Hangover Draw

The 3^rd Season Elk Season in GMU 3/301 yields few results, as it’s largely a wintering area for the migrant elk herds. However, a few local herds hang out in the area, and for one first-timer elk-virgin, that made all the difference.

For this season, originally, only Jack and Jerry had purchased cow-elk tags, planning their annual 10-day camping trip. The rest of the hunting group typically sits that hunt out, as it’s a low-yield time-commitment. Most of the time you have a better chance of seeing a white stag in Mirkwood than elk in the hills surrounding the Bald Mountain basin. But, an email chain started amongst our group of hunters, one thing led to another, and the next thing you know, everybody and their mother is going hunting the third-season.

However, when push came to shove, the first weekend, November 1^st and 2^nd, only Kaoru and I were hunting along with Jack and Jerry. Saturday morning, after a brief rainstorm and brilliant sunrise, we hunted “The Notch” (walking across the top of notch hill to the other side and back) and other parts of the Bald Mountain Basin… and we didn’t even see any deer there, let alone elk. Unsurprising, but not unexpected.

Brilliant Sunrise over Sunbeam, CO

Leif and Kaoru (with his Wapiti Express 2004 hat) on Notch Hill, background of Bald Mountain Basin and the Godiva Rim

 

Jack and Jerry hunted “The Fingers” on Saturday morning and saw a ton of deer and many deer hunters. The morning was filled with shots echoing across the land as both deer and elk hunters tried their luck. They then headed to Simmsberry Draw and saw two cows racing across the sagebrush. By the time Jack’s vehicle came to a stop and Jerry got out, the elk were miles away. They spoke with a few hunters who had harvested cows and bulls – but not many. Most hunters we spoke with hadn’t seen elk, or, only singles for an instant before they were gone behind a sea of Junipers.

Kaoru and I hunted Suttles Basin overlook in the afternoon, then on to Simmsberry Draw. The place was a zoo with hunters and hunter camps setup for as far as the eye could see. We hunted towards the eastern edge where Simmsberry Draw is adjacent to the entrance to Bald Mountain Basin next to the Godiva Rim and hunted there until sundown, without seeing anything but other hunters.

Typical Juniper Tree where we hunt

 

Saturday night the wind blew hard on and off throughout the night while dining on Jerry’s Chicken Cacciatore with Rice (which is appropriate, as, Cacciatore means “hunter” in Italian). It made hunting Sunday morning a quieter affair, masking the crunch of footsteps, but it didn’t seem to matter. Kaoru and I hunted the 4^th Finger while Jack/Jerry hunted the 3^rd. We saw deer in the sagebrush valley below the fingers, but no elk. The rain and brief hail as we were hunting drove us back to the tent to sit out the storm until about 10:30. After it stopped, we then went north to County Road 21 (which then intersects 4) along the Little Snake River to see the country on the edge of the unit. No elk, but plenty of antelope.

Approaching Highway 13, we drove north to Baggs, WY, to get some much-needed coffee, then headed south to County Road 3. We then headed west to the spot where Kaoru shot his first elk (and where Matt’s Elk-Fever got the better of him, popping off standing shots at 300 yards), to honor the 10-year anniversary of Wapiti Express. No elk to be seen. Jack had checked in with the Hunter Information office in Craig and they had said some elk were already in the private land along 13’s east side, but neither Kaoru nor I saw any there. Either they crossed 13, or, they headed back to the high country.

-------------------

The next weekend, Matt Cosley decided to join Jack, Jerry, Kaoru, and I. Matt left early Friday and hunted an area known as Eagle Park, north of Maybell. He didn’t see anything, and we met him in Maybell that evening before our trek to the camp site, meeting up with Jack and Jerry, who’d been there all week without seeing any elk.

Saturday morning Kaoru, Matt, and I hunted Simmsberry Draw without seeing naught but deer and other hunters. The roads in places were slick as snot, and we slip-slided away down the roads from the top of the draw, and that afternoon we decided to hunt Eagle Park again.

After arriving, and spotting a Golden Eagle, we hunted an area sloping slightly uphill, ending in a sharp drop with rock outcroppings on one side. We were curious how the other side ‘looked’ and we spread out across the area to investigate.

Matt, Leif, and Kaoru getting ready for the afternoon hunt.

