Rolling with the Punches in the Elk Woods

Utah’s elk season would close in one day and I couldn’t wait for it to end. I’d hunted hard almost every day of the season and came up empty. I saw a few cows on a distant ridge and a pair of spikes crashing through the timber, but offering no shot.

I’d been hunting DIY on public land near town along with a thousand other hunters, or so it seemed. It was 1978, and Utah’s elk numbers weren’t exactly high. As I recall, there were less than 10,000 elk in the state (a far cry from their numbers today). Elk licenses were available over the counter and a large part of the state was open to general hunting. It comes as no surprise that the best hunting was on private land. National Forests and BLM lands were hammered. Hunter success was so low that if you killed a spike on public land you’d put it in the bed of your pickup and drive up and down Main Street to show off your hunting prowess and good luck. A mature bull was so rare you’d cause a traffic jam if it was displayed in your truck and you’d be labeled a hero in hunting circles.

I was tired of the pumpkin patch on the public land I hunted and was convinced that every elk in that area was either in someone’s freezer or holed up on a private mountain property. I tried everything I knew to find an elk, from watching meadows early and late in the day, hiking for miles in heavy timber, glassing old burns and logged areas and even calling. In those days vocalizing with elk was in its infancy. Few hunters tried it. I did, with no success, using a terrible sounding call I made out of a garden hose. Cow calls had not yet been invented. That would happen in the mid-80’s.

So when my 11 year old son Dan begged me to give it one more try on the final day of the season I was totally disinterested. I’d had enough. Besides, there were some projects that needed to be done around the house. Dan was profoundly disappointed, almost in tears, and I was feeling guilty. I relented and agreed that I’d give it a final shot. I told him we’d hunt half a day and call it good. His face brightened and I saw a big smile, but I was just going through the motions. I knew it would be another uneventful day in the elk woods.

We left the house long before sunup, following a long line of taillights headed up the mountain. The typical daily race was on, and I was relieved to know that after today it would be over until next year. Headlights behind me revealed more pickups, dozens of them, each containing desperate hunters who hoped for a miracle. Dust was thick as tires churned up the road, making it difficult to see the road and sometimes the vehicle in front of us.

I had no idea where to start hunting. Typically, I’d strike out from the road before dark, hiking to a place I’d scouted, but that would have been futile on this final day. There were just too many hunters.

I drove aimlessly. Pickups were parked everywhere, along the road, at the ends of two-tracks, or next to an opening in the timber. I drove my truck over the mountain, first through aspen forests, then lodgepole pine and finally spruce-fir timber at the highest elevations. I continued down the backside of the mountain until I reached the pinyon pine-juniper forest which was considered too low for elk. This landscape, locally known as PJ forest, was arid with few waterholes and produced poor forage for big game. Loose shale lie all over the forest floor offering no nutrients to the plants needed by elk and mule deer.  I didn’t know anyone who hunted the PJ forest for elk. A few pickups traveled about as hunters drove back and forth over the mountain.

One of the oncoming pickups stopped and the driver waved for us to pull over. He was a good friend who was headed back to town to buy some livestock in an auction. He had interesting news.

“There’s a tiny frozen waterhole ahead of you about 300 yards that had some activity last night. Looks like some animals tried to break ice with their hooves but the ice is solid. They couldn’t break through. Who knows? Might be some elk around. We couldn’t make out a distinct track on the frozen ground.”

Frankly, I wasn’t overjoyed at this news. Mule deer might have been the culprits and I knew livestock never grazed in this sterile PJ forest. There weren’t many other options so I parked the pickup and hiked up the slope with Dan close behind. The wind had just come up and helped muffle the sounds made by our boots in the noisy shale. It blew in our faces.

I had no clue where I was going. There was no snow on the ground to indicate animal activity.

As we walked aimlessly through the trees I suddenly spotted an elk in an opening about 50 yards away. A single cow. She was slowly walking along and soon disappeared from sight.

I was dumbfounded. This was as close as I’d come to a living, breathing elk during the entire season. I had a bull tag, and lamented the fact that my wife had a cow tag, but she was home. What lousy luck.

