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oxn939

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Last few years of life have been super busy with work, so when I found out I'd have some time to play with this fall, I went completely unhinged with applications. I ended up with three decent tags- a muzzleloader mule deer tag, an either sex rifle elk tag and a cow tag that were all approximately concurrent with each other. Flights and rental booked, gear picked, dope verified and OnX beaten up during every ten minute break I had in the preceding six months looking for sneaky infils into promising areas.

I was really stoked for the deer tag. The unit looked absolutely disgusting- wilderness with lots of aggressive elevation, really cool terrain, and supposedly some really big deer. Two of those things ended up being spot on. On day three, I found a bachelor group of bucks with a decent 4x4 and put a stalk on them. I ended up close enough for a momentary thermal swirl to let them know that something was up, and my guy stopped at 138 yards on his way over a ridge. I have a habit of letting perfect be the enemy of perfectly good as far as shot opportunities go, and waited just a few seconds to see if he'd turn and present a better angle. Nope. As he bounded off, I instantly knew I blew it. Over the next week, I got up to 45 wilderness miles with more than 12,000 of elevation gain, and never saw another antlered deer. Ran out if water once, rode out a pretty rowdy mountain thunderstorm, saw several dozen does and fawns but no bucks. An outfitter I talked to at the trailhead out the way out went 0 for 4 on archery/ muzzleloader tags. Good news is, the views were cool, it was a great opportunity to get acclimated to elevation and I found a pretty cool fishing hole on the way back to pick my buddy up for our elk gig. If you know, you know on the fishing spot.

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Next up was the drive back to grab my buddy for our elk gig. This was a tag I had hunted a few years ago, and he had miraculously drawn the same bull tag with half as many points as it typically takes. Never expect anything but a good time from a hunt, but we knew how abnormally fortunate we were to both end up with tags and wanted to make sure no stone was left unturned on this one. Silly, wild fantasies of doubling on the opener flew as we drove to our unit. We arrived 3 days early- two to scout, one to let it rest and then the opener.

Scouting confirmed the movement patterns I had seen hunting this tag before. Our primary area was thick enough with sign that we turned back pretty quickly to avoid bumping anything. Secondary looked good enough that we spent the rest of our scouting period throwing some flies and passively observing out third, fourth and fifth options. Everything was going great so far, except that my buddy wasn't quite acclimating to the altitude as expected- even some of our lighter hikes to glassing knobs were taking a toll. This dude had a pretty wild active duty career as well as a 15 year base of running tris and ultras, so this was atypical. We chocked it up to being around 10 grand and were glad we'd budgeted three days to get settled.

Opening morning was pretty close to perfect. We hit a great infil and ended up watching the sun rise over a gorgeous meadow right in the middle of the sign we'd seen. Light wind in our face, mid 30s, no other hunters. But no elk. We finished the morning hunt, found a lunch spot and came up with a plan for the evening. By this point, the ATV crowd was out in force. Some dude even brought a street legal pickup with a toddler in the back to the glassing spot where we set up for lunch, several miles from anything that could be described as a road. With fresh motivation to escape pressure from entire family lineages, we decided on an alder choked hellhole about six miles from the trailhead for the evening. What better time than the opener to create a serious problem for ourselves? Aspens were peaking, conditions were beautiful and morale was high.

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Afternoon started out great. We were making decent time, habitat looked better and better as we got further from the babysitting area, and there was lots of sign even along the trail.



But then we started to climb, and things weren't going so hot for my buddy, Rich. We made it to our glassing spot, but he started lagging behind on every segment of our hike with any kind of elevation gain. I've done a lot of very demanding stuff with this dude, and knew something was up. He brushed it off as the altitude. Word. We settled into a glassing knob over a beautiful meadow right at ten grand and watched the sun set without seeing anything but, bizarrely, a bunch of Pronghorn.

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We decided to take it nice and slow on the way back to stay as quiet as possible, as there were several spots on the way in that looked promising. About 15 minutes after last light, we saw three dudes walking around in the middle of one of our meadows. Yikes. Few minutes after that, a shot from something that was either small caliber or suppressed. More yikes. Seemed like everywhere we turned, pressure was worse than previous years, and not from a bunch of seasoned, low impact pros. We got back pretty late, but agreed that daw two called for a different plan- somwthing to get us away from and kind of trails and/or roads.


