Bluffgruff
Well-known member
There are times when draw strategies are well planned, thorough, with hunt plans in place before one hits the "submit" button.
This isn't one of those situations
I oscillate between applying for opportunity hunts, once in a lifetime experiences, and big animal possibilities, and back again, several times each year, depending on the state, my employment status, and what those around me are planning to hunt.
This hunt choice is an afterthought of an opportunity hunt. I like late season elk hunting, it fits my skill set of glassing, bachelor herd bulls, and playing in the snow, so I'll put it down. I don't expect to draw, so what does it matter?
Months later, I'm leaving the dry, dusty plains behind, after a week chasing other critters, heading for the afterthought. Life gets in the way of good hunting too much these days, so I only have 1 full day and maybe the following morning to hunt, and that's if I can find an easy, packable bull.
In the dark, I wind my way along the plateau for an hour, finding a hairpin turn and the appropriate hill to level out my front seat for the night, with the plan to start walking well before daylight along a ridge to a glassing point.
At daylight, I'm making a sandwich on my tailgate when a vehicle eases by on the road, 2 hunters inside waving as they pass. Ug, not as alone as I had hoped. Not long after, they ease back by, a surprisingly short interval. I start hiking to the ridge line, ready to drop down a 200' saddle on my way to the next ridge that leads off into the roadless area I had heard about from a hunting buddy. It's right at sunrise, not even late by my standards.
The saddle is shredded with elk tracks, full of elk droppings, peppered with grazed bunch grasses. Perhaps flashing this unit will be more productive than scouting for days ahead of time.
I huff my way up the next ridge, angling farther from the road. This ridge, with numerous minor summits, small saddles, and rocky tors, resembles a downed log with its collapsed sections and stubby knots. At the first minor saddle, somewhat abrupt in slope, I ease to the lip with the wind quartering from in front and to the left, and the sun quartering from behind and to my right, it's the dream setup, but looking through the oakbrush and ponderosas, I see no elk. My rifle strapped to my pack, I take a step down, landing on a branch under the pine straw with a loud crack. Instantly, an explosion of noise from just below me produces a raghorn bull crossing from the sunlit side of the saddle into the dense mixed conifers heading down into the canyon separating the two main ridges.
Maybe I should get my rifle off my pack.
Maybe I'm still hunting.
These are just musings.
Rifle slung on my shoulder, I cross the shallow saddle and I'm quickly back along the next fin of the ridge. Several hundred yards later, the terrain starts to fall away in front of me again, I stop, unshoulder my rifle, and scan the thicker trees on the slope heading to the next dip.
Just a few dozen yards away, almost exactly where I expected, a coalescing crescendo of thuds and breaking branches behind some large boulders became two large bull elk; one that was quite invigorating, 6x6, beams out beyond mid-back, exceptional fronts, pulling up to the ridgeline about 70 yards away to my right. As he and his companion had hurried away, I had found a rock rest and a round went into the chamber. Now the smaller bull, still 6x6, presents an open shot, but the allure of the obviously more mature animal is too much. I hover on his massive brown head, awaiting his next step to bring him clear of a ponderosa.
Time ticks by, slowing down. His head swings north, west, and south. Fronts curve up over his nose, the nose that finally picks up my scent, and with an effortless moment, he spins and plunges into the timbered saddle, pulling what becomes 3 other blond bodies with him down the slope like a team of draft horses in series. There is no shot, though I try to keep sight, in case he stops. He doesn't, but that's okay. It's less than an hour after sunrise and I've seen 5 legal bulls. This is approaching uncomfortably fun for an elk hunt.
The saddle is broad and grassy. The ground is carpeted in elk sign, droppings on every square foot of it.
The other side is steeper, rockier, but I slowly climb to the next tor.
From the top, I predict the next elk bedding site several hundred yards away. I softly step along the route, easing to the edge periodically to look across the massive valley to the east, glassing the benches and juniper hills below.
As the top of the ridge gently rolls down to the next saddle, I get a feeling that I should be looking at an elk. I pan with my binos, all of 50-75 yards to where the trees swallow the light. I take 5 steps and repeat, and again, and then a patch of yellow fur declares itself like a beacon in a sunbeam. The bull has a typical 6pt left antler with a broken tine, but the other side is a huge spike rising up, and a large droptine curving down. I pull my rifle up, scope on 4 power, the bull steps out to a lane and swings his drop tine around to look directly into the sun behind me. In that moment, I realize this is the coolest bull I've ever seen in person, and I decide he's mine.
