Dealing with Ghost Camps While Hunting Public Ground

Wayne Carlton himself (RIP) couldn’t have dreamed up a better spot for an elk camp. The mainline access leaves the highway and peels off in a series of gravel spurs before dwindling to a deep-rutted jeep trail. Deadfall and boulders force most drivers to turn around, but for those willing to press forward, a slippery crawl up a crumbling slope flattens into an old landing overlooking elk country Shangri La.

Dark timber slopes meet sagebrush parkland. Boot-friendly mountain brooks meander through wildflower meadows. A burn to the southwest is three years into the regrowth stage with belly-deep browse swaying between the blackened trunks. “Like something from a Miracle Gro commercial,” my buddy later remarked. You don’t need to see the violent elk rubs to know this will be a big bull magnet, come September. Nor the swimming-pool sized wallows connected by a series of deep-rutted game trails. Nor even the piles of droppings that looked like somebody had dumped a cartoon of movie theater Whoppers every three feet.

Yes, this is elk country par excellence. And as I stood on the broad turnoff at the end of the skid trail, overlooking this basin in all off its glory, I pulled out my phone and dropped a pin. “Elk Camp,” I labeled it, without hesitation. Then clicked send.

“What’s this?” my buddy Dave asked as our pickup crawled over the crest of the final slope. It was six weeks later. Still a full seven days before the elk opener. We had scheduled this final summer scouting trip to check our cams and make a final game plan for Day 1. What we hadn’t expected to find was a jaunty orange pup tent already set up in our campsite.

Don't Be Discouraged

“Looks like a one-person setup,” I said. “Maybe a hiker or something?”

We eased the truck alongside the tent and idled for a bit. No one unzippered the door. Dave rolled down the window and killed the engine.

“Hello?” Dave called. “Anyone home?”

No response.

“Probably out picking wildflowers,” I said. “Let’s scout.”

We found no sign of the mysterious camper in our scouting excursion that day. No boot prints. No bent-over brush. No new trail cameras over the wallows. The meadows appeared as pristine and undisturbed as they had in July. Still, the presence of a tent in our newest secret spot was unsettling.

“I’m gonna get out here on Tuesday,” Dave remarked on the hike out. “That’s one, two, three…FOUR days before the opener.”

“All vacation days,” I reminded him. “You have that much PTO to burn?”

“Mental health days, brother,” Dave tapped his forehead. “As in, MY mental health in knowing we’ll get this campsite. Don’t worry about it.”

I didn’t. Until the text pinged in from Dave the following Tuesday night. It was a photo of the campsite. Same little orange tent, set smack in the middle of the old logging landing, accompanied by Dave’s message: “He’s still here,” followed by an emoji of a yellow head erupting in a cloud of smoke.

I tapped the phone on my leg and sighed. Welcome to elk hunting in the online mapping era, I reminded myself. No secret spots. No hidden basins. And no limit to the number of maniacal weirdos willing to sleep in a tent a full week before the opener just to lay dibs on a prime location. Or maybe not.

I reopened the text and zoomed in on the photo. Was it just me, or was the tent sagging oddly? Like a pole was bent, or missing. And through the unzippered window…

Subtly Investigate?

I phoned Dave. “Look inside.”

“Huh?”

“Are you still at the campsite? You need to look inside the tent.”

“Are you crazy? Isn’t that illegal?

“Listen…” I began, then unfolded my theory.

What we were dealing with here, I was certain, was a ghost camp. Don’t know what I’m talking about? Well, pour yourself a tin cup of camp coffee and Google the term. You’ll find yourself crawling down a rabbit hole of fierce online debates, name calling, vandalism, fist fights, and in-depth legal analysis of the confusing patchwork of rules governing National Forest Service, BLM, state, and private lands all boiling down to a single question: Is it ok to set up a “camp” to lay claim to a prime location days or weeks before the season…even if you don’t actually camp there until the opener? Think of it as the elk hunting equivalent of calling “shotgun” for a ride in the family minivan. Or licking the biggest cookie on the platter. Set up a tent weeks in advance and the spot is yours. Is this legal? Is this ethical?