Matt and Kaoru getting geared up

Matt, walking up the two-track with his lever action 30.06

Kaoru, hunting up the valley in Eagle Park, with his 300 Win Mag

 

About 15 minutes later, Kaoru and I heard over the radio, “there’s a bobcat staring me down, and he’s growling and pissed. Come see!” I radioed back, “Where are you?” “That’s a good question,” Matt replied, “Where are any of us?” Great… he’s staring down a bobcat and waxing philosophic.

Kaoru pipes up, “Why don’t you whistle? We can then track where you are relative to us.”

As Matt whistled, we tried to walk to his location, but it was difficult, as it was a sea of junipers blocking any sound waves. He then radioed, “the cat got tired of waiting for you and left.” I asked if he took a selfie with the pissed-off beast, but he indicated that he had his hands on his rifle in case the bobcat attacked. When we found him, I asked, “So no picture of you with the cougar?” He started talking about self-defense, and I mentioned something about euphemisms for cats and being unable to keep his hands out of his pants. He shrugged his shoulders and grinned.

Leif with his 7mm RUM with Huskemaw Scope atop, and Matt, overlooking a valley

 

Towards sundown, we watched an open field, waiting for elk to come out and start feeding (but, being that there was a full moon, I was unsure if that was going to happen until after sundown). At 5:10, I happened to check my iPhone, and saw a message from Jack: “Elk Down.” I texted back “We’re coming.”

It was dark by the time we made it back to the vehicles, and, it took about an hour to get over to Simmsberry Draw area where Jack and Jerry were waiting. By the time we arrived, they had already gutted the animal, and were waiting for assistance to drag it to the truck and put it in. Kaoru shook Jack’s hand, “Congratulations!” Jack responded, as he shook Kaoru’s hand, “Jerry was the one that shot it!”

“Oh – based on your text, we thought it was you!” We all shook Jerry’s hand, offering him congratulations, especially since it was his first elk! That’s always a milestone, with as tough as it is to get an elk for most hunters. Also, that he is 70+ years old… that’s quite the achievement.

Jerry with his first elk

 

That night Jerry busted out the burgers and steak, and, some celebration wine. Kaoru and Jerry are wine drinkers. Matt and I stuck with beer… Matt an oatmeal stout, me with Budweiser. I’m not much of a drinker, so beer was fine, although Jerry gave me a shot of spiced Crown.

On Sunday morning we arrived at the water tank about 6:00, down the draw from the dam where Jerry shot his elk. The first thing that transpired was all three hunters running off into the bush to squat. It was not a pretty site. Too much alcohol the night before… and being in our 40s now… none of us have quite the stomach we once did.

Then, as Matt and I loaded up our gear to hike up the draw, Kaoru begged off the hunt, feeling queasy (he said he felt like he was going to throw-up). He would sit in the truck, watching the field and junipers to the north, while Matt and I walked up the 2-track going up the draw. Kaoru said, several times, “I’m never going to drink like that in hunting camp again!” Of course, as Matt observed, every time Jerry offered more wine, Kaoru was more than happy to offer his clear Solo cup.

Matt and I hunted up the draw, stopping and glassing several times, and the smell of elk was in the air in several spots. We arrived at the dam and crossed, moving towards the gut-pile of Jerry’s elk, scattering the crows and magpies feasting on the pile-of-happiness. We set up so that we could watch two locations, both up the draw, and, the field that opened up north-east of the dam. Matt pulled out one of his honey-crisp apples and began to eat his breakfast.

We weren’t standing there for more than 5 minutes when we heard a single shot. Matt and I looked at each other, and I grabbed my radio to listen whether the shot came from our buddy. Matt said, “That was Kaoru!” I was unsure, as I thought I’d heard the shot up the valley. I guess it was the echo bouncing, as Kaoru announced over the radio, “elk, elk!”

I asked, “Did you get one?”

“I think so! I need to go take a look.”

“We’ll be right there!”

Matt muttered “F*ck,” and tossed his apple so he could free his hands for the brisk walk back down the valley. Kaoru over the radio, “I’m looking for the elk, I’m sure I hit it.” Then a minute later, “I found it. Elk down.” Matt and I smiled at each other. We were both hoping the elk stayed in the area after the shot.

