Tagged Out

After getting my elk application in the mail yesterday, I haven't been able to stop thinking about the upcoming season. And it's still over seven months away. So in the meantime, I've decided to post an old story I wrote several years ago, about the most successful elk hunt I've ever been apart of. I submitted the story to Bugle Magazine, but unfortunately they passed on publishing it.


TAGGED OUT

The three of us crouched next to the small mountain stream and began cleaning the blood off our hunting knives. Almost entirely hidden by the tall grass, the stream felt refreshing as it gushed over my dry, chapped hands. The sun had reached the highest point in its daily arc across the Colorado sky, erasing all evidence of the hard frost that earlier blanketed the valley floor. I could feel the tingling sensation of sweat soaking through the fibers of my thermal undershirt as its rays beat down on my back like an anvil. Dark wet patches were already visible on my Dad and brother’s wool button-ups as they scrubbed at the blood stubbornly caked on their hands and fingernails. Behind us lay a vast meadow, the size of three football fields, completely barren except for a small cluster of pine trees, which sat like an island amidst a sea of grass. Lying in the protective cool shade beneath their branches were the bodies of four freshly field-dressed bulls.

Dad was the first to finish the post -surgical scrubbing. He stood, stretched his back and wiped dry the blade of his Case Hammerhead on his pants leg.

“It’ll be a couple of hours before Gary and Darren get back with the horses,” he said, mopping the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. “ We might as well eat us some dinner before we start skinnin’ and quarterin’ up those bulls.”

My brother Joe, who lives in a state of constant hunger, sprang to his feet. Together he and Dad began the long walk across the meadow to the clump of trees where our lunches of smushed ham sandwiches and crushed cheese crackers were waiting in our fanny packs. I remained on the hillside, allowing the cool water of the stream to trickle over my fingertips, while the events of the early morning swirled through my mind. To say that it had been an eventful opening day of elk season for the six members of our hunting camp would be an understatement. Besides the four bulls lying in the shade trees behind me, two more lay a half-mile up the trail waiting to be quartered.

Our elk season began only a few short, hours ago; when we heard the bugle of the first bull.

We dropped off the mountainside from the logging road a good two hours before daylight and gingerly made our way down through the rocks. The world was silent except for our hollow footsteps on the loose stones and the howling of a brisk northern wind that whipped through the tops of the spruce pines. The entire north face of the mountain we were descending was made up of an enormous natural rockslide of limestone and shell- a vertical ocean of treacherous frost covered stones. Silhouetted against the moonlit sky, our small platoon of six delicately navigated through the frozen minefield, each footstep carefully calculated to prevent a life-ending tumble. My father served as point, since he had scouted this route a few days before the rest of us arrived in camp, and we followed him blindly from one precarious stone to next. After what seemed like an eternity I eventually felt the welcome crunch of pine needles beneath my feet. Miracously we had reached solid, level ground without a single casualty.

At the base of the slide the terrain began a dramatic stair step effect; leveling out for short distances before plunging straight downward. We made our descent with one hand clutching our rifles and the other grasping frantically for anything to keep us from plummeting into the abyss below. Our final destination lay several miles below us; the 1144 trail, a long narrow, dusty path that snaked it’s way through miles of some of the best elk country in Northwest Colorado.

We continued down the steps, journeying through dark pine tickets, open meadows and small aspen groves, all the while Dad confidently leading the way, never once pausing to rethink the route or retrace his steps. After a better part of an hour of scratching and clawing our way around the mountainside, our small hunting party emerged from a strand of trees and onto a narrow outcropping. Below us the valley sprawled like a giant oil canvas- the moonlight bathing the entire landscape in a deep cobalt hue. In the distant south, the predawn lights of the tiny metropolis of Craig twinkled in the darkness. To the East, the horizon burned with the first glow of daybreak.

“We’re about half-way down,” Dad whispered. “Let’s take a breather.”

I glanced at my watch. 5:30 AM, still another hour before daylight. We propped our rifles against the nearest tree and slumped down beside them. Being a notorious over-dresser in cold weather, I was dripping wet with sweat. I stripped off my thick, insulated hunting coat and frantically began shedding the layers of undershirts. I was literally overdosing on one too many grams of thinsulate. I packed the steaming, sweat-drenched shirts into my pack and settled down next to my brother.

The wind, which had blown steadily as we made our descent, had now strangely calmed. The tops of the lodge pole pines no longer swayed and creaked. The aspen leaves stopped their quaking. The only sound came from the heaving of our chests as our lungs desperately searched for oxygen in the thin mountain air.

