I had watched enough Full Draw Film Tour videos, and Born & Raised Uncommon Ground so many times that it seemed like elk season would never get here. Chasing elk with my bow is one of my biggest passions and I count the days until next season like a kid counts the days till Christmas.
I was torn this year between trying out some new areas and going back to old familiar haunts. Eventually, the spirit of wanderlust took over and I opted to head to a part of the state I hadn't spent much time in. I knew the elk densities were much lower than other areas of the state, but the bright side to that is the hunter densities are also very low. I did my fatherly duties of watching my oldest daughter run her first cross country race of the year on opening day, and then boogied out of town to get in an afternoon hunt.
Day 1 yielded very little fresh sign and NO bugles at all. I got back to camp after dark and crashed. I was woken up in the wee hours of the morning by a canid neighbor. Regardless of your thoughts on wolves, it's pretty hard to deny that a wolf howling is one of the neatest sounds you'll ever hear. It was very close, and it absolutely resonated through the valley I was in. I rolled over and got a few more hours of sleep.
Day 2 began before daylight, cruising a gated road and bugling. I was able to glass a few clearings and saw nothing. I began a steep climb and didn't see any fresh tracks except for moose and deer. My bugling efforts didn't yield a single response. I reached a juncture point where I needed to go back the way I came, or make a long loop. I opted for the loop, which over 17 miles didn't turn up an elk sighting, a fresh elk track, or a single bugle. At this point, I realized that as much as this country intrigued me, I needed to devote some serious scouting time and a 12 day elk season was not the time to do so. Enough bowhiking, it was time to go bowhunt.
I reached camp at dark, and threw all my crap in the Dodge. I headed out, and sent my wife a quick text to let her know my change in plans. At midnight, I turned off onto the gravel. My mind was foggy, and I missed a couple of turns. I finally reached my destination at 0130 hours, and knew it was going to suck getting up at 0500.
My alarm went off all too soon, and I figured I would do a morning hunt and catch a good nap during the middle of the day. I was hugging the base off the mountain where I thought I would find the most elk. It had only been daylight for about 45 minutes when I spotted elk above me. I quickly began climbing to the elevation they were at, and I watched them drop through a saddle. As I was catching my breath, I watched more elk come across the face of the mountain and drop through the same saddle.
I quickly crossed the ridge, and I could immediately hear elk right below me. I nocked an arrow, and saw a bull cross below me at about 30 yards. The second bull was legal (a spike), and I drew as he went behind a tree. When he cleared, I gave a soft mouth bleat to stop him, and when he did my arrow was on its way. In the time it takes an arrow travel 30 yards, I watched my perfect scenario head south. He jumped the string, and my arrow hit high. Too high. The woods exploded with elk. I heard elk running down the sidehill and I watched three elk cross the ridge below me. I thought the spike I had shot might be in the bunch.
I waited 45 minutes, then walked down to look for my arrow. I found it, with very bright and red blood on the last 10". I had heard a loud crash not long after the shot, and I wondered if things might turn out better than I had anticipated.
I found a faint blood trail, and followed it slowly for about 150 yards. At this point I lost the blood trail, so I marked the spot, and found the tracks where the elk had crossed the ridge. I followed these out for about a 1/2 mile, finding no beds along the way. Okay, I know my bull was not in this group. I walked back to the last blood, and by now two hours had elapsed.
I started working the blood trail again, and eventually was able to pick it up about 100 yards down the ridge. I followed the tracks, and found where the bull had bedded several times. The first bed had blood in it, the second less blood and some rumen content, and the last bed was mostly rumen content. At this point, I could make several deductions. I had hit arteries. I had severed the esophagus. This bull was going to die.
I worked the trail out more, but the blood completely stopped after the third bed. I was able to track him to the nose of the ridge, at which point another herd (likely the cows and herd bull that were with him) crossed through the area and completely obliterated the trail. I was now facing the task of an enormous shit sandwich, with no one to share it with. I fired up the GPS and began to eat it, one bite at a time. I gridded. I walked out creek beds. I followed every single set of elk tracks, gridding the entire direction they travelled. I gridded more. I ran out of daylight.
I returned the next morning and gridded more. I hated bowhunting. I was pissed at myself for screwing up a chip shot. I was pissed because I was beginning to realize that sheer determination might not work. I returned to the beds and began following contour lines. The bull couldn't go up, so I worked out contours and then gridded above and below them. I finally reached the point where I had absolutely no idea where else to look. Quitting the search was one of the hardest things I've done. I had never lost an elk, and it didn't sit well with me that this would be the first. I walked back to the truck, knowing my elk season was done.
It was a long drive home. It was hard telling the story to my kids. I wasn't really sure I wanted to bowhunt ever again. Yesterday, I realized that it was time to climb back on the horse that has dumped me on my ass. I took my bow for a walk this morning, and sat on a rock, answering many question in my mind.
It's easy to tell hunting stories when things go right. It's not so easy when they go terribly wrong. I've spent a lot of minutes and hours sifting through seconds worth of time to try and figure out what I can learn from this. Should I have held lower? Should I have waited longer to track? Did I miss a trail that I should have followed? Did I grid every area that I should have?
Every hunter has or will face events like this. It gives one greater perspective, and offers depth of insight that is only gained through life experience. We don't learn much about ourselves when things are easy. Our failures and mistakes are what give us a true glimpse of who we are and how we handle adversity.