When we continued on we slipped over a low rise and I saw another elk, this one bedded under a juniper. Unbelievable! It was lying in such a way that its head was partially obscured with juniper branches. Because I was in a hurry to leave the house I had forgotten my binoculars. The elk had me pegged, staring at me with ears erect. Somehow I’d been able to sneak up on it. The wind was in my favor, though I wasn’t paying attention to it. For reasons I’ll never understand it remained bedded instead of exploding out from under that tree.

I slowly eased my rifle up and looked at the elk through my 4-power scope. I swore I saw antlers but I couldn’t be sure. Several light-colored branches that could pass for antler tines were positioned directly in front of its face and over its head. Above that the juniper was thick and green. I moved my upper body a few inches, trying to get a different angle. Then I decided to take a slow step to my right. Up until that time I never moved except to raise my rifle. As I took the step I looked down to avoid several rocks. In that fraction of a second when I looked away the elk sprung up and with a giant leap instantly disappeared over a small ridge and into a juniper thicket. I was astounded to see a giant rack on top of his head and dashed forward to try to get a shot. I slipped on a rock and twisted my ankle but I quickly recovered and hobbled toward the thicket. The bull was gone.

I was devastated, and the sound of the bull crashing through the trees just added to my misery. There was nothing I could do. Had I not twisted my ankle I might have tried to take off, make a big circle and hope he was headed my way, but that was out the question.

I slumped down on a log. Dan sensed my level of despair and sat down beside me.

“Do you believe that?” I asked. “Nope,” he answered. “Why in the world would those elk be bedded so close to the road?”

He was right. The bull was less than 300 yards from the forest road that was being used by dozens of hunters as they drove their pickups through the area. Like me, the hunters were just passing through, thinking that arid forest was void of elk. It was a lesson I’ve never forgotten. And I would have been the town hero. That was, and still is, my biggest regret ever.

ARIZONA BOUND

On a hunt in Arizona I was hoping for the biggest bull of my life. This southwest state was known for giants, many of them from huge Indian Reservations but plenty on public lands as well. I’d drawn a late season tag and was on Cloud 9. Drawing a nonresident elk tag in Arizona is akin to hitting a super lottery.

Prior to arriving it snowed three inches. I was delighted. I’ve always preferred hunting in snow because fresh tracks were easily evident. After an hour of hiking, my companions and I came across elk prints in the snow. Lots of them, and all bulls. I smiled widely and eased forward on the tracks. Chances were good that at least one of these bulls would be a serious wall hanger. My companions and I trailed the bulls for at least a mile. Conditions were not quite perfect for tracking. It was flat calm, which meant that the elk could hear our footfalls. On the plus side, the snow was moist and didn’t squeak maddeningly underfoot as it does when the temps are much colder.

The tracks weren’t in single file which told me that the elk weren’t on a target mission. It was evident that they were milling around a bit, feeding here and there. We were able to determine that seven bulls were somewhere in front of us. In a perfect world we’d spot the bulls before they saw us. That way I could look them over and pick the best one out but I knew the chances of that happening were slim to none. I carried my rifle ready to fire. All I had to do was shoulder it and squeeze the trigger. A live round was ready in the chamber.  I knew I might have just a second or two to react if they exploded unexpectedly from the cover.

Unfortunately I was right. Suddenly there was a crashing sound in the junipers ahead of us. Distorted tan and brown bodies were flashing about in the brush. And the antlers! They were everywhere. I shouldered my Winchester 30-06 and tried to locate the biggest bull. I settled on one when the bull appeared in a small opening. He went down and I remember almost holding my breath as I hurried toward the downed elk.

He was a good bull; a symmetrical 6 by 6 that later scored 310 B&C. But when I saw the six other bulls top a small rise with an unobstructed view I was dumbfounded. At least two were solid 350’s and/or bigger. As they ran off I realized that with them went my fantasy of killing a giant Arizona bull.

I’ve never been much of a trophy hunter. I’m a sucker for any decent antlers and am usually thinking about backstraps and steaks when I see a legal male animal. That is, unless I’m in a place where the chance of taking a trophy class animal is possible, such as killing a huge bull moose in Alaska or a huge bull elk in Arizona.

