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Strong work and congrats, Dave. That’s gotta feel extra-good after such a tough season.
It ends with the sun setting over the Big Hole mountains. A Sharp-Shinned Hawk swoops in, landing on a branch close to where I’m sitting. It isn’t sure what I am, but it’s very curious. It takes wing, flies in a circle around me, and lands on another branch, closer this time, staring at me intently. It goes on like this for ten minutes or so, this magnificent little predator just a couple arms lengths away, and then it alights in search of something tastier.
As the sun sets, I can hear shod hooves clacking on the trail, as a family that horsepacked in for the weekend heads home. Incessant bugling, of the obviously two-legged variety, booms from the meadow above, driving everything else into silence.
Yet I wouldn’t trade this month for anything, and while no elk were harmed in the making of this thread, the hunting was never, ever a waste of time.
I worked hard. I sweated, and at times had to stop and catch my breath. I came home dirty and honestly tired and slept like a rock.
On an almost daily basis, I felt blood and oxygen pumping through my body with an urgency I sadly seldom experience throughout much of the rest of the year.
I spent time in very close proximity to elk, bear, moose and the many other occupants of the land behind my house. I spent many hours just sitting and listening. How many people can say that anymore?
I mostly succeeded at pushing the distractions away and focused.
I felt alive.
Thanks! I’ll be heading out again shortly.
As for what’s next? Starting tomorrow, it’s time to get Hank out, and let him do what he’s bred for, till the snow’s too deep for him to run:
The elk woods were absolutely and eerily silent last night. Have they moved on? I doubt it, as we’re close to two reliable water sources and good cover, both of which are at a premium in this extremely dry September. No, I believe they are still here, somewhere in thick cover, laying low and keeping to themselves. Maybe its the full moon? There are a whole host of theories on this, but in the end, what are you going to do, not hunt, when you only have this one, precious month?
But the woods did give up one of their own, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say if felt good to come home with something for the larder:
5am comes way too early on the last day of my archery elk season. The first 20 minutes uphill, following the spot of light from my headlamp, involved quelling a minor rebellion from my lactic acid-filled legs. A month of this is beginning to take its toll, but the alternative will never be an option as long as I can help it.
A few faint bugles in the distance. Another grouse that flushes as soon as I nock an arrow. The sun pulls itself up over a ridge on the Wyoming border behind me, and golden aspens light up, infused with brilliant color. Coyotes caterwaul at the edge of a farm far below. Thoughts turn to what I might do differently tonight, on this last evening of the season, if anything.
Little to add that hasn’t already been well-stated, but another hearty “congrats” Tombow!! Hard-earned meat always tastes better.
Last night’s welcome rain softens the crunch of recently fallen aspen leaves. We cruise uphill in pre-dawn light, whispering our excitement. The evening before, solo, I almost stumbled upon a big bull moose bedded down in the meadow. I hunkered behind a tree and watched him as the light faded, and heard another large animal entering the meadow. “Probably his girlfriend,” I thought.
And then the 6×6 rack emerged.
And then another bull bugled close behind me.
After a week of little activity, it was on again. The big bull walked out into the meadow, and met the gaze of the moose. He turned, and headed back the way he came, silently. Shortly thereafter, I could hear the bull bugling from the direction he’d headed, down the hill. I tried not to spook the moose while starting to head in the direction of the bull. The moose got up an did the same. He cut me off, and I dared not get closer to a large bull moose at this time of year. I conceded, knowing the elk would likely not move far before morning.
And after a restless night of recounting the evening in my head, and the size of the bull I laid eyes on not 50 yards away, I enlisted a friend to head back in this morning to call for me.
We got on some bugling bulls early on, but couldn’t entice them. Spent the rest of the morning and half of the afternoon scouting new territory along the Wyoming border. Headed home for lunch and a nap. Woke up late afternoon, brewed coffee and headed out again.
An immature bull could be heard keening on the hillside below. We moved toward him…and then the primary bull bellowed from the aspens below, ending in a few deep, guttural coughs to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind about who he was, or what he was about. We set up and called. The big bull kept wailing from thick cover, but then a silent, satellite bull emerged into the clearing. A few mews and he began working toward us, the big bull bellowing in the background all the while. The wind shifted just as it became too dark to shoot anyway, and the satellite winded us and bolted back into cover.
We stood on the hillside, watching the orange and purples of day’s end fading into dark over our town in the valley below, serenaded by continued bugling. Neither of us wanted to leave, but it was now dark, and warm food and spouses awaited. “One more bugle, and then we’ll go….” And it came, and we did.
