High Country Hunting Guide by the High Country Shopper

Transcription

PAGE 2
HIGH COUNTRY HUNTING TALES & GUIDE 2015
PAGE 3
W
elcome to the High Country Shopper’s 36th Annual High Country Hunting Tales & Guide. Once
again, outdoorsmen (and women!) from out-of-state, all-around-the-state, and locally have entertained us
with their most memorable hunting and fishing stories – from the dramatic to the hilarious! Winners
from this year’s contest for “My Favorite Hunting or Fishing Tale” were awarded $200 for first place, $100
for second place, and $50 for third place. We hope you enjoy their tales of adventure, and we look forward
to reading your stories!
In This Issue...
A High Country Shopper
Publication ©2015
PO Box 7, Paonia, CO 81428
970-527-4576
Read the Shopper online!
www.HighCountryShopper.com
Page 4 - 1st Place Winner
“The Brush Fuzz” by Steve Hodges
Page 5 - My Life as a Hunter Education Instructor
- Why I Do It by Bob Cox
Page 6 - 2nd Place Winner
“Elk Hunting on the Hog” by Ken Slocum
Page 7 - “Stalking My Dinner”
by Christie Aschwanden
Page 8 - 3rd Place Winner
“My Dream Weekend” by Ashley Carney
Page 9 - Honorable Mention
“The Old Man’s Stump” by Gary Broughton
“My Archery Hunting Adventure”
by Rick Ercker
Page 13 - Last Year’s Winner
“The First Hunt” by Diane Norris
“Diary of a Deer Hunt” by Sharill Beach
“Naps” by Charles Gross
“My Fish on a Hook” by Caleb Sullivan
Page 18 - Care and Handling of Game Meat
“Two-fer-One” by David M. Delo
Page 22 - 2015-16 Small Game Season Dates (Birds)
Page 23 - 2015-16 Big Game Season Dates
Page 24 - 2015-16 Small Game Season Dates
Page 25 - Wild Game Recipes
A miserable
day out hunting
still beats a
good day
in the office!
PAGE 4
The Winners...
“The Brush Fuzz”
1st Place Winner
I
By Steve Hodges
Hotchkiss, Colorado
t was 1964 and a good year for hunting, but I faced
two problems. Deer season opened October 24 and I
didn’t turn 14 until October 29. All of the guys in my
freshman class at Paonia High School already bragged
about their opening morning bucks.
My second problem was my dad, our area Game
Warden. Have you ever hunted with a Game Warden?
Dad helped with several phases of game management
and he carried a myriad of law enforcement responsibilities. He knew where all the big bucks stayed and he
knew the back country from Grand Mesa to Black Mesa.
At 4:15 PM on October 29, I handed my hard earned
$7.50 to Mr. Hagie at Hagie’s Store in Crawford to purchase my first deer tag. My hunt would last seven days
and Dad intended to let me miss school! It was like
Christmas Eve. All night I envisioned the perfect stalk
and successful hunt.
The next morning, Dad’s voice sounded different.
From somewhere in my dark room he gently said,
“Steve, if you don’t get up you are going to miss the
school bus.” What? Miss the school bus? Is he crazy? I’d
lived for that morning! I pulled back the blankets as he
repeated himself, only this time it was my mom’s voice.
My plans changed with her next handful of sentences.
“The Delta dispatcher called around midnight. Someone reported a spot-lighter on Fruitland Mesa and your
dad is not home yet. You need to get ready for school.”
I kicked rocks all the way down the driveway to the
bus.
“Get your buck yet?” My buddies’ question wouldn’t have been so hard to answer if I hadn’t done so
much bragging the day before about how it wouldn’t
take me long to fill my license. All day I shot bucks out
each classroom window as the teachers droned on. That
evening, Dad was quiet but assured me I could skip
school the next day and we’d get up early and head to
the mountains.
Before we arrived at our spot, Dad said, “Did you
see that guy? He just shot at a deer from the edge of the
highway. I have to talk to him. Stay in the pickup and
I’ll be right back.” I watched the morning wake up the
skyline.
We finally turned off the highway and headed into
the mountains. “Oh! We need to stop at that hunting
camp back in the trees and make sure those hanging
deer all have carcass tags.”
Those hunters were wasting my time. I should have
been working on my own carcass tag by then. Dad returned and we continued down the dusty road. After a
few minutes, he slowed the pickup and told me, “I’d
better check those road hunters ahead of us to make
sure their rifles are unloaded.”
Great. As soon as dad got out of the pickup, I rolled
down my window and scoured the hillside nearest us.
After several seconds of searching, I spotted him. The
biggest four-point buck I had ever seen. I could hardly
believe it. He was worth waiting for. I didn’t shake as
much as I had thought I would. I aimed and calmly
squeezed off a shot, dropping him instantly. Then, to
my surprise, another buck appeared and I got him too.
By the time dad returned, I had shot a dozen bucks in
my mind.
I told dad I was ready to do my own hunting and he
assured me we were on our way. The words barely escaped his mouth when the radio crackled. The dispatcher told him someone had killed a deer on the top
of Black Mesa and had left it. We needed to go up and
find it, dress it out and load it. We headed back to town
with the deer in the bed of the pickup and delivered it
to Puff Allen’s locker plant in Hotchkiss. It would be
processed and donated to the Delta County Public
Schools for the lunch program.
We were finally returning to the mountains when
dad received notification of a lost hunter in the area of
Continued on page 20
PAGE 5
My Life as a Hunter Education Instructor
— Why I Do It
T
By Bob Cox
Montrose, Colorado
he man’s name was Harvey Cox. He was no relation to me, but he did more than he ever knew to mold
my life.
The year, I am guessing, was about 1962. Colorado,
at the time, did not have a formal hunter safety program. Mr. Cox was a game warden for the Colorado
Game and Fish Department and Ouray, Colorado was
part of his patrol. He was a nice guy and took it upon
himself to teach the National Rifle Association Hunter
Safety program under the auspices of the Chief Ouray
Gun Club. He taught at least two courses each year in
Ouray and a couple of friends and I made it to nearly
every one of them for at least two or three years.
By that time, I had been tagging along with my dad
on hunting and fishing trips for several years and I did
not have to convince him that going to the safety classes
was a good idea. Back then the entire class was devoted
to safety and proper handling of firearms and that
meant that we got to shoot a lot during the classes.
Starting with the prone position, we progressed each
session to sitting, kneeling and standing while under
the close eye of Mr. Cox and at least one member of the
gun club. I do not remember having to pay for the ammunition. That was probably a big factor in why I went
in the first place. We used the indoor range and got to
shoot our rifles, no matter how dark it was outside or
what the weather was.
It wasn’t long before I was helping around the range
before and even after the classes. I liked Mr. Cox and
often thought he must have had one of the best jobs
going.
When I moved to the plains of Eastern Colorado and
got married, I started helping a local gun club member
with his NRA classes. That was the same year that Colorado decided to adopt a mandatory hunter safety class.
Ironically, I fell into the category of those needing a
class under the new law. I was able to dig up my last
NRA card issued by Harvey Cox in 1963. Off and on,
from 1970 until 1976 I assisted with the hunter safety
program at the local gun club near Burlington, Colorado. The early records kept by the state were not al-
ways accessible then and, while I helped teach, I did not
show up on the records in Denver until 1976.
As far as I am concerned the State of Colorado passed
three laws, all at about the same time, that helped make
hunting in Colorado safer and certainly helped our
image among hunting states. Mandatory hunter safety,
mandatory wearing of hunter orange clothing and the
law restricting loaded firearms in vehicles quite literally
PAGE 6
The Winners...
“Elk Hunting High on the Hog”
2nd Place Winner
I
By Ken Slocum
Delta, Colorado
was laying in my sleeping bag, not asleep, nor
fully awake. The alarm of the small clock next to my
pillow announced the appointed time had arrived. Rise
and shine. I would agree to rise but the shine would
have to wait until after a cup of coffee. A dim glow was
all I could muster for then. Sleep the night before opening morning was always fitful at best. I’d been through
many opening mornings over six-plus decades of hunting and have never gotten up telling everyone what a
great, sound sleep I’d had and how rested I felt! The
excitement and anticipation of opening morning was
just as much a part of hunting as was the physical venturing off into the woods. I could hear my two longtime friends, Chuck and Bill, stirring in their camper.
We had hunted together for ten years or so, and every
year was an adventure. This was to be our first hunt in
this area. We had hunted this management unit a lot
but never ventured that far back or that high in elevation. We hunted public land about 10 miles south of
Chuck with his 6x6 bull he shot on the third day on the Hog. Was this the “A” Bull I saw on day one?
PAGE 7
“Stalking My Dinner”
By Christie Aschwanden
Paonia, Colorado
This story first appeared on Christie’s blog at
www.LastWordOnNothing.com/category/christie
A
few years ago, I decided to take up hunting.
That was kind of a big deal, because I’d spent the first
decade-plus of my adult life as vegetarian. I became a
big game hunter for the same reason I raise chickens
— to know where my food comes from and ensure that
it’s raised and harvested humanely. I figure if I’m not
willing to kill it myself, I have no business eating it.
I quickly learned that hunting red meat was much
harder than raising chickens. First of all, I had to acquire
a hunter safety card, which required attending a oneday class on firearm safety and hunting regulations. The
class included several videos demonstrating what not to
do (like shooting from a vehicle or across a road), practicing handling firearms and primers on hunting regulations. It ended with a written exam and a trip to the
shooting range to fire a .22 rifle.
The next summer, I focused on learning to shoot. It
took me multiple trips to the firing range before I felt comfortable handling the 30-06 rifle I’d chosen. And there was
still the issue of actually using it to kill something.
My first season, I landed a private land cow (elk) tag
— my first choice. I wasn’t shooting for the kill, I was
shooting to eat, so I went for the tastiest choice. The plan
was to shoot one of the elk that come down to graze in
the fields around our property. There was just one problem: the weather got weird that year and the elk didn’t
show up during my season.
