BIG DAN

                Spring, 2023

For whatever reason, I was contemplating my mortality one weekend while sweeping out the garage. Blessed to have lived a life thus far filled with little regret, I thought long and hard what my biggest regret would be if I perished today. Almost immediately, not hunting with a traditional bow sprang to mind. My entire bowhunting career thus far had been undertaken with a compound bow. You may be asking yourself, “why would not hunting with a traditional bow be that big of a regret?” Considering the seemingly inconsequential nature of hunting with traditional archery gear, that is a perfectly valid question. To better understand why it holds the gravity it does, I need to tell you about Big Dan.

Before moving to Wyoming, I was living in northern Minnesota, working at a ceiling tile manufacturing mill. While I would have much preferred to spend all my time chasing whitetails and walleyes, a large portion of my time was spent making ceiling tile. Luckily for me, I found myself on the same shift with a man we call called “Big Dan.” At least twenty years older than me, Big Dan was tall. He stood at least six foot four inches, if not taller. Somewhat quiet, somewhat gruff, he was more than a little intimidating. He worked at the tile mill because the shift work schedule gave him plenty of time to hunt. He was a mountain man enthusiast. And he hunted exclusively with traditional archery equipment.

               I cannot recall how our first conversation came about; I was probably making a mess of things on the line and he had to step in and fix it, but eventually Big Dan took me under his wing. Big Dan was one of the nicest human beings I had ever met, and we quickly became friends. Working the production line together, he would often impart bits of sage wisdom, such as “find yourself a job that gives you plenty of time to hunt.” Big Dan was an advocate of living a nontraditional lifestyle in order to fully capitalize on his passions; namely bowhunting and being in the wilderness. Talking loudly over the constant hum of machinery, he would regale me with countless bowhunting stories, continuously trying to persuade me to depart from my compound ways and give traditional archery a try. “Someday Dan, someday,” I would answer back, shaking my head, smiling.

               To this day I am still not sure what he saw in me; perhaps a younger version of himself. Either way, he spent countless hours sharing lessons learned, advice (both hunting and life,) and, of course, the countless benefits of putting down the compound and picking up a recurve bow. Right up to the very day I left the mill, Big Dan never ceased in his efforts to convert me to a traditional archer.

               It was snowing the last time I saw Big Dan. We had just finished our 12-hour shift and were standing in the parking lot. It was my last day at the mill, I was moving to Wyoming the following week. The glow of the parking lot lights cut through the winter night as Big Dan shook my hand. “Watch your topknot,” he said with a grin. “Watch yorn,” I replied, smiling back, a reference to our favorite mountain man movie, Jeremiah Johnson.

               Shortly after moving to Wyoming, I got the news. Big Dan had passed away. A traditional nine-to-five, Monday-through-Friday existence never caught up with Big Dan, but a heart attack shortly after retirement did. Despite the sadness of knowing I would never be able to tell Big Dan about my Wyoming adventures or eventual traditional archery successes, I smiled upon learning that he passed away doing what he loved; bowhunting.

               While I swept the garage that spring day in 2023, I figured Big Dan would be mighty disappointed that his workplace protégé had yet to hunt with a traditional bow. It was time to change that.

               The following week I made the drive down to Rocky Mountain Specialty Gear, an archery shop in Colorado specializing in traditional bows. Walking up to the attendant, I confessed that I was a recent convert from the compound world and needed a guide to show me the way. Felix, the attendant, smiled and agreed to help. Felix was a traditional archery expert and was exactly what I needed. He must have spent at least three hours with me that afternoon in the shop; grabbing different bows for me to try, teaching me how to shoot a traditional bow, and patiently fixing my form, shot process, and everything else I was mucking up.

               Finally, just before both Felix and I were about to lose patience, a bow came along that was different. I could tell from the first shot that this bow just fit. It was a Heartland Recurve, 64 inches from tip to tip, drawing 53 pounds. Gently used, it was in good shape. The lines were elegant and the bow just plain felt good in my hand. Unlike the cumbersome weight and odd angles of a compound, this bow felt balanced, lively. “This is the one,” I told Felix. A short while later we bid goodbyes and I was in the truck with a recurve bow, headed back to Wyoming.