Day two was early, but beautiful. We got to our spot about 90 minutes before first light and started our hike in with lots of illum helping us stay stealthy. Then we hit the climb and the wheels fell off. Rich found himself seated on row one of the proverbial pain train. "Nothing in Texas could have prepared me for this, dude." "I dunno, man. You're sweating your ass off. This might be completely unrelated to your prep." "Go on without me, man. I'll catch up." We debated options, and ended up opting to tough it out together in light of the demeanor of the local grizz population. But man, the going was slow. Two steps. Stop. Wheezing. Three steps. Stop. More wheezing. I had budgeted an hour for the hike in and 30 minutes for things to settle, which would put us in the zone comfortably before first light. We got to the top of our ridgeline with the sun painting the drainage and temps already starting to rise. Rather than join for the next climb, Rich elected to watch the first meadow we hit, and I continued on. By the time I got to a glassing knob, the sun was starting to get vertical enough to end activity- as far as elk were concerned anyway. About five minutes after I sat down, a deer hunter sporting trekking poles and a blaze orange flat brim strolled through the meadow. I headed back to meet up with Rich.

The ride back to camp was somber. We hadn't seen an elk on the hoof since scouting, everyone else seemed to agree with us about how great our two best spots were, and there was no shot we could access any of the more ambitious options of the plan with Rich's condition. I knew things were real when he said he was going to take the afternoon off to rest. I agreed he needed it, and came up with a plan to hunt solo near camp.

My plan that afternoon was simple- still hunt to a tiny meadow in the nastiest spot I could find nearby, watch the sun set, and get back in time to get some rest. Checked all of those boxes, to include another hike in absolutely dripping with fresh elk sign.

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Another beautiful sunset with no elk. I started to make my way back feeling a little disappointed, with just a few minutes of shooting light left in case anything had stepped out while I was hunting.

I've noticed this is usually how it happens. I got back onto the trail and actually thought to myself, "Man, I sure am making a decent amount of human like noise walking this. Any elk within a few hundred yards probably long gone. But whatever. I've got tomorrow to worry about." Plans filled my mind as I slipped into the comfortable speed walk pace you'd use on a manicured trail. I got to about a thousand yards of the truck and started stashing gear- putting away gloves, taking off my headlamp, etc. Then I saw her. About 50 yards off, the unmistakable silhouette of an elk. I instinctively dropped to one knee and worked the bolt as my heart rate sailed. That initial movement spooked her a few yards, and she stopped literally in the middle of the trail. I would have chuckled at the prospect of dropping one literally on top of the trail if the rubber hadn't been meeting the road. I flipped up my scope caps and dialed down the mag. On 4x I was looking at straight vitals through the SHV, and was glad I had sprung for the Nightforce glass on this build. I looked around, though. Dark. Son of a... what time exactly is last shooting light again? I hit the illumination on my watch. 19:28. !@#$, %^&*, or whatever expletive of your choosing. We'd review this a few days ago but I didn't remember the exact minute for absolute sure, and despite being able to see her vitals clearly through the optic, it was VERY dark out. I looked one more time at her. Dark, and I just wasn't 100% sure. I stood up. She spooked into the aspens.

Review of solunar tables back at camp showed last shooting light at 19:27.
 
Following this report! I had a buddy that had similar problems of what he thought was all due to altitude sickness on an elk hunt. It ended up also being blood clots that had formed in his legs
 
Day three started to feel a little like groundhog day. Pre dawn infil, beautiful sunrise, lots of elk sign, no elk. Rich even came, but by this point was not very effective. "Like a sack of broken antelope !@*%s." Looked like one, too. Poor dude.

Over lunch, life choices were pondered, and honestly, I started sulking. Passing the buck two weeks ago. Hyping this tag up to my buddy to get him to apply with me. Taking this much time off work, probably the coolest opportunity to hunt out west I'll ever get. And now, how quickly the ROEs had gone from looking for a herd bull to trying to put a tag on any legal animal, and struggling at that. Am I really about to go 0 for 3 on tags I burned over a decade of points on? Remember that next time you think you're some kind of big deal.

Worse still, I was starting to notice the tiniest indications of a sore throat. Looking at Rich, I mentally winced. This dude completed a 50 miler a month ago, and now bears a striking resemblance to Mitch McConnel trying to summit a set of 3-5 handicap accessible stairs when climbing a gently rolling 100' hill. Optimal.

That afternoon, I had Rich drop me off a few miles from the two trailheads we had been using. Might as well, right? Probably only got one or two real shots left, might as well try something new. Long story short, the night went the same as the others, but I found a game trail with so much fresh sign you could still smell them. At this point I was wondering how I was able to spend that much time in what looked like A+ habitat and sign without seeing an elk. I slept almost none that night, and by the time my alarm went off, I too was feeling absolutely terrible. Sore throat, chest congestion, slightly febrile. 100% whacked with whatever Rich had.

With both of us compromised, we decided to hunt close together again. It felt like a fatigued swing at a 100 mile an hour fastball in the dark, but I wanted to hit the same area again from last night; something had to be making that sign. The car ride was quiet. Somber. I briefly considered what a few hours of extra sleep would do to expedite my recovery if I just dropped him off and ran back to camp. Eh, nah. Always been too dumb to quit. Whatever. Let's go.