Last year, I decided to make it easier on myself. I got
a doe tag. Around here, mule deer are as numerous as
pigeons in a city, and nearly as tame. I had quite a few
days in the season, and “shoot deer” soon became the
Adam Gall and Josh Cranson quietly watching the valley. Photo by Christie Aschwanden.
carryover task on my to do list. I had plenty of time, so
why not put it off until tomorrow? Finally, with just a
couple of days left in the season, I decided it was then
or never. I’d been carefully observing our neighborhood
deer and knew that they reliably came through the east
side of our property in the late afternoon. I set up and
prepared to fire.
After about 10 minutes, the first doe showed up. She
ignored me at first, but when she got about 50 feet
away, she noticed the rifle aimed at her and looked up
at me like, really? I had my “can’t-miss” shot, and I took
a deep breath in a feeble attempt to strengthen my re-
solve. That’s when I noticed the mark on her side. I
knew this doe. A few months earlier during our morning walk, my husband and I had found her tangled up
in the cattle fence at the back of our property. She’d
somehow failed to clear the barbed wire at the top of
the relatively low barrier, and her foot was tangled up
in it. In her attempts to free herself, she’d rubbed a gash
in her side. Dave had returned with wire cutters and set
her free. I could’t bear the thought that we’d saved this
deer so that I could kill her, and I set the rifle down and
let her go again.
PAGE 8
The Winners...
“My Dream Weekend”
3rd Place Winner
S
By Ashley Carney
Austin, Colorado
eptember 3, 2011, was a perfect fall day of hunting. My boyfriend and I were relaxing behind some
trees, waiting for some elk to come to the wallow in
front of us. The sun started to fall behind the aspens
ahead of us and it had started to cool down for the
afternoon. While I was sitting there, starting to shiver, I
was thinking of where we should go hunting the next
morning.
Lost in thought, I was startled when I heard him. As
I leaned around a small tree in front of me, my jaw
dropped. There he was, a hundred yards from us,
thrashing weeds and throwing mud everywhere. It
was a nice 5x6 bull. I started to shake even more and
my boyfriend, Will, whispered sternly to me, “SIT
STILL!” I couldn’t help it! I turned to Will slowly and
I bet I had the biggest smile on my face he had ever
seen.
I slowly moved my bow upright before the bull got
closer. Will stood behind me with the video camera. I
was ready for the bull to make his way over. Since he
was still a hundred yards away from us, we had to lure
him closer. Will made a quiet chirp on his cow call and
then, all of a sudden, we heard a response right in front
of us. We were so busy watching the bull we didn’t see
the cow that was standing 60 yards away from us
watching our every move. Cows then filled the opening
Ashley and Will with her bull...and her ring!
where the bull was thrashing around and I knew I had to
sit still with all of the eyes watching that could possibly
ruin this hunt for us. With a little more cow calling, a few
more cows came running into the opening we were sit-
ting at and the bull decided to follow the ladies in.
It seemed like hours before the bull was finally
within shooting range for me. He slowly moved closer,
PAGE 9
The Winners...
“The Old Man’s Stump”
Honorable Mention
I
By Gary Broughton
Crawford, Colorado
t was dark and the stars were shining as I parked
the truck and sat there in the silence, wondering what
this year would bring. I turned the ignition back on for
a moment to check the time. I was plenty early, as
usual. That was so I could get to the old man’s stump
before light and be sitting there if other hunters happened into the area.
Getting out of the truck, I grabbed my day pack and
went through it one last time making sure I had everything I needed for the day. Shouldering the pack, I
grabbed my rifle and binoculars, locked the truck and
slipped off into the dark woods. I knew the trail well by
then, after some years, and if the moon was bright, no
light was needed to travel. Upon arriving at the
meadow, I stood quietly at the edge in the trees and
glassed the meadow even though it was still dark. I
learned from past hunts that elk could already be in the
meadow and if I were to just walk out into it they
would be long gone before shooting light.
As I was standing there, I saw another flashlight
coming through the woods. It was time to go so I
turned on my flashlight and walked to the spot where
I would sit on the old man’s stump. They saw my light
and position so they started heading another direction,
going down the timbered ridge to my north. “That’s
good,” I said to myself, “That will stir up a few elk, I
hope.” I shined the light, looking for the old man’s
stump that I have sat on for many years now.
I am a little superstitious when
it comes to the stump. I have shot
many an elk off of that stump, and
both my children got their first elk
there. Now that I am older, it is
not the most comfortable thing to
sit on, but I do. It’s the superstitious thing I guess. Finding it laying on its side, I stood it up on end,
brushed the frost off of it, and sat
down looking to the east knowing
it wouldn’t be long until the sun
started to rise. The skyline was getting a little
pink and the birds were starting
to sing. I saw a pine martin running from one tree to another. It
was peaceful and tranquil, and
then I heard the familiar sound of
a bull elk saying good morning to
me with his bugle. It made me
think back to the second year my
son and I hunted this spot when
he killed his first bull. We had
heard a bull bugle so I started
cow calling just as it was getting
light enough to shoot. We didn’t
hear another sound during my
calling when the bull appeared
out of nowhere. The bull was
standing broadside, 75 yards
away, staring at us between two
quakies. I almost swallowed my
diaphragm when I saw that bull.
Just sittin’ on my stump - Gary Broughton
PAGE 10
Stalking My Dinner
Continued from page 7
A few minutes later, another doe came by and stood
just as close, glancing at me with only a hint of hesitation. There was no reason not to just go ahead and
shoot, except that I just couldn’t. It felt like shooting the
neighbor’s cow. That’s when I realized that I wanted a
fairer fight.
So this year, I settled on a new plan. I got a tag for
the meat I really wanted to eat — elk — and enlisted a
mentor to help me do things right. Adam Gall is a professional hunting guide married to a dear friend of
mine, and he was kind enough to take me under his
wing. Adam and Ana live about 20 miles east of
me, and this time of year gangs of elk often
come down to rest at night in the fields behind
their house. In the day, they climb up into the
public land further north.
This past weekend, I met up with Adam and
his guiding partner, Josh Cranson, in the predawn hours. If I was really lucky, I might be
able to shoot an elk right on Adam’s field, but it
wouldn’t be like the deer I almost hit. Elk are far
more wary of humans. They spook easily and
clear out fast.
The easy(ish) shot was not to be. The elk hadn’t come down to the field, so, with the first
hints of daylight just starting to suggest themselves in the eastern sky, we headed north, quietly. The first thing I learned from Adam and
Josh was to move silently and listen carefully.
“Hear that?” Adam asked. It was an elk
bugling, not far away. We stopped and listened
for a bit.
We were in a tough spot. The elk were downwind of
us, which meant that they knew we were here and
would adjust their movements accordingly. But Adam
is also a savvy creature, and he had a plan. We would
head up the hill to move out of their wind. After a
while, we reached an open area in the juniper brush and
we waited, listened and watched. With their binoculars,
Adam and Josh methodically scanned the landscape.
For a while, we remained still and just listened.
I spend a lot of time outside, but suddenly it occurred to me how infrequently I sit still and listen intently to my surroundings. The sun was finally starting
to poke over the Ragged and West Elk mountains and I
was becoming hyper-conscious of everything around
me. It felt good to be this present and aware.
I don’t know how much time passed in this meditative state, but at some point we decided to continue up
the hill and that’s when we saw them — a gang of beautiful elk ascending a ridge just above us. Flush with
adrenaline, we dashed up the hill. The chase was on!
Eventually we reached our destination, a position on
an adjacent ridge where I had a chance to get a shot if a
legal bull (four or more points) passed through an open-
ing. The brush was thick though, so there were no guarantees. We could hear that the elk were close, but they
were moving toward a shady spot where they would
likely bed down for a while. Adam used an elk bugle to
entice one of the bulls to come closer. A five-pointer
moved our way, and we got a nice look at him through
the trees. But he was gone before I could set up a shot,
and there wasn’t a good angle anyway.
It was getting late, but we knew where they were. We
would return again in the late afternoon, to try and get
a shot as they made their way back down the mountain.
We hiked back down to Adam’s place, and about
five hours later, we went out again, retracing our steps
from the morning. When we’d climbed to the upper
hilltop, we stood still, again, and listened. I was starting to enjoy this state of deliberate awareness and observation for its own sake, and then we saw him — a
six-point bull just across from where we were sitting.
I set up the shooting sticks and in a moment he was
in my crosshairs. Unlike that time with the deer, I felt
ready — eager almost — to pull the trigger. My heart
was beating fast, but I was surprisingly calm. I was
ready to do this. I had a bullet in the chamber, and I slid
the safety off. The bull was right there. Problem was, he
was looking at me straight-on, and that’s not the
kind of shot you take. Adam was watching the
animal through his binoculars. “Wait, wait…”
he told me. And then, in an instant, my magnificent elk was gone. I never saw him again.
We waited and watched for a while, but that
bull and his group were descending the hill in
an area that offered few opportunities for a
clean shot. We started down the hill and Adam
spied, through his glass, a cow and then another
bull on the other side of the ridge. We tracked
them for a while, and for a few minutes it
seemed like I might get another chance. But
again, the elk eluded us. Again, we walked
down the mountain with empty packs.
The next morning we tried once more. It was
still dark when we set out, and we were in
Adam’s front yard when we heard the first bugle
call. The elk were close. Tantalizingly close. Josh
met us again, and we hiked up to the canal road
and waited, listening to hear where the elk would ascend
the hill. They seemed headed for a gully just to the west,
so we quietly snuck that way along the canal road. But
they’d come closer to us than we’d realized, and we
turned a corner to see an elk snout poking up, about to
climb onto the road. We retreated into the woods, and
watched as several legal bulls and some cows rambled
across the road (where it is not legal to shoot). This time
we were in perfect position.
PAGE 11
The Winners...
“My Archery Hunting Adventure”
Honorable Mention
I
By Rick Erker
Crawford, Colorado
finally drew unit 61 after ten years of putting in
for preference points. I took the month of September off
and had a great time!
It was wet, to say the least. I hadn't seen anyone in
the area for two days, as the road in was a Caliche Mudfest. I decided to head back into Red Canyon with
hopes that I would not run into a mother bear and her
cub again. A few days earlier I had a stand-off with her
yearling, but that's another story.
