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The action starts late on a Sunday afternoon the first weekend of archery elk season, when I get a couple of miles up
my favorite elk mountain and hear a distant bugle. I move cautiously toward it and after a while luck into the midst
of a moving herd of a dozen cows and calves led by a bullish 5x5. The animals stream by with some almost close enough
to touch, mewing and chirping gaily, then disappear into a timbered gulch. I creep along after and spy as the animals
frolic like a bunch of kindergartners at recess - running in circles, jumping and splashing in a knee-deep spring
pool.
As luck would have it, by the time I can crawl on hands and knees close enough to the pool for a longbow shot, the
bull has moved on down the gulch, out of range. He bugles once and the cows line out and follow. I too bugle, and cow
call, but to no avail except for a single gullible calf who returns momentarily; confused, as adolescents tend to
be.
After the herd is gone, I walk down to the spring pool, which I didn't know existed before the elk showed it to me,
noting that the water is still quivering and the hoof-waffled mud around the pool stinks the exquisite, exciting
stench of rutting bull elk. Blindly hoping the herd might circle back this way, I search around for an impromptu
stand. About 15 yards downwind of the spring I spot a downed log with a bushy fir close behind for a backrest and a
dense screen of boughs to absorb my outline. Perfect.
Not that I really figure to get any further action here today. After all, I've just been almost rubbing shoulders
with 13 elk - more elk than I've seen throughout some entire seasons past. Still, the herd might return. And too, I'm
just not ready to leave here yet. It's a pretty spot, and the sun remains too high to justify moving along to my
evening ambush hide at another spring, half a mile on. For now, this newfound elk oasis is as good a place as
any.
So I sit, mentally reviewing the elk swimming party, nibbling some elk jerky from last year's success, sipping sweet
mountain water from my bota, watching and listening but expecting nothing.
Then suddenly it begins again. From a jungle of aspen blow-down clogging the gulch just above the spring, comes a
sharp crack. And another. I check to be sure the homemade wood arrow is snugly in place on the string of my simple
stick bow, then slowly stand, leaning back into my backrest tree, blending in I hope.
Another few moments and out marches a bull. Big bull. Maybe the biggest I've ever seen outside Yellowstone Park. The
antlers are 6x6 at a glance - tall, wrist-thick at the bases, broad. My heart throttles up and the little bow
trembles in my hand.
But as if he can feel my vibes, the approaching bull stops up in the brush just above the spring pool. He's well
within my self-imposed maximum 20 yard range, but there's way too much foliage between us to allow high odds for a
successful shot. Now the bull looks back over his shoulder . . . and he and I both watch as a second, even larger
bull approaches.
The new arrival stops smack behind the first bull, so that I can't see his antlers clearly enough to determine
whether they contain more than the obvious six points per beam. Even so, this beautiful monster dwarfs his hefty
companion in both body and rack. I stare and finally make out a seventh tine on the bigger bull's left beam.
So here I am, trembling like an aspen leaf in an autumn breeze, gawking at the two biggest Colorado wapiti I've ever
seen, and both of them within range - yet I have no ethical shot (even without the brush, a front-on bow shot at an
elk is sure heartbreak for all involved).
This is shaping up as an odd sort of day. First an elk pool party, and now two buster bulls acting like buddies even
though the rut is on. Surely, at any moment, one or the other, or both, will come around to whiff out the tracked-up
banks of the spring pool, what with all that lovely fresh cow scent there. And then, by gum, I'll get my chance.
I wait.
But the bulls don't come. Instead, after a couple more frustrating minutes of statuesque catatonia, they turn away as
one and plod off, heading back toward wherever they came from. Flustered, I snatch up my cow call and squeak out a
couple of chirps.
The ruse works, after a fashion, with the "lesser" of the two big bulls turning and angling out across the open slope
of the gulch to my right, circumambulating the spring, his caper obvious - to get downwind of that odd-sounding cow
(nervous as I am, they weren't my finest calls). He's in the open, yes, but at least 60 yards out. Finally,
apparently having lost interest, the circling bull stops, turns and starts back toward big brother and they both
disappear up the hill and into the scenery. I mew and chirp a couple times more - and am answered with sullen
silence. The bulls are gone.
I sit again, wait a few more minutes, gradually calming down and returning to homeostasis. With all this action,
perhaps I should hang in here until dark. But even as I consider this plan, the breeze starts to change the idea is
rendered unworkable. So I bid a reluctant adios to this weird and wonderful new place and slip off toward my evening
stand.
I like to hunt from this one particular ambush at day's end because it's within sight of a game trail that climbs a
hill then meanders back to a long-abandoned and overgrown logging road winding down the mountain toward home and
hearth. This convenience allows me to hunt to the very last moment of shooting light then make a silent egress, no
flashlight needed. And in the evenings here, the breeze is such that game can approach from almost any direction,
blissfully unaware. Efficient. Convenient. Familiar. A lovely place to sit in the woods. This stand, like all the
others, is just another downed log to sit on, another sturdy tree to relax against, another screen of limbs
behind.
