Sorry, dont have time to post the pics, but hes huge. Here's the story....
A successful hunt!
Did I remember to pack some lighters if I need to get a fire going? Is it snowing up there through the fog and the clouds? Can I keep my pack under 45 pounds? These are questions that crossed my mind the afternoon I was packing for my annual pilgrimage up what I like to call ?My Mountain? in search of a bull to talk at. Occasionally I would pause to glance out my office window towards that mountain. It looks smaller than it used to 20 years ago before I had set foot on almost every inch it seemed, but I knew in the morning when I began my trek, it would seem much larger than it had. My legs will burn at first and I know I will have to stop more often to catch my breath than I used to. Could I still do it? Part of the reason it seems I make this pilgrimage is just to prove that I can, to myself mostly, defying the reality that my body isn't holding together like it used to.
Many things have changed since I called in my first bull there in 85. That was my first official hunt as a guide, and it would in turn lead to several hundred others, across many western states. In more recent years though, as I chose a career that allowed me to spend more time closer to home with my family, the trip up that mountain has been a solo one. ?Solo? seems kind of an odd term to describe it. It seems every draw and opening on that mountain holds a memory I share with one of the hunters that trustingly followed me up there in hopes of taking a big bull elk, so I am never really alone up there. That cool September morning in 85 was one of them I spent with "client in tow". I remember the bull I called in that morning was taken by a hunter from Missouri. Greg was his name. It was a nice symmetrical bull topping 330. I remember Greg had a facemask on, and at camp he had painted around his eyes where they showed through the holes. I laughed as I took pictures of him with the downed bull, because after he looked the mask off, he looked like a darn raccoon from the face paint.
No one outfits that mountain anymore. It's too rough and unforgiving. This trip seemed a bit different than the one I had taken up there by myself for the last several years. This year I had made up my mind to harvest an elk, any elk. I always had some lame excuse why I didn't, the biggest one being setting my goals unrealistically to where I never did have an opportunity at the size of bull I held out for, and I would each year come down empty handed. This year I decided I would take the first legal elk that came to my call, no matter how small or where on the mountain my colt and I had to pack him from. Lighters, calls, water bottle, sleeping bag, jerky. I weighed in my fully equipped pack that night on the bathroom scale, 46.5 pounds. Again my eyes turned to the silhouette of ?my mountain?. I quietly nodded my head and topped off the small pockets with a few more candy bars. Candy bars are hard to come by up there you know
I awoke before the alarm clock rang the next morning, shutting it off before it disturbed my (sometimes) understanding wife, who didn't have to be to work for a few more hours. I had laid everything out, military style, the night before, pants, boots, socks and shirt, in hopes of not making a big commotion preparing for my exit. I thought I did quite well, leaving the household undisturbed in the pre-dawn hours. As I silently crept out of the bedroom door my wife whispers, ?Be careful up there honey, I hope you find what you're looking for.? I pretend I don't here her as I shut the door quietly behind me, in fear of starting a lengthy conversation that will wake her up from her semi sleep and leave me second guessing what I really am looking for up there. She knows that I have heard her words, and that I have acknowledged them silently, and without a verbal reply, like I often do. ?I hope I find what I'm looking for too,? I thought to myself, whatever that may be. The cold, steady drizzle of rain that fell from the dark sky was a welcome one this morning. You see, I had my fancy raingear, and my fancy gortex boots, and my fancy fletching cover to keep my feathers dry and ready if I should need them to guide an arrow to an elk (any legal elk, I kept reminding myself) I remember in 87, I began up this mountain in identical weather with Don, from Ypsilanti Michigan. Not sure why I remember the exact town he was from, but the name Ypsilanti just kind of sticks with you. On that trip I wore my slick ranch boots, jeans, a cowboy hat. I was soaked before we were 100 yards from the truck. ?May has well get it over with? (being soaked) I told Don as he shook his head at the sight of me when it became light enough. ?You look like half drowned Muskrat? he told me. At least I don't look completely drowned, I thought to myself. I don't believe I have ever seen a half drowned Muskrat, but they must have a few in Ypsilanti Michigan.