An hour before first light, I mounted the ATV and
rode down the muddy, "impassable" road. I made it to
the trailhead just as it began to get light and headed on
up to explore an area that was steep and thick with
scrub oak. As I hooked around to the north, I played
cat and mouse with one bull for a while and spooked
another. The sun came out for a while around 2:00 or
3:00 o’clock so I stripped off my wet rain gear and
gloves. When the clouds came back, I changed into
somewhat drier gear and climbed to the top of the
ridge. Below were meadows with ponds on the other
side. More rain. It was getting a bit late so I headed
down towards the meadows and made a few elk calls
and got no response. Then, as I got closer to where I
knew other hunters had set up, I heard a few very perfect calls. Hunters, I bet.
I carefully flanked the area so as not to interfere with
their hunt. I glassed the area and saw a nice bull on the
far side of the meadow headed away. The calls I heard
were not him. I continued to glass the area. I didn’t see
any hunters, but there continued to be calling between
the bull across the meadow and the hunters. I watched
some more... nothing. I continued to wait and still no
clues. I finally decided that I couldn’t sit there any longer as the day
was getting short.
I quickly jogged across a close
meadow in the open to shorten the
distance between myself and the
other hunters or what might possibly be a bull. The calling continued
as I just kept on an almost-run toward the closest calling. I soon realized that the calling was coming
from a poor place to set up and,
therefore, must be an elk. It was
still bugling, answering the bull on
the other side of the expansive
meadow. I slipped in between
them and quietly stalked closer to
the bull I still couldn’t see.
Finally, I saw a tine. The bull
was a decent 6x6 at 30 yards. My
mind raced! Was it too late in the
day to harvest? Were the storm
clouds going to pour down another
deluge of rain, possibly erasing a
blood trail? Did I want to choose
that animal, as there were bigger
trophy-sized animals in this unit?
The bull still hadn’t seen me but
wandered to the far side of a group
of oaks, which gave me the breathing room to make a decision. I decided if he came back within range
and gave me a clean shot - I would take it.
One minute passed, then another. The two bulls
were still calling to one another. He then wandered
back into range. I pulled back the string on an already
nocked arrow, took aim and released. The elk jumped
and, as I didn't see the arrow hit, I feared the shot was
a miss. No way, I thought to myself. A miss at 22
Rick and his trophy bull.
yards? Maybe that jump, I thought to myself. I waited
and I waited. I was fooling myself, I couldn’t wait; it
was going to be dark in an hour and the rain clouds continued to build, ever so dark and ominous. Five minutes had passed and I convinced myself I had better
start investigating to see if it was a miss or a hit.
PAGE 12
Hunting High on the Hog
here the last three years with pretty good success filling
our elk tags. Last year it seemed like the word was out.
Public land hunts are always a challenge. Our strategy
had been to put in the time and effort to pack in far from
the roads. Last year we just couldn’t get away from the
sounds of ATVs. Seems they had found every trail in
the country and, laws or no laws, they were determined
to ride where they pleased. We all saw elk - or should
say we “glimpsed” elk - as they were leaving the
country. We hunted dawn to dark for five days and
none of us had a shot opportunity. Time to find another hunting area.
Late the following spring, Chuck called saying he
was working, driving a log truck. They were cutting
timber in the same management area we had been
hunting, but quite a ways back and at a much higher
altitude. As summer wore on, Chuck was more and
more impressed with this new area. After the logging
was finished, Chuck would sometimes load his truck
camper, hook up his horse trailer, and go spend a few
days at the log camp. He was seeing a lot of elk.
He made note of water sources, well worn game
trails, and good food sources the elk were using. Elk
always spend the hot summer months in the high
country, then drift down country as fall weather sets
in. No guarantee they would still be there in mid-October. Elk, when subject to a lot of hunting pressure,
also tend to return to the same rough terrain.
After one of his scouting trips, Chuck had some really exciting news for me. He had followed the ridge
behind the old logging camp to its end, draping down
a gentle slope into a narrow saddle onto a hogback
ridge. Chuck had heard my many stories of hunting
just such a place north of Durango. The strategy was
to walk in while dark, get settled, wait for hunters
below to push elk over the top. I hunted that ridge
five years, killing elk on the first or second morning
every year. Chuck said the saddle was deeply rutted
from elk crossing there for many years.
He followed the hogback to its end, which was about
a mile to the west. He said there were four more major
trails that crossed over the top and sign was everywhere. He drew a map for me to find this place and,
on it, he wrote “Hog” designating the hogback. From
that moment, and forever more, it would be known as
“Hunting the Hog.” It wasn’t until Labor Day weekend that, with Chuck’s map in hand, I got to set foot on
that prime real estate. Even though it was archery season and a long weekend, there was not a single camp
near mine.
With a cup of hot coffee in hand and breakfast on the
stove, I was indeed shining! Chuck and Bill filed in to
eat. Bill said the thermometer outside read 16 degrees.
The guys had given me sole deed to the “hog.” They
were taking the horses east from camp to a large
meadow that had seep from a spring running through
it. I double checked the contents of my pack, going
through my checklist for probably the hundredth time.
At last satisfied, I stepped out into the cold, dark morning. I decided to put my coat in the pack, opting to just
don my down-filled orange vest, counting on my hour
long hike to keep me plenty warm. Above, a cloudless
canopy of blinking stars gave promise of a warm, fall
day ahead.
Once I had climbed the steep slope and reached the
top of the mountain, it was pretty easy following the
open ridge. I stopped short of dropping off the end into
the saddle. I switched off my head lamp and stood listening. Sure didn’t want to bust out any elk that might
be crossing in the dark.
The only sound that broke the deafening silence was
when coyotes began howling their greeting to the coming dawn. They were soon joined by another group,
then a third. Then, as though turned off by a switch,
everything went silent once more. A faint line of light
on the horizon prompted me back into motion. That,
and the fact I was slowly freezing to death.
I crossed the saddle and onto the hog. About 150
yards ahead was a pretty large rock formation. It was
the only rock on that ridge. Had the Creator played a
joke? I could see him laughing as he placed the stones,
“That will give them something to ponder for years.”
At the base of the large rock were a lot of boulder-size
chunks sheared off by freezing and thawing over many
thousands - maybe millions - of years.
While scouting, I had picked out perfect spots to
place my pack to rest my rifle on. I pulled my heavy
coat out of the pack, secured the hood over my head,
and settled in to wait for the sun to appear. Slowly,
light began to push the inky black darkness into the
timber. With the saddle behind me and a game trail
some 200 yards in front, I stood with my back to the
rock so, by turning my head, I could watch both areas.
I thought I heard the chirp of cow elk coming from
down the ridge. I pulled the hood from my head to
hear better.
There it was again. Camp robber or elk? I repositioned my pack on the rock bench and placed my rifle
on top. I caught motion at the edge of the aspen that
covered the south side of the ridge. Turning the scope
down to a low power, I could make out a cow elk. The
big cow was standing head high and ears erect, with her
nose in the air. I could hear the chatter of more cows
and calves in the trees. My buddy, Bill, was the only
one of us to draw a cow tag for that hunt. I could only
hope a legal four point or larger bull was in the herd.
PAGE 13
Last Year’s Winner...
“The First Hunt”
T
By Diane Norris
Somerset, Colorado
he first thing I smelled when I woke up that cold
crisp October morning was the strong odor of black coffee along with the smell and sound of bacon and eggs
sizzling on the stove. I could hear my dad’s heavy footsteps walking around in the kitchen, followed by the
snap, crackle and pop of a fire getting started in the
woodstove. Any other morning I would have rolled
over, covered up my head with the fuzzy, felt blankets
and gone back to sleep for about three more hours. But
not that morning!
That morning I jumped out of bed and quickly put on
my long johns and two pairs of thick, heavy socks. I then
slipped on some slightly loose fitting blue jeans and an old
grey sweatshirt. I ran to the bathroom, combed my hair
and ran out to the kitchen. That was an exciting day for
me. That day was opening day of rifle season, and that
was going to be my first time out by myself.
I was so excited I could hardly sit still long enough to
eat the breakfast that my dad fixed for me. I finally
managed to scarf down the greasy bacon and eggs and
then started for the door. I grabbed an old snowsuit
and slipped it on over my clothes. I had an old orange
jacket to put on over my snowsuit that, despite its years
of hunting seasons, was in pretty good shape. I pulled
my orange knitted cap over my head so that all you
could see were my eyes sticking out. I reached in the
pocket of my suit to make sure the hunting license that
I put in there the night before was still there. It was. I
sighed a relieved sigh and proceeded to put on my
gloves. I reached for my 30-30 Winchester and headed
outside. I was off!
When I opened the door, the smell of a light drizzle
of rain came pushing through. I trudged my way to the
open top jeep and pulled the choke open. Praying that
the jeep would start up that morning, I pushed in the
clutch and turned the key. The engine made about a
half a turn and stopped. I sat there for about five minutes to let the engine warm up a bit. I knew I needed to
get going because it was going to be light in about 40
minutes and it would probably take me a good 30 min-
utes to get to where I wanted to be. I drove up a narrow, steep, rocky road. With the help of the jeep’s headlights, I could see the horses and cows in the upper
pasture, still snoozing soundly.
About 20 minutes later, I finally made it to where I
wanted to park my jeep. Then it was time to walk and
find my way through the dark to the perfect place I had
found just last week. It was getting lighter every minute
PAGE 14
Don’t Go
HUNTING
Without the Right Gear!
NOW THROUGH THE MONTH OF SEPTEMBER
BRING THIS COUPON TO ONE OF OUR OFFICES FOR A
%
ON ANY RECREATIONAL COLLATERAL LOAN
.75
PAGE 15
The Winners...
