Hammsolo
Well-known member
- Joined
- May 16, 2020
- Messages
- 2,765
Good morning, my plan is to write up my first elk story, and journal as I move through my next elk story. I am blessed to have drawn a 411-20 either-sex permit. My dream has been to fly in for quite some time now.
I sat against the bull astonished. Glistening tines, and lustrous rich brown hair. I couldn't believe it had worked out. A teenage kid's plan had worked out. Was it a miracle or a blessing?
My first hunting season was extremely lackluster. I grew up in the 80's in Anaconda, Montana. My youth centered around the collapse of the mining industry, wealth migration, and social depression. My Dad was a psychologist at the Montana State Mental Hospital and my Mom was a nurse though. They were frugal and we stayed. We were originally from the mid-west... I'm still dumbfounded why we stayed through what lay ahead. It really was a weird place to grow up; violent and depressed.
My Dad wasn't into hunting. He had hunted pheasants a little when he lived in Iowa and Minnesota, but that was about it. He did take me out a few times in the old Dodge Power Wagon, watching the asphalt go by as the mudders screamed down the highway. We didn't see a thing.
The next year a group of friends and I started to try to hunt on our own. We craved adventure, were slightly above stupid, and had zero forethought. We read Peterson's Hunting and watched all the hunting videos we could. The gold was talking to the ol' men we crossed paths with that first season on our own. I would bend their ears and they were kind. They routinely all parked at the bottom of Baldy in the morning. They explained to us that occasionally the elk would come around the top at first light, and they would sit patiently hoping for the elk to come into range.
My first thought was, "Why in the hell do you just sit here and hope?" As the saying goes, "Hope in one hand and shit in the other and wait to see which fills up first."
The next year, we scouted the back side of Baldy. Our logic was simple. The elk had to come from somewhere. We just need to find a good spot to watch them come. We found that there was a water trough, and a clear game trail that was used routinely. A plan was hatched to hike in well before dawn and wait.
At that age I was still anxious about walking in the dark, but adrenaline filled my veins as I led Corey and Chris to our destination on a cool and crisp morning. The stars twinkled brilliantly on that crisp morning and our breath rose to them. We found ourselves under trees well over an hour before light. My heart raced with anticipation and hope. I began to get tired and cold in my crappy mukluks and cotton clothing. My adrenaline would kick up as I focused where I knew the trail lay about 300 yards below me in the golden field.
Suddenly, there they were filtering out of the pine. One, two, three... My thoroughly crappy old Nikons made out a "giant" bull as they filtered right to left toward the water trough. We hadn't accounted for wind whatsoever, and I now am sure that the thermals were sinking right to them.
Time stopped as I had a false realization that I must have fell asleep. This had to be a dream. I shook my head and literally pinched myself. Hell no, I was wide awake as the elk circled looking up towards me. I raised my Ruger Mark II in 338 Win Mag. I had got this rifle last Christmas and was in love, but dam did it kick.
Over and over, I asked if I had fallen asleep. Was this a dream? The "giant" bull was in the middle of the cows as they circled. I watched through my spinning scope trying to calm down. My heart rocked my ribs, and I started to doubt my ability to make a clean shot.
The cows suddenly started prancing to the left noses up showing me their disdain. The bull was suddenly left with just a few cows standing broadside pointing left. His nose raised to the winds, breath rising, as he tried to find me. I tried to smooth and deepen my breath as I watched his muscles tense. The old Leupold Vari-X II's duplex crosshairs circled his entire rib cage. I looked away closed my eyes and tried to settle myself. I had known the distance and had practiced evaporating gophers all summer with the 338. I had actually walked it off multiple times, 286 paces to the water trough.
It seemed like hours as I looked in and out of the scope. Circling and circling those crosshairs betrayed me. Apparently, shooting gophers in Antelope Gulch is different than eyeing down your first bull elk.
The circle began to shrink. His muscles tensed. I breathed and attempted to time the circle. Boom! The shot rang out and he spun right. Chris, that had never even spotted the elk, began shooting at him with his crappy semi-automatic 270. I don't remember what the make or model was, but it was garbage and so was he. Feel free to tell him.
The bull began quartering away headed down hill at an astonishing speed. I led him by another elk, and boom. He rolled right before the trees. I was sure he was dead, but he quickly regained his footing and leapt for safety.
Chris and I ran down the hill side through the brightening gold waves. I knew I had hit him on the first shot, and again on the run. I was sure he was dead inside the trees. We quickly found blood where he had stood. I can still see the rich red of arterial bleeding. We jogged down to where he had rolled. More blood.
We decided to edge to the forest where I was sure he was lying dead. I kept my rifle handy. He had to be right there. Nope. I inched silently back and forth scanning the trees for a couple hundred yards. Chris announced that he was gone and we should move on. I quickly vomited a gobbledygook (A tribute to my Mom.) of profanity his way and he headed up the mountain. I made the decision to enter the woods far below where he had entered the woods and started hiking back up towards where he entered making a racket. He had been no further than 50 yards from us! He suddenly attempted to stand no more that 25 yards in front of me. One last BOOM! He crumpled.