Guiding never did pay too well back then (monetarily that is) I used the little money I made to pay the rent, buy groceries, diapers and gas. Now I was able to finally buy the things most of my hunters had taken for granted. I always played ?tough guy? when they questioned me about my hunting attire and equipment. ?The elk don't care how dry your feet are?, ?No sense in buying those fancy binoculars when I loose them every year anyway?, or ?Damn if I'm gonna look like some poster child for LL Bean or Cabellas? were excuses I would give my hunters instead of admitting I was too stubborn, proud and poor to clad myself in Gortex, Quallofill, hydrostitched, wind sheared, berber, scent lock, scent block, thinsulate and kryptonite reinforced long johns.
Those few extra candy bars are awful heavy, I thought less than an hour after I had began my hike. I was no more than a mile up my mountain when I sat down to enjoy one. I turned off my headlamp after getting my pre breakfast treat located and thought I could see just a glow of what would soon be dawn on the East horizon, across the valley floor. The lights from all of the houses in the valley looked too close still for me to be in elk country yet. I could still here the hum of the cars on the new four lane and an occasional Jake brake when a big rig slowed down for one of the small towns that peppered the bottom. Did the girls remember to set their alarm for early bird volleyball practice, will my wife remember to do payroll today, and did I remember to reschedule the Wednesday appointment with our accountant? I laid back against my mountain, looking straight up into the dark Montana sky. I let the rain fall on my face. I let it run down my cheeks, past my ears and around the back of my neck, in hopes it could somehow cleans me of my worries and help me concentrate on what I had come here to do, which was to harvest an elk, any legal elk that was. Just to be sure my aim was still true and to give my young horse a lesson on packing, should he ever have to pack the one trophy elk I had searched so many years for. This was one of the spots I would usually stop with the hunters to rest or ?listen? I would tell them. I never wanted to make them feel bad when they were struggling physically early on in the hunt and I could have been running up my mountain backwards skinning a Muskrat or something. ?Lets stop a bit and listen for a bugle? I would tell them. I never did hear a bugle from that spot but many of the hunters did, or so they thought. I would agree when they said, ?It was over there? or ?you heard that, didn't you.?? I remember Casey from Pittsburgh Pa hearing one of the Jake brakes from a big rig on the highway. ?That sounded like a big one? he said, ?Yah Casey, I think that WAS a big one.? As I lay there on my back in the dark, rain on my face, thinking of all of the bugles that were heard from that spot, that I never heard, the sound of the raindrops falling around, and on me, was broken by another very familiar sound. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH, EUGHHH, EUGHHHH, EUGHH, EUGH. Wait a minute. My squinted eyes were now wide open and I slowly sat up like Mummy rising from his bed of 1000 years. Is that what I thought it was, I questioned myself. Within a minute, the sound came again. It was surely behind me, up my mountain over my left shoulder. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! Across the valley floor, where I had begun my climb, the light on the horizon behind the far mountain range was growing brighter, and brighter
I had rested in this exact spot hundreds of times. I had called to the elk here hundreds of times. I had listened for a distant reply here hundreds of times without getting an answer, and now I was the one being summoned by a REAL bull, not the wind, a bird, or a Jake brake, but a real bull. From my inside pocket of my raingear I pulled out my bottle of smoke. It was tough to tell with the quiet, steady rain if there was a wind of any kind. Puff! It silently erupted out of the bottle like a Genie asking what my first wish of the day would be. I had to squint in the semi darkness to watch the tiny white cloud disappear downhill, where I had just came from. Perfect, my wish had been granted. As took the last bite of my candy bar, again, the bull called for an opponent. He had plenty to say to himself and I was fairly confident when the time came, he would be eager have some company at close range up on his mountain, or was it my mountain? He didn't seem more than a couple hundred yards above me in the sparse timber. I laid against the hillside on my back again and waited for the dawn to arrive. I knew when I did decide to talk to him, he could close that short distance in a matter of seconds. I wanted to be sure I had enough light when he came to see that I had a clear, unobstructed shot and yes, to be sure he was a legal bull. They have to have at least one brow tine you know, six inches I think, or was it two brow tines