Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Elk Hunting A successful elk hunt

We departed last Friday for what was intended to be a week of chasing elk. My expectations were quite low if I'm being perfectly honest.The unit we were pursuing them in has single-digit success rates most years. I've taken a few good bulls out of it to be sure, but much like myself, the best years were certainly in the rearview mirror of this area. Age succession of timber, predator population spikes (both wolves and bears), and over-hunting had turned the area into a shell of what it once was. Still though, there are bulls to be found if one is lucky enough and it certainly beats sitting in the office regardless of whether or not a tag is punched.

We arrived late to camp on Friday evening after some truck issues on the drive up put us behind schedule. We were assembling the wall-tent via the truck headlights when I thought I heard a whistle. I asked Jeff if he'd heard it as well, and he replied he thought he had. I dropped the ridge-poles and grabbed a reed from my pack in the backseat. As soon as I let the call go I heard a faint, but distinctive response from a deep abyss of timber well below the ridge we were going to camp on. I wide grin spread across both our faces at the same time. Jeff had never hunted there before, but I knew the area well and had a good idea how to get down to where I thought he was at.

After we completed the process of setting camp, we hatched a plan on how to get him on the bull in question in the morning. Jeff would go after our whistling neighbor, and I'd run up the road another 10 miles to an area I know that usually holds bulls. I desperately and selfishly wanted to pursue the bull near camp, but I've killed a pile of them over the years and I knew it would mean a lot more to Jeff if he was able to connect. He doesn't know how to bugle, but a quick tutorial with a push-call gave him a fighting chance and I sent him on his way with instructions to keep the wind in his favor at all costs, and go as deep as was necessary to get on him.

When I arrived at the trailhead I wanted to hunt, my heart sunk as the headlights revealed another pick-up already there. I don't like to be crowded, and it didn't feel right to crowd whomever had beat me to the spot. I turned around and headed for another area a few miles up the road that offers some good vistas and a chance to at least locate some elk if they were talking. It was at a much higher elevation, so the literal downside was that a guy would likely have to shed a LOT of elevation to get on an animal in most cases. An hour of following my headlamp put me on a beautiful rock outcropping I knew would provide some good glassing. I pulled my pack off, took a drink, and let the stillness of the predawn light slowly reveal itself. I hadn't been sitting for 5 minutes when I heard the unmistakable sound of a bull lighting up across a deep draw. Minutes later, I was shocked to see him through the still muted grey of the early morning hours. I couldn't yet see a rack, but the yellow coat was unmistakable even in the relative darkness.

I won't lie...I had a moment of self-doubt about whether or not I wanted to start down that hillside. It was a good 1,500' of vertical to the bottom, and at 46 I'm a good 50 pounds past my fighting weight. Packing an elk out of that hole would be an unpleasant experience at best, especially without the benefit of a trail in the area. One more call from the Siren's song of the bull removed the last vestiges of hesitation, and I threw the pack back on with the same excitement in my heart as the day I took my first bull some 30 years prior. I lost sight of him in the dense brush of the avalanche chute during my decent. As I neared the bottom of the draw, I ranged the last place I'd seen him and got a reading of 505. I sat down in a comfortable spot and gave the reed a soft "mew" just to test the waters as it were. I immediately received two response from the hillside opposite me, approximately 300 yards apart. Seconds later a bull materialized from the brush heading straight up and away from me. A quick check of the rangefinder read "570". I cow-called again and he stopped to look back at me. I steadied myself as best I could and let one go. The "whack" was shockingly loud even from that distance. He faltered almost immediately, and began a stumbling gait down the hill. I took another shot as he did so, and whiffed badly based on the puff of dirt under him. No matter though, as he piled up within 20 yards of where I first hit him.

I allowed myself a moment of pure, unadulterated joy as I stared at the distant hillside. The knowledge of the hours and days of painful work ahead were kept at bay with the simple joy of having once again taken my favorite animal in the world to hunt, with an OTC tag in a general season area that few are able capitalize on. I took a picture in the moment to remember it, lest I forget in my old age. Here is the view moments after the shot. He's a light colored spot in the middle of this brush at roughly the 12 o'clock position above the end of the barrel.




Here is a terrible picture of this fine creature as I approached him from below....



Two days later I was still packing him out. It rained of course. It always rains when the pack is tough. I took a picture of my angriest moment on the mountain to remind myself of that also, as it's such an integral part of every successful hunt. While I don't necessarily enjoy the process, I know it's part of what makes the post-hunt memories so cherished. Very few things in life push me to my brink like packing an animal like that out of the wilds of Idaho.



I would suffer alone for three days in this process, because much to my delight Jeff would be doing the same with his own bull. He had in fact gotten on the bull that called to us the first night in camp, and taken him with a clean shot at just over 100 yards. He played the wind perfectly, and walked him into his lap with some apparently fine cow-calling. Here is Jeff's bull, that would also take a full 3 days to pack out all by his lonesome...



The hunting was short. Both of us tagged out on the first morning, a feat I don't believe I've ever experienced before. I wish the hunt had been longer. I wish it had been easier. The elk generally dictate these things though, so I'll happily take what I can get. It was a long 8 hours to get back home, but the high-five's and horn-honking made for an enjoyable ride.




My legs are still sore enough that it took some gumption to shuffle over to the computer to type this. I suspect I'll be sore for days in fact. Already though, the pain has faded a little. In it's place now resides that sense of accomplishment of knowing I did something few others get a chance to. Here's hoping the hills call to you in the same way they call to me. Here's hoping you get to experience the same pain and joy in your own hunts.

Dave