His neck is my only shot, as he faces almost directly away from me. I put the crosshairs on his spine about mid-neck, breathe in, breathe out, and squeeze the trigger. The typical chaotic roar of the 300winmag, tamed to the pleasant sound of opening packages on Christmas morning by the suppressor, lingers for just a moment, as I watch the bull fold in the crosshairs.
Walking up, I pause as he kicks a couple times, and is still, never having taken another breath. My hunt is over, 2 hours after my first steps away from the truck. I'm rarely this close to an animal at the shot, and this moment is a reminder of the value of life, and how much we owe the animals we hunt. It's simple to compartmentalize the death aspect of hunting, but while trying to raise another generation of hunters, I'm allowing myself the grace of feeling sadness for the animals I kill, while emphasizing the gratitude for what they give me and my (extended and illogical) family.
I really am thrilled though. This is the perfect bull for me. There is so much daylight, I revel in the butchering process. The hanger steak, inside skirts, outside skirts, flanks, bavettes, quarters, denver steaks, tenderloins, backstraps, oyster steaks rib meat, neck meat, hide, and skull all find their way to a log for airflow and shade.
I take a load out along my path in. I arrive to the truck around dark and decide that'senough. The days are short, and I have all of the next day to pack out the rest. The next morning, I shorten the trek a little by relocating the truck, jumping a nice young buck on the way.
On one trip in, I pass a juniper over 2ft in diameter at chest height, scarred deeply by multiple fires. Maybe not the biggest juniper, but an impressive specimen I spent several minutes admiring.
The last load, 133lbs, and the reason my pack smells like elk urine, with meat on the load shelf, the hide inside, and the skull on the outside. I eventually have to reshuffle the direction of the antlers, but the pack survives and I arrive back at the truck with all the pieces.
I drive most of the way home, split some meat with a couple folks along the way, and finish the trip the next day, making it home in time for some last minute Christmas shopping. This is a blitz of a hunt, but one I'm very glad I hadn't thought too hard about all those months before. I'll hopefully be back!
*No tacomas were harmed during the elk hunting segment of this program.
This isn't one of those situations
I oscillate between applying for opportunity hunts, once in a lifetime experiences, and big animal possibilities, and back again, several times each year, depending on the state, my employment status, and what those around me are planning to hunt.
This hunt choice is an afterthought of an opportunity hunt. I like late season elk hunting, it fits my skill set of glassing, bachelor herd bulls, and playing in the snow, so I'll put it down. I don't expect to draw, so what does it matter?
Months later, I'm leaving the dry, dusty plains behind, after a week chasing other critters, heading for the afterthought. Life gets in the way of good hunting too much these days, so I only have 1 full day and maybe the following morning to hunt, and that's if I can find an easy, packable bull.
In the dark, I wind my way along the plateau for an hour, finding a hairpin turn and the appropriate hill to level out my front seat for the night, with the plan to start walking well before daylight along a ridge to a glassing point.
At daylight, I'm making a sandwich on my tailgate when a vehicle eases by on the road, 2 hunters inside waving as they pass. Ug, not as alone as I had hoped. Not long after, they ease back by, a surprisingly short interval. I start hiking to the ridge line, ready to drop down a 200' saddle on my way to the next ridge that leads off into the roadless area I had heard about from a hunting buddy. It's right at sunrise, not even late by my standards.
The saddle is shredded with elk tracks, full of elk droppings, peppered with grazed bunch grasses. Perhaps flashing this unit will be more productive than scouting for days ahead of time.
I huff my way up the next ridge, angling farther from the road. This ridge, with numerous minor summits, small saddles, and rocky tors, resembles a downed log with its collapsed sections and stubby knots. At the first minor saddle, somewhat abrupt in slope, I ease to the lip with the wind quartering from in front and to the left, and the sun quartering from behind and to my right, it's the dream setup, but looking through the oakbrush and ponderosas, I see no elk. My rifle strapped to my pack, I take a step down, landing on a branch under the pine straw with a loud crack. Instantly, an explosion of noise from just below me produces a raghorn bull crossing from the sunlit side of the saddle into the dense mixed conifers heading down into the canyon separating the two main ridges.
Maybe I should get my rifle off my pack.