Chris showed back up, and Corey was suddenly there. We felt like Chuck Adams! I knew I had made multiple crappy shots and really had a lot to learn. I felt terrible for the gorgeous monarch. I cried out of sadness and reverence. We did the best gutting job (No, I didn't know the gutless method yet.) we could. I had gutted one pronghorn before, but Corey had experience.
We tied him wide open to cool and hustled around the mountain to go into town for help getting him out. We didn't even know how to quarter an animal. The ol' men were waiting at the bottom of Baldy. We told them the story, and they were so happy for us.
We headed into town and got a crew together. We returned to the spot ready to drag the behemoth out. Passing Baldy, we noticed the ol' men were gone. Upon hiking into the elk, we found them there. No, not trying to steal the bull, but with huge grins and a cleaned-up gut job. They had driven a Jeep around mountain on an old logging road, no I don't know if this was legal back then, but there they were waiting on us. We all worked to load the bull into the back of the Jeep, and we all piled on.
I don't remember many times in my life being so happy, and proud. I had executed a pretty simple obvious plan. These wonderful ol' men had helped me pull it off and they couldn't have been prouder, as they were well beyond their walking years. That young 5 by 6 felt like a 7 by 7 mountain monarch that day and to this day. He's really a dink, but damn am I proud of him.
A footnote... Rocky Mountain Meats did a fabulous job on butchering him. They laughed telling me that it was the first bull they ever saw with a shattered pelvis, as I had clearly ass shot him on the run. My first shot had been high middle barely nipping an artery below the spine. The butcher was where a fabulous Italian Restaurant is today named O'Bella's. They have the best breadsticks ever baked, and I advise you grab an order if you're ever passing through.
Why did I finally write this story down? First, I should have long ago. The ol' men are dead for sure and deserve it. This felt so good. Second, I am blessed to have drawn a 411-20 either-sex tag. At 23 I moved to Washington with my now ex-wife, and life got really weird for a long time. I didn't hunt for some time and even sold the 338 to make ends meet due to her literally insanity. I am now blessed to be remarried and hunting more than ever. My favorite hunts are with my brother, my hunting partner and best friend. I am turning 50 this year and haven't killed an elk since I was 22. I have killed 5, none mature.
God and my wife have blessed me with this tag and a 50th birthday present. She said I can fly in or do whatever I want. I want an adventure. I don't want a professional guide. I've never done anything like a fly-in trip, and I've already watched @Big Fin 's videos again. I hope you enjoyed the story, may have info for me, and/or are willing to follow along as I document this adventure. I cried multiple times while reading this...
I sat against the bull astonished. Glistening tines, and lustrous rich brown hair. I couldn't believe it had worked out. A teenage kid's plan had worked out. Was it a miracle or a blessing?
My first hunting season was extremely lackluster. I grew up in the 80's in Anaconda, Montana. My youth centered around the collapse of the mining industry, wealth migration, and social depression. My Dad was a psychologist at the Montana State Mental Hospital and my Mom was a nurse though. They were frugal and we stayed. We were originally from the mid-west... I'm still dumbfounded why we stayed through what lay ahead. It really was a weird place to grow up; violent and depressed.
My Dad wasn't into hunting. He had hunted pheasants a little when he lived in Iowa and Minnesota, but that was about it. He did take me out a few times in the old Dodge Power Wagon, watching the asphalt go by as the mudders screamed down the highway. We didn't see a thing.
The next year a group of friends and I started to try to hunt on our own. We craved adventure, were slightly above stupid, and had zero forethought. We read Peterson's Hunting and watched all the hunting videos we could. The gold was talking to the ol' men we crossed paths with that first season on our own. I would bend their ears and they were kind. They routinely all parked at the bottom of Baldy in the morning. They explained to us that occasionally the elk would come around the top at first light, and they would sit patiently hoping for the elk to come into range.
My first thought was, "Why in the hell do you just sit here and hope?" As the saying goes, "Hope in one hand and shit in the other and wait to see which fills up first."
The next year, we scouted the back side of Baldy. Our logic was simple. The elk had to come from somewhere. We just need to find a good spot to watch them come. We found that there was a water trough, and a clear game trail that was used routinely. A plan was hatched to hike in well before dawn and wait.
At that age I was still anxious about walking in the dark, but adrenaline filled my veins as I led Corey and Chris to our destination on a cool and crisp morning. The stars twinkled brilliantly on that crisp morning and our breath rose to them. We found ourselves under trees well over an hour before light. My heart raced with anticipation and hope. I began to get tired and cold in my crappy mukluks and cotton clothing. My adrenaline would kick up as I focused where I knew the trail lay about 300 yards below me in the golden field.
Suddenly, there they were filtering out of the pine. One, two, three... My thoroughly crappy old Nikons made out a "giant" bull as they filtered right to left toward the water trough. We hadn't accounted for wind whatsoever, and I now am sure that the thermals were sinking right to them.
