Jim Zumbo: Experiences of a Veteran Elk Hunter

When I saw my first elk in Yellowstone Park, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was fascinated. I was raised in the East and had read about the big animals in outdoor magazines. To actually see a live one was a thrill. The other students in the bus rushed to the windows to see the herd. Our wildlife class at Utah State University was visiting the park in 1962 to observe animals and learn about the issues Yellowstone was having caused by too many elk.

After graduating, I hunted elk for several years before punching my first tag. As a young forest ranger, I was in good shape and hunted hard but I couldn’t close the deal. My elk hunting odyssey began in 1964, and with one unsuccessful year after another, I wondered if I’d ever kill an elk. Granted, there weren’t nearly as many elk in Utah as there are today, but many animals were nonetheless taken, though a good share were killed on private land. My efforts on public land loaded with hunters were fruitless.

I was so intrigued with elk I promised myself I’d learn everything I could about the big animals. In those days most hunters, including myself, were ignorant about calling elk. There were only a few commercial calls and none of them sounded like an elk. They were terrible. The most popular was a coiled, gold-colored metal hose that looked like it should be attached to a carburetor, which it might have been. Many of us resorted to making our own calls out of a piece of plastic pipe, a length of garden hose, or a straight branch. They also sounded terrible but sometimes they actually worked. I couldn’t understand how any self-respecting bull would fall for those bogus sounds.

With a full-time forestry career, I wrote hunting and fishing stories in my free time for outdoor magazines. Since that offered plenty of motivation to hunt more, I pursued game in earnest, especially elk. I began hunting them in other states during different times in the fall, from September bugle hunts to early winter migration hunts. I quickly learned that it was the “middle” season—the weeks between the rut and the migration that was toughest. Elk were seldom vocal and were holed up in the big timber country of the Rockies. Getting a nice bull was a really big deal.

They say experience is the mother of learning. I made many mistakes in the elk woods early on when I hunted solo or with pals who were also as much of a greenhorn as I was. As time passed, I was fortunate to have had many mentors that I deeply respected. I became educated about hunting strategies, elk behavior patterns and habits, and I began to kill elk.

Guns & Gear

I was happy with my firearm, a Winchester pre-’64 Model 70 in .30-06 topped with a fixed 4x Weaver scope. I originally wanted a pre-’64 Model 70 chambered in .270 because I was a serious Jack O’Connor fan. The ‘06 was a college graduation gift from my father-in-law. It was 1964 and the local store where he had an account had no pre-’64 Winchester’s in .270 so I settled for the ‘06.

I loved that rifle. After many hunts in rugged country it looked like it had been dragged down a rocky trail by a team of horses. I chalked that up to character and could recognize the origin of most of the deep scratches and marred spots on the stock, but it shot wonderfully well. That’s all that mattered. I used it for about 25 years and never had a regret.

Technology in the hunting industry roared in like a freight train. Over a short period of time hunters were shooting firearms with synthetic stocks and fancy scopes. Long-range shooting appeared on the scene, allowing hunters to take seemingly impossible shots.

I wasn’t much interested in taking long shots. For me, a big part of hunting is stalking as close as possible to the quarry, using the wind to my advantage and easing behind terrain and screening vegetation. I set a limit of 300 yards, but 350 would work if the wind wasn’t whipping and I had a rock-steady rest such as lying prone with my rifle propped up snugly on my backpack. I recalled a number of O’Connor articles where he practically apologized for taking a shot over 350 yards.

Determining yardage in those days was a guesstimate and was seldom close to the real distance. I took plenty of forest surveying classes in college and had a bit of experience, but it was still difficult to estimate yardage, especially across a draw. I’ll always remember the day I saw the first rangefinder at SHOT show. It was a game changer as were many other products that were being manufactured at a feverish pace, especially new guns and optics.

Part of the Revolution

I was fortunate to have become part of one of elk hunting’s greatest inventions. It was in the mid-1980s when I chatted with Don Laubach in a saloon in Gardiner, Montana. Yellowstone Park literally borders Gardiner and elk are commonly seen in town. Don lived there and observed elk practically every day. During our conversation he produced an item from his pocket and held it out for me to see.

“Know what this is?”

I shook my head and he blew in it.

“Sounds like a cow elk,” I said.

“Right!” Don responded. “What do you think about it?”

I had barely sipped on my first beer and was definitely thinking clearly, but I didn’t know what he was getting at.

“Think about it,” Don said. “When you hunt turkeys you sound like a hen in order to call in a gobbler. The cow call works the same way with bull elk. I know it works. I’ve tried it many times.”

My reaction was predictable and I believe it was the underlying reason Don presented his idea to me. I was excited. “How about I check with my editor and see if he’s interested in this story,” I said.

Don reached over and shook my hand. He gave me the call and told me to use it and find out for myself if it worked or not.

I was speechless. This was a bombshell, a story I was positive the boss editor would love. Articles about new ways to improve hunting and fishing were always in high demand. I used the call extensively, not only to vocalize with bulls but in other applications as well. It worked like a charm.

When I wrote the story, “Elk Hunting’s Newest Secret,” I was able to add shipping information and the cost of the call at the end of the article. Don said he and his wife made a couple hundred and he hoped to sell some.

That didn’t happen. He sold countless calls and a new dimension to elk hunting was born. I was lucky to have gotten the scoop on the story simply because of my friendship with Don. In no time other manufacturers rushed to the scene and produced different versions of the call. Nowadays practically every hunter has one or two in his or her pocket.

Hunts by Horseback

I’ve hunted elk in lowland deserts, mid-elevation aspen forests and a variety of other habitats. A favorite technique now that I’m in my Golden Years is to ambush an elk on public land after it leaves ranch croplands. By far, the bulk of my hunting adventures were in remote backcountry areas accessed by horses.

I’ve always loved hunting with horses, either my own or countless others, though I’ll admit I was somewhat unnerved on that very first ride before sunup. It was so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, trusting your horse to stay on a trail carved out along a cliff or a trail full of downed logs. I especially love to hunt wilderness areas where gas-powered engines are prohibited. That rules out chain saws and generators. Firewood is cut by hand and light is provided by propane or white gas lanterns and flashlights. I especially like the gas lanterns because when you turn them off you have about 10 seconds to jump in your sleeping bag before the light goes out. And if you don’t get up often to stoke the stove in your wall tent, you’ll cuss the summer sleeping bag you thought would keep you warm because the temperature in the tent will soon approximate that of the chilly outside air.

A trio of hunts in Idaho’s Selway wilderness were most memorable. Horses were necessary to reach the distant camps and pack out game. I scored on six-point bulls on all three hunts—all of them producing wonderful memories. One that stands out was a hunt where I shot a bull on a very steep slope. It died at the shot and slid down the slope before freefalling off a cliff, landing belly down. It landed in a stand of alder saplings, wedging itself in tightly. My guide, Kenny Smith, and I worked half the night sawing the trees so we could field-dress the bull and quarter it there.

To me, those are the quintessential elk hunts. Listening to a bull bugle while snuggled in your sleeping bag will ensure little sleep and you’ll pay for it the next day when you’re hiking the rugged mountains. If you’re in my neck of the woods in Wyoming you’re apt to hear wolves howling and see grizzlies or their fresh sign which will make you a tad more observant with your surroundings.

A Family Tradition

My most special elk hunts involved my family—daughter Judi’s first 6x6 bull, daughter Angela’s cow, son Dan’s first 6x6 with a muzzleloader, and my wife Madonna’s massive 5x5 bull.

Madonna had drawn one of Wyoming’s finest elk tags, a late season hunt that allowed her to hunt migrating bulls well into December. Only 10 tags were offered, and we live in the unit. It was a brutal hunt with below zero temps and gale force winds. Each day we’d hunt several miles up the bottom of a canyon, then climb the slope and hunt the ridge back to the road. The next day we repeated the process in the next canyon and continued the hunt by working each canyon and ridge. We saw some decent bulls, but were hoping for a good one. On the eve of the last day, a neighbor who lived up the mountain told us he’d seen a big bull in his headlights on his way home from work. With nothing to lose we decided to look for him in the morning. As luck would have it, we found him and Madonna put him down with one bullet. He scored 333 B&C which is exceptional for a 5x5.

The More Things Change...

Looking back, I see a completely transformed world where technology and societal changes have reframed the very essence of elk hunting. I recall knocking on a rancher’s door to ask for permission to hunt. Most of the time I’d not only get a “yes,” but also a piece of homemade pie and a cup of coffee. Try that nowadays. Ranches in most states are leased for big money with few exceptions. While the West has tens of millions of public land acres to hunt, private ranches have always offered the best odds of scoring with far fewer hunters and more available elk.

Getting a tag today is tantamount to winning the lottery in some cases. Wildlife managers are micro-managing big game by establishing hunt units with quotas based on herd management objectives. Tags are usually available via a lottery draw. Because the best units are in highest demand, states offer preference or bonus points to increase the odds of drawing. Under the preference point system a young hunter may spend most of a lifetime accumulating enough points to draw. Years ago, there were few limited quota areas. General seasons were prevalent; you hunted whatever unit striked your fancy. I hunted a elk unit in Colorado the last year general seasons were offered, killing a nice 6-point bull. The very next year, the preference point system was initiated. Now, that unit requires more than 30 preference points to draw.

Other changes have come about. Navigational guides instantly show us land ownership, boundaries, terrain features, trails, waterholes, hidden lakes—everything you need to know on a device that fits in your pocket. Forget paper maps and compasses. Other devices will show you migration trails, drones (illegal for actual hunting almost everywhere) will give you a birds eye view of the land around you, trail cams will show you where elk are most active and thermal imaging devices will allow you to see animals at night. ATVs are everywhere and can be beneficial or a nightmare depending on the attitudes of hunters who love or hate them.

I’m not saying all these changes are bad—they’re different. But what hasn’t changed is the elk. A mature bull still weighs around 700 pounds, his bugle still sends chills up and down spines, his awesome antlers and handsome body are a sight to behold, and his flesh is superb on the table. He’s apt to wear you out when you hunt him, and you’re likely to eat tag soup rather than a backstrap.  His home in the Western mountains is too awesome to describe in words. You must see it to understand, and when you hear your first piercing bugle you’ll never be the same. That’s a promise.

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