15 minutes later we found Kaoru by his antlerless elk. After congratulations, we dumped our backpacks and asked which way the elk went. As Kaoru texted Jack to let him know we had an elk down (but apparently Jack had left his phone in camp) Kaoru pointed the direction. Matt and I followed the tracks to the top of the ridge and we split up, Matt going to the bottom of the valley on the opposite side, me heading towards the top of the valley. I didn’t see any elk, and Matt radioed that he was towards the bottom. I pushed the valley down, hopeful to drive elk towards Matt, but they were long gone. We rounded the valley floor to come up the other side to Kaoru, to assist in the quartering of his elk.

Kaoru with his elk

 

About an hour later we had the elk quartered, backstraps, tenderloins, and heart bagged. While processing, Kaoru said, about the shot, “I was just barely hanging on to consciousness, blinking back the urge to shut my eyes, when I saw movement. I opened my eyes and saw an elk standing in a small clearing. I slowly opened the door to the vehicle and rested the rifle in the door opening. I looked through the scope and didn’t see anything. My scope was on 14x power! I pulled the rifle down to adjust the scope and that’s when the big cow looked in my direction, then moved out of the opening. Thankfully as I chambered a round and moved the rifle back up to the opening, another elk walked into the gap in the junipers. I saw that it didn’t have antlers, put the crosshairs on its chest, and squeezed the trigger.” In regards my questioning about him feeling sick, he said, “Once I saw the elk, adrenaline started pumping, and I was wide awake.” I responded, “The best way to cure a hangover is to shoot an elk.”

Back at the truck, after making multiple trips (and avoiding the area in the ditch where Matt and Kaoru took their morning constitutionals), Kaoru carefully packed the elk in the cooler and we made a game-plan to find the herd. Based on the way they were heading, we headed towards Simmsberry Draw for further investigation. Several hunters were up the draw, on foot, walking around the ridges. We assumed that maybe they’d see glimpses of the elk and were giving chase… but we didn’t talk to anyone to verify. We glassed and watched, and, coming to the end of the draw where the road heads north to Godiva Rim, or south up the fence line towards the Bald Mountain Basin overlook, we decided to head back towards the draw where we were that morning. We assumed all the hunter activity up Simmsberry Draw would keep the herd from crossing the draw into the basin or areas north.

After arriving back at the dam, I walk into the Junipers to relieve some pressure. I then hear, whispered excitedly, “Leif! Leif!” I usually don’t need a cheering section when I’m handling my business, but then Kaoru says, “Elk!”

I turn around and see a herd of 9-12 elk running full-tilt across the draw. Kaoru measures, “400 yards.” I grab my rifle and get in a kneeling position, dialing my scope to “4” but the elk have already gone over the ridge. Damn! Matt and I grab our gear and head in the direction of where the elk crossed over, approaching the top of the ridge with utmost sneaky-stealthy as we could muster. But no elk to be seen. We quickly pick up the trail and begin to follow. And follow. And follow more.

We end up crossing the road near a tall water tower and pond, and continue southwest. But, eventually, we judge that the elk aren’t slowing down. They’re not stopping, and, we can’t outrun a determined herd of wapiti. Giving up the chase, heading back towards the road, we discover that, based on the gate across the road, we’re on private land. It’s a good thing we stopped the chase, I guess. We didn’t cross any fence lines or markers indicating as such – of course it’s up to the hunters to know where private land begins, not the landowner to mark it. Regardless, we made our way back towards the truck, and radioed Kaoru to come pick us up. We then ventured towards where the elk were heading (southwest), and again, came across the gate, blocking access. After driving around and checking out other sites, we decided it was time to go pack up the camp and head home.

Afterwards, we realized we needed to name the landmark where both Jerry and Kaoru shot their elk. I first thought of naming it “Jerry’s Draw,” but with mutual agreement, we decided on “Hangover Draw.”

Three for Three at Three-Forks

The sum of a man’s life is his sense of adventure, and, his courage and willingness to take those aspects, craft his visions into action, and when, beyond comprehension, all the pieces fall into place, to reap life’s reward from the effort put forth.

Often romanticized, the idea of hunting, the vision it evokes, is the emotion it captures, is larger-than-life. I have had people tell me how they envision me hunting, their powerful and thought-provoking idealizations. The lone hunter, standing on top of the ridgeline, rifle over his shoulder, searching for the elusive elk, the sun setting in the west, the sun’s rays creating a profile... It evokes a sense of freedom, independence, ruggedness, and getting away from it all. Sometimes it all comes together like that. Sometimes… Perfection, and the knowing in the hunter that regardless of whether an elk drops from the thunder of a rifle, or, the elusive Wapiti lives another day, success is already gained. Simply being alive, in love with life itself, and the experiences life brings, is enough.

