Poke 'Em
Well-known member
I moved to NE Montana in the fall of 2009, coming from Arkansas (and before that, Oklahoma), so elk hunting was a foreign concept to me, but killing the thought of killing an elk was high on my priority list.
When 2010 came around, I completely misinterpreted the Montana elk regulations. Oklahoma has a small elk herd with a once-in-a-lifetime elk permit that you can draw for. In addition to that, I'd heard repeatedly about drawing for an elk permit, and obviously the regulations spoke to that. What I somehow TOTALLY missed was the idea of a general elk license that you didn't have to draw for. I applied for an elk permit and did not draw, so I thought I was out of luck for the year. I saw leftover Elk B licenses though, so I bought one of those. I took a couple of days of vacation on the first or second weekend of November and headed for my hunting unit. As I was driving west, 14"+ of snow fell in the mountains I was headed for. This relegated me to hunting a BMA in the foothills where I never saw so much as an elk track.
By 2011 I figured out what a general permit was, so I headed for a unit that I'd heard had a relatively high success rate. Unfortunately, I didn't have time off of work early in the season, so I backpacked a couple of miles into the mountains over Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, this was the closest thing I saw to an elk.
In 2012 I decided to pick my bow back up for the first time in a few years and give the Missouri breaks a try. I wasn't confident in my ability to find mountain elk (probably because I spend a lot of time fly fishing in the mountains and almost never see elk while I'm doing so). I felt like in the breaks, I'd have a better chance to at least get in to elk. Sitting over a pond one night, I had a spike come in for a drink and give me a 45 yard shot. Between nerves and excitement, I rushed the shot, pulled it, and hit him in the leg. A completely non-lethal shot. That was the only elk I had within bow range all year. I never even went gun hunting.
In 2013, I decided to try the breaks again. Throughout this whole process, I'd basically been teaching myself how to elk hunt. Finally, in 2013 I started to see some progress. I got close to a couple of bulls, but never was able to get a shot. But I was at least learning more about how they behaved, and what it took to get in range. When gun season came around, I was focused on killing one of the large whitetails I'd been seeing during bow season. That certainly wasn't a bad call.
But it meant I didn't go rifle elk hunting until Thanksgiving weekend. This time I backpacked into a different range after doing a little more research. I found loads of elk tracks, but never could find an elk. I'd cut a track first thing in the morning, and follow it for a mile or more until it hit private land. The scenery was beautiful, but the hunting was frustrating.
Finally, this year, I headed back to the breaks again. The first weekend out there, I was hunting over the same pond I'd wounded the spike two years prior. I heard a bugle across the draw, so I gave a few cow calls. A nice 6x6 came out of the timber and headed my way. He circled around the pond, and came in for a drink in the worst possible spot. I had a shot at basically every point around the pond except where he stopped; there was just too much brush in the way. When he stopped drinking, I thought I knew was he was going to do, so of course, he did the exact opposite. He disappeared behind some brush, and came out on the side I didn't expect: behind me, and uphill. I hadn't ranged that spot, as I wasn't expecting an elk there, and I didn't have time to range him. I guessed 35 yards and let an arrow fly. It went right over his back by, at most, two inches. I ranged the spot where he stood after the fact, and he was 27 yards away.
I kept going back to the breaks every weekend, and got into elk each time. The second weekend I had a huge bull screaming his head off at me. He came out into the open at 51 yards, but was about to circle around and get downwind of me. He was stopped, perfectly still, completely out in the open. I had him ranged. I was calm. I held dead on him. And missed. This time the arrow went a couple of inches under him.
The third weekend, I found a good bull cutting across the open and got into a draw in front of him. I heard him rip off a screaming bugle in a little cut that was no more than 60 yards away. The wind was perfect. I could smell him strongly. I never saw him in that draw. Like a ghost, he completely disappeared. I still have no idea where he went. He couldn't have smelled me; he couldn't have heard me; he couldn't have seen me. He just disappeared. The same day I found another huge bull bedded down in a deep cut. I had my boots off and was within 40 yards of him, but he was so far down in this cut, I was going to need to get within 30 or so to get a shot. The wind was perfect, until it wasn't. It swirled 180°, he jumped up and stopped with a cedar tree right in front of his vitals. Two steps in either direction and I would have had a clear shot, but he finally turned and boogied out of there.
At this point, I was having a blast, but the frustration of not killing one was starting to get to me.
So this year, I decided I was going to go rifle hunting on opening weekend, hopefully before the elk got pushed onto private land like I encountered last year. I went back to the same range, but opted for a little different spot. I backpacked in 3/4 of a mile or so and set up camp on the edge of this somewhat open south-facing slope. There was plenty of sign around, but I didn't find anything particularly fresh.
Opening morning, I worked the top of a ridge, but never saw any elk. Around 12:30 or 1:00, I returned to camp, and as I walked up to the tent, I smelled elk. The wind was swirling badly, so much so that I couldn't even tell which way the scent was coming from. I decided to just wait it out rather than go chasing it. That afternoon, I set up just a couple hundred yards from camp in about the biggest clearing on the slope. I had about 100 yards in front of me that I could see/shoot.
Around 5:00, I heard a twig snap off to my left, and looked to see a patch of brown about 40 yards away through the trees. I put the binos on it, and sure enough, it was an elk! I couldn't see the head though, so I didn't know what it was. Anything but a spike and I was shooting (any legal elk). The elk took a step and I could see that it was a bull. I put my scope behind his shoulder and pulled the trigger. He reared back on both legs and took off downhill. He made it no more than 50 yards before he piled up.
Finally! It was done! A rush of emotion that was a strange combination of elation and relief came over me. Cutting those notches felt unbelievable.
