Odd and Fascinating Discoveries in Elk Country

We should have backed out when we saw the ribbons. Faded strips of colored fabric cinched to the branches of stunted birch in a secluded copse two miles from the nearest road. A narrow trail led to a clearing. “Are those bones? Or what?” my friend pointed to a rude fire ring in the center. Uncut stones guarded ashy remains about the length of a human tibia.

“Gotta be logs,” I reasoned. “Look, here’s the rest of the wood.” A tidy stack of cut limbs leaned against a trunk on the perimeter—next to a candle. Cold. Melted nearly to the base. Another candle stood vigil a few feet away. And another. “Like a party spot or something,” my friend remarked. “High school drinkers.”

“Then where are the bottles?”

Dusk had fallen. A whisper of air brought the fabric to life. Fluttering. Rustling. A creak from the limbs above. “Dude…”

Head-Scratchers

I followed my friend’s eyes upward. There, from a hoary limb that extended across the gap in the canopy, a silhouette swung from a rope. Four hooves. Curling horns. A bloated belly. It was a goat. No sign of wounds or trauma. Like it had been hung there alive. But clearly alive no more. “Let’s go.”

If you spend enough time in the elk woods, you’re going to see weird stuff. This is because elk live in some of the roughest, thickest, most inaccessible patches of real estate left in these United States. And you know who else seeks out these secluded spots? Weirdos. And outlaws. And hermits. And feral livestock. And quite possibly mythical creatures (lookin’ at you, Sasquatch). So if you’re heading west this fall, in search of elk, you need to be prepared for what you will find…whatever that might be. Below are some categories to consider.

People

We had backpacked rifles and camp and high expectations 16 miles deep into Washington’s Glacier Peak Wilderness. The trail began with eight miles of river grade walking atop a broad, popular footpath. The next six miles required slashing and thrashing our way through alder tangles and devil’s club on a series of abandoned switchbacks. The final ascent had us leaping boulder-to-boulder in avalanche chutes and clinging to mountain huckleberry bushes like rappelling lines on near-vertical slopes. So when we finally made it to camp, what did we find? Two overweight women in rock climbing gear who cheerfully greeted us from their campfire and asked what we were hunting.

People are the last thing you expect to find in the elk woods, but these days they seem to be everywhere. At least these women were clothed. An older family friend often recounts the time she rounded a corner of a wilderness trail to come face-to-(uh)-face with a man in boots and pack and mustache and knee-high woolen socks and absolutely nothing else. Since this was the 1970’s, both smiled, remarked on the weather, and kept on hiking. All groovy.

Hermits

Also in the “people” category, but a class of their own. Most national forests discourage permanent residents by requiring campers to pick up and move after 14 consecutive days. But with limited resources, these rules are loosely enforced at best. So it’s not at all a surprise to pick your way down from an old logging landing and find a dugout in the hillside with a Dutch oven out front and a Tibetan flag fluttering from a stone chimney.

Even more common are the “van people” taking up residence on national forest pullouts. Growing up, we’d drive past shabby Volkswagen buses occupied by gaunt smiling hippies with more body hair than a Russian wrestler (the men were pretty hairy, too). But nowadays you’re just as likely to find a $280k customized Mercedes Sprinter with an Instagram model in the driver’s seat and her man-bunned programmer boyfriend writing code on his laptop in the back. If you do, be sure to inquire about recent elk sightings. His AI assistant will point you to the best drainage before you’re done asking the question.

Crime Scenes

Or at least items you’d expect to find on the set of CSI, not in the untouched wilderness. Piles of ripped clothing. Abandoned firearms. Dismembered barbie dolls. Rubber gloves. Meth labs. Cryptic notes. We come across abandoned vehicles with relative frequency in our neck of the woods, including a 2014 Chevrolet Spark nose-down in a national forest ditch a dozen miles from the pavement last year. It had been there for months, according to a friend. Curiosity prompted us to open the passenger door. The backseat was full of board games. Nothing else in the vehicle. We drove on.

Some of these finds, of course, will require a call to the county sheriff. Others will leave you to complete the story with your imagination. Consider this hunting forum classic shared by an Oregon elk hunter. He was walking in the sage flats when he came across a man’s shirt. Five feet further, a pair of pants. Then: “an arrow case full of arrows with broadheads, two drink tokens from a bar in Roseberg, ten feet further a five-dollar bill and two more one-dollar bills, and then a pair of men’s underwear.” Fill in the blanks with that one, Sherlock. And then go hunt somewhere else.

Paranormal Activity

Probably every hunting family can tell a story in this category. One such treasured tale comes from my dad (a story he only tells around a campfire, so we couldn’t possibly put the whole thing in print). But the basic plot involves spending a night with a buddy in Roosevelt elk country on the Olympic Peninsula and avoiding near-abduction by a UFO. No joke. To this day the friend won’t talk about it, but my dad will go to his grave swearing to its authenticity—his right hand raised in a Trekkie salute.

Two other relatives recall the time they were awakened in their camper on state forestland by hoots and grunts (like an ape), slapping stones and breaking branches. In the morning, the only sign they could find were unusually large footprints in the mud. Humanoid. Or something like it. So if you’ve ever longed for a glimpse of sasquatch, or maybe an encounter with a vacant-eyed girl levitating above a misty trail in billowing nightgown, elk hunting might be your ticket.

Feral animals

A local hunter heard a rustle in the timber beside an overgrown logging road. He was readying his rifle when a shaggy white llama exploded from the brush, sprinting across the road and plunging out of sight down the other side. Not long after, the man encountered two young hunters hiking in and recounted the story. Immediately, one of the kids turned to the other, punched his finger in his chest, and said, “I TOLD you there was a stinkin’ llama in there!”

Often, these non-game species are the ones to fear the most. In 2011, a college buddy’s uncle gave me permission to hunt elk on his high-desert wheat farm but warned: “Watch out for the donkey.” He explained that a neighbor’s donkey had escaped years ago and was now living wild in the sagebrush draws. “He’s mean. He’ll hurt you.”

His words echoed in my mind as I crept down a cattle trail in brush-choked coulee. Fifteen yards of visibility, at most. Littered with elk tracks and droppings. My eyes were glued to the dirt when I was stopped short by the stomp of a hoof. And a wheezing snort. And a pair of twitching gray ears above the buckbrush, within spitting distance. A snarling grizzly could not have induced a more potent adrenaline dump. I backed out slowly and never hunted the canyon of Death Donkey ever again.

And one more thing… Sit down for this one, pilgrim. Between all these encounters with outlaws and hermits, abandoned drug dens and feral camels—you just might stumble upon an elk. If you do, stay calm. Move slowly. And take a photo. Your friends will never believe you if you don’t.

---