               Shooting a traditional bow is hard. When I say hard, I mean really, truly, hard. Being a somewhat competent compound shooter, I severely underestimated just how difficult shooting arrows out of a wooden stick and string with no sights was going to be. I lost count of how many hours I spent shooting that bow, struggling to achieve any kind of consistency. I lost count of how many times I wanted to send that bow sailing through the air, end over end, or snap it over my knee. I lost count of how many hours I spent looking for arrows that had sailed over the target into the sagebrush, or how many times I just wanted to pick my compound up and forget this nonsense. But I had made a deal with the memory of Big Dan, and I was going to see this through.

               As summer reluctantly faded into fall, something miraculous happened; I started hitting the target. Then I started hitting the target consistently. Eventually, I started grouping arrows on the target. Amazed, I started to believe that I could pull this off.

               Opening day of archery season, 2023, found me perched above a bear bait, the recurve clutched in my hand. Knowing that my range would be severely limited compared to a compound, I had set the bait barrel a mere fifteen yards from the stand. By this point I was comfortable shooting out to 20-25 yards, but closer is better, and I aimed to get as close as I could.

               The morning sit passed by quietly, with no sign of bear. The evening sit passed by in much the same manner, until just before dark, when the snap of a branch came from the timber. Slowly turning, I spotted a bear. About forty yards behind me, he was slowly making his way towards the barrel. Just before emerging from the thick pines behind the stand, he took a detour. Sniffing the air, he placed his front paws on the tree I was sitting in, licking the length of rope I had used to haul the bow up. Interesting, I thought. Shooting straight down out of a tree with a five-foot long bow was not something I had practiced. Luckily, the bear quickly tired of examining the tree and resumed his journey.

               Taking several steps towards the barrel, he passed behind a large aspen. I drew back. The wooden limbs of the recurve bent, and my leather shooting tab settled near the corner of my mouth. The bow strained to be released as the bear took his time behind the aspen. The recurve had no mechanical let-off, meaning that one had to hold all fifty-three pounds of bent wooden stick back. Trembling with the effort, I prepared for the shot.

               After what felt like an eternity, the bear stepped out. He was quartering away at a steep angle, stopping between the tree and the barrel. Concentrating intently on the area behind his front shoulder, I picked a spot and focused. Vaguely aware of the arrow tip floating in my vision, I continued to focus on that spot as I pulled through the shot, the string sliding off my fingers, the arrow jumping off the riser, striking the bear with a loud crack.

               The bear jolted and crashed off through the brush, the sound of his flight quickly fading, absorbed by the darkness that had suddenly fallen. I had hit him, that much was clear. Where and how good was yet to be determined.

               Hiking back to camp, I met my hunting partner, Jesse, and filled him in. Grabbing headlamps and packs, we hiked back in to track the bruin. Even in the dark, it did not take long to find blood; good blood at that. Stooped low over the trail, the beams of our headlights danced across the grass and undergrowth as we quickly tracked the bear into a small patch of pines. Stepping over a downed log, we both looked up; there he was.

My first bear with a traditional bow lay quite still near a rotted log. The 600-grain arrow had entered just behind the front shoulder, the large fixed-blade broadhead penetrating exceptionally well, almost half of the arrow exiting his chest. He did not go far, expiring quickly as he ran. We decided to prop the bear onto the log, planning to take several quick photos before working on his cape. Unbeknownst to us, the bear had expired on top of a hornet’s nest. Things were about to get quite western.

               As soon as we moved the bear, hornets erupted from the ground like a biblical pestilence. It was bedlam. The air was thick with angry hornets. The lights of our headlamps jumped shakily across the darkened timber as we flailed wildly at the attacking swarms. Something stung my eye. Then the top of my head. Then my cheek. We dashed about the chaos and somehow dragged the bear out of the epicenter, trying to get clear. It was a losing battle. The vengeful hornets followed us. Snapping a few quick photos, the swarm overtook us again. My eye was starting to swell rapidly. “I’ll come get him in the morning!” I exclaimed as we beat a hasty retreat into the timber.