Our walk in was less remote than where we'd been hunting all week, right along a forest service road. So when we heard the bugle, we exchanged dubious glances in the moonlight. This late into October? Here? Nah. Definitely some idiot throwing out a challenge bugle to get his money's worth out of his new tube.

Then the secondary, much subtler response. Then a quiet chuckle between them, almost imperceptible. "Okay, man. We gotta treat that like the real thing until we see orange." I checked my watch. Still 30 minutes before legal shooting light. We picked up our pace and started climbing. After about 500 feet, we got to a little plateau. Thank god I kept us in the edge of the aspens out of an abundance of caution. As we rounded a corner, we saw them at the same time. Blobs still, a few hundred yards off, but 100% a herd of elk. Right then, the herd bull screamed loudly enough it displaced every other sound in the environment, piercing through the mountain air.

They say your body is capable of pushing past what your mind tells you it can do, and that's 100% true. It had been a minute since either of us had put that to practice, but at that moment I was really, really glad it was Rich there with me. No words were exchanged or needed- we both knew this was it, and that things were about to get pretty weird.

Ten minutes to shooting light. We watch them climb to the highest corner of the meadow- the same area I'd hiked into 12 hours before. Makes sense that they wouldn't be hanging out in the open at sunrise. But the timber they were headed to was miles of thick, nasty uphill deadfall with just a few patches of small meadows scattered throughout. Almost as if taunting us, the bull bugled again, raspy, aggressive, calling his herd to follow him into their fortress. Game on.

We followed, picking our way through the deadfall as quietly as we could. Another bugle. More deadfall. Stream. Cliff. More uphill. Sign, everywhere. Their living room. Two more bugles, between the herd bull and the satellite. Our hearts pounded. We hit a meadow, heard a bugle. At this point, literally running after them. Any hint of sickness or consideration for anything other than getting to the next spot completely forgotten. More deadfall. Finally, the timber opened to another small meadow, and I saw the cows. 7 or 8 of them, just barely obscured by a fold in the terrain. Then, moving towards them, ivory tips. I didn't even try to count. A monster. And just like that, they were off, trotting straight away from us.

At this point, I realized I was about a five iron shot away from where I'd hunted the night before. Great that I had seen the terrain before, but not so great in that the next one was the last meadow before the timber closed in completely. No shot of following them undetected through miles of cat 5 deadfall like that.

I saw the edge of the last meadow and things kind of closed in. I was at a dead run at this point, had dropped my pack a while ago. Through the spruces, I could see beige shapes. I slowed. There was a single stump about 15 yards into the meadow with a slight uphill to it. I quietly chambered a round and made my way to a kneeling position behind the stump. Peeked around the edge. There they were. I threw ears in and flipped up my scope caps, built my base for the shot. Damn. Breathing so hard my scope fogged badly. Whatever, MPBR all day- dialed down to 3x and could see again. I started my breathe up and peeked around to see the cows getting nervous and starting to file into the timber. Then, there he was. Big, beautiful, painted by the first rays of golden sunlight, guiding his cows and guarding the herd from danger. It was honestly such a spectacularly beautiful sight it was hard to stay focused. The kind of thing you'll remember, crystal clear, til the day you die.

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He stopped for a second, right by my natural point of aim. My heart rate was still sky high- had been for half an hour by this point. I debated giving myself another few seconds to get things under control. Then his head flicked to his cows to follow them. Now or never. I thought back to letting my muley buck walk a few weeks ago, to every step of building the rifle I was holding, assembling each component while dreaming of this exact moment, tuning the trigger, hand weighing each powder charge to the tenth of a grain. I picked a spot, started my exhale and squeezed. The shot broke cleanly- absolutely no recollection of running the bolt, but I'm back on the gun and looking for a follow up. Nothing. They're gone.

Rich walked up. "How'd you feel?" "Good, I think. Maybe an inch or two back. But should be good." We carefully approached where they had been. Prints, of course. Nothing else. We scanned, taking it super slowly. Gridded. Not a pinprick of blood. "Dude. I don't see anything. I missed." If I'd had a million dollars, I would have bet it all that I put it in the dirt under his belly. Our gazes shifted to the edge of the meadow. The timber was still dark and foreboding, especially with zero blood to follow. We started picking our way through, following the hurried prints from the herd. Nothing, not a drop on any of the big fallen trunks perpendicular to the way they'd gone. "I definitely missed."

We stumbled around. By now I was really convinced I had screwed the pooch. Then I saw his tips. Every step I took closer got wilder and wilder. A true monster. Crazy palmation. Mass. 7 by... 7?! I knelt next to him and said whatever prayer came to mind. Gratitude, humility, the hunter's paradox of excitement, achievement, but also tremendous sadness at witnessing the last moments of an incredible animal like this. That gets stronger for me every year. Tough to explain, but the magnitude of knowing that your stories are permanently and deeply connected from that moment on, with yours continuing and his ending, really gets to me.

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