C
Cowboy
Guest
Poor stupid creatures I thought when I saw the small band of elk trying to cross the sage flat to refuge and their protected winter range. They charged ahead like a troop of unarmed soldiers toward the enemy, one-by-one getting mowed down in the process. I have since learned that elk are tuned in to the environment far more than man will ever understand which leads me to the question of who is really the poor stupid creature.
The Prophet was an elk I knew that lived among the scrubby pines and boulders of the Wind River Range. I first encountered him in some boggy black timber in the lower reaches of his range a few weeks before bow season began in September. He was with some cows and their buff and tan colors drifted around in the deadfalls ahead of me. He bugled once and I circled to get a look at him. The elk moved out below before I could see him. Had I stayed I might have had them file right on past.
When bow season came the only evidence of these elk where some dull turds and weathered tracks in the meadows where they fed. I guessed they moved on up above, and elevated my hunt accordingly. I had found amongst the boulder fields pockets of grass and small pools of water. There had been elk here more recently, and I poked around looking for opportunity. He bugled from further up above in a few clumps of juniper at the head of the boulder field. I could not see elk from where I stood, but the heated air of late morning would reach him with my odor if I did not swing wide to flank him. When I reached his elevation, I cow called softly right next to a shrub that had been beaten to shreds by him. He never emerged and somehow he and his band had filtered down through the boulders into the scattered timber below.
Up until now, I believed my tactics were not flawed yet I had no better results than if I had performed an exposed frontal advance with my bow thrust out in front of me in clear brutal intent. I sat on a rock, rubbed my chin and dubbed my quarry The Prophet.
(to be continued)
The Prophet was an elk I knew that lived among the scrubby pines and boulders of the Wind River Range. I first encountered him in some boggy black timber in the lower reaches of his range a few weeks before bow season began in September. He was with some cows and their buff and tan colors drifted around in the deadfalls ahead of me. He bugled once and I circled to get a look at him. The elk moved out below before I could see him. Had I stayed I might have had them file right on past.
When bow season came the only evidence of these elk where some dull turds and weathered tracks in the meadows where they fed. I guessed they moved on up above, and elevated my hunt accordingly. I had found amongst the boulder fields pockets of grass and small pools of water. There had been elk here more recently, and I poked around looking for opportunity. He bugled from further up above in a few clumps of juniper at the head of the boulder field. I could not see elk from where I stood, but the heated air of late morning would reach him with my odor if I did not swing wide to flank him. When I reached his elevation, I cow called softly right next to a shrub that had been beaten to shreds by him. He never emerged and somehow he and his band had filtered down through the boulders into the scattered timber below.
Up until now, I believed my tactics were not flawed yet I had no better results than if I had performed an exposed frontal advance with my bow thrust out in front of me in clear brutal intent. I sat on a rock, rubbed my chin and dubbed my quarry The Prophet.
(to be continued)