               I awoke early the next morning to find the eye swollen shut. Figuring a single eye would be sufficient to cape out a bear, I shouldered my pack and hiked in; Jesse was out hunting a different bait some miles away. Making it to the bear without incident, I found him where we had left him, the hornets mercilessly nowhere to be found.

               My traditional archery journey had come full circle. Several short months ago I quite literally could not hit a target. Now I was standing over a beautiful black bear that had fallen to my recurve bow.

As I caped out the bear, I grinned to myself, thinking about what Big Dan would say if he could have been here.

Loaded down with the hide, I shrugged into my pack.

Looking down at the recurve in my hand, I smiled.

This one’s for you, Big Dan.

MISSED

 

 

          The tenth annual Wyoming Snow and Avalanche Conference was in Jackson this year. The trip from Rawlins to Jackson passed through two general mule deer units with open seasons. With this knowledge in mind, I packed for the conference and departed two days early. The plan was simple: spend one day hunting outside of Lander and another day hunting outside of Jackson. It would be an adventure, exploring new country in hopes of finding a big mule deer. Realistically, my odds were not great. I had never hunted either area before. Nor did I know anyone that had. But for me, the adventure of a hunt was (and always will be,) the priority. The chance to explore brand-new territory had me excited. Hours of poring over OnX maps had left with me several waypoints to check, and I eagerly hit the road.

          The first waypoint was just west of the picturesque town of Lander, where the Wind River range slopes down to rolling sagebrush flats. I had picked a remote walk-in hunting area in the Shoshone National Forest, hoping to escape any hunting pressure. The drive through Lander was beautiful, with the colors of fall in full splendor. It was not long before I was winding up a dirt road, leaving the houses behind as the road climbed higher and higher, eventually turning into a set of switchbacks that brought me into the national forest.

          Shortly after entering the forest, the well-traveled dirt road turned into a rock-strewn two-track. Navigating cautiously, I found a relatively level clearing to park my truck. Above me, the sun of late afternoon shone brightly on the gentle foothills, the high-country sagebrush interspersed with aspens and pines as the ground sloped up towards the west. Below me, a steep ridge of sagebrush dropped down severely before meeting the agricultural clearings of hay fields and grazing pastures.

          Shouldering my pack, I began my hike, working my way north towards the walk-in area. An old two-track wound its way up the slope, paralleling the deep ravine that was Mexican Creek. An opening presented itself in the aspens and I split from the two-track, working my way down the ravine, crossing the creek at the bottom. No deer, but plenty of sign. Climbing up the other side, I sat down and set up the spotting scope. The bare hillside offered a spectacular view of the open sage fields that spread below the scattered pines. It was not long before the glassing turned up several deer, working their way along a line of timber into a clearing. Too far to discern buck from doe, I packed up and resumed my hike, working steadily higher.

          Gentle ravine followed gentle ravine as the hike brought me farther north, sage and pines interspersed with swales of tall brown grass. Working my way above the tree line, I once again pulled out the spotting scope. Does. While no heavy-horned bucks joined them, watching the does and their fawns slowly graze into the setting sun was tranquil. After a half hour or so of waiting for that big buck to wander out, I collapsed my tripod, stowed the spotting scope back into my pack, and continued my hike north.

          It was not long after entering the next sloping finger that I spotted another herd of deer. Repeating the same glassing ritual, I quickly spotted ten deer, with one small buck accompanying the does and fawns. While not big enough to place him in any danger, I spent the next hour or so watching the herd move out of the timber and into the grassy opening until it became too dark to discern their shapes in the evening gloom. Turning south, I started to hike back, glumly realizing I was four miles or so from the truck. That meant I was at least an hour from a hot freeze-dried meal and a warm sleeping bag. As I was dejectedly contemplating this turn of events, a set of headlights pierced the darkness below me, slowly moving along the old two-track. I worked steadily downwards, hoping they had seen me, and, knowing how remote we were, would offer a ride. I was pleasantly surprised when, finally making it all the way down, they did just that. 