The sun shines on those who put forth the effort to make their vision a reality. Sometimes, though, the effort is rewarded by sunshine after the fact.

“You only have two bullets?” Chad eyed my Dad with suspicion in the cold, dark, pre-dawn grayness.

“Isn’t that enough?” My dad grinned, and showed our guide the rest of his bullets. Just over the ridgeline in the first efforts of light a herd of elk were feeding amongst the aspens. Chad did not find the humor in the retort, and whisper-barked at us to figure out who was going to shoot first. I asked my dad if he wanted first crack. He told me to go ahead, and, Chad readied the shooting sticks as I laid my rifle across them. Easy-peasy. The elk moved into the crosshairs on my Huskemaw scope. I flicked the safety to fire position…

The day before, though, was not so easy. Rabbit Ears Pass, the nemesis of so many vehicles in the winter, was no different on this trip. As Dad and I drove down the west (Steamboat Springs) side, we spotted a sedan buried up to the top of the front wheelwell. I slowed to a stop, and we surveyed the situation. He was burning his wheels trying to back out, to no avail.

“Looks like you’re stuck.” Captain Obvious, right here, front and center.

He eyed me with the, “I’m too embarrassed to say anything, and if I do say something smartass to his ‘thanks for pointing out the obvious, dumbass,’ remark, he might think that I’m being ungrateful and drive away without helping me, but I really need his help, so I’m just going to smile sheepishly and agree” look. “Yeah,” he said, but his eyes gave it all away.

Boyscouts will tell you, “Always be prepared.” Leif and his overachieving, somewhat Type-A personality says, “Be prepared enough for yourself and everyone else who isn’t prepared because I myself was once unprepared and got really stuck one time and it will never happen again.” As such, I learned long ago that it is most important to bring along “get unstuck” gear, and although I’ve used it more on other cars than my own, it’s always appreciated by those I’m helping. I attached the “jerk strap” to the rear of his car, and to the front hooks on my F-150, telling him it would be two or three pulls and he’d be out. It was more like 8 or 9 (which is saying a lot). After yanking his sedan out from knee-deep compacted snow, he thanked me profusely. He never really did explain how he got stuck. Something mumbled about a snowplow and oncoming traffic. I’m sure, though, that, if he is like me, he learns an awful lot through embarrassment and humility and the accepting of help from others. I’m always willing to lend a helping hand, and, am not afraid to ask for help when I need it. But it seems like a lot of “men” refuse to ask for help. I get it. Pride and wanting to overcome obstacles on your own, figuring out your own solution, is part of becoming a man. I understand. But learning and gaining wisdom is also a part of that as well.

We drove straight on through to the Three Forks Ranch, which is a high-scale, exclusive hunting lodge close to the Wyoming border. At this juncture, I wouldn’t be able to afford a private hunt at this ranch. However, through the Colorado Parks and Wildlife’s Ranching for Wildlife program, I was able to get a license for a cow elk, as was my Dad. The snow was piled up on the road, and sheet ice underneath from the Steamboat turnoff towards Hahn’s Peak. Even in 4WD, a few times I almost ended up in the ditch. Two hours north, passing some brave souls camped out, we checked in at the ranch. We had hoped to make the evening hunt, but aside from the pull-out on the pass, we also stopped in Hot Sulfer Springs to sight in. At 200 yards, Dad shot a tight group and he was satisfied that any elk would drop. I had sighted in before my moose hunt, and, decided to not sight in, saving minutes in the hopes of arriving with enough time for an evening hunt. The evening, though, was cloudy, snowing, and gray. Visibility was maybe 100 yards, if you were lucky. No evening hunt today.

My long-john bottoms had disappeared on my moose hunt earlier that fall. I could not find them anywhere. They may have crept out of the tent whilst sleeping, or abandoned ship on the drive out of camp. I’m not sure, but, I was without, and didn’t think about getting another pair until driving back from the ranch. Always be prepared, right? F.M. Light and Sons is an institution in Steamboat Springs. On the drive up from Denver, you can’t help but to see the yellow signs every half mile. It’s almost worse than the signage in South Dakota pointing you to Wall Drug. It meant, though, driving two hours from the ranch back into Steamboat, getting the long johns, grabbing a bite to eat, then driving an hour back to Columbine. Better that, though, than freezing my ass off. F.M. Light and Sons didn’t have any wool bottoms, but, they did have a one-piece red Dennis the Menace (or Union-style) long johns with a butt-flap. Yeah… I’m sure my lovely wife Deanna would think they were cute.

