Distant Storm

Thus ends the regular elk season and my vacation.

Today I returned to work. Always good to be back on Friday. The previous eight days I spent pursuing elk and licking my wounds from their pursuit. A working vacation you could say. Nonetheless it was a great time.

On Wednesday, I thought I'd head to the mountains and catch the last day of the regular archery hunt. Totally impressive. When I and all all the other hunters had grown weary and were retiring to our comforts, the bulls were returning to their playgrounds. Fortunately for me, I mustered the energy to move beyond the warm embrace of my couch. The reward for my discipline would be the siren song of bulls in the morning (from seven to 10:30 am)!

For a young hunter that made the season. No meat would adorn the walls of the the freezer or on the barbie, no big trophy would be presented in photographs, but a vivid memory would make it's claim on an otherwise difficult season. Even driving up the interstate I saw a bull lingering in the morning light along a parallel river bank. Upon stepping out of the car I heard the bugling. At first I thought the few zealous hunters left were now desperate. But wandering up the road, trail, and canyon it became apparent that the bulls were the ones getting carried away. Walking up the abandonded gravel road, movement up the hillside from me ignited the hustle within me to attempt intercepting the rogues at some point further along the ridge.

Quickly finding the lungs of elk far greater than mine, I slowed my pace, hoping the quarry would grow calm in the quiet of the morning. Approaching along the near wall of the opposite canyon, familiar silence again filled the woods only to be disrupted by yet another bull (or the same one?) bellowing beyond and across from where I hoped to tighten my noose. And then there was another bull not a half-mile down the creek beyond where I had arched around the hillside. Slowly and with luck I closed the distance between the lead bull. Now just 50 yards in front of me, clothed in the undergowth, a high pitched bugle followed by several deep grunts miraculously kept the cover of a mature bull, echoing off trunk and canyon wall. I mewed and proceeded slowly along. And another call! This time even closer, further up the hillside, and invisibly from along the road ahead. The bull had vanished.

Knowing I could only take a spike or cow and being long since eluded, the excitement of the hunt gave way to breathe taking views atop grassy meadows crowning the broken ridges up which I had climbed. (A warm conversation with my Grandpa and text message to my sleeping wifely and old saw).

Beyond the ridge to the south through young and old Ponderosa and Juniper. And another bull. This time after a short sit to see if the maurader would continue in song and heading I decided to cut closer only to pass him silently hidden within the bows of trees and undergrowth. In gathering an arrow from my quiver and slowly turning to get a better view his legs trembled and he broke back to the thick safety he had pursued my calls from.

(Reached the spring). (Later upon parched return, no drinkable water in spring, in haste to return to car spooked about five elk from just under ridge top). Iodine tablets in creek water would break the searing thirst that was burning after a big trudge across forest broken by grass meadows that lead to the crumbled canyon walls that would provide a path for my descent. And the season would close without a prize that one could hold but I would bear those vivid moments prominently along the walls of my heart and mind.

Labels: Hunting

posted by M. @ 8:57 PM