Funny how you can take some things for granted. Since I started the process of becoming a hunter a few years back (a gritty internship, far more traditionally dues-demanding than most new endeavors, save for, say, becoming a Broncos fan), hunting season meant only that I needed to sequester myself away from work for a few days.
Things are a little different now. More latte-strength coffee is required, my commute has swollen to just over a thousand miles and the truck has been replaced by a bitchin’ little hybrid Fit with a “Drill her, drill her now” bumper sticker affixed to the tiny plastic bumper. No doubt the little bastard gets great gas mileage, but it was thus far untested in the “wild” sections of the west, until this adventure across the Big Dirty on the day before Halloween.
My brother Ody (who, for the purposes of anonymity will be called “Brody” here), had spent what time he could in the previous months, when not managing a brand new kiddo, getting a great hunt game planned for us. Fourth season was lining up to be a regular safari. Animals have steadily been moving lower down the mountains as the storms begin to deposit their seeds, and the regular mover, that traditional Halloween dump, was due to strike just a day or two late – giving us time to scout before the storm sat down on us.
The first two days of the hunt were quiet, though I did get fired up after a passing a hunter who spoke of a whole herd of Elk standing in doomed stillness just over the hill. Once up top, I settled into a nice spot and watched that hauntingly familiar, magnificent tie-dye sky that surrounds Mount Sopris reveal itself at dawn, the dying night suddenly awash in red and purple hues. I glassed the grey hillside, eyes still glazed over. But look! There! Those marshmallows on the hillside! The whole herd is just over there….
On Sunday night Brody drove us over the hill to the high meadows near Sunlight Peak. Once there, we met a pal of his from the BLM, a fellow possibly named Derrick. Brody had consulted with his cronies to determine a productive mid-season Wapiti assault. Rumors of a whole herd of lazy Elk can drive a hunter mad in short order, always over the next ridge, or behind you, and this kind of talk had us all giddy with meat lust. On the night before, I had dreamt of giant, headless, four-legged tenderloins grazing away on hot sage and rosemary atop a mile wide frying pan. Even my drool smelled of teriyaki sauce and shallots.
On the way to our meadow, we turned a corner, nearly running into a fearsome sow bear, which turned tail and ran. Not one to be left vulnerable, and just in case I had to take the point, I took out my Leatherman tool, calmly sorted through the fifty two options, selected the two inch blade, and strapped it to the front of my gun with a shoelace. If we were going to be mauled in hand-to-claw combat, I was going to inflict some damage, by dog!
With no other beasties jumping us in the diminishing light, we found our way to Meat Meadow, where Brody and I decided to take a “stand.” Sitting there quietly farting together, as only brothers can do, I decided that even if the vernacular was Bush League, I like this notion of taking a stand, of defending our home terrain from terrorist grazers and insurgent browsers. And, there is something very ancient and settling about taking a stand with your kin. Even if it meant sitting.
The darkening Aspen-fringed meadow soaked into my coast-crusted mind, casting out invisible hooks, pulling my back to the valley like a seductive old love with a warm bed. But the idyll was fading into blackness, and soon we stood up from our stand and called Derrick. “Hey man. It’s almost dark. You there?” Nothing… Silence. Then a single, thunderous shot cracked the quiet air, followed by more silence. We scanned the mountains about us, debating the direction of the shot.
Finally, the radio squawked an excited message. Derrick had dropped a bull. “Right where you told me to go!” he exclaimed happily. Both he and Brody had GPS units, so they coordinated lats and longs, and off we went, hiking up a mountain, over downed logs, in the dark, with an ironic, brutal storm bearing down on our exposed position. My headlamp was nearly dead, casting off less than one candlepower as I slowly picked my way through the deepening night. Danger and injury waited under every footstep. We could not have been happier!
We found Derrick after about an hours search. He had gone exactly where Brody told him to go, until he heard the sound of a fight in the woods, followed by a distinctive bugling. He stalked through the woods and found the whole herd standing in a meadow, with two bulls locked in battle. “They were both big bulls, both legal. I couldn’t tell which one had the most tines on the antlers, so I shot the biggest one!” We gave thanks to the animal, took some photos, slapped some backs and listened again and again to the story, which somehow got more interesting with each telling. The clouds opened up as if in mutual celebration, and strong winds poured sweet snow and cold rain down upon us. We jovially cleaned and quartered the Elk in the freezing cold, deciding to hang the meat on a hasty transom overnight, since we had not hiked in with frame packs on which we could tie the heavy hams to our backs.
Once done cleaning and hanging the game, we traversed the ridge, picking our way through heavy brush and dense timber, thus saving ourselves a few hills less climbed. I had found my extra lamp batteries, and could finally see the ground, which was now slick with freshly dusted old leaves. After an hour or so, we made it to the trucks, where warm heaters and cold beers awaited. Stoked beyond belief with our hunt, we vowed to make it back before daybreak the following day, to eventually pack out Derrick’s score, but not before we put the chase on that wily, elusive, whole herd.
Corby Anderson writes Hang Time for the Aspen Daily News from inside of an Elk’s carcass high above a lake that rhymes with “Tinkle,” where he huddles for warmth and sips whiskey flavored coffee as the frosty, bitter political winds wash over him.
Leave a comment