I’ve always believed that in order to be a successful elk hunter you had to put in the time. If you’re camping that means shucking the warm sleeping bag, donning cold clothes and heading out long before legal shooting light. You hike all day in mountainous terrain and arrive at camp long after darkness has set in. You’re whipped and hit the sack as soon as you have supper.

Because of the daily physical outlay, it’s no sin to take a short nap in the woods during midday. In fact, a nap will likely rejuvenate you and you’ll have a more positive attitude the rest of the day since you’ll be more alert and relaxed.

COLORADO QUANDARY

On a Colorado hunt I’d pushed myself hard on a rugged timbered slope. My leg muscles ached and I was tiring of lugging around a heavy backpack. At one point I laid down on the forest floor next to a game trail with my head resting on the backpack and my rifle lying next to me. It was a DIY hunt on public land and I knew other hunters were in the woods. I planned on eating a sandwich and catching a few winks.

I had barely fallen asleep when I was startled to hear loud crashing in the woods. I opened my eyes to see a big bull running toward me on the forest trail. I was lying about five feet away from the trail and he spotted me. He reacted by leaping into the timber, disappearing instantly. It happened so fast I had no time to grab my rifle. I cussed myself for choosing a spot so close to the trail to nap, but I wasn’t irritated because I took a nap. In fact, I seldom return to camp for lunch and take a midday break. I’ve always believed that every minute of shooting light should be spent in the elk woods. The bull that eluded me was a dandy, far bigger than the average found in that part of Colorado.

WYOMING: CHOOSE A PARTNER WISELY

Very often your companion can make or break your hunt. When hunting in Wyoming with a nonresident friend from the east coast who had no experience hunting in the west, we watched a meadow that had fresh elk sign. I planned on staying until the very end of shooting light since that’s typically when heavily hunted public land elk leave the timber to feed in open grassy areas. The place we hunted was prime grizzly country. It also had wolves, lions and black bears.

As we sat there and the sun dipped below the western horizon my friend got jittery. “Shouldn’t we leave now?” he said. “Otherwise we’ll have to walk out of here in the dark.” I tried to talk him out of his fear, telling him that grizzly attacks were rare, but he wasn’t buying it. “And suppose we kill an elk now or just before dark? I heard that grizzlies  will head for the sound of the shot which is like a dinner bell,” he continued. “And what about the danger if we’re field dressing and quartering elk in the dark? Any bear smelling that could attack us.”

I had no good answer for that, and decided to leave. The guy was a good friend and I didn’t want to create any hostility between us. We walked out of the area and climbed up a steep slope that we had to cross. At the top of the ridge I was able to look down at the meadow which was now a long way away. Through my binoculars I saw a herd of elk feeding in the opening, including a beautiful 6 point bull. My friend saw the elk as well. I looked at my cell phone and saw that legal shooting hours would end in one minute. My friend never said another word on the way out. I didn’t either.

Sometimes I’ve done things so stupid that I shake my head when I think about them, like the time I was going elk hunting with a veteran hunter that I highly respected. I was much younger than he and hadn’t had near as much elk hunting experience as he had. He was taking me to a spot where he’d located a herd of elk.

After a two-hour drive we arrived at the place in midafternoon. He told me to sit in the timber where I had a good view of a meadow where he expected elk to show just before dark. I followed his directions and chose a spot where I could lean comfortably against a tree. He went to another vantage point.  I dug in my pocket and retrieved three cartridges to load in my ,30-‘06. Imagine my horror when I realized that the shells in my hand were .270 Winchester! I couldn’t believe it. I’d used the .270 on an antelope hunt a couple weeks prior and didn’t put the loose shells back in the box. I thought the cartridges were .30-‘06s when I grabbed the jacket at home.  What a stupid mistake. There was no way to correct it. I had no idea where my companion was sitting and I wasn’t about to admit my stupidity anyway. I might have tried to find him if he was shooting a ‘06 but he was using a 7mm Rem. Mag.

And, of course, a half hour before legal shooting hours ended a herd of elk appeared in the meadow 100 yards away, including a nice 5 x 5. And there I sat with an empty rifle. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Sometimes stuff happens. Lots of stuff, some not so good.

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