were on. I had seen the road previously, and thought to myself that I would never traverse it. Now I was traversing it in the dark hauling a trailer. I was on the “down” side, Matt was on the “up” side, and, he had one hand on the grab bar, the other hand on the door handle. He told me in no short terms that if we started rolling down the hill, he was opening the door and jumping for safety. I would have no such luck, as my door and window were pretty close to the ground. I expected to start tumbling at any second. Luckily, we made it across the side of the hill and back to familiar territory.

At the motel, we cut loose the deer from the pole and took it to the State Patrol. I told him the mile marker where we found it, and, after checking it over, trying to manipulate the frozen joints to verify the broken leg (it obviously wasn’t taken for a trophy or intentionally poached), he issued me a license.

The next morning we went to retrieve the elk. I drove the Rodeo as close as I could; however, the dirt two-track put us at a half-mile away. We found the elk still propped up over the sagebrush, and, Matt and I talked about how to carry it out. I ended up cutting off the lower half of the elk and strapping it to a pack frame, and cutting off the two front quarters, loins, and backstraps. I carried all the equipment and meat back to the truck, except for the ass-end. Matt shouldered that heavy load. Additionally, a rancher had dug out a trench at the bottom of a hill where water passed through, so there was a 4-foot gap we had to navigate. I saw Matt take a flying leap and successfully landed without incident. It’s a good thing he was a hockey player and had huge quads and calves to carry that much weight. Thankfully I was also able to jump gap without falling on my ass, and we were on our way.

After my first elk, I shot 12 more elk within 7 years (a lot of years I was able to get two elk tags per season). It seems that all I needed to do was be successful once, and after that, I couldn’t help but to be successful. I had broken through the elk-barrier, and filled my freezer with delicious meat for many years after.

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.

 

 

Roid Rage: Spring Turkey 2011

I successfully drew a tag for the Purgatoire Ranch RFW (Ranching for Wildlife) Spring Turkey season in 2011. This was at least 4 years in the making, as my buddy Matt Cosley and I have been trying to successfully hunt turkeys. However, it always seemed that the only turkeys in the woods every spring were dressed in camouflage and named Matt and Leif.


A month or so prior to the hunting trip, though, I was worried. I wasn’t worried about my gear – I had accumulated plenty of turkey calls, camouflage clothing, a decoy, and had watched hours and hours of turkey hunting shows. I’d been to a turkey hunting seminar and talked with people who had successfully hunted turkey in Colorado. I wasn’t worried about my shooting ability, I shoot skeet and my record is 75-straight (without a miss). However, turkey hunting is typically like aiming like you would a rifle – but I wasn’t worried about that – I had shot targets with my 7mm RUM out to 960 yards. No, my worries were a little closer to home; a lot closer. My problems were internal. Well, they were external. I think more that it was something external that should be internal.

Now, when you have a combination of heat, sweat, friction, and hair, on a daily basis, and something that is even more unpleasant than that introduced to that environment at least once or twice a day, something is bound to go wrong occasionally. Often that “wrong” can be an itch. Now, none of us like to admit it, but, we’ve all experienced an itch in those nether-regions. Usually it goes away after a few days without having to do much on our part. Maybe we shower a little more (morning and evening, and maybe at lunch if we’re so lucky), maybe we have other coping skills, but typically it doesn’t turn into a problem.

I wasn’t so lucky, and it wasn’t going away. That hole of mine was clean as a whistle; spotless. So, I thought maybe I needed to do something more. I found a “Two Week Organic Cleanse” where I was taking supplements 3 times a day for a fortnight. Activity increased, to say the least, but at the end of it, I still had a nagging issue.

“Fine,” I thought. I had three weeks before I was going turkey hunting. “I’ll take care of this: Neosporin!” So, one night before I went to bed, after my nightly shower, I applied a dab to my finger, and, well, applied it to the affected area and crawled between the sheets.