           “Figured I’d see if you wanted a ride, seeing how far back you are,” the man driving the UTV smiled as he pulled up next to me. “You have no idea,” I laughed as I tossed my pack in the cargo bed, thanking him profusely.

          The miles rolled pleasantly by as the UTV wound its way back down the mountain as we talked about mule deer, elk, and how the hunting was much better last year (as it always was.) Dropping me off at the truck with a handshake, he took off down the mountain, the taillights of his UTV leaving me alone in the high-country darkness. Pulling my camp stove out of my truck, I whipped up a tailgate delicacy; freeze-dried spaghetti and a cold beer. Snuggling into my sleep bag in the bed of the truck, visions of giant mule deer flashed through my head as I drifted off to sleep.

          As comfortable as sleeping in a truck can be, I was grateful when my alarm finally went off. Rolling out of my sleeping bag, I slipped into my pants, pulled a fleece over my head, and scrambled out of the truck. Full dark still hung upon the mountainside as I hiked in, the glow of Lander lighting up the night sky below me. The first several hours of morning found me perched on a rock overlook, spotting scope in hand, enjoying the warmth of the sun creeping across the hills. Several does and fawns wandered out of the scattered pines, feeding up the hillsides, but, much to my dismay, no trophy bucks followed them.

          I decided to spend the remainder of the morning hiking the steep sagebrush ridges below my truck. It was not long before I started to spot deer. A doe. A fawn. A small buck. They materialized out of the sagebrush like gray ghosts, watching me from about 150 yards away. The buck was small, much too small to shoot. I enjoy watching wildlife as much as anything, and spent several minutes watching the three deer before they melted into a thick pocket of sagebrush. Resuming my hike, I crested the next finger of sage and immediately spotted a deer skylighted below me. A buck. He stood about 200 yards away, the morning sun glinting off his rack. Slowly crouching down, I pulled out my spotting spoke to get a better look. He was pretty, with three points on his main beams and prominent eye-guards. I debated whether to shoot for several minutes before contenting myself with just watching.

          Suddenly the buck jerked and dropped into the sage, the crack of a rifle shot echoing across the hillside a split-second later. Rasing my head from the spotting scope, I saw an orange clad hunter, rifle in hand, walking up the ridge to the buck. I strode over to congratulate him on a fine shot. Shaking hands, he introduced himself as Rick. What originally started as a brief congratulatory handshake before continuing my hike turned into an hour-long conversation as Rick removed the entrails of the buck. Rick had been hunting Wyoming for more years than I had been alive, and he regaled me with stories of hunting mule deer in the Greys back in the 60’s and 70’s, when 200” mule deer roamed the canyons “if you knew where to look.” Together we drug the buck through the sagebrush, discussing wily mule deer, good pickup trucks, and everything else two hunters would.

          Reaching a rutted two-track, we left the deer as he walked down to his truck. Pulling up in an old white Toyota, we loaded the deer in the back and he offered to give me a ride back up the ridge. Gladly obliging, we continued our talk as he popped the truck into gear and crawled up the ridge. Eventually reaching my truck, we continued our reminiscences about hunts gone by at the tailgate, finally going our separate ways.  Driving back down the mountain, I stopped in town for a hot meal. Over a plate of café eggs and hot coffee, I decided to try a spot high up in the Shoshone National Forest about 10 miles south of where I was that morning. Rick had told me he had seen some bucks hanging around there during archery season.

          After paying the bill, I was once again driving west out of town, up another set of steep switchbacks, and parking at another remote trailhead. This was bigger country than the last area, with thick stands of pines sloping down to steep grass covered hills. Circling a rocky outcrop, I perched on a high ledge and spent most of the afternoon fruitlessly glassing, taking in the country. Deciding to continue my circumnavigation of the rocky peak, I packed up my spotting scope late in the afternoon and hiked into the pines.