Cold cabins in Columbine Colorado awaited us that night, but before we could retire to our beds, I wanted to get the chains on the tires. We had barely made it to the cabins, driving slow, almost sliding off the road several times. In the morning, it would at least be an hour’s drive to check in at 5:00 AM. I didn’t want to take the chance of not being able to check-in on time just because we went off the edge of the road down a steep embankment, or at the very least, a ditch. The “Moose” cabin was our respite.

After we arrived, exactly at 5:03, November 4^th, 2014, we weren’t the first to be there, but we weren’t the last, as we followed tire tracks in the six inches of snow on the road. We were assigned to Chad, who was a big man, sporting a large fluffy red beard, and a mix of jolly but dead-serious attitude. Another guide, Dan, came up and I shook his hand. He had been my buddy Matt’s guide the year before. What I most remember about him, other than that he successfully guided Matt to an elk the year before, is that to ensure Matt had a steady aim, and took a well-measured shot, is that he cuddled up behind Matt, practically spooning him in the field. I don’t know if he didn’t trust Matt’s shooting, or, that the shot was at a difficult angle and Matt didn’t have a really steady hold, or, simply that Dan was going to try with all his might, and do whatever it took, to ensure Matt was successful (and didn’t have to chase a wounded elk with the impending nightfall). Regardless of his reasons, and the extra cuddle time, Matt successfully shot his elk at 300 yards. However, I wasn’t really in the mood to cuddle in the field with Chad, even though it was below zero that morning, so I was going to do everything I needed to do to be successful.

We rode out in Chad’s Ranger (a cross between an ATV and a golf cart) to a place called Beaver Flats. Although there was a windshield, doors, and a roof, it was otherwise like riding in an open-air compartment. A bench seat sat 3-across, and it was a little cozy. I was thankful I was sitting in the middle – less exposure. But my feet were getting cold and we hadn’t even started walking yet. I was getting nervous about whether my boots were going to be good enough, visions of frost-bit toes, purple and falling off my feet, flashed through my mind as we bumped and jumped down the road towards our hunting area. I decided it best to stop worrying about what I had no control over and have a conversation with Chad. He indicated that they had something near a 90% success rate thus far, even guiding a guy on oxygen, who smoked the entire time, to shoot a 350-class bull earlier that year.

The gray cold pre-dawn darkness was fighting with the first light of the morning, which was just barely illuminating the sky, a half-hour before sunrise, when Chad stopped the buggy. We had pulled up just shy of the crest of a hill. He quickly moved up to the top of the hill, staying just below the crest, and took a knee, binoculars up to his eyes. Quickly scampering back down to us, he whispered, “Get your rifles ready and let’s go.” He turned and went back up the hill.

My rifle’s sling had broken on my antelope hunt, and I’d neglected to get it fixed prior to the hunt. I had also forgotten that it was broken. Because, you know, always be prepared, unless you’re not. I picked up my 7mm Remington Ultra Mag Sendero by the sling and the barrel went south, smacking the frozen, snow-covered ground. That hurt. I quickly grabbed it by the stock and checked the end of the barrel, making sure it didn’t have any debris in it. It didn’t. Thankfully, in the pre-dawn darkness, I don’t believe anyone witnessed my faux-pas. My cheeks were already burning with embarrassment. I opened the bolt on my rifle as Chad came back to see what was taking us so long…

“You only have two bullets?” I grinned at Dad's response as I loaded up some 180-grain Berger bullets.

Up on top of the ridge, Chad steadied the shooting sticks, and, without cuddling behind me, I put the crosshairs on the elk. “What’s the range?”

“200 yards.” It looked farther than that, but, my rifle was set at 200, so I steadied my hold.

BOOM

The elk didn’t drop. I was surprised. I started to check my scope’s settings and pull out my rangefinder.

“No time for that! Put another one down range!”

I find my elk again and squeeze the trigger.

BOOM

The elk goes down.