And then, we heard it.

That high, lonesome wail that haunts the dreams of every living elk hunter. A primal, harmonious tone that simultaneously causes a hunter’s heart to race with excitement and chills the very blood that courses through it. A sound distinctly unique to only one animal on God’s earth, the cry of a bull elk. The bugle drifted up from the valley floor and rolled up the side of the mountain sweeping over us like an ocean wave, and then, as quickly as it had begun, faded into the early morning.

No one said a word. Snatching our rifles, we were back on our feet, rushing down the slope like children descending the stairs on Christmas morning. The bull called to us repeatedly as we made our way down the mountain; each new bugle met with a silent grin of anticipation. Off to the East the fire on the horizon grew with intensity. It was a race against the clock now; it was crucial that we strike the trail before daylight.

Night was quickly receding from the landscape and the first gray swatches of dawn began to dapple the sky. The bull bulged again, this time much closer. We were heading straight into him. Then as we topped as small hill, there below us was a faint, pencil-thin outline etched into the mountainside. It was the 1144 trail.

The plan, devised earlier in camp around the breakfast table, was that Gary and I, who had both hunted this area before, were to take the trail to the right and hunt the eastern side of the mountain. My Dad was to lead the rest of the party and hunt the western slope. They included my brother and my father’s business partner James and his son Darren, all of whom were rookies to the elk hunting game.

Just as we stepped into the shallow indention of the trail, a bugle roared from the trees below. We instinctively froze. A second bugle instantly followed the first, about a quarter mile down the trail. We stared at each other with wide-eyed excitement; phantom elk were combing the dark timber all around us. We each chambered a shell into our rifle, whispered “Good luck” and were off. Game Time.

I followed Gary up the trail, glancing back over my shoulder in time to see Dad and the others disappear around the bend. Part of me wished I were going with them; when it comes to elk hunting my father is a seasoned professional. He possesses an uncanny knack for always being in the right place at the right time. He is unquestionably the greatest hunter I’ve ever known. But I felt confident to hunt with Gary this morning; he was one of my dad’s closest friends and an experienced hunter.

We made our way up the trail at a brisk pace, the frozen earth crunching beneath the sole our boots as we hustled along. Gary suddenly stepped to the left pointing enthusiastically to something in the middle of the trail. Elk droppings, still steaming in the cold morning air and fresh tracks cris-crossing the trail. He stopped and motioned that he was turning off the trail in order to follow the tracks up through the timber. I nodded and watched his blaze orange swiftly vanish into the shadows. Cradling my 30.06 under my arm, I turned and continued on up the path alone.

The trail wound around the barren mountainside for several more yards where it eventually flowed beneath a dense canopy of spruce pines. As soon as I stepped into the trees I could smell them. Their sharp, pungent odor hung in the air like a thick soupy fog. To my left I heard the muffled rustling of leaves. My entire body seized up, afraid to twitch a single eyelid. Slowly, I turned my head and peered down through the trees into the dark hollow below. There, walking among the pale, white trunks of the aspens, was a large herd of elk-the cows bleating softly as they casually made their way up the draw towards the trail.

I quickly scanned the terrain in a desperate attempt to devise a strategy. I noticed that the trail continued through the trees where it eventually emptied into a large open meadow surrounding an old, dried beaver pond. If a bull decided to cross the trail there he would expose himself to a wide-open shot. A few feet away, just inside the trees, I spied an enormous fallen aspen overlooking both the trail and the beaver pond, providing an excellent location in which to set up. I had to move fast; in a matter of seconds I would literally have elk crawling all over me. I willed my stiff, wooden legs to move and headed for my ambush.

Once I reached the log, I immediately knelt to one knee, shouldered my rifle and took a rest off of its gnarled, weathered trunk. My breathing was erratic, my muscles twitched and convulsed from a combination of adrenaline and the chill of predawn; my body a tightly coiled spring, ready to explode at any instant. I locked my eyes on the distant trees, clicked off my safety, and waited.

Suddenly a large brown shape exploded from the brush into the frosty meadow. My index finger instinctively tightened around the trigger but through my scope, I saw that it was only a cow. She walked nonchalantly through the grass into the dry bed of the beaver pond. Though the corner of my eye I caught another shape step from the trees. I whirled my rifle, my heart drumming inside my chest, but in my cross hairs was yet another cow. Another shape emerged from the timber and then another and another. In a matter of seconds the entire field was littered with elk-all cows.

