A story...
My first elk was shot back in about 1991 - I was a very good shooter, but 400 yards, a twitch instead of a jerk, and not continuing to shoot made for a long day.
I shot the elk at about 0700 - it was an agricultural damage hunt, but since we'd had a very warm and dry winter the elk never came out of the mountains. ODFW simply sent me a map with a circle drawn on it, saying "Hunt here". We (a friend of a friend took me out, this rookie needed and still needs help) sat for the better part of an hour to let the elk die - I had started to shoot again after the first shot, but my guide told me to hold off, I'd killed it by his interpretation of the wobble in her walk going up the hill.
That wobble was because I'd shot her in the hip joint. Shoulda kept shooting.
At the end of the hour, we walked down to where we last saw her, followed the blood, and then jumped her out of her bed some 30 yards away. Off and gone into the rhododendron and "reprod" (reprod is the term used in the PacNW for the replanted trees in logged areas). Off we went, following a surprisingly scant blood trail.
I had a fanny pack, which included a map, a compass, a knife, and not much else.
After about four hours of duck-walking through the rhododendron thickets, the reprod, up and down hill and dale following that very light blood trail, I finally finished the job. Four hours of that kind of exercise (and I was fit and young in 1991, all of 33), and I was whipped, my legs jelly, and my brain functioning on adrenaline only. Myron went back to get my rig, since he knew the country intimately, and I was left to field dress my first big game animal, solo (I had more or less seen it done and helped a little on two deer...).
When Myron returned with my VW Vanagon, he was able to get within about 200 yards of where I was. When he arrived, I grabbed the rifle and the elk's head (that was what I thought I had to have as evidence of sex), and struggled up to the rig. Where there was water. And food. I stinking had no idea how whipped I was. But with Myron's help, got the critter dressed, in the rig, and I was home about 4pm.
I still remember the struggle up the hill to my rig for that drink of water (it was about 70 degrees and dry in March, when in western Oregon it should have been about 40 and rainy). All I needed to have had with me was a couple of water bottles and a couple of protein bars, and I wouldn't have been so wobbly. In otherwise doggoned ideal conditions.
All this goes to why I pack more rather than less. I am always ready to spend the night, and here in NM I carry more water than I think I might ever need. Down puffy, rain pants, emergency poncho and blanket, as well as some food, even a SOL bivvy shelter. I realized that, thirty years ago, I could have had a very, very miserable time had I struck out later in the day, or had weather come in, and so on and so forth. So my pack will tend to be heavy during the day, and of course heavier on the way out. There is some gear I can leave cached near the meat, but for the most part the difference in weight is the water since I will still carry the overnight stuff with me on the way out, unless I am really close to the car and the weather is predicted to be innocuous for several days.
ps
A friends son-in-law took a shortcut to camp when hunting in the coast range in Oregon. Winter, foggy, drippy, but he "knew" camp was just over there. He and his rifle. Never found him. Now, he may have fallen, had a heart attack, been the victim of foul play, but he didn't have what was needed to spend a night out there. Packing more gear rather than less might not save my butt, but I do it anyway.