          Soon after heading into the pines, I cam across sign. Trails, tracks, droppings; sign was everywhere.  It did not take long before the deer showed up as well. Slowly making my way down one of the numerous deer trails that crisscrossed the backside of the peak, a flash of movement caught my eye. Looking up towards the top of the peak, I saw the source of the movement; a small buck. And next to him, another small buck. Smiling to myself, I watched them through the binoculars for several minutes. Granting each buck an extended lease on life due to the size (or lack thereof,) of their antlers, I began to hike away. But wait, there was another deer. Straining my eyes through the thick pines, I could make out the chest, neck, and head of another deer. Was that an antler? Grabbing my binoculars, I looked again. Sure enough, a buck. A bigger buck. A shooter buck.

          Snapping my rifle up to my shoulder, I began to rush a shot that did not need to be rushed. Judging him to be about 200 yards, I swung the crosshairs on his chest, struggling to hold offhand. The window through the trees was narrow. I jerked the trigger. Snapped my head up. And missed.

          I stared dumbfounded as the buck bounded off up the pine-covered slope, following the two smaller deer. I pride myself on being a decent shot. Not great, but I know my equipment, I know my dope, and I know my ammunition. I am not saying I never miss, but it is a rarity. Yet here I was, watching the buck disappear over the ridge because I missed. I followed his tracks through the soft dirt for 200 yards, just in case, coming to the top of the peak. Looking down to the east I saw him again, still trotting away, disappearing into another stand of pines maybe a mile away. Shaking my head dejectedly, I began my trudge down the mountainside, dark gray clouds rolling in from the west, ushered in by a blustery wind as darkness fell. Fitting, I thought, as the first drops of rain spattered down.

          The remainder of the hike was uneventful, my mood as dark as the clouds. Finally, I reached the trailhead. Shedding my pack and unlocking the truck, I plopped on the tailgate and fished a cold beet out of the cooler. This is not so bad, I thought, considering my options. If I would have connected, my season would be over. No more hunting until spring bear opened. Cheering slightly, I decided to drive back into town, get a hotel room and a good night’s sleep, and regroup.

          I spent the next day hunting some of the most beautiful country I had ever seen. The jagged peaks of the Tetons provided an awe-inspiring backdrop as I hiked across big country, the Buffalo River snaking through the alders and sage below me. The country itself more than made up for the lack of bucks. 

          Looking up at the stars as I finally reached my truck after a day of exploring some truly incredible country, I began to look at yesterday’s miss in a different light. If I would have shot that buck, I would have never experienced this rugged landscape nestled under the Grand Tetons. Plus, there were still general seasons open into November farther east, I reminded myself. That means I could hunt deer during the rut. 

       Hell I was downright lucky, I thought to myself, missing that buck like that.

       If there was ever such a thing as a good miss, that was it.

              

 

ACROSS THE ROAD

 

               September was finally here. After eleven months of waiting, my son, Braden, and I were at our elk camp, nestled high in the Sierra Madre range of southern Wyoming. Joining us was my dad, Scott, who called Minnesota home but ventured west every year to hunt. Between the three of us, we had a myriad of tags we hoped to fill. Braden would be after his first elk with a bow, I would be doing the same with a Wyoming black bear, and Scott had both a Colorado and Wyoming elk tag. It is always exciting chasing that “first” animal, and we were all rooting for Braden.

               We hunted together but separate, each venturing off in the morning to our own chosen area and reconvening at night. My hunt was simple, grinding out the hours on a tree stand hung over a bear bait. Braden varied his efforts, hiking and calling during the mornings, sitting wallows and clearings during the evenings. Scott employed a similar strategy. The more area we covered the better our odds were of locating the elk.