four inches each? It had been years since I had a hunter on my mountain, and I had since looked only for a 350 bull. I hadn't really kept up on the ever changing regulations. At any rate, he sounded like a mature bull. I was guessing probably a four or five year old full of beans and looking for some action. Kind of like me when I first began to learn this mountain so long ago. With the cloud cover, good light came slow. Mr. Bull had bugled over a dozen times to himself before I decided it was time. I looked around for a good spot that had a little cover but I could shoot out of. The first stand of underbrush I planted myself in hid me well, but when I drew back my recurve in a couple different directions the limbs brushed against branches and leaves, and didn't allow me to swing freely. ?Make sure you are able to shoot from where you set up.? I would tell the hunters. Another 40 yards up the hill was a sharp ledge, maybe a four foot rise with a couple fair size trees to break up my outline. Enough cover to hide an elk (if I was one) but clear enough I had several shooting lanes. Out again came the smoke. Puff! What a wonderful invention. I remember fiddling with my Bic lighter to check a subtle wind in a similar rain once with a Doctor from Texas (Cant remember his name, maybe I never asked it, just called him Doc) I got caught up trying to get the lighter to spark and didn't realize Doc had come full draw after the bull we had been messing with snuck in on us Bad part was, Doc was a little razzed and hadn't nocked an arrow. It took us about ten minutes to figure out what the heck happened after he dry fired. I was never real good at math but having eight arrows left, in an eight-arrow quiver just after you supposedly shot one, just didn't ad up. The bull was unscathed of course. Surprisingly, we were as well considering there was enough pieces of his compound bow scattered around, you would have thought the Starship Enterprise had exploded. Wind, good, cover, good. Out of my fancy fletching cover I pulled a dry feathered shaft and quietly knocked it on my string. Arrow loaded, good
I rarely knock an arrow in the field unless I am quite confident I am going to send it airborn in the near future. They can cause damage on a human as easily as the game we pursue, I've seen it happen more than once. This just seemed like the right time to ?lock and load? The arrow I chose from the quiver had been my favorite for years. The Zwicky that tipped it had extinguished four deer and a coyote, but no elk (to date) I keep seven arrows in my quiver and always keep my favorite arrow in the middle, surrounded by three arrows on each side. Not sure why. To protect it better I guess. I had touched up the broadhead a few nights before, towards the tip of the broadhead I had put a little black dot with a permanent marker years back should I get it mixed up with my other six arrows. I ran my hand gently down the swagged aluminum shaft, from feathers to tip, feeling for any dents, debris and wiping off the moisture that had accumulated on it so quickly. It was time. Out of my right front pocket came the little metal cow call I had devised a few years after I had begun guiding. It makes a sound quite different from most traditional cow calls. But after spending a few hours each night for over 6 weeks in some awesome rutting grounds in New Mexico and listening, and listening, and listening I knew I had a winner. It doesn't necessarily make a sound people wanna hear, it makes a sound the bulls wanna here. Over 15 years I have used it and its make up is unknown to even my closest friends and family. Anyway, that's a different story all together. As I leaned my bow, (arrow knocked) gently against the bank in front of me, again, the bull bugled from the same spot. I cupped my hands tightly to muffle the first call. Meeew. Silence?.. Two seconds, then three, then ten. Nothing. I opened up my hands slightly, and called again, this time a little louder and directed to where I had been listening to the bull. MMMeeeew! This time the silence was broken within a fraction of a second after I had finished my call. The call that the bull made this time was different than all of the others he had made that morning. This bugle was twice as loud, twice as long and had a tone to it that was unmistakably saying ?look out ladies, here comes papa bull!? The last few guttural grunts he made were immediately followed by, at first twigs snapping, then the thumping sounds a heavy animal makes while running, and within 60 seconds after I had called, the ?yuck, yuck, yuck? sound you can only here from a bull at extremely close range. You know, that sound, its not really a bugle, or a grunt but more of the sound of air passing in and out of the bulls lungs, like he is almost hyperventilating. A ?love whisper? I would tell the hunters it was. A bull makes that love whisper while urinating all over his belly of course, but gosh, its romantic for an elk I guess. The timber