“Diary of a Deer Hunt”
Honorable Mention
By Sharill Beach
Cedaredge, Colorado
1:00 AM - Alarm Rings
2:00 AM - Hunting Partners Arrive, Drag You Out of Bed
2:30 AM - Throw Everything Except Kitchen Sink in
Pickup
3:00 AM - Leave for Deep Woods
3:15 AM - Drive Back Home and Pick Up Gun
3:30 AM - Drive Fast to Get In Woods Before Daylight
4:00 AM - Set Up Camp. Forgot the Tent
4:30 AM - Head Into the Woods
6:05 AM - See Eight Deer
6:06 AM - Take Aim and Squeeze the Trigger
6:07 AM - “Click”
6:08 AM - Load Gun While Watching Deer Go Over Hill
7:00 AM - Head Back to Camp
9:00 AM - Still Looking for Camp
10:00 AM - Realize You Don’t Know Where Camp Is
12:00 Noon - Fire Gun for Help. Eat Wild Berries
12:15 PM - Run Out of Bullets, Eight Deer Come Back
12:20 PM - Strange Feeling in Stomach
12:30 PM - Realize You Ate Poison Berries
12:45 PM - Rescued
12:55 PM - Rushed to Hospital, Have Stomach Pumped
3:00 PM - Arrive Back at Camp
3:30 PM - Leave Camp to Kill Deer
4:00 PM - Return to Camp for Bullets
4:01 PM - Load Gun. Leave Camp Again
5:00 PM - Empty Gun on Squirrel That is Bugging You
6:00 PM - Arrive Back at Camp, See Deer Grazing at Camp
6:01 PM - Load Gun
6:02 PM - Fire Gun
6:03 PM - One Dead Pickup
6:05 PM - Hunting Partners Return to Camp
Dragging Deer
6:06 PM - Repress Strong Urge to Shoot Hunting Partners
6:07 PM - Fall into Fire
6:10 PM - Change Clothes, Throw Burned Ones Into Fire
6:15 PM - Take Pickup, Leave Partners and Their Deer
in Woods
6:25 PM - Pickup Boils Over, Hole Shot in Block
6:26 PM - Start Walking
6:30 PM - Stumble and Fall, Drop Gun in Mud
6:35 PM - Meet Bear
6:36 PM - Take Aim
6:37 PM - Fire Gun, Blow up Barrel Plugged with Mud
6:38 PM - Mess Pants
6:39 PM - Climb Tree
9:00 PM - Bear Departs. Wrap Gun Around Tree
Midnight - Home at Last
Sunday - Watch football game on TV… Slowly tearing
hunting license into little pieces… Place in
envelope and mail to game warden with
very close instructions on where to place it. u
PAGE 16
The Old Man’s Stump
“There he is,” I said to my thirteen year old son as
he raised his rifle and fired. The bull immediately fell
to the ground. The bull was trying to get up and I told
him to shoot again before he ran off. He shot several
times blowing dirt all around the elk. I looked at him
and he was shaking like a jackass eating cactus! Realizing the bull wasn’t going anywhere, I had him walk up
to within 15 yards and finish the bull.
A beautiful 6x7 lay on the ground. The smile on my
son’s face that day will never be forgotten and he will be
telling that story the rest of his life to his family, and the
story of the old man‘s stump. The old man’s stump had
paid off again, I thought. The year before he had taken
his first elk, a cow, there. I heard another bugle farther away, probably down
on the ranch that sits below the meadow. I thought
about how every year was different and that some years
the elk seemed to be vocal and some years not. Scanning the terrain around me, as it was light enough to
shoot, I looked to the north. That end of the meadow
had been good to me over the years. I thought about
the two cows I took and the ones I missed. I thought
about the year two huge bulls walked across the
meadow, 75 yards away, and stopped and stood broadside staring at me as I sat there with a cow tag in my
pocket.
Looking in front of me to the east, down into the little basin scattered with quakies, I noticed lots of leaves
on the trees that year. “Won’t be able to see the elk coming this way until they are on top of me,” I thought. The
day the 5x5 ran out of the timber chasing the cows not
45 yards away will never be forgotten. Chirping on my
cow call, the bull stopped and then fell as my 300 mag
roared. I thought about the day I was caught napping
around noon when I heard a stick pop. Looking up, I
saw 30 elk, single file, frozen, staring at me. That caused
quite a commotion as I jumped to my feet. Those elk
wheeled around and ran back into the timber as I got
off one quick shot. They ran back out about 200 yards
away, crossing on the south end. That brought a smile
to my face, thinking about that, because when they
came out it looked like a bunch of quarter horses racing
with their necks stretched way out, running full speed
to get across to the safety of the timber. I missed two
more times.
I thought about the time a cow walked across the
meadow from behind me as I sat on that stump at daylight. Not moving a muscle, she walked within five
yards of me. I waited for her to go over the bank and
drop into the little basin. Once she dropped into the
basin, I crept to the tree that I had carved a bull elk on
with my initials under it several years prior. I chirped
on my cow call, she stopped not 25 yards away. Having a good rest for my rifle, I fired. She didn’t even
flinch. She trotted off so I went down in the basin to see
if I could find any sign of hitting her. Starting at the
spot where she was standing I found no blood anywhere. Following what I thought were her tracks, there
was no blood. I began doing circles starting with small
ones first then making them larger, covering the whole
area thoroughly. As I climbed back up and sat down
on the stump, I was replaying the whole thing over and
over in my mind. “How could I have missed?” I
thought. I remember how bummed I was, sitting there,
when I noticed a Camp Robber flying down to the
ground then back up in the tree about 125 yards away.
It had done that about seven times when I thought, “I
bet that elk is laying right under that tree that the robber is sitting in.” Sure enough, I found a big fat cow laying there.
I thought about the herd of 10 or 12 that rushed me,
running full speed, right at daylight and I missed. It had
only been light enough to shoot when the herd exploded out of the brush. I was startled, and they were
too. I thought about a few other run-ins with elk in that
little basin, then I saw the tree I shot the coyote under
one morning as he was hunting for his morning meal.
Looking to the south, I thought about the morning
that three different herds crossed at the farthest end of
the long meadow out of my range. There must have
been about 150 head cross that morning. Now someone had started camping at the head of that ridge every
year and I have not seen any cross there since.
Two hundred yards closer to me, looking south, has
been good to me. I have taken two elk there from the
stump. But, most importantly, my daughter and my
best friend got their first elk there, too, while with me
and I was elated that the pressure was off and they were
successful.
The third morning it was snowing hard, my daughter and my friend had filled their tags and decided to
sleep in. They wished me luck as I opened the door to
the camper. “No luck needed,” I said. When it snows,
the old man’s stump seems to come alive with elk. I got
there that morning and it was snowing so hard that I
only had about a 100 yards of visibility. Within an hour
of sitting in that squall, I had laid down the biggest bodied elk I had ever harvested. She was running full
speed when I knocked her down. She was huge! I saw
three bulls cross while I was cleaning that cow. They
knew I had gotten one when I got back to camp because
they had heard the bark of my 300.
A lot of elk have been killed from the old man’s
stump. I thought about the year I invited friends from
Nevada to hunt with my son and me; there were nine of
us total. I told them the night before season that we
would be doing good if we harvested two or three elk.
We hunted all five days and we had nine elk tagged and
hanging. It was quite a few years after that we had
filled taking five for five. Hearing a shot down below me, probably on the
ranch, I started to get excited. Season had officially
begun and I wondered what time it would be before
they crossed. Normally it was between 8:00 and 10:00
in the morning, but there have been a few times I did
not see an elk on opening day; but I know if I sit on the
old man’s stump for the season they will show sooner
or later before the end of the season. I have never
hunted off of the old man’s stump without seeing an elk
and I normally get a shot at one. The old man’s stump has become important to me. It
is a very special place where I can enjoy all of God’s
creatures and when I am here I am at peace and forget
about all the world problems. It has been a place that
has strengthened my bond with my children, family
PAGE 17
The Winners...
“Naps”
Honorable Mention
P
By Charles Gross
Montrose, Colorado
eople who hunt know it’s a pastime not merely
concerned with firing a gun and filling the freezer. It’s
about comradery, traditions, inside jokes. And naps. A
good snooze in the sun can do wonders for the soul, refresh the senses and sometimes reward you with a gob
of pine pitch on the seat of your britches if you’re not
careful. That’s a delayed delight, discovered when you
plop down on the seat of your new pickup or glue yourself to a camp chair. Hopefully, you will smudge the
leatherette of a good friend’s ride before putting your
backside against anything you own.
Even the creatures of the forest are not above letting
down their guard and drifting off from time to time. I
once observed three does laying on a bench below me,
eyes closed and heads nodding, while below them a
couple of hunters blazed away at some unspecified target. On another occasion, I sat against a towering pine
tree and tried to get a camp robber to eat a cracker out
of my hand. While he hopped around and perched on
my boot, I looked up into a neighboring tree and spied
a squirrel stretched out on a barren branch. Through
my binoculars I could see his eyes close, watch his muscles relax, then slowly lose his equilibrium and begin to
roll off his perch. His eyes would abruptly snap open
and he was all business, alert and on the job. But soon
the stillness caught him up and he began to drowse
once more. Same results. He needed a
wider branch and jumped off to find one.
The wise, seasoned veteran of the trail
picks a nap spot with great care, away
from the oozing pines. He, or she, will select a site covered in grass, fairly level, and
devoid of any stale cow patties. Of course
a lie-down is out if there is snow on the
ground. Conditions must be ideal or the
deal is off. The best tactic is to use one’s
daypack as a pillow, shade the eyes with a
cap and, above all, keep the rifle ever at
hand.
Timing is strictly up to the individual.
Napping usually occurs once the sun is well
up and the excitement and sounds of early
morning have dwindled. Many people hike
back to their camp or vehicle for a midday
snack and snooze, but that borders on
cheating. You’re not getting the full wilderness experience unless you have an ant
crawl in your ear just as you doze off, or a
hidden stick slowly work its way into your
spinal column.
It’s best to maintain that fine line between relaxation and total lights-out oblivion. One fall, my hunting buddy, Bob, and
I were working a long knife-edged ridge
that curved down and out of sight. To the
right was a trailless tangle of scrub juniper, dense blowdown, and low hanging firs. Even the chipmunks had
to turn sideways to get through. On the left was a steep
dropoff of high grass dotted with aspen. The crest was
Baggin zzzz’s - Elk Hunt, October 1976
marked by a well used game trail and we were hoping
to find a smaller route down through the timber.