               The first two days of September came and went without any notable action. Sits over the bear bait were long, hikes into elk country were hot, and action eluded us. A canvas “Jumpin’ Jack” tent trailer served as base camp and gave us a comfortable abode when the nighttime temperatures began to dip into the low thirties. We welcomed the cool air with open arms and hoped our luck would change.

               The third evening brough optimism along with the cooler temperatures. Braden decided to sit in an old stand hung over a dirt pit that had produced several elk over the years. Scott planned on hiking in to a new canyon that we had left unexplored, and I would return to my daily vigil at the bear bait. “If you sit until dark, I can almost promise you’ll shoot one,” I told Braden as we went our separate ways. Smiling, he hiked out of camp and I took our utility vehicle across the old forest service road to the bear bait trailhead.

               Instead of sweltering in the afternoon heat we enjoyed a refreshingly cool evening. I hoped Braden and Scott were enjoying the change in weather like I was. The shadows eventually started to lengthen, ushering in twilight as the glow of the setting sun faded through the aspens. Cow elk chirped behind me as I continued to stare at the bait barrel, waiting for a bear to appear. The chirping grew louder as the elk moved closer, eventually snapping twigs and branches behind me. Since both Scott and Braden had elk tags, I decided to climb down from the stand and follow the elk, hopefully putting them to bed for the next morning’s hunt.

               No sooner than I decided to climb down, a black shape moving quietly through the pines to the east caught my eye. Freezing in a half crouch, I watched a bear materialize out of the pines.  He was black, with a hint of brown color phase, and was obviously hungry as he made a direct line towards the bait. Hardly daring to breathe, I slowly pulled myself back into the stand. Nocking an arrow, I raised my bow as the bear slowed, sniffing the air around the barrel. He was quartered slightly away, his attention completely on the bait, a mere 20 yards away.

               The arrow whispered against the rest as I slowly drew the bow back. The fluorescent green 20-yard sight pin settled just behind the bears front shoulder as he continued to sniff. Settle. Breathe. Squeeze. The arrow released, striking the bear hard. With a growl he spun around, angrily snapping at the air. He took off at a breakneck pace into the pines just north of the stand. The headlong dash quickly ended and the bear tumbled, coming to rest mere yards from the tree where I sat perched. A low growl emanated from the bear as he expired, leaving the darkening woods eerily silent. 

                Night advanced rapidly now that the excitement was over. Lowering my bow, I climbed down from the stand, slowly making my way over to where the growl had sounded. My first Wyoming bear lay quite dead, the arrow having taken him just behind the shoulder, passing through his chest. Admiring the beautiful creature, I silently thanked whatever deities govern the lives of such animals, and began to work. Knowing I had a long hike out in the dark, I removed the entrails and propped the body cavity open with a branch. Nighttime temperatures were now consistently dipping into the high twenties and I had no concern of any meat spoilage leaving him until morning.

               A blazing fire greeted me when I returned to camp, the light from the flames bouncing off the aspens that surrounded camp. Braden must have come in early, I thought to myself, judging by the size of the blaze. “Any luck?” he asked, warming his hands as I made my way towards the fire. I smiled, showing him my hands, which were still streaked with blood. “Nice!” he exclaimed. “How about you?” I asked. A slow smile spread across his face as he looked up. Judging by the size of his grin in the firelight, there was a story. “Well?!” I exclaimed, hardly daring to believe that Braden had taken his first elk. He recounted the events slowly, drawing out the story. I smiled to myself; he was quickly mastering the art of telling a hunting story. “He was across the clearing in front of the stand…I drew back…my heart was pounding…and I got him!” Trading high fives, we whooped it up. Braden had his first elk on the ground and I had my first Wyoming bear on the ground.

               Scott returned to camp in the middle of our jubilatory celebration and happily congratulated us both. With two animals on the ground, we decided to hike in and retrieve the bear, saving the elk for the morning. A midnight hike under the stars was filled with laughter as our good spirits carried us along the trail. Using paracord, we lashed the bear to an A-frame constructed with fallen logs. Carrying the frame on our shoulders, the three of us made quick work of the task and we were in our sleeping bags shortly after one in the morning.