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!!!! I woke up at 5:00 in the morning and it felt like fire ants had found their arch-enemy in my event horizon! I jumped out of bed and hobbled to the bathroom. Hobbled because I’m also experiencing plantar fasciitus in my left foot and, if you’ve ever had it, you know that the first step out of bed in the morning just about makes you cry. Talk about a double-whammy! I grabbed some toilet paper and desperately tried to wipe the Neosporin off my balloon-knot. If I had some coarse-grit sandpaper, I would have gladly used that as well! Next was a hop in the shower with my favorite friend: a Dial Unscented Anti-bacterial Soap Bar. Then out of the shower and one leg up on the bathroom counter, one on the floor, and the hairdryer was set on low, pointed directly at an area that I seldom see. But the itching and burning still persisted. I simply squatted and cradled my head in my hands, not sure what to do, which is where Audrey found me as she sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes.

“What’s wrong, Leif?”

“I think I need to go to the store and get something.”

“What do you need to get, and why?”

I’m not one to use euphemisms, typically, unless I’m writing for a public audience, so I explained in very coarse terms what my problem was. She asked what I was going to get. I replied that I didn’t know, but, I was going to get something! Thankfully our local super market was open, and, there weren’t many people shopping at 5:30 in the morning. I found the section in the pharmaceutical isle where you don’t want your friends or neighbors to walk up to you and ask you how you’re doing, only to see that can of jock-itch spray hurriedly passing from the shelf to your hand to your cart. I found the tube Preparation-H Maximum Strength, and some Tuck’s medicated wipes. I figured that was a good place to start. I also bought a Guns and Ammo magazine to put over the top of the items in my basket, just in case I did encounter someone I knew on my way to the checkout counter.

Thankfully the self-checkout was empty, and I was able to get right through. I contemplated applying the cream in the parking lot (inside my truck) but, I really didn’t want anyone calling the cops for suspicious activity, so, I desperately waited out the stoplight preventing me from leaving the parking lot before I raced home. Well, I didn’t speed, as I didn’t want to have to explain to the cops that I was going mach-10 because my ass was on fire.

Ahh – blessed relief! Well, not really, but it subsided to a dull roar. While I was waiting for the smoldering ruins to die down, I researched “anal itching” on the internet. I learned two basic things: 60% of people experience it constantly (!) and that it could be caused by Pin Worms or Hemorrhoids. Pin Worms typically wiggle their way outside of your sphincter in the early morning and lay eggs in the folds of skin around the sphincter. How the worms know when it is morning, and how they know their way around when spelunking in your colon is probably going to be a topic of a doctoral thesis someday. The hatching eggs make everything itch.

Pin Worms? Early morning itching? What-what-in-my-butt? I was starting to freak out! Okay… what was the other one? Hemorrhoids? Let’s look and see what the symptoms are of that. Apparently if you push/strain too hard to evacuate your system, you can push the hemorrhoid tissue (which is the tissue/veins just inside your brown eye) out and make it exposed. I didn’t know what that meant or what that looked like, so, I did an image search. Wow… you could write horror movies for a lifetime based on the images shown. It’s worse than using Google image search for “Blue waffle.”

So, I guess I had to do a little investigation. It was early morning still, and Audrey had gone back to sleep. I went up to the bedroom and turned on the bathroom light. I bent over in front of the mirror (with my back to the mirror) and spread my cheeks. I haven’t done that since I was signing up for the Marines and was in MEPS. Except then it was kind of funny to have the doctor walk down the aisle with his flashlight looking up your crevice. But trying to do it yourself? I was dearly praying that Audrey would not wake up and see me all bent-over double straining my neck trying to get a good look at my mangina. The light really wasn’t bright enough to see much, so I grabbed Audrey’s magnifying lighted mirror and duck-waddled until it was in the right position to get a good view of my cornhole. Checking out my pow-pow, sure enough, there, on the south side of my chocolate-starfish, was a bump. Thank GOD, no pinworms! I probed all around it with my fingers, without touching it. No problem. I touched the bump. The itching that ensued made me want to grab the closest Brillo pad and go to town on my frosting bag.