PAGE 18
Honorable Mention
“My Fish on a Hook”
I
By Caleb Sullivan, age 9
Delta, Colorado
n 2009, I was three years old. My family and I went
fishing at Ward Lake on Grand Mesa.
As we were fishing, it started to rain. It was raining
hard so we had to take cover under a tree.
I thought I would lose my fishing pole, so I asked my
Aunt Saprina to get my fishing pole out of the water.
She grabbed it for me.
When she reeled in the fishing line, there was a fish at
the end of the hook. I was very excited. It was my first fish.
We fished for a little bit longer, and then we went
home to Delta. u
My Life as a Hunter Education
Instructor – Why I Do It
saved numerous lives. Prior to 1969 there were an average of more than 40 non-fatal hunting accidents involving firearms each year. Additionally, the state averaged
10 fatal accidents each year, and as I said before, the
record keeping was not the best, so those figures could
be even higher.
Since 2003 there have been 12 fatal accidents during
the hunting seasons. That is still too many, but compared to what was happening before the law went into
effect, it makes me feel good about what the hunter education instructors are doing.
The program has changed significantly over the 40
years or so that I have been involved. What once was
strictly a firearms safety course morphed into a course in
which we address game laws, survival, ethics, wildlife
management and several other topics. The program
slowly became known as hunter education instead of
hunter safety.
For several years the wildlife people have encouraged
young people to become involved in hunting. One of
the efforts put forth has been the issuing of a youth big
game license that allows those very young hunters to accompany a mentor in the field. Effective next year that
idea will be expanded so that the first year a person as
young as 12 years old can, for his or her first hunt, get a
license without first going through the H.E. course. At
first I cringed at this, but later became sold on the idea,
mostly because it encourages fathers and grandfathers,
mothers and grandmothers, aunts and uncles to take a
kid hunting. The mentor must be over 18 and have a
hunter education certificate.
Another change that made some of us older instructors cringe at first was the advent of a computer-based,
online hunter education course. After completion of the
online course, each student must then attend a completion course, which addresses some of the Colorado game
laws and stresses safe gun handling. The internet based
course has become a great tool for both students and
instructors.
But, with all the changes, when I am asked why I do
it, I usually give the same answer: “Because I still like to
hunt, and I feel a lot safer out there knowing that most of
the hunters that are in the field with me have had some
formal knowledge of the sport given to them by a good
instructor.” We have about 450 volunteer instructors
around the state now and could use a lot more (hint,
hint). Another 200 or so of the Colorado Parks and
Wildlife staff are also certified. I am proud of what we do
and encourage anyone, hunter or not, to take the course.
For more information on where and when the courses
are available log on to the CPW web page,
cpw.state.co.us, or give them a call at one of the local offices or Denver headquarters. u
PAGE 19
The Winners...
“Two-Fer-One”
Honorable Mention
I
By David M. Delo
Delta, Colorado
n October of 2000, I told my wife I was going out
to hunt bear.
At the time we were living in Lolo, Montana. I had
scouted for elk on the lower reaches of a mountain close
to the top of Lolo Pass the week before and saw some
bear droppings.
My wife was used to my having successful hunts —
she said I always brought something back. True, I often
shot an elk on opening day, but then western Montana
was superb hunting. When I informed her I was going
to hunt bear instead of elk, she simply said, “OK.” The following Saturday morning I packed a sleeping
bag and camping gear for the weekend, loaded my
handy wheelbarrow in case I got lucky, and brought
along my (unloaded) left-handed, Remington 7mm Mag
rifle with a 4-power scope with a handful of bullets.
The area I had seen bear scat was just above an accessible Forest Service road in the Lolo National Forest. It
had been easy to spot, for it was on a deer trail next to
a series of berry bushes. The bear I would be looking
for was obviously fattening up for the winter. By the
size of the scat, I pictured a black bear, maybe 250-400
pounds. Nothing huge.
At the base of that sloping mountainside, I took an
access road that remained on the valley floor for a few
miles. It wound deeply back and forth, in and out of a
number of fingers of the mountain. As I drove the first
mile, I noticed that the lower portion of the fingers was
void of trees. Loggers had probably cut them some time
ago. They left some short - and some not so short stumps.
About 30 feet above the valley floor, on the barren
slope of the fourth finger of land, about a half mile
away, I saw a stump that looked just like a bear!
This was my first bear hunt and I was a bit excited. I
therefore laughed and shook my head at my bear “sighting,” figuring that I, a neophyte bear hunter, was creating mirages. When I came around the curve of the second
finger and looked ahead, the stump posing as a bear hadn’t moved a hair. I chided myself, but bit my lip.
Driving more slowly, I came to the outer edge of the
third finger and was beginning to wonder what the Sam
Hell I was looking at! If I was crazy, and if the stump
was in fact a bear sitting in the late morning sunshine on
the lower slope of the mountain. . . Nah! No chance.
Nonetheless, when I approached the barren slope
where my “bear-stump” sat, I slowed down quite a bit.
Holding the steering wheel, I leaned as far as I could towards the passenger side of the truck and looked up.
And by gawd - indeed! - there was a 300-350 pound cinnamon bear looking back at me.
Lordy! It would be dumb to stop the truck then and
there, and my rifle wasn’t loaded. I drove around the
finger a little ways until I was out of sight of the bear. I
stopped, quickly fumble-loaded my rifle, and walked
quietly back to where my “stump” had been sitting.
Ptui! I found nothing but a single smeared print. The
bear obviously had sloughed off into the forest after he
saw me. He wasn’t stupid.
I never saw anything but a black bear butt all that
weekend, so I returned the following week. After I got
up early Sunday morning, it didn’t take me long until I
found my original back bear. He was sleeping between
two dead trees. He must have heard me, because he sat
up and looked at me just as I was looking at him
through my scope. That was the last look for that 275
pound, four year-old boar. I was as happy as a kid who’d just discovered a
stolen gallon of ice cream. When I got back home, I
pulled the smelly bearskin over my head, crept up the
stairs to the living room, and growled.
Hah! You know what I got in response? “Oh,” said
my wife nonchalantly as she walked past, “I see you got
your bear!” u
PAGE 20
My Dream Weekend
walking straight towards us, when he stopped at some
small aspens 20 yards from where we sat. He was
throwing his head around hitting all the limbs on the
trees. I had my arrow nocked, the release set, and was
ready to draw. Every time I was about to pull back,
Will was behind me saying, “Now...no.” He must have
said that four times until I just drew back. I was at full
draw for a few seconds until he stepped out from behind the trees and I squeezed my release. I knew I had
hit him, but I was so excited I didn't know for sure how
accurate my shot was.
After I shot and watched the bull run into the brush,
I looked back at my boyfriend who had a huge smile on
his face. Man, I love this guy! So we watched a little
longer until we couldn’t see him or any of his cows anymore and Will asked me, “Well, do you think we
should head back down to camp and wait a while to go
look for him?” I told him, “ Yeah, I guess so.”
I packed up my stuff, stood up and, for once, was
waiting on Will. He was still fumbling around with his
backpack and looked up at me with that huge smile of
his and said, “Well, I hope something good comes out of
The Brush Fuzz
Betty Park up Steven’s Gulch. He stayed in radio contact
with Search and Rescue and the Sherriff’s Department
the rest of the day and night.
“Get your buck yet?” I began hating this question. So
far, my best hunting had been from my desktop and passenger side window. Dad couldn’t take me hunting
today because he and fellow officers, Brick Mink and
Harvey Cox, planned to set up an inspection station on
the 25 Mesa Road to check hunters and record statistics
on the number of deer harvested on the Uncompahgre
Plateau. The Colorado Division of Wildlife wanted the
information to help understand why the deer population in Unit 62 seemed to be diminishing.
On November 4, back in the mountains, we pulled a
pickup of nonresident hunters out of a mucky bog hole.
this.” I just nodded my head and said, “Me too,” thinking we better find my bull or I will never live this one
down. Still fumbling around, he reached into his pack
one more time and turned around on one knee with a
ring in his hand and asked, “Will you marry me?”
I dropped to my knees. That was the last thing on
my mind! But, he couldn't have picked a better time to
ask me. After seven years of me bugging him about it,
he totally surprised me! Of course, I said yes and the
tears started falling.
Still full of adrenaline and shock, we went back
down to camp and shared the news with everyone. We
watched the video over and over and decided the shot
was a little farther back than it should have been. So,
we planned to head up early the next morning to look
for the bull because we didn’t want to chase him all
over the mountain, especially in the dark. I tossed and
turned all night from the excitement of getting engaged
and really wondering if we were going to find my bull.
The next morning, we found him 75 yards from where
I shot. Now my dream weekend was complete!
But, what made it even better, was I got to welcome
my nephew into the world the next day! I was walking
on clouds! u
Shortly afterwards, it happened. I shot my first buck.
Now, I had an answer for the guys.
My hunt was a highlight, but what I bagged that year
was insight into my dad. He possessed a deep love and
care for the wildlife of Colorado. He showed respect to
hunters he checked and talked with in the field. Prior
to that hunting season, I had always teased dad about
being the “brush fuzz.” I began to realize the importance of game laws and I grew to admire the men and
women who enforced them.
It has been a privilege for me to be with each of my
family members when they’ve harvested their first
bucks. We started a tradition of burying every animal’s
heart on the mountain where he had lived, in honor of
my dad. He and the men and women like him are the
reason for successful hunts.
Dedicated to my dad, Merle L. Hodges, Colorado Division of Wildlife Game Warden, 1950-1985. u
Stalking My Dinner
My blood pumped with adrenaline as we bounded
up the hill to get ahead of them. I’d get a shot as they
made their way back up the mountain. It seemed like
everything was falling into place. And then, bang —
whoosh!