“David! Get up here! Shoot an elk!”

I quickly get off the shooting sticks and grab my binoculars.

“See the one down there coming out from behind the tree? Shoot that one!”

My dad waits for the elk to clear out from behind the tree. Chad neglects to cuddle with Dad as well.

BOOM

The elk drops.

“Good! Let’s get down there. Quickly!”

Dad and I look at each other in disbelief. We had two elk down before sunup. Chad is all ready to go, and takes off down the trail, cutting in towards the elk herd, as they have slowly begun to realize that something was amiss in their world. They rest of the herd ambled up the side of the hill and out of sight.

We cut across and down the hill, towards the two downed elk. I’m still wondering why my first shot didn’t connect. It was probably the bump that the rifle just experienced, although I probably should have put a few rounds down-range at Hot Sulfer Springs, as sometimes scopes get bumped (other than the barrel smacking the ground because you forgot your sling was broken), pressure changes, altitude changes, etc. Regardless, I connected with my second shot, and my elk was down, somewhere… It didn’t just go as I had planned it in my head. That’s hunting for you. You can plan all you want, but at the end of the day, when the shooting starts, what happens still boils down to a little bit of chance, luck, and opportunity.

We made it to the bottom and tracked up the hill toward the aspen grove, eventually finding my elk. It was down but not out, sitting up and looking at us. At me. “Shoot it in the head,” Dan instructed.

“No.”

I took my Marine Corps K-Bar from its sheath, and walking behind the ungulate, wrapping my left arm around its head, pulling the chin up, and in one quick motion, slicing its throat.

Chad looked at me wide-eyed as I cleaned the blade off in the snow. The elk bled out as I said a quick prayer.

Standing up, I turned to Dad, “Let’s go find your elk.”

We walked up the hill and found Dad’s elk. Again, down but not out. I’ve said it before… elk are tough creatures.

“Shoot it in the head!”

As it was Dad’s elk, I didn’t choose for him the way it was to be dispatched, keeping my knife in its sheath. He raised his rifle, but I knew the problem he was having. The elk was 10 feet away. His scope was set on 15-power. He dialed it down, but was still having problems finding the right place to put the cross hairs in the mass of hair.

“David, shoot it in the head! What’s going on?” Chad was getting impatient. I knew Dad wouldn’t shoot until he had a good shot, and, was sure of his target. The elk wasn’t sitting still. If it had been me, and I didn’t have the opportunity to slice its throat, I probably would have put my boot on its neck, forcing the head against the ground, put the muzzle against the ear, and squeezed the trigger. It was how I dispatched the first deer I shot when I was 14, and the method worked well. Killing should be swift. As quick as possible, I try to ensure that any quarry I’m after meets its maker.

BOOM

Thump.

The elk was down. I said a prayer over it. Chad indicated he was going to go get the Ranger as close as possible, starting with my elk first. He asked if we could drag Dad’s elk down, close to the edge of the aspen forest.

 

Leif with his elk. Note the broken sling.

Picture time! Now we could celebrate a little. We took pictures as Chad walked back down the hill, up the other side, towards the parked Ranger.

 

 

Dad with his elk. It was so cold, his fingers didn't work correctly for about a week after the hunt.

 

We dragged elk as close as we could to the edge of the trees, waiting for Chad to get close. It didn’t take him long. Guiding for the past 10 years up here had made him well acclimated to the rigors of high-altitude hunting and getting around the mountains. He ran a couple of long towing strap from the bumper and wrapped it around each elk, and pulled the elk down to an open area where we could process the animals.

 

 

Saying a prayer, thanking the animal

After the vehicle stopped, Dad and I walking behind, I approached the elk with my American Spirit all-natural tobacco. I rubbed the tobacco into the forehead of the animal, sprinkled the tobacco on the eyes, saying a prayer, thanking each animal for their meat, their skin, the adventure, and for the opportunity.  

Chad observing the prayer ritual, waiting patiently

Chad waited patiently as I completed my ritual. It’s important to me to ensure prayers and blessings are sent with the animal, any animal, that has given me the opportunity to take its life so that I may eat its fresh and unadulterated GMO, hormone- and antibiotic-free meat.