After it calmed down, and applying much more Maximum strength Prep-H, I was able to go back to bed. After waking up, I made an appointment with a proctologist. But they are now called colo-rectal surgeons. Whatever. I just wanted someone to check it out and make it go away. I initially made an appointment with a guy who seemed especially talented… graduated from John’s Hopkins, was president of the Colorado chapter for guys who professionally look at buttholes, etc. But, it was going to be a couple of weeks because he was moving offices. So I searched for someone who could see me sooner. I found a guy, Dr. Buttlooker (or something like that), and I perused his website. It looked like he could see patients, and so could his assistant, an attractive redhead.

Talking with Monica, I made an appointment with the Doctor. She suggested that I could get in sooner if I wanted to see the highly trained cute redhead. I declined. I mean, back in my single days, if I was close enough with a cute redhead that she was in a position to see the ejection port of my poop-chute, that was one thing, but to have it examined by such a creature when I had a dingleberry hanging out the south end… well, I just didn’t want to go there. I decided that I could wait a little longer for Dr. I.C. Butts.

That night, before walking the dogs, I gave an extra wipe with the Tucks medicated pads. But my entire walk felt like there was something hanging halfway out – as if I didn’t wipe good enough after my last time on the royal throne. But as I stated before, this wasn’t the issue. The dogs got a short walk as I had to take another shower, apply more cream, and go to bed.

OH MY DEAR GOD AND ALL THE SAINTS!!! What is it with waking up at 5:00 in the morning with your bunghole feeling like a raisin in the sun, but with a magnifying glass directing the sun’s beam to a fine point, igniting the cinnamon bark sprinkled with cayenne pepper attacked by a million mosquitoes? I resisted the urge to dig my fingernails into the business end of my used-food-tube, squeezed out a half-tube of Prep-H cream, and applied it where the sun doesn’t shine. I then hopped on the internet to see what else I was missing in my treatment of this miniature pea-sized-itch-pod hanging out on my south end.

I gleaned four things from my research. I was off, again, pre-rush-hour in Highlands Ranch, to get Benadryl, Epson Salt, Hydrocortisol (Aveeno) cream, and BeneFiber packets. This time I went to Walgreens. There was no self checkout, but, the contents of my basket were pretty inconspicuous, and the clerks there never ask you about your purchases. My ass was in the bathtub as soon as I could strip off my clothes, with 2 cups of Epson Salt slowly dissolving. Ahh… blessed relief.

Later that day I called Matt to tell him about my situation. He was wonderfully supportive. I could practically hear him laughing from his office across town without the use of my iPhone. He then asked me if he needed to do anything on our turkey hunt, because if he had to wipe me, that was a deal breaker. I assured him that I wouldn’t need him to perform any immoral acts, at least where my slot machine was concerned.

Quadrupling my fiber intake, 2-3 baths daily, wipes with Tucks (with Witch Hazel), and extra strength Prep-H cream seemed to be working. By the time my doctor’s appointment came around, there was no itch, there was no bump. Thankfully everything was back to normal. Or, at least I assumed that it was, but, I wanted to get the doctor’s A-OK. I have an aunt and an uncle that had diverticulitis, and another uncle with anal polyps. These things I do not choose and I wanted to ensure everything was ‘normal.’ I don’t want to put that part of my body through any more abuse than absolutely necessary, but getting things checked out was a high enough priority that I would struggle through the examination.

On the day of the examination, I let my colleagues know that I would be out for a little awhile for a doctor’s appt. I didn’t feel the need, just yet, to tell them why I would be out. There are some things that just aren’t appropriate to share, at least until they get posted on my blog. Then everyone can read it and laugh, cry, or stop reading. But I am sure that even the best of you are still reading to this point because of the sheer horror of it all. Or, if you’re female and reading this, you’re probably thinking, “Yeah, Leif, we go through this type of discomfort every time we go in for a pap smear.” Okay, you have me there, but at least after a while I imagine you get used to it. Or, something like that.