And then there he was.

Perhaps it was the fact I was momentarily distracted by the lead cows, but I never actually saw the bull step from the trees. He just stood there in the tall icy grass like a grand, chiseled statue-his frozen breath billowing from his nostrils. Through the scope I counted a total of nine tall points perched upon a wide, symmetrical rack. I placed the cross hairs of my Nikon scope squarely behind his left shoulder took a slow, steady, deep breath and squeezed the trigger.

The shot shattered the still silence of daybreak. A thick shroud of gun smoke hung in the frosty air, momentarily blocking my vision. As the smoke dissipated, I saw that the bull had stumbled and turned back towards the tree line. He was hit, but still on his feet. I pumped another 180 grain Remington into the chamber and fired just as he broke into a run. His front legs buckled beneath him, sending his massive body crashing into the timber headfirst. He was down.

I ejected the empty cartridge from my rifle and immediately chambered a fresh round- the spent brass tinked and pinged as it bounced on the stony path. I approached the bull’s motionless body with caution and as I drew closer I realized my good fortune. As luck would have it, he had fallen on his side directly in the middle of the trail, meaning easy field dressing and even easier access with the packhorses. I stopped a few feet short of the bull and looked him over, making sure he wasn’t preparing to jump to his feet and high tail it for the Colorado state line. When I was convinced that he had breathed his last breath, I sat my rifle down and pulled his head up by the main beam of his antlers and admired my trophy. He was a beautiful 4 x 5 with long curving brow tines that ended in smooth ivory tips. He’d never grace the wall over Jim Zumbo’s fireplace, but in my mind he was ready to be inked into the pages of Boone & Crockett. He was a magnificent animal.

But amidst my triumph, the sad realization of what had just happened suddenly swept over me -only two short hours into opening day, my elk season had officially ended. The months of meticulous planning, organizing and preparation were over. I thought back to the infinite hours spent pouring over an endless stream of mail-order hunting catalogs, the countless boxes of shells consumed honing the sights of my rifle on the backyard firing range, and the late nights spent shackled to my office desk in order to cumulate enough vacation days for this one brief, fleeting moment. An entire years worth of sleepless nights, anticipation and daydreaming had come to an abrupt and sudden conclusion with one simple squeeze of my index finger.

The sound of clicking hooves caught my attention, snapping me back to reality. I turned to see a second herd of elk running up the side of the mountain behind me. A shot rang out and a plume of smoke boiled up from the opposite hillside. It was Gary, firing into the herd as they made their way up the draw. He fired a second shot and I saw a good size bull stumble and drop.

Then, as if on que, directly following Gary’s second and final shot, another shot rang out. This one from the valley below, a good half mile back down the trail-precisely the same area Dad and his band of rookies were headed. A second and third shot thundered out of the valley, followed by a fourth and a fifth, each shot from a different rifle. When the rifle volleys ended, I had counted eight shots in all; I didn’t know it then, but each of their bullets had found their mark. By 7AM on our first morning, every man in our camp had filled his bull tag. Our elk hunt was over, almost before it even began.

So now, four hours and six field-dressed bulls later, here I sit, beside this hillside stream watching my dad and brother enjoy their lunches beneath the shade trees and celebrate a successful hunt. I feel fortunate that all six of us were each able to take a bull on our first morning. We’ll return home with enough meat to pack our freezers full all winter long and more than enough tall tales to spin around the dinner table. In many ways this was the perfect elk hunt. But in other ways it was one of the worst.

Like any true hunter, my passion for elk hunting extends far beyond the actual kill or the mere size of the animal’s rack. Elk season is about freedom. Its about roaming unfettered and carefree under the western skies in a world that has yet to be touched by the cold, creeping fingers of concrete and asphalt. It’s about leaving behind, if only for a brief moment, the worry and stress that plague the everyday world. For these few precious days each September, I’m able to step back to a simpler time and a forgotten past, to walk in the footsteps of my heroes. Today I am Jim Bridger. I am Kit Carson. I am Jebidiah Smith. At least for a short while.

But I know my time here is fading, with our tags filled, we’ll leave my beloved elk country three days prematurely. It will be twelve long months before I’ll again see the blue skies of Colorado, feel the chill in my lungs or smell the spruce pines in the cool morning air. In less than two days from now we’ll have broke camp, packed our gear and put the tires of our Chevy pick-up back on the black top, heading home, all tagged out.