 

Loading up the Ranger

 

Afterwards, I searched my backpack for my Gerber gutting/skinning knife. Chad asked me if I brought one – I was sure I had, but the location eluded me. Whipping out a knife, he indicated that he could gut each one in 5 minutes. Anytime I can watch a professional work, I take the opportunity, so I held the legs as he made quick work of the beasts. The only thing he didn’t do that I would have done is remove all esophagus tissue. The below-zero temperature worked in our advantage, but I noted that I would remove that when processing. We then loaded both beasts in the back of the Ranger with a long cable attached to a winch on the front bumper that came over the top of the vehicle, lifting both beasts easily into the back. Really slick. We were done by 7:15 AM. The sunrise shined brightly over the eastern mountains, the sun glinting off our smiling teeth.

First one loaded. Pulling the cable to get the second elk.

The celebratory mood continued on the way back, as Chad and I discussed long-range shooting and meat processing. He radioed the ranch on the way back, stating he was “coming back heavy.” Two other guides met us at the ranch house, and they assisted us in getting the elk in the back of my truck. We shook hands with the guides and headed back to the Columbine cabins. I figured we could quarter the animals in the bed of my truck and dispose of the unused parts of the carcasses out where the wintering coyotes and birds could feast on the leftovers. I’m always happy to share. 

The day was long. I processed my elk first, showing Dad how to quarter an animal. After mine was done, Dad followed my instructions to a T and butchered his in the same manner. The only interruption came when the Columbine Cabins manager came by with firewood, asking us what we were doing. She saw the blood in the snow and asked us to clean it up. I let her know we would have it covered before we left.

 

Around 4 o’clock we were done. Dad and I picked up all the pieces, threw snow over any splotches of blood, and started the long trek home. We dumped the bodies off a side road for any interested critters and continued on our merry way.

…

My buddy Mike Finch had a license for the same ranch, and as I’m always up for an elk hunt, we planned to go together. He scheduled his elk hunt for Saturday November 16^th. I was to pick him up Friday afternoon, we would go sight in, then venture on up to Columbine Cabins. However, I got a late start, as I had to attend a lunch meeting that ran long, go home, pack the truck, change, and drive to Mike’s house in the little mountain community known as Shady Brook. After loading up his gear, we had to stop for gas, then stop at the local Wal*Mart to get ammunition for his 7mm rifle. The last vestiges of sunlight disappeared as we left the parking lot. Sundown comes early in the winter months. There was no time for sighting in, for either of us. Mike asked if he could borrow my rifle (which I happened to bring along as backup). I let him know that as long as he didn’t mind carrying it sans sling, it should work. I forgot to mention, though, that I had bumped it on the previous hunt, and it might be a little off in the aim.

As chance would have it, we came across a young man with a high-and-tight haircut stuck on the side of the road as we headed up Rabbit Ear’s Pass. His front-wheel drive Pontiac was in the ditch. Indicating he had borrowed it from one of his fellow Marines, he thought it would be fine to get to Steamboat that night. He was from Kentucky, and didn’t know a thing about driving in the Colorado mountains. I tried to pull him out, but his car slid deeper into the ditch. A wrecker pulled in behind us. We told the best bet was to either have the tow-truck take him back to Kremmling, or, drive him all the way over the pass, car in tow. With some Semper Fi’s (like me, Mike was also in the Corps), we left him to figure out his next move. That damn pass had claimed yet another vehicle.

Our guide the next morning wasn’t Chad. It was the last guide on staff at the ranch. He introduced himself as "Chase." All others had taken off for the season. Mike was the last elk hunter - the last hunt of the season. We indicated to Rick that on the way into camp, a herd of elk crossed the road in front of us, less than a half-mile from check-in. However, Chase decided to go with the sure thing. The herd of elk that Dad and I took two elk from were still feeding in the same area in the mornings, so instead of chasing an unknown herd, he thought it prudent to go after the herd they had patterned. On our way to put the gear in his Ranger, a red fox was sniffing around my truck. Rick indicated that its name was Skittles, and had made their lodge its home territory, having a den close-by.

Back to Beaver Flats. Chase stopped the Ranger short of the ridgeline. Déjà vu. We crept forward and sure enough, there was a herd of elk. But not in exactly the same place. The herd was up the mountain about a quarter mile from where Dad and I shot ours. I had thought we would just pop over the ridge, shoot, and we’d go get the elk. However, that was not the case. That meant a hike. I didn’t bring my orange back pack with me… and I had 3 rounds loaded in my 7mm RUM. That should be enough. Chase, Mike, and I trudged up the side of the ridge, getting close enough to make a shot across the valley between the two ridges. Up, up, up the ridge. Then up some more. And then more up. Finally we arrived at a decent shooting spot. Mike got settled behind the scope as I got my iPhone out to film the shot, and we started looking at which elk would be the best one to shoot.