Freshly showered, I made my way to the Doctor’s office and checked in with Monica. In the waiting room was a woman sitting with her legs crossed, putting most of her weight on one side. No pressure directly on her seat. She was eventually called in, and through the door from the hallway came a gentleman, who was mentally handicapped in some form or fashion. Following was his assistant. He was called before me back to the examination room. I was just fine with that. It seemed that I was to be the last appointment for the day.

Monica eventually called my name, and instructed me to follow the beautiful tall statuesque blonde back to the examination room. I’m sure she told me her name, and I’m sure my brain didn’t register the information. I followed numbly and she pointed me in the direction of the examination room. I sat down in a chair, and she said she would be with me in just a few minutes.

In front of me was obviously the examination table. There was a small padded area that I could see that one would probably put their knees on, and be able to lean forward onto the rest of the examination table. That feeling in my stomach was starting to knot up. I suddenly remembered a hundred places that I’d rather be.

Almost more disconcerting was the fact that I could hear the entire conversation going on between what I believed to be the doctor, and the mentally challenged (mild Down’s Syndrome, I believe) patient in the next room. The doctor spoke in a loud voice, and the gentleman was speaking equally loud. Great. He was being told to do this, do that, turn over on his stomach because the doctor needed to check out his… well, you get the picture. Then the Tall Statuesque Blonde (TSB from now on) came in to interview me. What happened, why I thought it was a hemorrhoid, what have I done about it so far, etc. Trying to talk to this TSB about my brownie factory was not the easiest conversation to have. I was looking around for a place to order a beer, as I’m sure some liquid courage might make the topic more palatable. No such luck. Not even medicinal brandy. So I suffered through the interview, trying to look calm, cool, and collected, as if I have this kind of conversation every day. She smiled and nodded and tried to look at me sympathetically with her big blue eyes. It didn’t work. Maybe I should have followed the path of Charlie Brown, and would have been better off with the cute red-headed girl.

The doctor came in next and reviewed with me the answers I gave to TSB. He essentially wanted to know why I was there if I didn’t have anything wrong with my mud-whistle. I told him that because I did have something wrong, I wanted him to check it out and give me two thumbs-up.

TSB then walked in and gave me instructions: Put my knees up on the pad, drop my pants and underwear down past my crack, and she then handed me a gauze sheet that I could use to maintain my privacy. Privacy? What privacy? Oh, well, they did make sure that my back was facing towards the door, so that any other patient walking by when the doctor or TSB opened the door wouldn’t see my humiliating position.

I climbed up on to the knee-pad, dropped my drawers and put the gauze sheet on. TSB came in and laughed. That is the last sound you want to hear, as a man, when you have your pants down in front of a woman. She then asked, “playing Superman?” as I had one end of the gauze sheet wrapped around my neck, hanging on my back. But, it apparently didn’t cover the area where the good Lord split me. She told me to bend over the table and she pulled the sheet lower down on my back. I rested my hands on my elbows. I had to maintain some control. She told me to lower my elbows and lay my cheek down on the pad, angling downward away from the highest point. I felt like I was at a 45” angle, my moon-pie angled high in the air. She then left the room to get the doctor. No control.

I heard the knock and he came in. He said something. My mind was focused on something else. Mostly about why I was there when there was nothing wrong. I was hoping that TSB wasn’t in the room. I couldn’t turn around and look.

“I’m going to first put a 1-inch scope up your rectum to check for any abnormalities.” I then heard the squelch of the anal-lube being squeezed out onto his finger, I felt one hand on my left cheek, and he said, “Now just take some deep breaths.” At least he was kind enough to lube the cavity first.

His finger then slipped into the heart of darkness. “Oh, fantastic, absolutely fantastic,” I said as I felt his finger go around in circles. “Does this hurt?” “No, Doc, it’s just uncomfortable.” “Uncomfortable?” “Yeah,” I responded, pulling out a Kevin Smith line, “like having sex in the back of a Volkswagen.”

