338magblaster
Member
- Messages
- 65
You know the feeling.
Your sleeping bag is warm; there is a cold edge to the morning air. You pull on cold starchy pants and slip into your jacket and wish you'd have stoked last nights fire a little better. Once the boots are tied, you search the ashes for the last remnant of coals to make that cup of joe just a little quicker. Nothing like the smell of camp coffee mixed with smoke lingering from the previous night's fire.
The horses stomp, they know there will be miles on the trail before they see the sun. As the fire catches and starts to crackle a faint sound makes you wonder if you really heard the distant bugle of a lonely bull. There it is again, among the douglas firs that keep his place cool on warm September afternoons. I wonder if he's as lonely as he sounds or if he's warning others to stay away from his girls.
As the bacon sizzles on the blackened cast iron, you wonder how the day will play out. The days in the woods seem to drain away too quickly. Already this is the fifth morning you've made breakfast with that sense of urgency and anticipation.
As you tighten the cinch, old Billy takes a deep breath. You've played his game a thousand times. He knows it is just a game and as you talk in hushed tone, he relents and takes the bit. The seat is cold, but the dew didn't get to it. Billy knows there's work ahead and shows why he's your favorite. Strong and wise he moves up the trail, the pack horse follows.
Off in the east, through the aspens, there's a hint of pink. You hear a rattle in the leaves, probably just woke a squirrel. Maybe it is the chipmunk that you shared last night's supper with. The heavy jacket feels good this morning. Maybe there's snow in the clouds that paint the westerns sky with inky blackness... no stars to the west. We'd better get that bull today.
You think about yesterday's stalk that was interrupted by a rag horn that had ideas about a yearling cow. That herd was on the edge of the big sage flat with aspens chasing the drainage to the north. You had the wind right. The old savvy lead cow was on the far end of the bunch and her bull was keeping an eye on the band from inside the trees. You could make him as a prime six by. His antlers were obscured by the gnarled branches of long dead quakies. As he turned his head from side to side, trying to get relief from the incessant flies, you could tell that this old boy knew his business. There were other bulls around, in fact he had recently had to defend his territory and showed the effects. His heavy antlers were chipped and scarred.
You could tell that his left third was missing a couple of inches. Didn't matter, he was the kind of bull that haunts the dreams of those who prowl the September woods. He had spent hours rubbing and polishing those magnificent main beams. His swooping fronts extended above his nose and appeared to point back as he raised his nose to offer his raspy voice. Long split fifths and that extra on the left side was maybe seven or eight inches long. He was the one you wanted. He is why you spent the past five months carrying your thirty pound pack on your evening walks. He's why you bank account has more goose-eggs than presidential portraits.
Had that rag not gotten to frisky, he would be hanging back at camp right now. What can you do? Well today was the day. You'd put the herd to bed last night and there was no moon so they likely didn't move far.
As you reach the top of the ridge you give a couple of cow calls. Nothing. No response. Another minute or two. You look back where you tied Billy and the mustang packer. Even from here you can tell they were quiet. Billy nuzzled you as you tied his halter... He's done this before. He knows about the stash of carrots in your pocket. He didn't leave you alone until he had a couple. He watched you climb the last half mile, or at least heard you... the stars were still keeping watch. The mustang didn't seem to care one way or the other.
As your heart begins to question this morning's plan, the breeze carries a rasping response. "Yep, knew you'd be there," you say to yourself. Let's see what happens. Your breath shows in the morning chill and tells you that you'd better not approach down hill. The barely moving breeze is drifting down with the cold morning air.
You retreat back the way you came and decide that you best approach would be to circle east and then cross back into his bedroom from the north. The sun up will be in a few minutes and you make good time as you find a well used game trail to make the circuit. The trail heads lower than you want to go so you carefully move back toward the ridgeline. As you crest the ridge, you realize that you've gone lower than you thought; you're now below the herd. You verify the wind with that dust in the bottle thing that you picked up, still in your favor. You move farther into the grove. As you take the last step, you smell the pungent, magical, undeniable scent of the elk. You are close.
Here's a good spot to set up. Nice spruce behind you to break up your outline and a small mountain scrub in front. As the morning light grows, the bugles and cow calls begin to become more frequent. You cow call and immediately there's a master's response. You're close and you hold still. Another bugle, this time he's just out of sight. You nock your favorite arrow and rise. Your cow call sounds again, almost by itself. There, a shadow is quartering to you. Forty yards, but no lane. Closer now, thirty yards. Still quartering to and a big pine in the way. Good, you quietly draw. Focused on the twenty yard pin and the tawny beast that is looking... ears up, nostrils quivering... he wants to see the cow that he knows is there. I try not to look at the antlers... I tell myself that this is it... two more steps... there, stop him. The diaphragm sweetly purrs. He stops; you touch the release, just like the thousands of times at the range. The arrow flies true. As it sails though the air, the first rays of morning sun catch the colorful fletching. The arrow finds its mark. I see it disappear to the fletching. The great beast just stands there. Legs locked for, it seems like an eternity, only a second and then it wheels and bolts. I am left with dust on the morning current and the sound of his retreat. I cow call, hoping he'll slow... I hear him crash through the brush. Then... a sound like no other... you know what it is... he's down. You quietly shake your fist and immediately look skyward. Thank you Father... this is what you live for.