Maybe I'm still hunting.
These are just musings.
Rifle slung on my shoulder, I cross the shallow saddle and I'm quickly back along the next fin of the ridge. Several hundred yards later, the terrain starts to fall away in front of me again, I stop, unshoulder my rifle, and scan the thicker trees on the slope heading to the next dip.
Just a few dozen yards away, almost exactly where I expected, a coalescing crescendo of thuds and breaking branches behind some large boulders became two large bull elk; one that was quite invigorating, 6x6, beams out beyond mid-back, exceptional fronts, pulling up to the ridgeline about 70 yards away to my right. As he and his companion had hurried away, I had found a rock rest and a round went into the chamber. Now the smaller bull, still 6x6, presents an open shot, but the allure of the obviously more mature animal is too much. I hover on his massive brown head, awaiting his next step to bring him clear of a ponderosa.
Time ticks by, slowing down. His head swings north, west, and south. Fronts curve up over his nose, the nose that finally picks up my scent, and with an effortless moment, he spins and plunges into the timbered saddle, pulling what becomes 3 other blond bodies with him down the slope like a team of draft horses in series. There is no shot, though I try to keep sight, in case he stops. He doesn't, but that's okay. It's less than an hour after sunrise and I've seen 5 legal bulls. This is approaching uncomfortably fun for an elk hunt.
The saddle is broad and grassy. The ground is carpeted in elk sign, droppings on every square foot of it.
The other side is steeper, rockier, but I slowly climb to the next tor.
From the top, I predict the next elk bedding site several hundred yards away. I softly step along the route, easing to the edge periodically to look across the massive valley to the east, glassing the benches and juniper hills below.
As the top of the ridge gently rolls down to the next saddle, I get a feeling that I should be looking at an elk. I pan with my binos, all of 50-75 yards to where the trees swallow the light. I take 5 steps and repeat, and again, and then a patch of yellow fur declares itself like a beacon in a sunbeam. The bull has a typical 6pt left antler with a broken tine, but the other side is a huge spike rising up, and a large droptine curving down. I pull my rifle up, scope on 4 power, the bull steps out to a lane and swings his drop tine around to look directly into the sun behind me. In that moment, I realize this is the coolest bull I've ever seen in person, and I decide he's mine.
His neck is my only shot, as he faces almost directly away from me. I put the crosshairs on his spine about mid-neck, breathe in, breathe out, and squeeze the trigger. The typical chaotic roar of the 300winmag, tamed to the pleasant sound of opening packages on Christmas morning by the suppressor, lingers for just a moment, as I watch the bull fold in the crosshairs.
Walking up, I pause as he kicks a couple times, and is still, never having taken another breath. My hunt is over, 2 hours after my first steps away from the truck. I'm rarely this close to an animal at the shot, and this moment is a reminder of the value of life, and how much we owe the animals we hunt. It's simple to compartmentalize the death aspect of hunting, but while trying to raise another generation of hunters, I'm allowing myself the grace of feeling sadness for the animals I kill, while emphasizing the gratitude for what they give me and my (extended and illogical) family.
I really am thrilled though. This is the perfect bull for me. There is so much daylight, I revel in the butchering process. The hanger steak, inside skirts, outside skirts, flanks, bavettes, quarters, denver steaks, tenderloins, backstraps, oyster steaks rib meat, neck meat, hide, and skull all find their way to a log for airflow and shade.
I take a load out along my path in. I arrive to the truck around dark and decide that'senough. The days are short, and I have all of the next day to pack out the rest. The next morning, I shorten the trek a little by relocating the truck, jumping a nice young buck on the way.
On one trip in, I pass a juniper over 2ft in diameter at chest height, scarred deeply by multiple fires. Maybe not the biggest juniper, but an impressive specimen I spent several minutes admiring.
The last load, 133lbs, and the reason my pack smells like elk urine, with meat on the load shelf, the hide inside, and the skull on the outside. I eventually have to reshuffle the direction of the antlers, but the pack survives and I arrive back at the truck with all the pieces.
I drive most of the way home, split some meat with a couple folks along the way, and finish the trip the next day, making it home in time for some last minute Christmas shopping. This is a blitz of a hunt, but one I'm very glad I hadn't thought too hard about all those months before. I'll hopefully be back!
*No tacomas were harmed during the elk hunting segment of this program.
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