I then heard TSB laugh. Great – she was in the room? That made it even better. He withdrew his fist, er, I mean, finger, and I wondered if he was going to lower the privacy gauze. Not a chance. I puckered my brown eye, trying to make it wink. I mean, what else was there to do? If she had some Corona to ease the tension, she could use my last-resort bottle opener that was staring her in the face. I tried to think up all the clever lines I’d ever heard about other people going through this, and maybe make up some of my own.

Next I felt an object trying to work its way into my wormhole. It was the unholy union of one man’s anus and another man’s tool. “Oh, yeah, this is great.” “Are you okay?” “Well, Doc, this usually only happens to me when I’m drunk.” Another laugh from TSB. At least she was enjoying the commentary, and maybe she was enjoying the show. What the hell, I’d go for effect, “Doc, I said I wanted two thumbs up, not two thumbs up the butt.” I couldn’t see his face, but the nervous laughter from TSB made me wonder if maybe I was pushing my limits.

I then assumed the anal-probe was done, but, as he withdrew (was that the sound of a trap door snapping shut?), he said, “Next I’ll check your prostate.” Again with the finger! Then his wrist. Then the elbow deep inside the border line. I coughed as he tickled the back of my throat. Was that his bicep and tricep? Shoulder? I’ve never stuck my finger up my butt and coughed, but I wondered what kind of reaction happens down there, as he jumped a little with the explosion from my throat. “Everything okay?” he asked me. “Well, Doc, I’m bent over a table with my ass in the air and a man’s appendage up my butt. You tell me.” At least TSB enjoyed my humor, but I think I’ll keep my day job.

He pulled his arm out and dropped the gauze privacy screen over my manhole cover. He came around to the front as he was removing the examination gloves. Eww. I mean, really, did he need to show me that? TSB handed me some paper towels and he told me to go into the bathroom adjacent to the examination room and told me to clean up, then lie on my back with my pants undone and my shirt up, as there was evidently another procedure he needed to perform. Did I really ask for this?

They left the room and let pull up my shorts in peace. Not quite feeling violated, but feeling something, I wasn’t looking forward to the next step in the process. Walking into the bathroom, I read the sign above the toilet: “Flush more, use less toilet paper.” I wasn’t about to be the guy to clog the toilet. Plus, there was a door on the other wall opposite the one I came through. It was slightly cracked, and, I could hear women talking and giggling on the other side of it. Was I supposed to close the door or leave it cracked like it was? Was I supposed to close the door I just came through? That I did, but, I didn’t do anything about the slip-slidey feeling between my cheeks. I would take care of that later, in private, where I wouldn’t have to worry about TSB walking in on me as I’m wiping butt-slime off on yards of toilet paper.

The doctor walked in without knocking, and he caught me standing up, nonchalantly leaning against the examination table. It took awhile for him to come in… I guess he was waiting for the sound of the toilet to flush. He motioned for me to get up on the examination table. He pulled up my shirt. “Help! I need an adult!” He just smiled. I’m sure he’s heard every line in the book. He tapped my stomach in four places, asking me if anyone of the places hurt when he tapped. I was guessing he was checking for blockages in the large intestine. No pain, just a hollow sound every time he tapped. He said I was normal to near-normal, then handed me a sheet of paper that listed all the high-fiber foods known to man and told me to keep up the high-fiber diet and come back when I turn 40 for a colonoscopy. I would be sure to put that high up on my priority list…

With a clean bill of health from the Doctor, the day finally came to leave for Turkey hunting. This time Matt drove his Dodge 2500, the “Meat Wagon.” It has a few missing parts from the undercarriage when he decided to play Dukes of Hazzard and fly off an icy road down an embankment, the right-side fan in the cab only works if you are accelerating, the electronic door locks didn’t work, and it’s as noisy as the La Guardia tarmac on Monday morning. It may not be the newest or shiniest truck on the road, but it has never let us down in the field. We loaded up our gear into the back and headed to La Junta, which is about an hour and a half east of Pueblo, CO.