               Daylight woke us and, grabbing packs, we began the hike in to Braden’s elk. The chill of early morning clung to the air as we wound down the trail into the forest. Braden’s elk was a deliciously fat spike, still in velvet. He had made a wonderful shot; the bull had been standing perfectly broadside and Braden had placed the arrow just behind the shoulder. A perfect double-lung shot.

               It is hard for me to adequately describe how proud I was. Watching Braden break down his first elk, sharing the pack out with him, all with my own father present. So, I will not. Instead, I will forever cherish the memory, and hope all hunters enjoy a similar experience someday.  

WHATEVER IT TAKES-PART II

 

               To read Part I, please see Whatever it Takes, Bowhunters of Wyoming, Spring 2024.

               The loud popping noise from my left ankle was accompanied by a flash of white-hot pain as the log rolled out from under my foot. Hitting the ground like a puppet with its strings suddenly severed, I grabbed my leg, hissing in pain. God, I hope this isn’t broken, I thought to myself, gingerly probing my ankle as the pain slowly receded. September 2^nd was far too early in the season to suffer a broken ankle, and it would be one heck of a way to start a 2024 bear hunt. Deciding everything was still where it should be, I pulled my trekking poles from my pack and struggled to my feet. Using them as crutches, I hobbled my way slowly back to camp.

               Despite it being only the second day at bear camp, thoughts of packing up, going home, and getting my ankle looked at nagged at me as I limped through the woods. What if it heals wrong? What if it is more serious than I think? Is it worth pushing it further and hurting it worse? Against my better judgement, I eventually talked myself into staying at least one more night and sitting the bear bait that evening. If I were to go home, killing a bear would be impossible.  It was time to find a way to stay on the mountain and get it done.

               After a hike that took twice as long as usual, I finally stumbled back into camp and collapsed into a chair near the fire pit. Gingerly pulling my boot off, I rolled the sock down to get a look at the throbbing ankle. There were no bones sticking out, and I decided that was good. However, the ankle itself had swelled considerably. It looked as if I had a lumpy golf ball stuck just underneath the skin. Furthermore, the ankle was rapidly turning stunning shades of purple, black, and red. Deciding that, in this specific case, valor trumped discretion, I talked my hunting partners into helping me pack in some fresh bear bait for the evening hunt. Wrapping several layers of duct tape around my ankle and using my trekking poles as crutches, I was able to lead them back into the bait site. After stumbling back to camp, I spent the remainder of the midday icing the ankle, wondering how in the world I was going to climb into my stand.

               Before long late afternoon rolled around and it was time to hike out to stand. With the ankle still wrapped in duct tape, I began the slow hobble out to stand. Surprisingly enough, upon reaching my tree, I was able to haul myself up into the stand without too much difficulty. Nocking an arrow and shifting my feet into the most comfortable position I could manage; I settled in for the sit. The first three hours rolled by uneventfully, the heat of the day slowly dissipating into the cool evening that is particular to the high country.

The bear caught my eye around 7:30, just as the alpenglow was beginning to fade. I happened to be standing up, stretching my cramping legs, when I caught a flash of black in the timber behind my stand. Sure enough, out came a bear. Strolling up to the bait, he commenced his evening feed, munching on the cracked corn and sweet feed spread across the ground. With my ankle throbbing, I decided to take him. Drawing back while his head was behind the barrel, I let my pin settle just behind his front shoulder and began squeezing the trigger on my release. The arrow caught him right where I wanted it to. He swapped ends, growling and snarling as he bolted across the deadfall. The sprint did not last long as he quickly slowed, turned around, and began stumbling back towards my tree before falling over. I lowered myself out of the stand and retrieved my arrow, stuck in a log after a full pass-through. A short stumble over to the bear revealed a boar with a beautiful jet-black pelt. Moving my ankle into a manageable position, I got to work on the cape as the last slivers of sunset faded out from between the pines and full dark enveloped the timber. Just as I was removing the last of the tenderloins, a voice called out from the dark, accompanied by the flash of a headlamp bouncing through the timber. My hunting partner, figuring I had fallen out of my tree or had come to some other unfortunate end due to my bum ankle, had come to find me. The company was more than welcome and my 2024 bear season came to an end as we picked our way out of the darkened timber.

