My first goal for this season has been to help the youngest boy to get an elk. During the last four years he has been able to shoot two deer and three antelope but has never gotten an elk.
Despite literally hundreds of mile and tens of thousands of vertical feet following his older brother and I, he had seen exactly three elk in four years. He has seen us bring home elk on days when exhaustion, deep snow or the uninspiring prospect of more hours creeping through thick blow down timber kept him home. He has even spent hours butchering those elk, but he has never actually gotten a shot at, or even been within a thousand yards of a visible elk with a rifle in his hands. In fact, I think he was beginning to wonder if elk were only mythical and I was beginning to worry that his enthusiasm to hunt elk was about to be as exhausted as his legs.
The season started well when we glassed bulls the day before opener. At least he had visual proof they existed. We got another bit of encouragement on opening morning when we were almost run over by a cow less than five minutes before opening light. He would have been happy to shoot it but it scented us at twenty yards and was gone. After helping pack out his brother’s elk he had another close call when I pushed a raghorn across a meadow 500 yards away from his evening stand. No shot yet, but enough excitement to re-stoke his fire.
The next weekend, the three of us again packed camp. Shortly after dawn, the older son spotted a bull moving through broken timber into the head of a steep drainage, but we were unable to get a shot at it. We decided the boys would hike up to a saddle at the head of the drainage and wait while I still hunted up the drainage towards them. When I was about 200 yards from the saddle I started to cut sign and smell elk. At that moment I heard a shot above me. I ran up to the saddle; there was no elk and no sign of the boys. The saddle opens onto a large sagebrush covered hill falling away into a deep draw. Across the draw I could see two bulls headed for the next drainage, but still no boys. Another hundred yards further on, I ran into the youngest son, out of breath and with a strange mix of excitement and confusion on his face: “ I think I may have shot an elk.” His older brother was not far behind and he filled me in. Within minutes of reaching the saddle they watched a group of six bulls feed across a hillside 500 yards away. They decided to wait for me before trying to get closer. While they were waiting, younger son spotted an elk moving through the trees 200 yards below them in the saddle. He found a body width opening in the trees and shot when the bull hesitated. The two bulls I saw leave the far side of the draw were with the first bull, and when they left the draw alone, older son assumed the third bull was down in the draw. We walked into the draw and found younger sons bull piled up in the sage.
So, for the second Saturday in row, we spent the rest of the day packing quarters. There is honestly nothing I would rather do on a fall day than walk through the mountains with meat in my pack. Thirteen hours after we left camp that morning, we made it to the vehicle. Youngest son was again exhausted but he now has very tangible proof that elk do in fact exist. The antlers he carried out of the hills may not be the biggest ever, but they are the truest kind of trophy; a memento of hard work, perseverance and the satisfaction of a job well done.
Despite literally hundreds of mile and tens of thousands of vertical feet following his older brother and I, he had seen exactly three elk in four years. He has seen us bring home elk on days when exhaustion, deep snow or the uninspiring prospect of more hours creeping through thick blow down timber kept him home. He has even spent hours butchering those elk, but he has never actually gotten a shot at, or even been within a thousand yards of a visible elk with a rifle in his hands. In fact, I think he was beginning to wonder if elk were only mythical and I was beginning to worry that his enthusiasm to hunt elk was about to be as exhausted as his legs.
The season started well when we glassed bulls the day before opener. At least he had visual proof they existed. We got another bit of encouragement on opening morning when we were almost run over by a cow less than five minutes before opening light. He would have been happy to shoot it but it scented us at twenty yards and was gone. After helping pack out his brother’s elk he had another close call when I pushed a raghorn across a meadow 500 yards away from his evening stand. No shot yet, but enough excitement to re-stoke his fire.
The next weekend, the three of us again packed camp. Shortly after dawn, the older son spotted a bull moving through broken timber into the head of a steep drainage, but we were unable to get a shot at it. We decided the boys would hike up to a saddle at the head of the drainage and wait while I still hunted up the drainage towards them. When I was about 200 yards from the saddle I started to cut sign and smell elk. At that moment I heard a shot above me. I ran up to the saddle; there was no elk and no sign of the boys. The saddle opens onto a large sagebrush covered hill falling away into a deep draw. Across the draw I could see two bulls headed for the next drainage, but still no boys. Another hundred yards further on, I ran into the youngest son, out of breath and with a strange mix of excitement and confusion on his face: “ I think I may have shot an elk.” His older brother was not far behind and he filled me in. Within minutes of reaching the saddle they watched a group of six bulls feed across a hillside 500 yards away. They decided to wait for me before trying to get closer. While they were waiting, younger son spotted an elk moving through the trees 200 yards below them in the saddle. He found a body width opening in the trees and shot when the bull hesitated. The two bulls I saw leave the far side of the draw were with the first bull, and when they left the draw alone, older son assumed the third bull was down in the draw. We walked into the draw and found younger sons bull piled up in the sage.
So, for the second Saturday in row, we spent the rest of the day packing quarters. There is honestly nothing I would rather do on a fall day than walk through the mountains with meat in my pack. Thirteen hours after we left camp that morning, we made it to the vehicle. Youngest son was again exhausted but he now has very tangible proof that elk do in fact exist. The antlers he carried out of the hills may not be the biggest ever, but they are the truest kind of trophy; a memento of hard work, perseverance and the satisfaction of a job well done.