wasn?t really concentrated enough to direct the bull into coming down a certain lane. My eyes shifted back and forth searching the hillside immediately above me watching for that first movement, that first glimpse of tan hair, or antler or a dark leg. Less than 50 yards directly he made his initial appearance. He was making a beeline directly to where I was hidden. His head wasn?t really up and alert, but rather zoned in on the Earth immediately in front of him, maybe making sure he didn't make an embarrassing stumble on his way to meet his date. He would have to come around a large tree that concealed most of him at 30 yards before I could get a look. It almost seemed he was going to run right into the tree, and knock himself out, but he turned at the last second, like they always do. He twisted his head so his left eye was looking at the ground to get his antlers to narrowly miss scraping the tree. They always seem to know exactly how much clearance they have. It didn't take long for my eyes to evaluate the headgear that bull carried to know that this hunt was going to be different, much different than I had told myself it was going to when I planned it. My three shooting fingers moved ever so slightly finding a comfortable spot on the tight bow string. I would shoot the first legal elk I had an opportunity at I had told myself before this season had began. Here I was on the first morning of my hunt and not only did it look like I may already be offered a shot at a legal elk, but the bull, the one I had guessed to be a ?teenager? , was the one I had dreamed of getting a shot at for so many years, and then some. One of the most common questions I would be asked by my hunters when we heard a bull bugle would be? ?How big do you think he is?? A fair question, considering it was my job to know these things, (supposedly) I would have told Kevin (Mr. Karver) a math teacher from West Virginia, when I first heard this bull, that I thought there was a 90% chance that it was a 2 ? to 4 ? year old bull. At the smallest a Rag, and more than likely a decent five or a six with small forks on the back end. I guided Mr. Karver on a 10 day archery elk hunt. He always wanted to translate everything into a percentage. From the minute after I shook his hand after meeting him at the airport to the time I shook his hand again, bidding him fairwell. What percent chance do you think Ill get a bull on this hunt? What percent chance do you think the weather will stay warm? What percent chance do you think a bull will use this wallow tonight? The first day or two I would tell Kevin, ?Well, there are a lot of variables in the wild? and try to come up with some likely scenarios on what may happen, or has happened in the past. Kevins mind didn't work that way, nice enough guy, but gosh darnit, if I couldn't translate everything into a percentage, I may have well been talking Greek. Course I bet there was a 10% chance he knew Greek. It wasn?t too long before I gave in to him wanting a definite mathematical answer to his questions, and I would answer to his liking. 10% chance I could get that bull to come in, 20% chance he would come between that bush and that rock, 90% chance he would smell us and bolt at that point, 92.4% chance Kevin would be adding numbers in his head when he should have been drawing his bow. I have kept a pretty accurate history when it comes to judging bulls size by the sound of their voice but I wasn?t right all the time. I would say mabey 85% of the time. Some bulls just fool ya. This guy did just that, in a big way. A sense of urgency took over the second I laid eyes on him. He had character, his main beams making sharp turns like a childrens dot to dot picture. His mains were long too, over 54? I would guess, lower end good, nothing broken, and those thirds! They swept out and up, over 20? I estimated, way above average for mature bulls in this area. 364, 368, 370?? As he paused facing directly at me at less than 20 yards I shook my head ever so subtly as if I was waking myself up from a day dream. Why was I even bothering adding this guy up? He was surely a legal brow tined bull, no matter what the legal definition, he was fairly close to civilization, an easy pack out and he was within my lethal range. Instinct I guess. As he paused his eyes seemed to scan directly over the top of me, searching for the nice lady that had summoned him. The timber was sparse, the wind was perfect, the bull was as lovesick as they get. He could turn left, right, pause, or not, continue downhill he would have to pass within yards offering me a perfect shot. I tabulated numbers in my head, coming to the conclusion that I would most certainly have a 90% chance at getting a very good shot on this bull, then again I would have guessed there was a 90% chance this bull would be a lot smaller too. Darn mathematics anyway