When we’d run into the elk along the canal, we’d
pushed them a little west, directly into some other
hunter’s range of fire, apparently. The other hunter was
to the west of us, shooting at the elk, which were between us. The sound of the bullet coming toward us was
all I needed to know I wanted to get the hell out of there.
We quickly scrambled higher and as we did, we heard
more shots. Our plan was done.
After resting for a little while, and waiting, futilely in
hopes of perhaps finding another bull, we turned and
headed back down the hill.
“Don’t feel bad,” Adam told me, recalling how it had
taken him multiple seasons to get his first elk. Later, I
would look up statistics on this unit and see that the success rate was in the 20-percent range last year.
Yes, I was disappointed, but I was also hooked. On
our first outing, being out with Adam and Josh made me
feel a little bit like those rich guys who pay sherpas and
mountain guides to haul their butts up mountains like
Everest. I very quickly understood how little I knew, and
how much they did. I realized that I don’t want to keep
mooching their skills forever. I want to master them myself. Adam and Josh taught me how to pay attention and
listen intently. I learned how to move like a true creature of my habitat. I didn’t bag an elk, but I took my first
steps toward acquiring the knowledge that will help me
eventually get one. u
Christie lives with her husband and numerous animals on a
small vineyard and farm in western Colorado. In her spare time,
she enjoys trail running, bicycling, digging in the garden and
raising heritage poultry. She is the lead writer for science at
FiveThirtyEight and a health columnist for The Washington Post.
Christie is also a frequent contributor to The New York Times.
Her work appears in dozens of publications, including Discover,
Slate, Proto, Consumer Reports, New Scientist, More, Men’s
Journal, NPR.org, Smithsonian and O, the Oprah Magazine.
Remember
to keep your
trash and
food out of
reach!
PAGE 21
My Archery Hunting Adventure
I wandered over to the location of the hit and saw
nothing. The other bull was still calling and coming
closer. I thought to myself, “Did I make the right call?
Perhaps I should have waited.” No, I had a clean shot.
I looked some more for a drop of blood on a leaf or
blade of grass. Nothing. It started to sprinkle. I
thought back to the shot. It was CLEAN! Finally I saw
it, the brilliant, wet, red splatter on a leaf.
Relieved that the shot had been good, I now had a
trail to give me hope of a successful harvest. It had
stopped raining for the time being and I started to
slowly follow the blood trail. I saw a bent leaf or blade
of grass here and there. His hoofs were giving me easy
clues as to his direction in the moist soil. “Slow down,
slow down. Don't get in a big hurry and spook him,” I
said to myself. I missed the blood trail in one area for
10 minutes (it seemed like an eternity as the sun hung
just above the horizon). I picked up the trail and continued along. I broke out of the oak brush on a small
ridge and there he was, moving slowly but steadily,
about 300 yards in front of me.
The bull then disappeared into the thick brush common to the area. I could still hear him crashing along
but I couldn’t see him any more. At least he was
headed in the direction of the ATV, I rationalized to myself. I pushed on, following as quietly as possible. Ten
minutes later I spied his antlers for a second and then
they were gone again. I still had the blood trail, he was
close. Then the trail went cold. I started to get nervous
as reality set in. It was now dusk, it was about to rain,
I had a wounded elk somewhere close by and I was
alone. I stopped to think. “Be quiet, just calm down,
breathe, and listen!” I told myself.
A minute passed and, finally, I heard his labored
breathing. He was close. I slowly walked toward the
sound. He was down, but still hanging onto life. He
would be gone in a few minutes, so I let him be. My attention turned to that reality of mine again. I heavily
flagged the area and a game trail down the slope towards what I had hoped was a meadow and the ATV.
No ATV and without much daylight left, I headed back
up to the bull.
The quartering began in earnest as darkness fell and
waves of rain pounded me. My knife sliced his hide, al-
lowing me to see the muscle groups and guided me to
my immediate goal to cool his core quickly. An exposed ribcage lead me to easy access to the internal organs and the gutting - more air and cooling. My plan
was to pack only meat this time around and opt for a
boneless approach quartering of the elk. I dug into the
task at hand, pulling the game bags out as needed from
my pack and filling them with the beautiful meat. Back
straps, tenderloins and then onto a rear quarter.
Although the slope was not extreme, the mud beneath my feet made it challenging to keep my balance.
The rain had not let up and had made it through my
rain gear and clothes to my skin. I started to think about
my exposure to the elements. I gave myself another half
hour and would then call it quits. I still had to find the
ATV and make the long ride back to camp. Onto the
front quarter. The steeper slope reminded me that I was
getting tired. I called it. Utilizing a nearby tree to get
the game bags off the ground, I struggled to get the
awkward weight up ten feet hoping to avoid predation
by coyotes or bears.
The rain and cooler weather should keep the fresh
kill’s odor from being an attractant. I threw the hide
back over the carcass and gathered up my saw and
knives into my pack and followed my flags towards the
ATV. The flagging ended quickly and I forged ahead
with my headlamp piercing the darkness and rain. The
game trails were small, swollen rivulets and small creeks
were raging torrents. I kept a ridge to my left to keep
my mind in check, knowing that I wasn’t lost and that
the ATV trail was below and to my right. I finally stumbled and slid my way onto the trail and was relieved that
I would not have to bivi camp tonight. I reached the
ATV after another 10 minutes. It fired right up.
During the 30 minute ride back to camp, I was
amazed at all of the large puddles of water making up
the roadway. By the time I got back to camp I was thoroughly soaked. I fired up the truck, cranked the heat
and stripped down to get into some dry clothes. It was
close to midnight. I grabbed a quick bite to eat then
climbed into the tent and my sleeping bag to let my restless mind wander toward the tasks at hand. I had an
elk in the field which was half quartered. How was I
PAGE 22
Hunting High on the Hog
My position on the rock was still in the shade, but
now the top of the ridge was bathed in sunlight. The
large cow, satisfied all was well, moved out to the center of the ridge and began feeding. Elk kept appearing
out of the trees. As they fed, they had turned and were
slowly working their way directly toward the rock.
Now there were 30 or so elk, including two small, but
legal, “shooter” bulls. When hunting the hogback north
of Durango, I learned a valuable lesson: heart and lung
shots on elk, though very lethal, don’t normally drop
the animal in its tracks. On the narrow top of a hogback, they only have to run a short distance to the edge,
at which point gravity takes over. If they don’t get
hung up on a tree, they can go a long distance. That results in a case of what goes down must come up, and it
is back breaking labor! I prefer a neck shot, which
drops an animal where it stands.
That shot requires a dead steady rest and complete
knowledge of the ballistics of the rifle. If not confident
you could make the shot, pass on it. I couldn’t get a
clear neck shot on either of the bulls. Facing straight on
with cows in front and back, it was just too risky if the
bullet passed through and struck another animal. There
were still more elk filtering out of the aspens. I caught
a flash of sunlight reflected off white ivory tips. A bull.
A large bull!
I’d always been pretty much a meat hunter. I put in
for cow tags as my first choice every year and, if not
drawn, then I’m content to fill my tag with a spike or
any size legal bull. That said, I’d also had this desire in
the back of my mind to shoot the biggest, baddest bull
in the world! I’d never been in a situation where I was
presented the chance to choose Bull A or Bull B? I
thought I was being presented that choice, and it was
going to be big Bull A, no contest!
I was glued to the scope, waiting for a shot at the big
bull. He was at least six points and was not record book
class, but still by far, the largest I’d ever had a possible
chance of shooting. Cows blocked his neck area totally
as he was also now facing me while grazing along.
There I was within 80 yards of some forty elk. Actually, more like 40 yards from some of the cows.
What a situation! I couldn’t get a shot because there
were just too many elk! I checked to see if either of the
small bulls were maybe clear. What I saw was the elk
were beginning to bed down right in front of me at 35
yards. As I continued to monitor the big bull, he and a
dozen or so cows drifted to the north side of the ridge
and dropped out of sight. Ok, Bull B was now my
choice, except he was still hidden among the cows. My
rock that started off being in the shade was now bathed
in full sunlight. I had elk staring at my location, 35
yards away.
I didn’t know how long I’d been standing there, but
a cramp in the back of my leg was telling me it was time
to change positions - right then! Leaving the rifle balanced on my pack, I very, very slowly ducked down behind the rock. I listened carefully for any sound that
would indicate the elk had seen my movement and
were running off. Silence. I was pondering my situation as I worked on my cramped muscle. The rock was
becoming quite warm now that the sun was shining on
it. Were the elk getting too warm? Would they soon
join the big bull and cows that went off the north slope
of the ridge?
It had been 20 minutes or so since I slipped out of
sight; now it was time to resume watching and be ready
for a shot at Bull B. As my eyes peered over the top, I
was stunned. They were gone! There was no sign of
an elk anywhere! I checked the tree line on both sides.
Nothing. I moved to the east end of the rock and
glassed the saddle and tree lines there with the same result - no elk. At least I knew I was in the right place,
there were elk present in the area. With patience, putting in the time would sooner or later produce a chance
at a bull, I’d just sit tight, even until dark if need be. To
try and hunt the elk in the trees would just result in
chasing them clear out of the area. I pulled a sandwich
out of my pack and settled in for the day.
Having eaten and being warm, what came next was
very predictable. Yep, I fell asleep. What happened next
was totally unpredictable. After waking up from my nap,
I turned my attention to the west up the ridge. After
glassing for a while, I turned back towards the saddle and
there was a six point bull! He was walking down the
same trail I had used coming in that morning. He was
headed for the saddle and I was sure, once he reached it,
he would take the trail off one side or the other.
I threw my pack onto a nearby boulder and zeroed in
on the bull. He was coming straight towards me at just
over 150 yards. Certain I could make the shot, I held
about 10 inches under his chin and touched off the shot.
He was finished before he hit the ground. I checked my
watch. It was exactly 12:00 Noon. I field dressed and
tagged the bull, a 6x6 with an extra 7-inch tine on his
passenger side beam. My biggest bull ever! I dragged
him into a shady spot and draped my orange coat over
his antlers, hoping it would discourage coyotes if my
scent was present. I shouldered my pack and headed
back to camp.
I wasn’t in camp long when Chuck and Bill rode in.
They had heard my shot and, having seen no other
hunters, figured I might have need of their assistance. I
gave them a brief version of my story and off they rode
to retrieve the bull. What a unique and fun day I had
experienced hunting “High on the Hog!” u
PAGE 23
The First Hunt
nearby mountains were starting to cast a reddish tint.
I was thinking back to what a wonderful day I had
when I heard a familiar sound of an animal walking up
the path, that time from the opposite direction. My
heart stopped. Then it started beating fast. The adrenaline was pumping hard. I got into position and double checked my rifle to make sure the safety was off and
ready to fire. Then I held very still, afraid to move, even
more afraid to breathe. I waited. Then I saw a head. It
was a cow elk - no antlers. Darn! I held very still to see
what she would do. Then I could see another cow elk
behind her. They were about as close to me as the deer
were earlier.
so I hurried to get settled in before it was light. After
walking about 10 minutes through aspen trees and up
a steep hill and halfway down on the other side, I knew
that was where I wanted to be. With the sun starting to
come up just behind me, I brushed the leaves away
from where I wanted to sit so that if I needed to move I
wouldn’t be making too much noise. I picked up my
rifle and cocked the lever action and put the safety on so
I could be ready for anything.
I sat down and started looking around. It was beautiful. I was able to see down in a gully and up on the
other side. Just as the sun was shedding light on the
forest, it seemed as if the ground was starting to come
alive. Out of nowhere, little chipmunks were scurrying
around. I could hear some birds chirping in the nearby
trees. Even the leaves seemed to know it was a beautiful morning. With a slight breeze going through the
spruce trees, the leaves seemed to be singing a soft song.
It was so peaceful, so quiet, yet you could hear the
ground actually wake up and see it stretch. It was
breathtaking!
All of a sudden, I could hear some movement coming through the trees. My heart stopped for a brief second and then started pounding hard. I was afraid to
breathe for fear that whatever it was would hear my
heartbeat and run off. I sat up and had my rifle aimed
in that direction, just in case I was going to get my big
bull. Suddenly, I could see a head peek through the
bushes.
It was a deer! A beautiful mule doe. She was moving very slowly. She moved so daintily, picking her feet
up and placing them so quietly in the leaves. I held
very still, afraid to move a muscle. She was about 25
feet away from me but she couldn’t see me. Then I saw
another head peek through, and then another. It was a
whole herd! One right after another came walking out
just as quietly and daintily as the first. They looked
around cautiously, with their long ears perked the
whole way. I counted six does and four fawns. Then a
loud crashing sound came behind me. Startled, I turned
around just in time to see a big cow elk come tearing
down the path. She must have been spooked by another hunter. The deer were just as startled as I, and all
turned and ran the other way.
Then, just as fast as the commotion came, it went
away. Quiet seeped back in and took over the earth. It
may have been only minutes, but it seemed like a good
hour before the scurrying of animals and the sound of
birds came back to life. Finally, my heartbeat returned
to normal and I could relax and enjoy the beautiful
scenery that was laid out in front of me.
It looked like a beautiful fall day but the smell of
winter was in the air. The ground was still damp from
the morning drizzle. More than half of the leaves on
the aspen trees had already fallen on the ground, giving
the trees a cold, almost lifeless look. The ground was
covered with a golden yellow and orange blanket of
heart-shaped leaves. It was hard to tell what time of
day it was with the clouds that looked like grey and
white cottonballs covering the sky. But I knew that it
had to be getting late in the evening by the way the air
seemed to be getting cooler and the shadows on the
Behind them, I could see a lighter colored elk coming down the path. That had to be a bull! My heart
raced. Then I could see his head coming through the
trees. He had antlers! I knew he had to be my elk, but
I couldn’t quite make out how big he was because he
was taking his time coming out of the trees. Slowly, he
ventured out. I could see air coming out of his nostrils
as he breathed. I felt that if I just reached out, I could
touch him, he was that close. Then I counted,
1..2..3..4..5. A five pointer! the biggest bull I had ever
been this close to. He walked right in front of me.
I slowly brought my 30-30 up against my shoulder.
I had to rest my elbow against my knee to stop from
shaking so bad. He was starting to walk away. I knew
that if I was going to shoot, it had to be then or never. I
took a deep breath and held it. I aimed. Slowly I pulled
the trigger. Click. Click? What happened? It startled
the elk. But they just stopped and looked at me. “What
should I do?” I wondered. I didn’t know if I should
cock the lever again, fast, or if I should do it slowly. I
started to do it slowly, then I saw one of the cows flinch,
so I did it fast. They were off. I aimed, but it was too
late. The elk had already run back into the trees and it
was impossible to make a clean hit. I had missed my
very first bull. When I cocked the rifle that morning, I
didn’t do it hard enough to force a bullet into the chamber. I was heartbroken.
By then, dusk was starting to settle in. The chipmunks were settling down for the night and the crickets had taken the place of the singing birds. I decided I
had better start packing up and head for home. As I got
back to the jeep, I looked up at the mountains around
me, silhouetted against the sky. I smiled, for I knew
that I was one of the lucky few who was able to see the
breathtaking beauty of this land that God had made
and see it actually wake up and then go back to sleep.
Even though I didn’t get my big bull, it was very much
worth the effort to hear the sounds I heard and to see
the sights I saw. u
PAGE 24
My Archery Hunting Adventure
from the southwest. The sun was nowhere to be seen.
Lee showed up with a grin and a handshake not far behind. We loaded onto the ATV and headed north, past
my camp, and made our way to a meadow located
somewhere below the bull. The sun was trying to creep
into the day, but hadn’t made it yet.
After a short 20 minute walk we found the carcass.
The rain and cool air had helped protect the meat from
being a scent trail to predators in the area. Lee took a
few pics of me and my elk with his phone. Good thing,
as I had misplaced my camera weeks before. I dug back
into quartering after loading Lee up with the first of
many trips as a pack mule. That dude was strong! I
hoped I’d be that strong when I'm 60!
going to get it home? At least the meat spoiling in September heat was not an issue that time around. It was
still raining hard. The tent was keeping me dry and the
extra tarp over the top was a wise investment. I set my
alarm for 5:30 am and hoped for a few hours sleep.
Morning arrived with an alarm. My mind was racing but my body was not! I slowly mustered the energy
to crawl out into the crisp air and get the day underway. A quick look at the sky and I saw that it was overcast but no rain. I fired up the stove to brew some tea
and chowed down on some energy bars. I slipped back
into the wet fleece and rain gear. I was thankful that
my thermal underwear and socks were dry. I decided
it was time to use my dry pair of boots, as my regularly
used pair were soaked through and through. While I
was packing my trusted Mountain Tools "Hot Tamale"
pack, I again realized it was time for a new one. The
pack had to be almost 25 years old and showed the
wear of many adventures.
I originally got the pack for my first trip to Peru in
'89. It had served me well, but would it handle another
pack-out? I decided it was time to call my buddy, Lee,
to see if his offer of helping me pack an elk out still
stood. It was Saturday of Blues and Brews weekend in
Telluride and, I suspected, he would be getting ready
to head up for a full day of activities, including the
"grand tasting." I tried to call, but from my camp’s location the call rang but there was no connection. What
to do? I decided to head down the road on the ATV in
search of a better location for cell service. Ten minutes
later I tried again, with success.
"Lee, this is Rick," my voice quivered. "I got a 6x6
bull just before dark yesterday."
"I thought that call a few minutes ago might have
been you. Congratulations," Lee said. With my emotions barely under control, I asked if he would still be
able to help me pack out, knowing that I was asking him
to give up a fun-filled day of drinking beer, listening to
great music and sharing good times with friends and
family for, at a minimum of friendship, helping me pack
out a freezer full of elk and a sore back. "I'd be happy to
help; where should we meet?" he asked.
About four hours later, give or take, the last of the
meat was on Lee's back and I carried the head and rack
on mine. Those things were awkward! They kept getting caught on branches and, on occasion the ground.
The thankfully short walk brought us to the clearing
and the ATV. Meat sacks were piled high and a tarp
covered the meat to keep the sun and flies at bay. With
a quick reorganizing everything, including the rack,
was loaded and I slowly maneuvered along the narrow
path. Lee walked behind, watching me slide here and
there. We crossed through one more creek and we were
"camp-free.” I made it! Even without dumping everything over. I finally coaxed Lee to jump on the ATV as
the trail had finally smoothed out. No reason for him to
walk the five or so miles back to camp! We were
LOADED DOWN to the max. There would be no
speeding, for sure, but we made good time. When camp
came into sight, I sighed in relief. The meat and rack
were quickly unloaded and put under a tarp in the back
of the truck. After a beer or two, it was time to get Lee
back to his truck. The road had dried out a fair bit and
only the many large puddles slowed us down as we
made our way along.
We decided because the road was a mudfest, that I
would meet him at the power lines, which were half
way to the main road. I got to our rendezvous about
three-quarters of an hour before Lee, so I enjoyed the
early morning light and grand vistas of the Wilson and
Dolores ranges to the south. These mountain ranges
were still thick with clouds full of moisture blowing in
In the distance we could see Lone Cone to the west of
the Wilson and Dolores ranges. The light was the "typical awesome" for the time of day and reminded me how
special Southwest Colorado was. We finally arrived at
Lee's truck and, with a high five, I thanked him for helping get my elk out of the woods. I look forward to returning the favor and friendship in the near future! u
My skinning knife had to be here somewhere. Did I
lose it in the darkness last night? Lee helped me look
for it when he returned and when we turned the elk.
No luck, it was lost. I used my back-up knife (which
was slower but worked). Lee was off again with another
load while I continued to quarter the other half of the
elk. I sure did miss not having that skinning knife, but
I made do.
Naps
What we found instead was an orange-clad hunter
laying athwart the trail, rifle clutched across his chest
and dead to the world. That man looked like he had a
rough night or a long hike because he was as asleep as
a man could be. Bob and I pulled up short and whispered about our alternatives: wake him up, detour, or
sneak over his fairly bulky slumbering form. I was
afraid any abrupt noise might bring a knee-jerk reaction; he might be one of those grouchy sleepers who
takes a swing if you shake his shoulder. The detour
option was out because of the rough terrain.