Time stopped as I had a false realization that I must have fell asleep. This had to be a dream. I shook my head and literally pinched myself. Hell no, I was wide awake as the elk circled looking up towards me. I raised my Ruger Mark II in 338 Win Mag. I had got this rifle last Christmas and was in love, but dam did it kick.
Over and over, I asked if I had fallen asleep. Was this a dream? The "giant" bull was in the middle of the cows as they circled. I watched through my spinning scope trying to calm down. My heart rocked my ribs, and I started to doubt my ability to make a clean shot.
The cows suddenly started prancing to the left noses up showing me their disdain. The bull was suddenly left with just a few cows standing broadside pointing left. His nose raised to the winds, breath rising, as he tried to find me. I tried to smooth and deepen my breath as I watched his muscles tense. The old Leupold Vari-X II's duplex crosshairs circled his entire rib cage. I looked away closed my eyes and tried to settle myself. I had known the distance and had practiced evaporating gophers all summer with the 338. I had actually walked it off multiple times, 286 paces to the water trough.
It seemed like hours as I looked in and out of the scope. Circling and circling those crosshairs betrayed me. Apparently, shooting gophers in Antelope Gulch is different than eyeing down your first bull elk.
The circle began to shrink. His muscles tensed. I breathed and attempted to time the circle. Boom! The shot rang out and he spun right. Chris, that had never even spotted the elk, began shooting at him with his crappy semi-automatic 270. I don't remember what the make or model was, but it was garbage and so was he. Feel free to tell him.
The bull began quartering away headed down hill at an astonishing speed. I led him by another elk, and boom. He rolled right before the trees. I was sure he was dead, but he quickly regained his footing and leapt for safety.
Chris and I ran down the hill side through the brightening gold waves. I knew I had hit him on the first shot, and again on the run. I was sure he was dead inside the trees. We quickly found blood where he had stood. I can still see the rich red of arterial bleeding. We jogged down to where he had rolled. More blood.
We decided to edge to the forest where I was sure he was lying dead. I kept my rifle handy. He had to be right there. Nope. I inched silently back and forth scanning the trees for a couple hundred yards. Chris announced that he was gone and we should move on. I quickly vomited a gobbledygook (A tribute to my Mom.) of profanity his way and he headed up the mountain. I made the decision to enter the woods far below where he had entered the woods and started hiking back up towards where he entered making a racket. He had been no further than 50 yards from us! He suddenly attempted to stand no more that 25 yards in front of me. One last BOOM! He crumpled.
Chris showed back up, and Corey was suddenly there. We felt like Chuck Adams! I knew I had made multiple crappy shots and really had a lot to learn. I felt terrible for the gorgeous monarch. I cried out of sadness and reverence. We did the best gutting job (No, I didn't know the gutless method yet.) we could. I had gutted one pronghorn before, but Corey had experience.
We tied him wide open to cool and hustled around the mountain to go into town for help getting him out. We didn't even know how to quarter an animal. The ol' men were waiting at the bottom of Baldy. We told them the story, and they were so happy for us.
We headed into town and got a crew together. We returned to the spot ready to drag the behemoth out. Passing Baldy, we noticed the ol' men were gone. Upon hiking into the elk, we found them there. No, not trying to steal the bull, but with huge grins and a cleaned-up gut job. They had driven a Jeep around mountain on an old logging road, no I don't know if this was legal back then, but there they were waiting on us. We all worked to load the bull into the back of the Jeep, and we all piled on.
I don't remember many times in my life being so happy, and proud. I had executed a pretty simple obvious plan. These wonderful ol' men had helped me pull it off and they couldn't have been prouder, as they were well beyond their walking years. That young 5 by 6 felt like a 7 by 7 mountain monarch that day and to this day. He's really a dink, but damn am I proud of him.
A footnote... Rocky Mountain Meats did a fabulous job on butchering him. They laughed telling me that it was the first bull they ever saw with a shattered pelvis, as I had clearly ass shot him on the run. My first shot had been high middle barely nipping an artery below the spine. The butcher was where a fabulous Italian Restaurant is today named O'Bella's. They have the best breadsticks ever baked, and I advise you grab an order if you're ever passing through.
Why did I finally write this story down? First, I should have long ago. The ol' men are dead for sure and deserve it. This felt so good. Second, I am blessed to have drawn a 411-20 either-sex tag. At 23 I moved to Washington with my now ex-wife, and life got really weird for a long time. I didn't hunt for some time and even sold the 338 to make ends meet due to her literally insanity. I am now blessed to be remarried and hunting more than ever. My favorite hunts are with my brother, my hunting partner and best friend. I am turning 50 this year and haven't killed an elk since I was 22. I have killed 5, none mature.
God and my wife have blessed me with this tag and a 50th birthday present. She said I can fly in or do whatever I want. I want an adventure. I don't want a professional guide. I've never done anything like a fly-in trip, and I've already watched @Big Fin 's videos again. I hope you enjoyed the story, may have info for me, and/or are willing to follow along as I document this adventure. I cried multiple times while reading this...