The ?musty? smell that came from him filled my nostrils with a strong odor only an elk hunter could love. It smelled the same (and as strong) as when you are handling a downed bull. I knew big guys like this often get nervous when they come to a call and there isn't another elk visible but all I need him to do was turn a bit to go on either side of my post. When he began to move again, I would draw I thought to myself. I figured my best bet was to keep quiet as he was doing a pretty good job of getting himself shot on his own now. It had probably been less than a minute since he had paused to examine his surroundings but it seemed more like hours. He quietly chuckled under his breath the same time his body came in motion again. As he shifted his weight on his front half to begin his first step I began to draw. 20 yards, 18, 15 yards he continued his path directly towards my hiding spot. I was at full draw now, my index finger found its comfortable spot on the corner of my mouth, favorite arrow readied for take off. 12 yards, then 10. Like a well trained Army Brigade I could see the beads of rainwater running down his long main beams in a line to his pedicles and more beads falling from his mane to the Earth. As he approached within feet of the drop off where I had taken cover His neck stretched a bit more with each step he took and his confident steps seemed to become more uncertain ones. I continued to raise my bow higher and higher until my arrow was at an angle that was similar to archery hunting flying geese with flu-flu arrows. At the end of the shaft I could see the little black dot I had put on my Zwicky and less than five feet beyond it the brisket of the largest bull I have ever had the opportunity of drawing back on. The bull came to a jerky and sudden stop about the same time my arms began to shake from holding back over 70 lbs of recurve. One thing I had stressed over years of guiding archery hunters was the importance of shot placement. A brisket, or facing towards the archer shot was absolutely ALWAYS out of the question. Could an arrow find vitals via that route, surely, but it was never worth the risk of losing a wounded Bull if luck didn't guide the shaft through the obstacles found there. Now what? The bull was frozen now, and alert and it seemed as he was quickly growing suspicious of what he had gotten himself in to. I squinted my eyes trying to keep them from inviting so many of the rain drops that were coming down. At the end of my arrow I could see my ?favorite? broad head slowly slipping further and further away from the shelf. I knew within a second or two I would have to give in to the resistance of the limbs and let down all together. If only I wasn?t too stubborn to buy one of those fancy new bows, the compounds with the super cams and the great let off I would be able to remain comfortably at full draw. At least I remembered to knock an arrow I thought as I relaxed my right arm. As the shaft slid back along the cushioned shelf the bull spun without warning. He did so quickly and it startled me he had been so close. Meewww, meeeewwww!! I franticly called at him, hoping to make him freeze just for a second while I drew my bow again. Within seconds he widened the distance he had just closed. 5 yards, 10. 18, 25 yards. The big guys like this never seem to give you a second chance I would tell the hunters. Over the years it almost seemed more productive to walk away and look for another bull when something like this happened. 30 yards, 40 yards, I could hear him now in the distance, occasionally snapping a limb as he made his exit. Then again, over the years, we never DID learn to walk away, and occasionally we WOULD get a second chance at a Big Bull. In the coming days this guy would prove to be one of those ?second chance bulls?. From the valleys floor behind me I could now hear the steady hum of the morning commuters on their way to work. Work? In the short time span since the ?excitement? began that was one thing I was glad to have cleansed from my mind (at least momentarily) The rain had begin to subside and I could see the steady stream of cars (headlights still on) streaming in a line that seemed to stretch forever to face the days tasks on hand. As I snapped my favorite arrow back in to its spot I thought about the days ?tasks? that I faced. I thought about the encounter that had just occurred, and where it had occurred. What was that bull doing here? Coaxing me on maybe? The sound of vehicles in the distance would fade the next few hours up the mountain. At first I took each step cautiously, cow calling occasionally and scanning the terrain in front of me for another glimpse of that big guy. He didn't call on me again that day, nor did any elk. I guess I didn't really expect him to. He knew something was up and hey, had I killed him there the first morning out, I too, would be in one of those cars heading to work. As dark neared I searched for a spot to sleep for the night. I never do carry a tent or a tarp when bivouac hunting. Its always a fun challenge to me to find a spot to sleep that has some shelter, or make a shelter from