It’s not a good idea to suddenly awaken someone
who has his hands curled around a large-bore rifle. Did
I mention he also had his finger inside the trigger
guard? It was ticklish business. Bob suggested that we
just step over him and tiptoe on our way. The soft
snores coming from the slumbering hunter indicated he
was out cold.
“Okay, but you go first,” I foolishly said. Bob crept
up, glanced down and put one foot over the obstacle,
careful to avoid touching the rifle barrel. Then slowly
he pulled his other boot across and cleared off a piece.
He grinned at me, it was my turn. I followed the same
procedure, one slow step after the other, like trying to
creep over a sleeping alligator.
I was so intent on watching the hunter’s face for any
sign of movement that I missed my footing and set
down on a tiny twig half buried in the grass. In an instant those peaceful eyes snapped open. He sat bolt upright, the finger tightened on the trigger while the
thumb snapped the safety off. Fortunately, I was positioned opposite the business end of the weapon. I apologized for disturbing him, he asked if we had seen
anything, and we got the heck out of there in a hurry. I
don’t think he was fully awake even as we doublemarched around the bend. He probably went back to
camp that evening and told the group, “I had the
strangest dream...”
Now that I am older and no longer hunt, I think
that’s one of the things I miss most - those many memorable naps in all the forests I’ve prowled through the
years. Some were truly spectacular spots, as if room
service had known I was coming and arranged the
small bumps and leaves to fit my sore back. Others
were taken out of necessity, used briefly just because I
was too tired to push on and needed a short rest, never
mind the sticks, rocks and nettles. But all are dearly
missed. So, to everyone still hunting, here’s wishing
you a successful trip and happy napping. u
PAGE 25
Roasted Wild Turkey with
Raspberry Sauce
1 wild turkey
3 -4 tablespoons bacon fat
6 -8 slices raw bacon
1 cup chopped onion
2 cups chopped celery
1 1⁄2 cups dry white wine
1⁄8 teaspoon salt
1⁄8 teaspoon pepper
1 1⁄2 cups chicken broth
1 cup seedless raspberry jam
2 tablespoons orange juice
3 tablespoons white wine vinegar
Wash & dry turkey. Mix onion, celery, bacon fat,
& 1 cup wine, & stuff bird with mixture. Salt & pepper the bird. Lay the bacon slices over the turkey
breast.
Place bird in roasting bag & pour in broth & remaining wine. Close bag & roast at 300 degrees for
20-25 minutes per pound.Discard onion & celery before serving.
For sauce, combine in skillet the raspberry jam, orange juice, & vinegar (also the fresh raspberries, if
you're using them). Bring to a boil & cook 2-3 minutes, until sauce is reduced to desired consistency (it
will thicken as it cools).
Spoon sauce in a pool on serving plate, & top with
slices of the turkey breast. Makes 4 servings.
Venison Marsala
1 1⁄2 lbs venison (backstrap or tenderloin)
1⁄2 cup flour
1⁄3 cup parmesan cheese (grated)
1 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons butter
1⁄4 lb fresh mushrooms (sliced)
2 green onions, with tops (chopped)
1⁄2 cup consomme or 1⁄2 cup beef broth
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1⁄4 cup marsala wine
(apple juice if you don't want alcohol)
chopped parsley
Dredge Elk Steak lightly in flour; shake off excess.
Melt butter in a large skillet; brown steak on both
sides. Place in a shallow baking pan. Combine the
next nine ingredients; pour over steak.
Cover and bake at 350º for 1-1/2 hours or until
cooked to desired tenderness. If desired, place cheese
over steak before serving. Serve over noodles.
Yields 4 servings.
PAGE 26
The Old Man’s Stump
and friends. I have taken quite a few friends to the old
man’s stump, but I am the only one who gets to sit on
it. We have killed a lot of elk there and every time we
have a new person in camp, he gets to sit with me opening day and hear all the stories of years gone by. Some
have gotten their elk, some have not, but they always
saw elk. They get the lecture that I give everyone I take,
“I’ll take you to my spot and here is how it works, you
come with me, we all help each other get their elk back
to camp. You will have camp chores to do like everyone else and if you decide to slack on any of these, you
won’t be welcome back the next year. Last, but not least,
if you come in here without me any year after this year
it will ruin our friendship and, more than likely, there
will be a gun fight on the side of that mountain!” Never
have had a problem after they heard the speech! My son and I were hunting down below the meadow
in the thick forest and oak brush the day we met the old
man. We had heard four shots ring out in rapid succession about a half mile away. We were heading that way
and I thought maybe we pushed those elk out to some
lucky hunter. We got to the meadow’s edge and I saw
the old man stooped over a cow with his knife in hand.
Farther to the left, his wife was bending over putting a
tag on another cow that she had taken. Walking over to
the old man I said, “Had a little luck I see.”
The old fellow, with knife in hand, stood straight up.
It took him a little bit to catch his breath then he said,
“Yes, we did. This has been a good spot; it has paid off
over the years.” I offered my help and we got those elk
dressed and drug into the shade. He had a pillowcase
with some stuff in it. “This is his backpack,” I thought,
as he grabbed a canteen out and took a big swig of
water. His rifle was an old model 70 Winchester, pre’64, the same as mine. He wiped the sweat off of his
brow and he took a seat on the stump.
“These elk are a lot of work. They were a lot of work
when I was young and it gets harder every year. It
wears me out just dressing one; and today we have two.
Thanks for your help, it means a lot to me.” “Have you hunted here long?” I asked.
“Most of my life,” he said. “Killed a lot of elk right
here from this stump. Killed some big bulls, some not so
big, and quite a few cows. Only a few years I did not
get one. Normally, I always see some. They outfit on
the ranch below and when they get into them, they
cross here trying to get to the big sea of timber behind
us. The main crossing is that ridge right there,” he said
as he pointed to the south, but too far for me to shoot.
“I don’t sit there because it’s a lot farther for me to walk
and harder to get them out. I couldn‘t do it today. Right
here in front of me in this little basin is good, too ,and
then that ridgeline to the north is good. It’s all good,” he
said.
“Do you need help getting them out?” I asked.
“No, the wife went to call the boy. He is a coal miner
like I was. Tough as nails he is, he’ll get them out for us.
How old is the boy?” he asked.
“He is eleven,” I said. “My health is not what it used to be,” he said, “the
wife and I have decided this will be our last year hunting elk.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“No… that’s good for you, young man. If you and
that boy come here every year and sit on this old man’s
stump, you will kill a lot of elk, too, before you’re an old
man like me.” I left that day feeling a little sad for the old man. It
must be hard to quit doing something that you love so
much. Sitting on the old mans stump the next year, sure
enough, my son took his first elk and I got one too.
Last year my daughter was with me again. I sat
there on the old man’s stump and she sat in a camp
chair. While we were waiting and watching for elk, I
told her more stories that had transpired at this little
place of heaven-on-earth. I caught movement to my
right. A hunter was cutting across the little basin in
front of us. I was cursing under my breath a little and
my daughter said, “DAD! This is National Forest, you
act like your name is on it.” I immediately jumped to
my feet, got out my knife, and began to carve on a big
quakie that overlooked the little basin. She couldn’t see
what I was carving. When I got done I walked back to
the stump, sat down and said, “ There! My name is on
it!” She looked up and sure enough it read
“BROUGHTON BASIN.” She just smiled and shook
her head. This year, 2015, if I get an elk it will be the 19th. I
find it ironic that this will be the 19th year I have spent
sitting on the old man’s stump. The stump has pro-
duced 13 elk for me and 14 for family and friends. Sitting on the stump last year, I wondered how many
more years I would have at that special place. It seemed
that everything was more beautiful than ever before.
But, with time, like everything, it will come to an
end. Thinking about the old man I wondered if his
spirit was here with me as I have noticed the last several
years the air seemed colder, the breeze stiffer, the elk
are getting harder to hit and I can’t hear them or spot
them like I used to. I, too, am turning into an old man
and when I do get one on the ground, it is pure hard
work and my friends help me with dressing it. I ,too,
call my son, who is a coal miner and tough as nails, to
come and get it out for me. It’s strange, but I have a lot
in common with the old man.
I have friends whom I choose to hunt with and some
are waiting for me to retire the old man’s stump to
them. My son is a bow hunter and has not hunted with
me in years. This year he will be here, not to hunt but
to help make more special memories, for he and my
daughter both know how special this place is to me and
it won‘t be long until the day comes when I can‘t do it
anymore.
I got tears in my eyes sitting there last year, thinking
about the old man and all the elk we both have taken
here. I am now starting to realize how hard it was for
him to quit. I think about all the special moments that
have taken place with my family and friends in this
meadow, thinking one day, when I am done hunting
elk, I would take that stump home and set it in my den
under one of the elk I took from it. “No, that wouldn’t
be right,” I thought. It will be there in a special way for
some young man who comes along and helps me with
my elk. It will become a special place for him and his
family, as it was for me. They, too, will learn all the stories from the stump.
He won’t know I will be there in spirit, helping him
as my ashes will be laid at the bottom of the tree that
reads, “BROUGHTON BASIN,” and the old man’s
stump will be placed atop my ashes. When that day
will come, I am not sure. I do know that when that
young man comes along and begins to leave I will say,
with tears in my eyes, “This will be my last year hunting elk and if you come here and sit on this old man’s
stump, you will kill a lot of elk before you become an
old man too!” u
PAGE 27
PAGE 28

High Country Hunting Guide by the High Country Shopper

Transcription

Similar documents

HO-KISS PO-KISS - Virginia Elks Association

6.5mm BRM Accuracy at 500 Yards

boys 2MEN - River of Life Church

SAVE $$ - Kee Auto Top

Hunting brochure - Bear Basin Adventures

Grad Flowers

leatherbys full page ad EGC

the article - Black Mountain Outfitters

TT Newsletter Oct-Dec 2008