It was dark and well below freezing. We were near the ends of our ropes, and we still had four miles of deep snow and 1000 ft of elevation to climb. The thermometer read in the single digits. Whether it was 8 or 3oF it didn’t much matter. The lack of atomic excitement in the air molecules was evident without scientific instruments. We jumped in the truck (from the passenger side since the driver side latch mechanism was frozen) and coaxed the engine to turn over and start producing some needed heat.
The day started out with a 2-mile hike from camp farther into the basin to where the elk hung in the trees from the night before. We lowered the frozen quarters and loaded them into the two sleds and snaked our way out of the timber and turned down the main drainage. After a brief stop at camp on our way by for a hardy brunch we picked up the reins of the sleds and proceeded to do more plowing than sliding through the deep, powdery snow. As a result, the four miles down to the trailhead took much longer and burned more calories than usual. It was a few hours after dark when we finally made it to the rigs and secured the 300+ pounds of elk parts into the back of one of the trucks.
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After the heat started to emerge through the firewall and we felt the tension ease a bit, the reality started to sink in that the day was far from over. Too far to town, and likely not even passable with all the drifted snow, our only option was to get back to the wall tent and wood stove where our third hunting partner, Les awaited with a fire burning. It was 7:45 PM and I announced to Andrew K. that we would be shoving off at 8:00. This was Andrew’s first trip into late November elk camp in the Rockies, and I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was half acknowledging the reality and half desperately searching for creative alternatives to the punishing slog ahead.
We inhaled as much food as we could in those precious few minutes and before we knew it the clock struck 8:00. I turned the engine off, looked at Andrew and nodded. We knew what we needed to do; procrastination was not an option. We grabbed the ropes of our empty sleds and pointed our compasses toward camp. After a three-hour trance-like push through the darkness we spotted the dim glow of the tent, which provided a deep sense of relief like it has done on many occasions in the past. We stoked the fire, ate leftover dinner, and Andrew played a little music on his camp guitar in a sort of celebration before getting some well-deserved sleep.
A few days earlier we were waiting out a snowstorm in the tent. Les had gone down to the trailhead the day before and discovered that everyone was pulling stakes and leaving. They had such a big snow two years ago that several hunters got trapped at the trailhead and had to pool resources to hire heavy equipment to plow them out – and they weren’t going through that again. When he returned to camp, we discussed our options and considered leaving the non-essentials and getting out while we could. But it was late in the day, the forecasted storm was approaching, and we decided to ride it out…
When the storm broke the next day, we headed out to hunt. Even if the snow and weather seemed like the enemy at the moment, it was a beautiful afternoon with sunbreaks on a fresh blanket with signs of recent elk activity. Maybe the silver lining was the fact that we were the only three humans hunting this 30+ square mile basin and the elk were less pressured than normal.
Since we didn’t know how many days we would need to dig our way out of the trailhead we decided to hunt fast and pursue the first opportunity that presented. So Andrew and I climbed up a ridge in the direction of some big bulls I had spotted the day before to have a look around. On our way up I spotted some raghorns on the other side of the valley at about our same elevation. A quick look at the angle of the sun and my gut told me we had enough time to sneak over there before sunset, as long as the wind cooperated.
We gave up our elevation, pushing, nearly swimming through waist-high drifts off the back of a ridge into timber, making haste as the afternoon drew long. This is where a home-court-advantage pays off as I knew from hunting these mountains over the years what the route options were to approach the elk. We were able to find some old horse trails that made our ascent easier and when my intuition whispered that we were getting close I crept out of the thick timber into broken timber and over the crest of the ridge, speed reading the environment with each slow step in the quiet snow for signs of elk.
There was one, behind a tree feeding. And another doing the same. Maybe 40-50 yards out. I sunk down in the snow against a dead pine, studying my options for a clear shot. The closer and bigger of the bulls stayed behind a tree, feeding while another stepped into the clearing with a look of hesitation. I could tell that he had seen or winded me and was uneasy. As he started to walk away, still visible in a narrow view corridor, all I had was a neck shot, which is not the best shot but often when the nerves are steady and mind is clear, anything is possible.
I had a good rest against the dead pine, about two seconds to make a choice before he sauntered around the corner and out of sight, and decades of mountain experience intuiting yes. He tipped over in his tracks, and I sat there for a minute taking it all in. The other bulls slowly congregated and moved out, and we closed the 100 yards to assess the work that lay ahead of us. After field dressing, we dragged the bull, with considerable effort, down the steep slope into the timber until the contour lines spread out enough that we could drag no longer. There is where we did our work in the single-digits starry night and hung the meat in a tree before coaxing our weary bodies back down the moonlit drainage to camp.
In the wild, away from the influential bombardment and beaten paths showing us the way to a good life, endless possibilities and mountainous hurdles are daunting at first but soon set the stage for pure exploration and human wildness. The comfortable life can be a trap. Easier on our bodies and minds, it can rob us of our pure humanness. The beauty of backcountry hunting for me is in the experience of getting down to the naked essence of living on earth and the feeling of complete freedom. In a world where we can spend every waking moment flipping a switch and listening to someone else’s ideas on podcasts, audio books, sermons and the likes it is refreshing to follow my gut – letting go of the other voices. Deep in the mountains there is no doctrine telling me how to be, what to think, who to follow, what the meaning of life is. Out there the questions evaporate and I feel like I’m inseparably intertwined in the mystery, simply being, walking the earth in search of food – drawn in, welcomed in by some universal and familiar sense of equilibrium, giving me comfort and confidence in the present moment and in a framework for a way of life.
As we packed out camp a few days later, approaching a final open ridge before dropping into the timber something made me look up. I immediately locked eyes with a mature bull standing on the ridgeline, strong and resolute. I had a hunch he may have been one I was glassing up high across the valley a few days prior. With more time, and José Ortega y Gasset’s words echoing, I would have enjoyed engaging him in a hunt for I could tell he was a seasoned participant in the mysterious dance, and that I could have learned something from him and our interactions. I admired his strength and agility to survive so long in this environment as I took in this brief but unusually extended visit. And as he turned to head for the next valley, I could almost hear him say: “I’ll see you again, brother.”
- B.F.McGlenn
P.s. See link below for a video of this hunt.
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