I told him about my recent violation. He was as sympathetic as before, maybe even more so. At least his laughter was partially-drowned out by the sound of the wind streaming in through all the holes in the cab. At the McDonalds in Pueblo, I ordered a salad. I poured a packet of Bene-Fiber in my iced tea. I didn’t think there would be any end to the grief I received as a result.

Finally arriving in La Junta, we checked in to the Super 8 and asked Brandy where the best place was to eat. She recommended a joint called “Boss Hogg’s” steak house. Good enough for us. I had (another) salad and the cheese-steak sandwich with marinara sauce drizzled over it. Matt had the same without the sauce. We compared notes and decided that was a draw as to which one tasted better.

The next morning was an early one. We had to be out of there by 4:30 to meet the hunt coordinator, Jay, in Kim, CO (yes, the town’s name is Kim). I asked Brandy how long it took to get from La Junta to Kim. She indicated she had only been to Kim once, and that it was at night, and both she and the driver were drunk as skunks, and it was when she was 18, so, she guessed 20 – 30 minutes. My Google Maps directions indicated it was about an hour. I trusted Google Maps’ estimations more than Brandy’s drunken recollections (she looked like she was in her late 20s).

We arrived in Kim just a little after 5:30, after passing deer, elk, and antelope along the road. No wonder its called Animas County. Matt pulled up to a likely vehicle where Jay told us to meet him. We powered down the windows and made introductions. He told us to follow him, and off we went on a dirt road south and west of Kim. I didn’t recognize the area from the maps I had studied, but I guessed that Jay knew where he was going.

After driving for 30 minutes, he pulled over and we pulled up next to him. He asked if I wanted to ride with him, so he could tell me about the land, the type of hunting that we should expect, what the boundaries were of that section of the ranch, etc. It was a lot of information to digest. Pulling in on a dirt road, he pulled off to the side and pointed out some bear tracks – the bear had been walking in the road, and Jay reckoned that it was a 200-250 lb black bear. Stopping at an overlook, he indicated that we would be able to look over the roosting tree. Sure enough, as we walked up to the edge, about a half-mile away, through binoculars, we could see turkeys walking around the base of a large cottonwood. Jay explained that the tree was on someone else’s land, but that he could set us up close to where they might cross the fence, walking through a creek bottom. He then indicated that I could either hunt, or, we could go see other options about where to hunt. I told him that I wanted to hunt. Apparently I was emphatic in my response, as he chuckled and we ventured down towards the creek bottom. He drove us up to just about where the creek flowed into the ranch land, and pointed out where the turkeys might cross, where to set up, etc. He then said he would meet us back there between 10 and 11 to get us set up for the afternoon hunt. It wasn’t my intention to stay there long enough to “afternoon hunt” – I wanted to get a turkey that morning. I thanked him for guiding us to the right spot, and hopped in Matt’s truck. He wished me good luck and went back to go help guide another hunter on a different section of the ranch.

I gave Matt the skinny as I guided him back to where Jay told us where to park. We grabbed our gear and made our way over to the creek bottom. I sat in a shooting lane that would give us plenty of cover for any turkey walking down the dry creek bed, and both Matt and I got out our turkey calls.

The box-call came out first. We chucked and scraped it with precision, and early on we heard an answer to the north (the roosting tree was to the south) so we took that as a good sign that there were more turkeys on the property than just the ones we saw from the overlook. But after awhile with no further answers, I switched to my disk call, and also popped in my mouth call. No response came from anywhere. So, we ventured up and out of the cover we were in to go see where the turkeys were. Maybe they saw us. We saw that the turkeys were heading to the west, not crossing onto the property at all. They started climbing up a hill, one after another. Well, crap. Then they were gone, and try as we might, they would not answer our calls, purrs, clucks, or gobbles.