The legal question is murky. Most public lands limit camping in a single location to an established number of days (fourteen consecutive days on National Forest or BLM land, ten days in many state forests), but these rules don’t specify that you actually have to SLEEP in your camp each of these nights. Or whether your buddy can show up as your ten-day window is closing and set up HIS camp in place of yours to reset the clock altogether. Add to all this that federal layoffs have diminished the already thin capacity of authorities to enforce these rules and what you end up with are elk hunters policing elk hunters.

Which leads to that even hairier question: Are ghost camps ethical? Ask six different public elk hunters, you’ll get six different perspectives­perhaps split along generational lines. The Instagram cohort is used to over-the-top elk antics. “No one loses their minds like elk hunters,” observes Editor-In-Chief and lifelong elk nut Skip Knowles (as he’s lacing up his Nikes at the trailhead for a footrace to the hottest wallow). And those who grew up in the OnX/HuntStand era EXPECT there to be four other groups grappling over a single campsite. Or half-a dozen bowhunters bugling at the same bull you’re stalking. This isn’t new to the younger generation; this is the world in which Millennial and Gen-Z elk hunters cut their teeth. So the flat-brim-and-mustache guys have no problem setting up a Walmart pup tent and cheapo camp chair three weeks before the opener to stake their claim. And won’t be offended if you do the same.

Discernment is Key

But try this at an established camp where old timers have hunted for generations, and the response could be different. One seasoned local elk hunter puts it this way: “Most of my hunting partners are 60 to 80 years old. Several crawled through the jungles of Vietnam. I wouldn’t mess with them. Walk up to their campfire, they’ll greet you with open arms and a string of jokes. But if you show up with attitude, well, that would be a mistake. Life is too short to fight over a flat spot in the road.” Words of wisdom, for those with ears to hear.

Which is why I was relieved that Dave was the one tasked with the duty of looking into the tent, not me. Elk season was on the line. His personal safety was a risk I was fully willing to take.

“Ok, I’ll do it,” he resolved. “If that tent is empty, we’re setting up ours next to it. Period. I’ll text you what I find.”

An hour passed. No word from Dave. Then another. 7 p.m.. 8 p.m.... 8:45…I picked up my phone and called.

All is Well

“Nate, my man, how you doing?” It was Dave’s voice. He sounded relaxed, like he was stretched on a bed. A hint of laughter in the background.

“Is everything ok?”

“Ok? Man. Let me tell you. Actually, can you switch to FaceTime?”

As the video call came into focus, Dave’s face filled half the screen. Beside him was the caveman from the Geico commercials. Or at least his lookalike. Shaggy dreadlocks. Beard. Smiling eyes with the dreamy expression of one who has spends a good deal of time communing with disembodied beings on a higher plane.

“This is Periwinkle. It’s his tent, man.” Dave panned the camera to the side, where a bare-armed young woman in an Argentine-style pancho was stirring something over the campfire. “That’s Fern. Say hi Fern! They live here.”

“They LIVE there?” I asked.

“Yes. Every August.” Dave lowered his voice. “Dude, they’re totally cool with us camping with them for the elk season. Even offered to show us the spot where Fern saw a big bull during her last communal mushroom retreat. And Periwinkle said he’d help pack if we trade him some meat. No joke.”

I was at a loss.

“Hey, I gotta go, bro. We’re starting the meal ceremony.” The camera veered back to Periwinkle, who had assumed a cross-legged position and placed what appeared to be a hand-carved aspen didgeridoo to his lips. “But one more thing. Can you swing by the co-op on your way out and snag some organic alpaca colostrum secretions? Periwinkle wants to purify you when you get here with a few drops in your navel but his stash is running low.”

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