Nothing keeps me awake at night like hunting, both in terms of anticipation and in terms of rumination. I’d like to think that I’m altruistic enough to be plagued at night by grand deliberations on curing cancer, or possibly war abroad. Maybe something closer to home, like the homeless on the streets of Seattle, or the future of my future children. Perhaps regretfully, I’m not. Here’s a story from last hunting season that frequently beleagures me as I’m drifting off.
It was the final day of our extended weekend elk trip in Eastern Washington. My brother, father, and I had woken up around 4am to pile into our friend’s Toyota Tacoma for a treacherous ride up steep terrain. There, we would start our hunt. The night before we had identified a ridge and a stream crossing below with plenty of sign, so we decided to set an ambush. We split up to cover more area. I felt pretty good about a specific clearing I had been in the night before, so I went there. The trap was set. If the elk movement remained consistent (not a given), I’d be in prime territory to make sub 80 yard shot.
The unit we were hunting is challenging, to say the least. During general firearm season, hunters are regulated to taking true-spike bulls only. It’s not hard to locate elk in the area, but it’s quite difficult to find and identify a true-spike bull to target. You’ve got to be 100% sure the bull you’re observing at has no additional forks or tines before you pull the trigger. Add in copious hunting pressure and the success rates sink to around 18%. Sometimes I question why we hunt the unit, but it’s become something of a family tradition.
With all this in mind, I brushed myself into the trees on one side the clearing. I sat halfway down a gentle slope that started at the top of the ridge to my right, and descended 150 yards to a stream on my left. I waited. It was cold, but I kept still. With a lever-action .30-06 lying across my lap, I felt like hot stuff. I was ready.
The sound of approaching thunder caught me completely by surprise. So did the first cow elk. And the second one. Actually it was nine elk running, no, flying past me down the slope with their mouths open, tongues hanging out. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest as I went from cool cucumber to fight-or-flight mode in a matter of seconds. As I watched these elk stampede down the hill to the stream crossing, I was again caught by surprise as another group of brown and blond bodies stampeded past me. This time I saw antlers, and spikes.
That’s about where it all fell apart. As the first group of nine dashed through the creek and started peeling off into the timber on the opposing hillside, more and more elk, including a few spikes, ran down the hill in front of me. The scene put me into a state of target panic. I actually stood up with a vague notion that the elk would slow down if they saw me (silly idea, I know). Thankfully, another vague notion of hoof prints in my back prevented me from stepping out in front of them to head them off. As each spike elk whisked past me I tried to determine if it was legal, only to be distracted by a new young bull flashing across my vision. Once the whole herd had passed me in a tight bunch, I realized they would be out of sight momentarily and frantically tried to follow them, spooking them more. You really can’t outrun an elk. I’ve tried.
In summary, a whole herd of elk ran past me at 40 yards, crossed a stream, and jogged up a slope into thick timber, while I hardly peeked through my scope. The whole encounter lasted about three-and-a-half minutes, and it absolutely haunts me to this day. (I’m glad I’ve had a chance to convince you of my extreme hunting prowess. It’s been a pleasure.)
When looking back on the incident, I’ve come to a few recurring conclusions.
- I thought I was well prepared, but I was only prepared for a fraction of the multiple possibilities I was facing.
- The only way I could have pulled off a shot was if I had stayed down and intently watched the far side of the stream crossing. Here the elk had to slow down a bit as they hit the opposing slope, and that may have afforded me a shot.
- Even if I had a chance, I’m not sure I could have been 100% sure of a true-spike elk without at least a few moments of calm observation.
- Finally, I wouldn’t take a shot at a running elk, or at an elk tightly grouped with other animals.
At the end of the day, I can logically make the argument that I’m actually glad I didn’t take a shot in that situation, but it doesn’t make the outcome feel any better. Maybe if I were more experienced, or if I had a buddy with me, or if I hadn’t freaked out so much, maybe then I could have made it happen. Or maybe not. I’ll just never know, which bothers me a lot. However, I know for certain that I was privileged to witness something truly wild and wonderful on that cold November day. That’s something I’d trade any number of sleepless nights for, again and again.
Persistence Outdoors 