what I have to work with. I was able to find an old Ponderosa that had broken almost all of the way off about ten feet from the ground. It was a huge old tree and beneath it the soil was dry. ?Good enough for the girls I go with? I thought to myself as I took my down bag out of its stuff sack. I chuckled to myself when I thought of ?Johnny? from,? well, cant say I remember where ?Johnny? was from. East of the Dakotas I guess, somewhere between there and the Coast. We got a bit sidetracked the first day backpacking into camp. One bull led us on a wild goose chase and when that one bailed another one lured us further off course. Before we knew it the Sun had set and the camp I had set up the week before with the horses (complete with wall tent, wood stove and canned goods) was, well, I actually wasn?t sure where the Hell it was. I mean I kinda knew we were within a mile or so, I thought. So instead of parading around through the blow down lodgepoles in the dark I began to do what came naturally, making a sleeping spot for the night. Now Johnny was a ?thirty something? computer geek that made more money than he had friends (or family) to spend it on. He had never been married. He still lived at home (yes, his parents home) and this was the first time he would be out of contact with his mother in, well, thirty some years. ?What are you doing?? asked Johnny as I began breaking the lower limbs off of a big Fir tree and scooping the needles away to make a couple ?dents? to sleep in. I explained to Johnny that since we had our sleeping bags and enough to eat for the night, and the weather was splendid, that we would just wait out the darkness, catch a good nights sleep and when light came in the morning we would hunt our way to the camp I had set up. ?That wasn?t the plan!? Johnny spit out in a frantic voice. No, it sure wasn?t initially but it was the plan now. The questions began to flow out of Johnnys mouth like he was an undefeated champion of the ?Annoy your Guide with Dumb Questions? game show. ?What if it rains?? ?Are we lost?? ?Do you even know where camp is?? ?Is there bears on this mountain?? ?This is the craziest thing Ive ever done!? It was a few hours after we had settled in and quite sometime before I had began answering his questions with silence before Johnny was finally quiet in semi sleep. As tired as I was from the long day I couldn't help but whisper loudly ?Johnny, did you hear that!? The rain had stopped now and the sky was peppered with a million and one stars. As I pulled my sleeping bags drawstring tight around my neck, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself again. ?Goodnight John Boy? I thought to myself.
That first night on my mountain I slept sound. Probably as good as I had since the year before when I had backpacked up there. Interesting how the indentation in the dry pine needles I had scooped away fit me better than the darn $1500 select comfy hobo jobo mattress Paul Harvey had talked me in to. I was really expecting to be awoken by a bugle echoing across the canyon I was sleeping over, a traveling bull singing in the night, possibly the one I had encountered earlier, but the darkness was silent, or maybe it was just that I was so tuckered out from the accent up my mountain I slept through anything that went ?bump? in the night. The light that crept over the East mountains this morning arrived much differently than it had the morning before. This morning was calm, and quiet, and clear. As I repacked my sleeping bag I paused abruptly to listen to what I thought was a bugle in the distance. A few minutes later it came again, very faintly. I turned my head from side to side to see if I could pinpoint he bull. Across from me, no above, for sure above me, in ?The Swamp?. It was too far away to distinguish the bugle, if it came from a young or old bull and I guess it really didn't matter as I had proved to myself the day before I was by no means an accurate expert in that category. Now, ?The Swamp? wasn?t really a swamp at all, at least, not how you would picture one. It wasn?t a flat swamp with stands of red willows, with a curvy stream and patches of lush grass like a moose would live in. This was an area that I was forbidden by the Outfitter I worked for to enter. It was steep, with lodge pole thick like porcupine quills and random ?wet? spots with little bunches of ?Mountain Alder?. The elk loved to bed in it. It was cool and there and they loved to make wallows in the wet spots. It was very difficult to traverse on foot by a human and even worse for a horse. ?You?re hunter will miss the damn plane while you're trying to pack a bull out of there? I remember the outfitter telling me. I didn't always follow his orders and on more than one occasion I would be the one packing out a raghorn, piece my piece on my back while the outfitter ?Took care of some business at home? and my hunter was in camp with ?blisters on his feet from new boots?. To enter it was like entering the Black Forest