A hundred yards above this spot, yet another spring, little more than a drip, emerges from the base of a steep
timbered hill and patiently fills a shallow pool that overflows and trickles down toward my "blind" where it puddles
up a second time in a hoofed-out two-gallon watering hole and wallow. This lower pool is close in front of my stand -
13 stepped-off yards - my kind of bow shot. The entire length of the trickle, from spring to me, bisects a narrow
lane through overhanging aspens, almost like a tunnel. The lane is grown up high in grasses and sedges and defines
the term lush. It's a place I visit frequently the year Â?round for its unspoiled tranquility. Naturally, it's also a
favorite of wildlife. I could spend an eternity here and in fact plan to do just that, if only as scattered ash.
I've been sitting maybe half an hour, thinking high-flown thoughts, when I hear the sound of one hoof crunching a
downed limb - a Zenlike experience. The noise comes from a spot along the lane where elk frequently emerge from the
dense bordering woods, about 40 yards above me. Once again the adrenaline surges. Once again I check my equipment and
make mentally ready by silently chanting the traditional bowhunter's aiming mantra: "Pick a spot. Pick a spot."
A few seconds more, and a bull appears. I recognize instantly that he's not one of the two behemoths from the new
spring earlier today, but a barely legal 4x4 and good enough for this meat hunter. And close behind him comes a
near-twin. Odd, seeing two bull pairs within hours of each other, though the rut is fully on and they should now be
violently competitive.
After a look around, both bulls step out into the lane - then turn away and mosey up toward the pool where they stay
for several minutes, taking turns keeping watch, drinking and horning aspen saplings. All that done with, they
indulge in a lazy, playful spar, edging slowly back down the lane toward me as they scuffle.
Suddenly, inexplicably, one of the pair somehow senses trouble, breaking off the spar and turning to rudely stare my
way. How can he know? The breeze is solid from them to me and I, fully in camouflage, haven't moved or made a sound.
For a moment the nervous bull appears indecisive, then decides and crashes off a few yards into the edge of the woods
- where he stops and stares arrows at me again. The second bull stands his ground and gawks around, seeming confused.
A few moments more, however, and number two trots along after his sharper pal. I cow call and both bulls turn back
toward me. I mew again and they mince a few steps my way. It takes nearly 10 minutes, but I finally work one of the
twins (the befuddled one) back out into the open grassy lane. The other young bull hangs at the edge of the timber,
staring first at me, then at his pal.
Yet, shades of earlier in the day, neither animal presents an ethical shot. One is in the timber and the other is
facing me straight-on. I cease calling and just sit and watch the lucky little bulls until they finally tire of the
game and crunch abruptly away, apparently none the wiser and very much alive to grow and learn.
After all that's happened this brief afternoon, I'm tempted to say thank you, enough, and head for the homestead. But
there's half an hour of shooting light left - prime time - and as Grandpa used to say, you can't catch a fish without
your line in the water. So I relax . . . and promptly hear another limb snap at the edge of the woods, a ways up the
now-shadowy grassy lane.
The wacky way this day's hunt has been going, I've come to expect that every forest noise herald an approaching elk,
and that every approaching elk (or at least one in every group) be a legal bull. Greedy, superstitious thinking and
shame on me. But now, from out of the same aspens I watched the matched pair of four-bys disappear into only minutes
ago, walks a . . . cow? Come on now. Surely there's a bull back there somewhere.
A few seconds more, as if my wish alone is enough to make it happen, and a fat-racked five-by steps up behind the
cow. Well now. I ease my bow and make ready to draw the moment the bull steps into the clear. I wait. And wait. And
so does the bull, hanging back in the quakies even when the cow strolls out into the lane and feeds carelessly my
way. At the puddle close in front of my stand, she lowers her long, graceful neck for a leisurely drink.
With the uncooperative bull momentarily forgotten, I watch and listen, rapt, as the cow sucks water in through her
teeth, just like a horse. Ms. Manners would not approve, but I love hearing every gulp and watching the cow's Adam's
apple bob up and down as she swallows.
Meanwhile, the bull keeps watch from just inside the trees. No shot there. Yet hope remains: If this pair behaves
typically, they'll switch places soon so the bull can drink while the cow keeps watch. But not this time, the cow's
robust thirst finally quenched, she rejoins her beau and the two of them disappear into the darkening woods, shadows
into shadow.
As I reach the old logging trail and coast down the mountain in the thickening darkness, I reflect on this strange,
weird, remarkable day. I've heard bugling unusually early in the rut, witnessed elk at play, seen 19 wapiti including
six bulls - four of them trophies by any sane bowhunter's standards and two of them absolute masterpieces.
I may be going home without having released an arrow, empty-handed, but - yes, sappy as it sounds, I admit it - my
heart is pounding with gratitude and joy. That's been my luck this day, and I am not complaining. Based on the
excitement, education, fun and memories it has given me, this has been one the most successful hunts of my life.
While an intent to kill is necessary to experience the full meaning of the hunt, the actual kill is merely a bonus
when it comes, not the whole game.
David Petersen's latest book is A Man Made of Elk. For details, visit davidpetersenbooks.com.
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Thursday, November 05, 2009
at 9:21:50 AM
Suggest removal
Tom says:
Dave: Sounds like a perfect day to me! Congrats on a successful day in the wilds.