Breakfast time! Cold Popeye’s chicken awaited us back at the truck, but we decided to walk along the creek bed as far as it would take us paralleling the parked truck. We would walk 10-20 yards, make what we thought were turkey hen noises, then walk another short distance and do the same. But, it was all for naught, and we found ourselves meandering back to the truck. It was a familiar walk… we had been walking back to the various vehicles empty handed for four years straight. But just because it was familiar didn’t mean that I didn’t feel a little dejected. Looking on the positive side, though, at least we saw, and heard, turkeys. Never before had we even gotten that far.

As I was tearing into a drumstick, Matt asked, from the driver’s seat, “What’s that?” I looked up, and here were two black bowling balls, 60 yards out, making their way through the sagebrush. Turkey!

I had left my door open, and my Winchester Ranger 12-Gauge Model 140 with full choke outside, just in case something like this happened. When hunting, one never knows when opportunity meets preparation. I carefully snaked my way out of the door and low crawled to my shotgun, which was leaning against the side of the truck, and upon grabbing it, I moved into position near the right front side of wheel well. I couldn’t see the turkeys, but I knew they were headed our direction. Matt, from the cab, in a projected whisper, gave me the blow by blow. “Forty yards, coming our way, thirty-five, they both look like hens, thirty yards, wait, one might be a tom, 25 yards, get ready.” Then silence fell over the scene, not wanting to risk the sound of his voice disturbing the forward motion of the noble bird once nominated to represent our country.

At about twenty yards I could see them start making their way out of the sagebrush. They then walked past my field of vision without me determining which one was the tom. I scooted slightly to the right to get them back in view. The turkeys paused, and the tom stuck its blue head up. I could see the beard clearly, so I put the front bead just below its head and squeezed the trigger. With the sound of the primer igniting the gunpowder, and the number 4 shot pattern leaving the barrel, my four year quest ended with a flurry of flapping feathers beating the ground. The hen took one last look at her mate and ran as fast as fast could be, leaving the scene of carnage and destruction.

Matt congratulated me as we walked over to the tom. Picking it up by the neck, below what was left of the head, he flapped a mean rhythm against my legs. I wanted a picture but Matt suggested that I finish the kill first. He handed me a knife and I shoved it through the cranium from the gullet, and all motions from the bird ceased. Who needs to set out decoys when we have the Meat Wagon!

I said a prayer thanking the bird for coming my way, and tagging and bagging it, we drove back to where we said we would meet Jay between 10 and 11. It was 8:15.

At 11:15, with no Jay in sight, we left the ranch. When I received a cell signal, I called his cell to let him know not to come to the ranch – we wouldn’t be there. We also left a note on the entrance gate, telling him we had left, plus a note of thanks. We drove back to the hotel, picked up more provisions, and took off to an area west of Pueblo to try our luck with a turkey for Matt.

Arriving at the hunting area, about 2:00, we hiked up into the trees to find more Merriam’s turkeys. But, all we heard was the rustling around of something large in the valley below us. We were in bear country, and, the last thing we wanted to do was disturb the ursa. So we made our way back down to flatter, grassier country and made our way to what we thought looked promising. We were hunting this area based on a tip from my chiropractor, but we weren’t quite sure exactly where to go. Our attempts at finding turkey that afternoon were largely in vain. None answered to our calls; we didn’t find any turkey feathers, tracks, or other signs. At 6:00 it started raining, so we hopped back in the truck and headed back down the road. Along the way we saw a hen, and stopped to hunt the nearby State Wildlife Area, to no avail. We did, however, spot a herd of elk, which is always a great sight to see (unless you live in the mountains and they are tearing up your garden).

Back to Pueblo, we had a victory dinner at the Texas Road House, and then back to the La Junta Super 8. The next morning, Matt decided that, as we had already spent about $150 each (hotel, food, gas), and he could buy a turkey in the supermarket for $20 or less, we could just head home and try our luck the following year.

The best thing about the hunt, outside of getting a turkey, was the fact that I was slowly regaining my dignity. There was no twitching from the itching, nor squirming from the burning. It was all good, in all departments. Plus, Matt didn’t need to “help” me out with anything. There are some experiences that you just don’t want to share with your friends.