 

“290 Yards.”

I adjusted my scope’s turret for Mike. Chase, getting close to Mike, asked, "What can I do to make you more comfortable in making the shot? Uh-oh... cuddle time. Mike indicated he was good (no extra comfort needed) and squeezed off a shot. The elk was hit, and it ran about 30 yards and laid down.

 

Mike shot again. The shot went over the back. Rick had Mike move position, get settled, and squeezed off another shot. Hit. But still alive. They are such tough creatures.

Ideally you have a 1-shot kill, but it doesn’t always work out that way – just ask any hunter. Chase then asked me if I had more ammo. “Yes, but it’s in the buggy.”

“Go get it.”

All the way down. Get the ammo. All the way back up. Always be prepared… yeah. At least Dad, when Chad had asked him, was able to produce a box with a smart-ass remark. I had nothing... 

When I arrived back at the spot where they had been, they weren’t there… Dammit - were they off somewhere cuddling?

I looked down at the tracks. I saw they had gone down the ridge and up the other side. But they weren’t on the opposite side either. I figured they were somewhere over yonder and I made my way towards yonder. Chase came into view, scampering down the ridgeline with his mountain goat speed and sure-footedness, the kind of surety guiding for a few seasons brings you. I met him at the bottom of the ridge and he said Mike had the elk down, but just needed one more shot. I handed him an ammo box. Quickly he went up and over the ridgeline, disappearing, making it look easy. I saw the general direction he headed, so, I short-cut up steeper, but less distance, area of the ridge, and was able to find Mike, and see the elk laying down with its head up. Mike was aiming, so I filmed what I thought would be the kill shot.

 

The elk still had its head up. I approached Mike and Chase. A few more times, to no avail, Mike put rounds down range. But the elk wasn’t moving. So, we decided to venture forth, and at 20 feet from the elk, Mike put a bullet in its head. Down, finally. Unbelievably, the elk was STILL alive when we approached. My K-Bar made swift work of the jugular and esophagus. My rifle will definitely need to be sighted in before next year’s hunting season.

Three licenses, three elk. Three for three, at Three-Forks Ranch.

Chase went back to get the buggy as Mike and I drug the elk close to where the Ranger would be able to drive. After the tobacco and prayer, we field-dressed the elk, loaded it up, and Chase radioed in, “Coming in heavy.” It was 8:15.

 

Mike with his elk

After arriving, we were treated to some freshly baked coffee cake and hot coffee. The guiding staff at Three-Forks Ranch were done for the season, and ended on a high note. They indicated a 90+ percent success rate – only a few hunters didn’t get their elk – and both because they didn’t show up for their hunt. We left the ranch and headed on our merry way. South of the cabins, I stopped to take off the chains, as the road was clearing up. Mike assisted, and as I reached up to put the chains in the bed of the truck, a pungent aroma assailed my olfactory organ. I looked around as to what may have so strikingly made my eyes water. On the side rail of my truck bed was a brown smear. I checked the sleeve of my orange jacket. Another brown streak. I had seen Skittles the fox hanging around my truck (probably smelled the blood from the previous elk hunt – I hadn’t washed out the bed of my truck since then), and left me a present equitable to what I’m sure he thought was a tease. No dead elk meat for Skittles – just the scent of blood. Yeah – Skittles had the last laugh as I grabbed a handful of snow to remove fox-crap from my sleeve.

You can be prepared, but you can always be more prepared. You can plan, but conditions in the field can change your plans on a whim. I’ve had hunts where I’ve spent a week roughing it, camping out in 0-degree weather, never seeing an elk. And as of this year, I’ve had hunts that essentially ended 5 minutes after beginning. The truth is that, like most things, hunting is what you make it to be. It can be dirty in the details but romanticized in the telling. Frustrating during the process but rewarding upon completion. They can be easy hunts, or so hard it damn-near breaks your spirit and you have thoughts of never wanting to hunt again. But the lure of the hunt, the anticipation, the chance to yet again prove your place in the food-chain, brings you back again and again.

(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.