blindfolded, but something told me I should visit ?The Swamp? on this trip. So I strapped on my pack, my arm guard, pulled back my bow a few times to loosen up my aging muscles and again climbed upward, towards the forbidden ?Swamp?. I remembered killing a bull there with a ?know it all? from Northern California. (No name comes to mind but I remember the face and voice clearly) I could always get along with 99% of the folks that came out but this guy rubbed me the wrong way from day one. He was arrogant, he didn't have faith in me, he didn't respect the game we hunted, and he ?knew it all?. He wouldn't admit he was out of shape so he kept insisting there was no reason to hunt steep country during the rut because it was impossible for elk to ?mate? there. That was all the more reason for me to lead him to the steepest, God forsaken country I knew of. Yes, ?The Swamp?. Wouldn?t you know it we killed a darn bull there, a little six we stumbled upon accidentally. The good part was I got to say (as we walked up to the fallen bull) ?I don't know what this guy was doing here anyway during the rut, you know elk cant F--- on hillsides!? The bad part was I had to pack the bull out to where the horses could get to it (by myself) My hunter had ?blisters on his feet? The bull missed P&Y by less than an inch after it dried. That made me feel good as all that my hunter was worried about was seeing his name anywhere in The Book. This morning I climbed closer to ?The Swamp? the record book was the last thing on my mind. Maybe by setting my goals so unrealistically I would have a (legitimate) reason to justify climbing this mountain each year. Oh wait, I guess I had ?realistic? goals this year. Yes, that's right, the first legal elk I had a shot at. Trying not to let my vision be clouded by the bull I had encountered the morning before I continued even higher up my mountain. Every 15 minutes or so, usually when I stopped to rest, I would here the lone bull call from the middle of ?The Swamp?. That would be enough encouragement for me to continue, after enjoying a candy bar. My pack WAS getting lighter at least, like a heavy ?weight off my shoulders? Hmmmm, what an interesting analogy. It seemed like every landmark on that mountain rekindled an old memory I had forgotten about in ?The real World? The rock outcropping David and I took cover under during a freak hailstorm, the lodgepole next to a well used trail that was now dead from a bull that stripped most every piece of bark from it in less than 5 minutes while Mark frantically looked for his release. (He has now learned to shoot with fingers in an emergency), the remnants of a fire ring where Tony and I had roasted a freshly killed Blue Grouse to very well done perfection. These were all dear memories I seemed to forget about at home, trying to keep two teenage daughters in check while getting the bills paid and at work trying to put in enough hours to keep my head above water. The closer I got to where the bull was holed up that morning, the less he bugled. It was after ten AM as I approached the part of my mountain that went from steep, to steeper, and where the brush went from thick, to thicker. The wind had began to swirl, like it usually does, mid morning, the bull hadn't called in almost 45 minutes and my legs were needing to rest for a bit. I found a small semi flat spot to hang out for the day, unlaced my boots and rummaged through my pack to see what the lunch menu would reveal. A bit of salami from whitetails I had harvested in the river bottom, a slice of sharp cheddar, a few saltines. Now, if I just had some room temperature 98 Merlot from Italy. Better yet, the sweetest wine on Earth was less than 50 yards away, bubbling up from the ground at the base of ?The Swamp? It always felt good to drink water that came directly from the ground on my mountain. Many of my hunters worried about catching Giardia from the unfiltered water. I always figured, it couldn't get any purer, emerging right from the ground in one of the prettiest spots in Montana. Maybe I was just immune to whatever the heck Giardia is. I had a good nap that afternoon. I had some experience napping on mountainsides from years of making my living on them. Unless the conditions were just right, (overcast, calm, stable wind) I was always really animate about leaving bulls alone we had located during mid day. If we knew where they were, we would have a jump on them late in the afternoon, when they were rested up and the wind had stabilized, and besides, it gave the guide a chance to catch a few winks. I couldn't have been more than 500 yards down the hill from where I had heard the bull bugling in the morning and just as expected, late in the afternoon, around 4:30 he began again. This time I was close enough to hear the character in his voice. It was a bugle that sounded awful familiar. ?Well, here goes round two? I thought to myself, and what a round it would prove to be.
Then i woke up and wondered who laced my hash.
