The Scapegoat

We rode to camp through the pitch black forest, the ground invisible in the dark abyss beneath the horses' bellies, no sound save the occasional clack of hoof on rock or the blowing of a horse. The lack of landmarks by which to chart our progress created a feeling of timelessness and left plenty of opportunity to dwell upon what should have been a highlight of my hunting career.

We'd found the bull the day before in a vast canyon far from our camp in the Scapegoat Wilderness, part of the 1.5 million-acre Bob Marshall Wilderness Complex in northwestern Montana. We'd stopped to rest on the top of a mountain we'd just climbed and were getting ready to eat lunch when outfitter John Way blew a high, keening bugle. A couple bites into our sandwiches, a belated reply floated up to us from a canyon to the north. We dropped our food and rushed to the edge to look and listen; the faint answers became louder, and the bull soon appeared far below, his pale tan body contrasting with the dark green spruces.

A quick look through the binoculars showed us he was a big 6x6, and John, Mike Jensen and I scrambled to gather our gear before plunging off the top of the ridge to get into position. As the bull crossed an opening in the timber, Mike ranged the distance to be 360 yards, and I thought to myself Is it going to be over this quick? If the bull stayed on his current course, I'd get a shot of about 250 yards. But the bull disappeared shortly after that, dropping deeper into the canyon, bugling all the way.

"It's no big surprise why he's here," John said as we mulled our options. "This is the end of the world, boys. We're as far from any camp back here as you can be."

Considering that our tent camp was already 14 miles from the trailhead, we were about as far from hunting pressure as one can be in the Lower 48--just the place to find a really big bull on public land during the state's coveted limited wilderness rifle elk season.

The day was getting on, and we decided to come back in the morning and try again. The next day we hoofed to a saddle on the same ridge--resting briefly for a slug of water and drinking in the beauty of the first rays of light striking the higher peaks. We crossed the saddle and angled downhill through the heavily timbered sidehill and into the heart of the canyon.

We stopped at a good vantage point, and John bugled but got no response. We dug in to wait--lying tightly against logs, rocks and whatever else offered scant shelter from the chilly wind--and hoped the sun would eventually find us. It did not, and we were half-frozen by the time the bull bugled in late afternoon.

It felt good to be up and moving, and we were fortunate to find a well-worn game trail that led us through the thick cover of the canyon side and toward the bottom, where the bull was answering John's calls with gusto.

We reached a point where the three upper arms of the canyon converged, and we moved this way and that as we tried to find a way to reach the bull without spooking him--but a wildly switching breeze sent the puffs of powder from John's wind checker in every direction.

"You know what we're in for if we go straight at him," John said. "It's late, it's going to be one hell of a climb out of here, and with this damned wind our chances aren't great. What do you want to do?"