I was torn this year between trying out some new areas and going back to old familiar haunts. Eventually, the spirit of wanderlust took over and I opted to head to a part of the state I hadn't spent much time in. I knew the elk densities were much lower than other areas of the state, but the bright side to that is the hunter densities are also very low. I did my fatherly duties of watching my oldest daughter run her first cross country race of the year on opening day, and then boogied out of town to get in an afternoon hunt.
Day 1 yielded very little fresh sign and NO bugles at all. I got back to camp after dark and crashed. I was woken up in the wee hours of the morning by a canid neighbor. Regardless of your thoughts on wolves, it's pretty hard to deny that a wolf howling is one of the neatest sounds you'll ever hear. It was very close, and it absolutely resonated through the valley I was in. I rolled over and got a few more hours of sleep.
Day 2 began before daylight, cruising a gated road and bugling. I was able to glass a few clearings and saw nothing. I began a steep climb and didn't see any fresh tracks except for moose and deer. My bugling efforts didn't yield a single response. I reached a juncture point where I needed to go back the way I came, or make a long loop. I opted for the loop, which over 17 miles didn't turn up an elk sighting, a fresh elk track, or a single bugle. At this point, I realized that as much as this country intrigued me, I needed to devote some serious scouting time and a 12 day elk season was not the time to do so. Enough bowhiking, it was time to go bowhunt.
I reached camp at dark, and threw all my crap in the Dodge. I headed out, and sent my wife a quick text to let her know my change in plans. At midnight, I turned off onto the gravel. My mind was foggy, and I missed a couple of turns. I finally reached my destination at 0130 hours, and knew it was going to suck getting up at 0500.
My alarm went off all too soon, and I figured I would do a morning hunt and catch a good nap during the middle of the day. I was hugging the base off the mountain where I thought I would find the most elk. It had only been daylight for about 45 minutes when I spotted elk above me. I quickly began climbing to the elevation they were at, and I watched them drop through a saddle. As I was catching my breath, I watched more elk come across the face of the mountain and drop through the same saddle.
I quickly crossed the ridge, and I could immediately hear elk right below me. I nocked an arrow, and saw a bull cross below me at about 30 yards. The second bull was legal (a spike), and I drew as he went behind a tree. When he cleared, I gave a soft mouth bleat to stop him, and when he did my arrow was on its way. In the time it takes an arrow travel 30 yards, I watched my perfect scenario head south. He jumped the string, and my arrow hit high. Too high. The woods exploded with elk. I heard elk running down the sidehill and I watched three elk cross the ridge below me. I thought the spike I had shot might be in the bunch.
I waited 45 minutes, then walked down to look for my arrow. I found it, with very bright and red blood on the last 10". I had heard a loud crash not long after the shot, and I wondered if things might turn out better than I had anticipated.
I found a faint blood trail, and followed it slowly for about 150 yards. At this point I lost the blood trail, so I marked the spot, and found the tracks where the elk had crossed the ridge. I followed these out for about a 1/2 mile, finding no beds along the way. Okay, I know my bull was not in this group. I walked back to the last blood, and by now two hours had elapsed.
I started working the blood trail again, and eventually was able to pick it up about 100 yards down the ridge. I followed the tracks, and found where the bull had bedded several times. The first bed had blood in it, the second less blood and some rumen content, and the last bed was mostly rumen content. At this point, I could make several deductions. I had hit arteries. I had severed the esophagus. This bull was going to die.
I worked the trail out more, but the blood completely stopped after the third bed. I was able to track him to the nose of the ridge, at which point another herd (likely the cows and herd bull that were with him) crossed through the area and completely obliterated the trail. I was now facing the task of an enormous shit sandwich, with no one to share it with. I fired up the GPS and began to eat it, one bite at a time. I gridded. I walked out creek beds. I followed every single set of elk tracks, gridding the entire direction they travelled. I gridded more. I ran out of daylight.
I returned the next morning and gridded more. I hated bowhunting. I was pissed at myself for screwing up a chip shot. I was pissed because I was beginning to realize that sheer determination might not work. I returned to the beds and began following contour lines. The bull couldn't go up, so I worked out contours and then gridded above and below them. I finally reached the point where I had absolutely no idea where else to look. Quitting the search was one of the hardest things I've done. I had never lost an elk, and it didn't sit well with me that this would be the first. I walked back to the truck, knowing my elk season was done.
It was a long drive home. It was hard telling the story to my kids. I wasn't really sure I wanted to bowhunt ever again. Yesterday, I realized that it was time to climb back on the horse that has dumped me on my ass. I took my bow for a walk this morning, and sat on a rock, answering many question in my mind.
It's easy to tell hunting stories when things go right. It's not so easy when they go terribly wrong. I've spent a lot of minutes and hours sifting through seconds worth of time to try and figure out what I can learn from this. Should I have held lower? Should I have waited longer to track? Did I miss a trail that I should have followed? Did I grid every area that I should have?
Every hunter has or will face events like this. It gives one greater perspective, and offers depth of insight that is only gained through life experience. We don't learn much about ourselves when things are easy. Our failures and mistakes are what give us a true glimpse of who we are and how we handle adversity.
Attachments
Last edited by a moderator:
