Matt and I grew up together, relatively speaking. Though he is a few years older, we attended the same church, and his younger brothers were some of my best childhood friends. Our friendship did not really develop, however, until years after we’d left the sage-spackled rolling hills of Gardiner, Montana, when we decided to take up an old hobby – elk hunting.
We grew up in elk country, and rubbed elbows with local elk hunting legends like Warren Johnson and Don Laubach (at least we knew who they were – if they didn’t know us). We skipped school to hunt, and so did everyone we knew. We even had some elk hunting success as young men – well, Matt did. In the early 1990s, Matt killed a six-by-six bull that grossed 325. I hunted as avidly as Matt, but was never able to connect, try as I and my dad might. In any case, our appetites for hunting developed early.
After graduating high school, both of us wandered far from elk country. Matt’s career course took him to New York, and through Dallas and Philadelphia to San Antonio, where he now lives. Mine channeled me through Denver, to Miami and back to Denver. For years, neither of us hunted much. But our interest in the hunt, though dormant, never died.
We first began talking about hunting together in 2011 – I don’t remember why or how. Matt had hunted Colorado in 2004 and had harvested a cow. I was about a 3 hour drive from the unit where he had hunted, and he encouraged me to hunt it in the fall. And so I did. My first elk in the unit was a nice six-by-six bull that I killed in a nasty-steep drainage in a wilderness area. We’d both found and killed elk, and our passion reignited, we decided to start hunting together in the unit.
Our first joint hunt was in 2013. We trekked eight miles deep into the public land wilderness with backpacks and bows and set up at 11,000 feet. Elk were everywhere in the drainage, but we couldn’t coax one into bow range. In 2014, we ventured into the same drainage, this time with rifles, but with a similar result. After two years of being the midst of elk and unable to connect, we had a feeling that 2015 was our year. Our hunch would be confirmed.
I picked Matt up on Friday at the Denver Airport, and by dark we were three miles deep and 1,800 vertical feet from the trail head in a drainage where I’d killed a cow solo in 2013. Our camp was situated at 10,900 vertical feet, but the forecast was for blue skies, zero precip, and daily highs in the 70s. We decided to hunt even higher – up through several high mountain pockets and acres of dog hair timber, to a ridge north of our camp that ran north-south and granted a view of two drainages. By first light Saturday, we had scoped an elkless meadow near camp and started our climb. By 10:00 a.m., we’d found a point to glass two bowls to our east that were separated by a ridge-spine that ran from top to bottom of the drainage to our east. We decided to scale our ridge heading north, and drop down onto the ridge-spine into the east drainage to glass both bowls until dark, hoping that something would filter out of the timber.
The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley – but not always. This one worked! We’d found a rocky crop near the uppermost point of the drainage to sit atop of. We’d settled in by 5:00 p.m. for a two-hour long session of binocular work. Around that time, I was standing 5 yards downhill from Matt fiddling with a bag of sunflower seeds when Matt blurted in a scream-whisper (not an oxymoron to a hunter), “Doug! Get down!” I did, and quickly! As Matt settled in for a shot, I scooted downhill around a rock to see what he was looking at, grabbing my rifle as I slid. Just as the creamy-white hind end of an elk came into view, I heard Matt’s rifle crack. A young 4 by 4 flushed downhill through the brush, and I tensed, waiting for a cow to step into the open. No cow appeared, and I looked back towards Matt. He was visibly concerned.
I stalked back uphill and whispered, “Did you hit it?” to which he replied, “I think so, but he ran off.” I saw the 4 by 4 in my mind’s eye and my heart sank, though I didn’t show it, so as not to aggravate the lump of disappointment that I knew was growing in my friend’s chest. “How did the shot feel?” I asked. “Good,” Matt replied. “I was remembering to surprise myself when the gun fired.” That sounded right to me and I hoped that the bullet hit its mark. We waited a few minutes and then descended the slope to look for blood.
Our search ended 168 yards later. We found the bull before the blood trail. He’d gone three feet from where he stood when Matt shot him – straight down. The bull I’d seen flush was another bull hanging around with Matt’s. Matt’s shot had been true, and the bull he’d aimed for lay still before us. As we high fived, hugged, fist pumped the mountain air, a sense of relief and gratitude washed over us. I was relieved that my friend had succeeded, and that his expense and effort endured to hunt was not in vain for another year. Matt’s relief was more profound. He’d been laboring under the idea that ever since he’d shot the bruiser-bull in the 1990s and been unable to connect on a bull since, he was cursed never to kill a bull elk again. For him, this bull was a long time in coming and affirmation that all that superstition amounted only to that. It was a joy to observe him revel in his achievement. I was happier than had I been standing over my own elk.
After a round of pictures, we got to work. We slit the hide down the spine and skinned back the quarters by the gutless method, pulling the back straps, and boning the rest of the bull out entirely. I loaded a back quarter on my back and Matt took a front quarter and the back straps. In year’s past, we’d have packed the entire animal, tackling one half-each. But the modesty of our goals increased with our age. Instead of getting down the hill in one trip, our goal was getting down the hill in one piece. And from where we stood at that moment, that was challenge enough.
Our packs loaded, we mulled our options. Camp two miles to the south was attainable either by stomping through what was clearly a bedding area situated on a bench below us, which wasn’t attractive to me and my unfilled tag. We could retrace our steps uphill and across the ridge, but that route involved a 1,200 foot descent from ridgetop to camp down a slope so steep that the topo lines were stacked on the map. In either case, darkness was descending. We’d be making our jaunt in the dark. We opted for the third and final route. Directly to the east and downslope was a road. We would drop to the road, drop our packs, and walk the miles back to my car. I always carry my keys with me for just this type of situation. We began downhill and toward the road.
The road we aimed for sits at roughly 9,200 feet. My GPS told me that Matt’s bull was at 11,900 feet. The 2,700 vertical foot drop was through thick timber, with intermittent willow-packed openings. The going was difficult and slow. I lead the way, charging like a bull moose through the brier and brush, with my bull busting buddy following close behind. As a person does in the dark, we planned our course three steps at a time – which was as far as our head lamps would allow. And, as a person does in the dark, we stumbled around like a couple of drunks. Several times, I fell ass-over-elbows, once landing so squarely on my back and backpack that I must have looked like a tipped tortoise. On that occasion, with my pack heavy, it took all my effort to roll right and get to my feet. Matt, the more nimble mountaineer, stayed upright.
After four hours, we finally hit the road. As a crow flies, the point where we appeared roadside was only about 2 miles from where Matt killed his bull. But it was the most miserable, timber downed, descent in darkness that either of us had ever made (we agreed) and we were glad to be out of the woods. It was 12:00 a.m. By 1:00 a.m., we were hoteled up in a nearby town. The next day, we climbed back up the hill in two hours and descended in the same time. It’s funny how a little light can make a world of difference.
We hunted two more full days after that, and I never did fill my tag. But I was a part of my good friend filling his. He deserves it. As I sit here in my office and reflect on our hunt, gratitude rises in my soul. I am grateful that we, two men past our prime and nearing middle age, were able to enjoy the pleasure of extreme exertion without injury or incident. I am grateful that my freezer is full of the elk meat that my friend so graciously shared with me. But mostly I am grateful for my friend and hunting partner, with whom I was reunited by the hunt and with whom I have connected over it. Congratulations, old friend, and well done.
We grew up in elk country, and rubbed elbows with local elk hunting legends like Warren Johnson and Don Laubach (at least we knew who they were – if they didn’t know us). We skipped school to hunt, and so did everyone we knew. We even had some elk hunting success as young men – well, Matt did. In the early 1990s, Matt killed a six-by-six bull that grossed 325. I hunted as avidly as Matt, but was never able to connect, try as I and my dad might. In any case, our appetites for hunting developed early.
After graduating high school, both of us wandered far from elk country. Matt’s career course took him to New York, and through Dallas and Philadelphia to San Antonio, where he now lives. Mine channeled me through Denver, to Miami and back to Denver. For years, neither of us hunted much. But our interest in the hunt, though dormant, never died.
We first began talking about hunting together in 2011 – I don’t remember why or how. Matt had hunted Colorado in 2004 and had harvested a cow. I was about a 3 hour drive from the unit where he had hunted, and he encouraged me to hunt it in the fall. And so I did. My first elk in the unit was a nice six-by-six bull that I killed in a nasty-steep drainage in a wilderness area. We’d both found and killed elk, and our passion reignited, we decided to start hunting together in the unit.
Our first joint hunt was in 2013. We trekked eight miles deep into the public land wilderness with backpacks and bows and set up at 11,000 feet. Elk were everywhere in the drainage, but we couldn’t coax one into bow range. In 2014, we ventured into the same drainage, this time with rifles, but with a similar result. After two years of being the midst of elk and unable to connect, we had a feeling that 2015 was our year. Our hunch would be confirmed.
I picked Matt up on Friday at the Denver Airport, and by dark we were three miles deep and 1,800 vertical feet from the trail head in a drainage where I’d killed a cow solo in 2013. Our camp was situated at 10,900 vertical feet, but the forecast was for blue skies, zero precip, and daily highs in the 70s. We decided to hunt even higher – up through several high mountain pockets and acres of dog hair timber, to a ridge north of our camp that ran north-south and granted a view of two drainages. By first light Saturday, we had scoped an elkless meadow near camp and started our climb. By 10:00 a.m., we’d found a point to glass two bowls to our east that were separated by a ridge-spine that ran from top to bottom of the drainage to our east. We decided to scale our ridge heading north, and drop down onto the ridge-spine into the east drainage to glass both bowls until dark, hoping that something would filter out of the timber.
The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley – but not always. This one worked! We’d found a rocky crop near the uppermost point of the drainage to sit atop of. We’d settled in by 5:00 p.m. for a two-hour long session of binocular work. Around that time, I was standing 5 yards downhill from Matt fiddling with a bag of sunflower seeds when Matt blurted in a scream-whisper (not an oxymoron to a hunter), “Doug! Get down!” I did, and quickly! As Matt settled in for a shot, I scooted downhill around a rock to see what he was looking at, grabbing my rifle as I slid. Just as the creamy-white hind end of an elk came into view, I heard Matt’s rifle crack. A young 4 by 4 flushed downhill through the brush, and I tensed, waiting for a cow to step into the open. No cow appeared, and I looked back towards Matt. He was visibly concerned.
I stalked back uphill and whispered, “Did you hit it?” to which he replied, “I think so, but he ran off.” I saw the 4 by 4 in my mind’s eye and my heart sank, though I didn’t show it, so as not to aggravate the lump of disappointment that I knew was growing in my friend’s chest. “How did the shot feel?” I asked. “Good,” Matt replied. “I was remembering to surprise myself when the gun fired.” That sounded right to me and I hoped that the bullet hit its mark. We waited a few minutes and then descended the slope to look for blood.
Our search ended 168 yards later. We found the bull before the blood trail. He’d gone three feet from where he stood when Matt shot him – straight down. The bull I’d seen flush was another bull hanging around with Matt’s. Matt’s shot had been true, and the bull he’d aimed for lay still before us. As we high fived, hugged, fist pumped the mountain air, a sense of relief and gratitude washed over us. I was relieved that my friend had succeeded, and that his expense and effort endured to hunt was not in vain for another year. Matt’s relief was more profound. He’d been laboring under the idea that ever since he’d shot the bruiser-bull in the 1990s and been unable to connect on a bull since, he was cursed never to kill a bull elk again. For him, this bull was a long time in coming and affirmation that all that superstition amounted only to that. It was a joy to observe him revel in his achievement. I was happier than had I been standing over my own elk.
After a round of pictures, we got to work. We slit the hide down the spine and skinned back the quarters by the gutless method, pulling the back straps, and boning the rest of the bull out entirely. I loaded a back quarter on my back and Matt took a front quarter and the back straps. In year’s past, we’d have packed the entire animal, tackling one half-each. But the modesty of our goals increased with our age. Instead of getting down the hill in one trip, our goal was getting down the hill in one piece. And from where we stood at that moment, that was challenge enough.
Our packs loaded, we mulled our options. Camp two miles to the south was attainable either by stomping through what was clearly a bedding area situated on a bench below us, which wasn’t attractive to me and my unfilled tag. We could retrace our steps uphill and across the ridge, but that route involved a 1,200 foot descent from ridgetop to camp down a slope so steep that the topo lines were stacked on the map. In either case, darkness was descending. We’d be making our jaunt in the dark. We opted for the third and final route. Directly to the east and downslope was a road. We would drop to the road, drop our packs, and walk the miles back to my car. I always carry my keys with me for just this type of situation. We began downhill and toward the road.
The road we aimed for sits at roughly 9,200 feet. My GPS told me that Matt’s bull was at 11,900 feet. The 2,700 vertical foot drop was through thick timber, with intermittent willow-packed openings. The going was difficult and slow. I lead the way, charging like a bull moose through the brier and brush, with my bull busting buddy following close behind. As a person does in the dark, we planned our course three steps at a time – which was as far as our head lamps would allow. And, as a person does in the dark, we stumbled around like a couple of drunks. Several times, I fell ass-over-elbows, once landing so squarely on my back and backpack that I must have looked like a tipped tortoise. On that occasion, with my pack heavy, it took all my effort to roll right and get to my feet. Matt, the more nimble mountaineer, stayed upright.
After four hours, we finally hit the road. As a crow flies, the point where we appeared roadside was only about 2 miles from where Matt killed his bull. But it was the most miserable, timber downed, descent in darkness that either of us had ever made (we agreed) and we were glad to be out of the woods. It was 12:00 a.m. By 1:00 a.m., we were hoteled up in a nearby town. The next day, we climbed back up the hill in two hours and descended in the same time. It’s funny how a little light can make a world of difference.
We hunted two more full days after that, and I never did fill my tag. But I was a part of my good friend filling his. He deserves it. As I sit here in my office and reflect on our hunt, gratitude rises in my soul. I am grateful that we, two men past our prime and nearing middle age, were able to enjoy the pleasure of extreme exertion without injury or incident. I am grateful that my freezer is full of the elk meat that my friend so graciously shared with me. But mostly I am grateful for my friend and hunting partner, with whom I was reunited by the hunt and with whom I have connected over it. Congratulations, old friend, and well done.