He was just a 5x5 raghorn, but I couldn't have been happier.
(And it only took 4.5 hours to get him quartered, deboned, and back to the truck).
When 2010 came around, I completely misinterpreted the Montana elk regulations. Oklahoma has a small elk herd with a once-in-a-lifetime elk permit that you can draw for. In addition to that, I'd heard repeatedly about drawing for an elk permit, and obviously the regulations spoke to that. What I somehow TOTALLY missed was the idea of a general elk license that you didn't have to draw for. I applied for an elk permit and did not draw, so I thought I was out of luck for the year. I saw leftover Elk B licenses though, so I bought one of those. I took a couple of days of vacation on the first or second weekend of November and headed for my hunting unit. As I was driving west, 14"+ of snow fell in the mountains I was headed for. This relegated me to hunting a BMA in the foothills where I never saw so much as an elk track.
By 2011 I figured out what a general permit was, so I headed for a unit that I'd heard had a relatively high success rate. Unfortunately, I didn't have time off of work early in the season, so I backpacked a couple of miles into the mountains over Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, this was the closest thing I saw to an elk.
In 2012 I decided to pick my bow back up for the first time in a few years and give the Missouri breaks a try. I wasn't confident in my ability to find mountain elk (probably because I spend a lot of time fly fishing in the mountains and almost never see elk while I'm doing so). I felt like in the breaks, I'd have a better chance to at least get in to elk. Sitting over a pond one night, I had a spike come in for a drink and give me a 45 yard shot. Between nerves and excitement, I rushed the shot, pulled it, and hit him in the leg. A completely non-lethal shot. That was the only elk I had within bow range all year. I never even went gun hunting.
In 2013, I decided to try the breaks again. Throughout this whole process, I'd basically been teaching myself how to elk hunt. Finally, in 2013 I started to see some progress. I got close to a couple of bulls, but never was able to get a shot. But I was at least learning more about how they behaved, and what it took to get in range. When gun season came around, I was focused on killing one of the large whitetails I'd been seeing during bow season. That certainly wasn't a bad call.
But it meant I didn't go rifle elk hunting until Thanksgiving weekend. This time I backpacked into a different range after doing a little more research. I found loads of elk tracks, but never could find an elk. I'd cut a track first thing in the morning, and follow it for a mile or more until it hit private land. The scenery was beautiful, but the hunting was frustrating.
Finally, this year, I headed back to the breaks again. The first weekend out there, I was hunting over the same pond I'd wounded the spike two years prior. I heard a bugle across the draw, so I gave a few cow calls. A nice 6x6 came out of the timber and headed my way. He circled around the pond, and came in for a drink in the worst possible spot. I had a shot at basically every point around the pond except where he stopped; there was just too much brush in the way. When he stopped drinking, I thought I knew was he was going to do, so of course, he did the exact opposite. He disappeared behind some brush, and came out on the side I didn't expect: behind me, and uphill. I hadn't ranged that spot, as I wasn't expecting an elk there, and I didn't have time to range him. I guessed 35 yards and let an arrow fly. It went right over his back by, at most, two inches. I ranged the spot where he stood after the fact, and he was 27 yards away.
I kept going back to the breaks every weekend, and got into elk each time. The second weekend I had a huge bull screaming his head off at me. He came out into the open at 51 yards, but was about to circle around and get downwind of me. He was stopped, perfectly still, completely out in the open. I had him ranged. I was calm. I held dead on him. And missed. This time the arrow went a couple of inches under him.
The third weekend, I found a good bull cutting across the open and got into a draw in front of him. I heard him rip off a screaming bugle in a little cut that was no more than 60 yards away. The wind was perfect. I could smell him strongly. I never saw him in that draw. Like a ghost, he completely disappeared. I still have no idea where he went. He couldn't have smelled me; he couldn't have heard me; he couldn't have seen me. He just disappeared. The same day I found another huge bull bedded down in a deep cut. I had my boots off and was within 40 yards of him, but he was so far down in this cut, I was going to need to get within 30 or so to get a shot. The wind was perfect, until it wasn't. It swirled 180°, he jumped up and stopped with a cedar tree right in front of his vitals. Two steps in either direction and I would have had a clear shot, but he finally turned and boogied out of there.
At this point, I was having a blast, but the frustration of not killing one was starting to get to me.
So this year, I decided I was going to go rifle hunting on opening weekend, hopefully before the elk got pushed onto private land like I encountered last year. I went back to the same range, but opted for a little different spot. I backpacked in 3/4 of a mile or so and set up camp on the edge of this somewhat open south-facing slope. There was plenty of sign around, but I didn't find anything particularly fresh.
Opening morning, I worked the top of a ridge, but never saw any elk. Around 12:30 or 1:00, I returned to camp, and as I walked up to the tent, I smelled elk. The wind was swirling badly, so much so that I couldn't even tell which way the scent was coming from. I decided to just wait it out rather than go chasing it. That afternoon, I set up just a couple hundred yards from camp in about the biggest clearing on the slope. I had about 100 yards in front of me that I could see/shoot.
Around 5:00, I heard a twig snap off to my left, and looked to see a patch of brown about 40 yards away through the trees. I put the binos on it, and sure enough, it was an elk! I couldn't see the head though, so I didn't know what it was. Anything but a spike and I was shooting (any legal elk). The elk took a step and I could see that it was a bull. I put my scope behind his shoulder and pulled the trigger. He reared back on both legs and took off downhill. He made it no more than 50 yards before he piled up.
Finally! It was done! A rush of emotion that was a strange combination of elation and relief came over me. Cutting those notches felt unbelievable.
He was just a 5x5 raghorn, but I couldn't have been happier.
(And it only took 4.5 hours to get him quartered, deboned, and back to the truck).