To say the next thirty minutes pass slowly is the understatement of the century. No matter how much you've coached yourself for this moment, you cannot force yourself to sit. In your pack is the apple and granola bar you said you'd eat while you wait. You take off your pack and your hands tremble as the zipper quietly retreats. The knife you have is shaking as you look at it and the apple... better just eat it, no slicing this morning. Soon the granola bar is just the wrapper and you look at your watch... only four minutes, you ate the apple and granola bar in four minutes. Your water bottles are full. You drink one. The other is for later.
Okay, it's been ten minutes. You re-live the events of the morning. Did it really happen? Where?s the fairy dust that put you in this dream? As you realize you're walking toward the spot, you stop and look at your watch again for the hundredth time in the past twenty minutes. I guess it wouldn't hurt to slowly take a look. There?s good evidence of a clean hit. Lots of bright, foamy redness in the fallen leaves. The spotty morning light has found the forest floor and there's lots of new color on the trail. This should be easy you say to yourself, still whispering. Why whisper? He?s down, you know he is? still you can't bring yourself to speak out loud.
As you follow the trail, you see a familiar color in the leaves? There?s the arrow, amazingly, there's color all the way from point to nock. Back in the quiver it goes? not whipping anything off. More trail to follow, you've now gone about 75 yards. Your survey what's ahead. There is a depression that you didn't see before. From where you are you see an ivory tip above the brush. You stop and watch to see if there's movement? none. WWWhoo hoooo? now there's not quiet left. Any thing still in the drainage has now headed for parts unknown.
As you approach your emotions emerge. You reflect on the hours of practice, working with the horses, getting things arranged so you could be away for ten days, your wife and kids at home? all of these things flash through your mind. Here in the best place on earth, you kneel down to do two things. Thank the elk for his life and thank your Maker for yours
Your sleeping bag is warm; there is a cold edge to the morning air. You pull on cold starchy pants and slip into your jacket and wish you'd have stoked last nights fire a little better. Once the boots are tied, you search the ashes for the last remnant of coals to make that cup of joe just a little quicker. Nothing like the smell of camp coffee mixed with smoke lingering from the previous night's fire.
The horses stomp, they know there will be miles on the trail before they see the sun. As the fire catches and starts to crackle a faint sound makes you wonder if you really heard the distant bugle of a lonely bull. There it is again, among the douglas firs that keep his place cool on warm September afternoons. I wonder if he's as lonely as he sounds or if he's warning others to stay away from his girls.
As the bacon sizzles on the blackened cast iron, you wonder how the day will play out. The days in the woods seem to drain away too quickly. Already this is the fifth morning you've made breakfast with that sense of urgency and anticipation.
As you tighten the cinch, old Billy takes a deep breath. You've played his game a thousand times. He knows it is just a game and as you talk in hushed tone, he relents and takes the bit. The seat is cold, but the dew didn't get to it. Billy knows there's work ahead and shows why he's your favorite. Strong and wise he moves up the trail, the pack horse follows.
Off in the east, through the aspens, there's a hint of pink. You hear a rattle in the leaves, probably just woke a squirrel. Maybe it is the chipmunk that you shared last night's supper with. The heavy jacket feels good this morning. Maybe there's snow in the clouds that paint the westerns sky with inky blackness... no stars to the west. We'd better get that bull today.
You think about yesterday's stalk that was interrupted by a rag horn that had ideas about a yearling cow. That herd was on the edge of the big sage flat with aspens chasing the drainage to the north. You had the wind right. The old savvy lead cow was on the far end of the bunch and her bull was keeping an eye on the band from inside the trees. You could make him as a prime six by. His antlers were obscured by the gnarled branches of long dead quakies. As he turned his head from side to side, trying to get relief from the incessant flies, you could tell that this old boy knew his business. There were other bulls around, in fact he had recently had to defend his territory and showed the effects. His heavy antlers were chipped and scarred.
