The Hunt

The night before, playing cards with Seth and Alden, I bet that it would be clear in the morning.  No one takes me up on this bet, despite under heavy clouds and listening to snow pellets hit the tent, it didn’t seem likely I would win.  I also stated I might take a “pass” on the morning ride.  We had been up early two days in a row, alarm clock jostling a good sleep at 4:30am.  Ugh.  Alden holds her big cards until the end.  Her new nickname is Ruth-less!  Fitting!  Pictured below, the beautiful sisters, Alden (right) and Orley (left). 

We play cards too long into the night and the alarm clock sounds at its unreasonably early time.  I get up.  Today, I wear three pairs of socks and my red Duluth underwear that Mike got me for Christmas.  You laugh.  These things are important!  My black good luck scarf is around my neck and above my under armor shirt layer is my black wool Pendleton sweater with the windproof black sweater over that – all good luck clothing items from years past (excluding the new underwear).  I’ve been worried about the straps and buckles sewn onto my zippered bottomed Rivers West gear ever since I finally got around to doing that needed addition.  Since added, I have not killed an elk.  I worry about this more that you might imagine.

Down the trail into the darkness.  Seth pulls a mule – Buzzy, Alden rides the big skinny yellow horse named Chancy, and I am atop Gus, my mule, the fourth day of riding for him.  He is fat and strong and shows no sign of being weary.  The sky, is clear.  I would have won my bet!  We head east to a lighting horizon.  Two great horned owls hoot hoot to each other at the top of the meadow by the Elk Fork River below camp.  The air is crisp and clean and cold.  I inhale deeply.  It is a beautiful morning, bright with the new snowfall.

We travel yesterday’s trail, Seth knocking the snow off the branches so we endure less falling on our heads, and legs, and down the back of our necks.  The trail zigs and zags between junipers and pine trees, down and around Swede Creek, jumping from one side to the other.  Today, the skies are clear and we climb higher and higher.  Jumping off on a ridgeback, Seth and Alden spy a 5 point bull elk.  Alone and coming our direction.  The two drop down the ridge, into thick forest to try to call this bull in closer.  I wait on the ridge, gun loaded, just in case he shows himself. 

Their cow calling to the bull ceases and they appear back on the ridgeback.  He must have winded us, Seth ponders.  We call Mike on the radio – he has stayed at camp to wrangle the herd, do some camp chores, and enjoy some relaxation time.  We are bit too far for these radios.  Seth walks up to a knob to get better reception.  I look to the southeast, glassing open meadows and ridgetops.

Suddenly Seth is running toward me.  At first, I cannot figure why and then I know.  He has spotted an elk.  We look for Alden.  She is no where.  Her horse is there tied up, but she is no where to be found.  Seth hustles me up to a dead tree for a rest.  I cannot see an elk.  And then he shows me the elk.  It is 375 yards away.  I look through my scope.  The elk is tiny and pointing toward me.  “Talk to him,” I ask.  Seth makes sure I’m ready and squeaks out a cow call.  The elk turns sideways and I blast off a shot.  I miss.  I shoot again.  We hear the spat.  The elk walks to the ridgeline.  Seth urges me to keep shooting.  I shoot again and hear the splat.  The elk continues to stand.  I shoot again and miss.  I shoot again.  This time the elk topples and falls down.

. 

Alden appears.  She had gone off into the woods to pee.  I feel bad.  The first elk was to be her elk.  But this is hunting and one dares not wait.  Later, Alden will make sure I know she would not have shot an elk at that distance.  Still I am ripped with guilt and happiness!  We have an elk on the ground and walk our horses over to find where it came to rest.

The elk is lodged down a steep bank, about 50 feet below the trail.  Seth finishes the elk off.  My shots have opened up his belly and hit a front and back leg.  Not shooting to be very proud of, indeed.  Although, I do note, for the record, that I have not ruined any meat.  It is the meat that is the prize for me, not the antlers. 

It is work to harvest this elk’s meat and I admire Seth’s strength and appreciate his grace in being gentle on my shooting expertise.  The crawl up the snow-covered steep slope with the four quarters, backstraps, and loins makes our hearts pound in our eardrums!  Mike shows up with another mule, we sip a bit of hard liquor to toast the elk who has given his life for our story telling and eating pleasure.  Loaded, we walk the steep hill down, knees cringing down the slippery slope turned muddy from the afternoon sun.  On flat ground, we mount our rides and zig zag back to camp under dripping snow covered branches.

I have a great reverence for the act of hunting.  To me, it is an incredible privilege to take an animal’s life.  It is also a sport for me – winning is hunting, looking, finding, shooting, killing, and harvesting.  I am not ashamed of this competitive drive, it’s what gets me up at the ridiculous hour of 4:30am and pushes me into my gear inside of a very cold white canvas tent. 

Next time I go out to hunt – I still have another elk tag to fill – I will be wearing red underwear!  I might try to visit the shooting range once or twice too!