You could tell that his left third was missing a couple of inches. Didn't matter, he was the kind of bull that haunts the dreams of those who prowl the September woods. He had spent hours rubbing and polishing those magnificent main beams. His swooping fronts extended above his nose and appeared to point back as he raised his nose to offer his raspy voice. Long split fifths and that extra on the left side was maybe seven or eight inches long. He was the one you wanted. He is why you spent the past five months carrying your thirty pound pack on your evening walks. He's why you bank account has more goose-eggs than presidential portraits.
Had that rag not gotten to frisky, he would be hanging back at camp right now. What can you do? Well today was the day. You'd put the herd to bed last night and there was no moon so they likely didn't move far.
As you reach the top of the ridge you give a couple of cow calls. Nothing. No response. Another minute or two. You look back where you tied Billy and the mustang packer. Even from here you can tell they were quiet. Billy nuzzled you as you tied his halter... He's done this before. He knows about the stash of carrots in your pocket. He didn't leave you alone until he had a couple. He watched you climb the last half mile, or at least heard you... the stars were still keeping watch. The mustang didn't seem to care one way or the other.
As your heart begins to question this morning's plan, the breeze carries a rasping response. "Yep, knew you'd be there," you say to yourself. Let's see what happens. Your breath shows in the morning chill and tells you that you'd better not approach down hill. The barely moving breeze is drifting down with the cold morning air.
You retreat back the way you came and decide that you best approach would be to circle east and then cross back into his bedroom from the north. The sun up will be in a few minutes and you make good time as you find a well used game trail to make the circuit. The trail heads lower than you want to go so you carefully move back toward the ridgeline. As you crest the ridge, you realize that you've gone lower than you thought; you're now below the herd. You verify the wind with that dust in the bottle thing that you picked up, still in your favor. You move farther into the grove. As you take the last step, you smell the pungent, magical, undeniable scent of the elk. You are close.
Here's a good spot to set up. Nice spruce behind you to break up your outline and a small mountain scrub in front. As the morning light grows, the bugles and cow calls begin to become more frequent. You cow call and immediately there's a master's response. You're close and you hold still. Another bugle, this time he's just out of sight. You nock your favorite arrow and rise. Your cow call sounds again, almost by itself. There, a shadow is quartering to you. Forty yards, but no lane. Closer now, thirty yards. Still quartering to and a big pine in the way. Good, you quietly draw. Focused on the twenty yard pin and the tawny beast that is looking... ears up, nostrils quivering... he wants to see the cow that he knows is there. I try not to look at the antlers... I tell myself that this is it... two more steps... there, stop him. The diaphragm sweetly purrs. He stops; you touch the release, just like the thousands of times at the range. The arrow flies true. As it sails though the air, the first rays of morning sun catch the colorful fletching. The arrow finds its mark. I see it disappear to the fletching. The great beast just stands there. Legs locked for, it seems like an eternity, only a second and then it wheels and bolts. I am left with dust on the morning current and the sound of his retreat. I cow call, hoping he'll slow... I hear him crash through the brush. Then... a sound like no other... you know what it is... he's down. You quietly shake your fist and immediately look skyward. Thank you Father... this is what you live for.
To say the next thirty minutes pass slowly is the understatement of the century. No matter how much you've coached yourself for this moment, you cannot force yourself to sit. In your pack is the apple and granola bar you said you'd eat while you wait. You take off your pack and your hands tremble as the zipper quietly retreats. The knife you have is shaking as you look at it and the apple... better just eat it, no slicing this morning. Soon the granola bar is just the wrapper and you look at your watch... only four minutes, you ate the apple and granola bar in four minutes. Your water bottles are full. You drink one. The other is for later.
Okay, it's been ten minutes. You re-live the events of the morning. Did it really happen? Where?s the fairy dust that put you in this dream? As you realize you're walking toward the spot, you stop and look at your watch again for the hundredth time in the past twenty minutes. I guess it wouldn't hurt to slowly take a look. There?s good evidence of a clean hit. Lots of bright, foamy redness in the fallen leaves. The spotty morning light has found the forest floor and there's lots of new color on the trail. This should be easy you say to yourself, still whispering. Why whisper? He?s down, you know he is? still you can't bring yourself to speak out loud.
As you follow the trail, you see a familiar color in the leaves? There?s the arrow, amazingly, there's color all the way from point to nock. Back in the quiver it goes? not whipping anything off. More trail to follow, you've now gone about 75 yards. Your survey what's ahead. There is a depression that you didn't see before. From where you are you see an ivory tip above the brush. You stop and watch to see if there's movement? none. WWWhoo hoooo? now there's not quiet left. Any thing still in the drainage has now headed for parts unknown.
As you approach your emotions emerge. You reflect on the hours of practice, working with the horses, getting things arranged so you could be away for ten days, your wife and kids at home? all of these things flash through your mind. Here in the best place on earth, you kneel down to do two things. Thank the elk for his life and thank your Maker for yours