               While bear season had ended, elk season had just begun. Spending one day at home, I managed to scrounge up a pair of crutches to hobble around on and switched into elk hunting mode. I met my father (who made the drive down from Minnesota,) and we headed out to elk camp. This year’s elk camp consisted of a wall tent pitched in the high desert, nestled under the shadows of two 8,000-foot peaks. The first two days brought plenty of bulls into range, but none that would qualify as shooters. Switching between trekking poles and crutches, I was able to pick my way across the rocky slopes reasonably well, the ankle feeling a bit better each day.

The third day at elk camp found us sweltering as temperatures soared into the high eighties. The morning hunt had been slow with little action. Given the heat, I decided to make my way down a ridge into a deep ravine held several wallows. After dropping dad off to scout a different part of the unit, I grabbed my trusty trekking poles and hobbled in.

               Despite hiking in early, I still bumped three bulls off the wallow, watching them run up the far side of the ravine. After several hours of staring morosely at the wallow, I felt that I was wasting time. Leaving the wallow around 7:00, I made the hike back up to the top of the ridge, hoping to hear some bugles before dark. As soon as I crested the ridge, a tree caught my eye out in the sage brush to the north. This tree looked oddly out of place, and was not there when I had hiked in earlier that afternoon. Raising my binoculars, I could see that the “tree” was not a tree at all; rather it was a bull elk, skylighted about 500 yards away. Still watching the bull, I gave two cow calls. Immediately the bull that was a tree let out a bugle and started trotting towards me. Scrambling to set up, I clambered to the north where a line of timber and pinion ran perpendicular to the ridgeline. Tucking myself into the top of the tree line, I turned around and gave out a few more cow calls. Almost immediately, a deafening bugle ripped from the scattered juniper and sage below me. If he kept on this track, he would exit the tree line about 30 yards below me. That was the only spot the bull could get eyes on the “cow” that was making all the ruckus.  As if he had read the script, the bull did just that. Once his legs became visible through the scattered undergrowth, I drew back. The bull stepped out broadside, took two steps, and stopped, looking around for the cow. Counting six tines on his right antler, I tucked my thirty-yard pin high behind the front shoulder and squeezed off the shot. The arrow struck with a resounding smack, and the bull lurched forward, taking two steps before stopping. Standing mere feet from where he was struck, he slowly looked around, stumbled, and crashed down the ridge, falling just out of sight into a pine thicket. Deciding to give the bull some time to expire, I hiked the remainder of the ridgeline out to where I had parked my side by side, driving down to pick up my dad. Hiking back in with empty packs, we found the bull right where I had heard him crash. He was a mature six by five, some slight of genetics had caused him to miss a second point on his left side. His ivories were so worn down with age they were barely visible, his teeth in similar condition. The pack out took a little longer than usual, with lighter loads and more trips thanks to a throbbing ankle, but each step was well worth it.

               I smiled to myself in the dark as my headlamp bounced off the pines, thinking about how close I had been to packing it in and going home because of my ankle. Instead, I was six days in to September with two tags already filled, simply because I found a way to stay on the mountain.

WESTWARD

 

            September of 2012 found me working at a ceiling tile mill in northern Minnesota, not far from the shores of Lake Superior. Two weeks of vacation had finally been approved and I was anxiously awaiting my first elk hunt. Scott, my father, and I would be driving out to northern Colorado with two over-the-counter archery tags. While Scott had hunted elk out west several times before, I was still a greenhorn. At 22 years old, I had plenty of bowhunting hours under my belt, but never outside my home state of Minnesota. My entire life up to this point had been spent in the Northwoods, where the most popular big-game animal was (and still is,) whitetail deer. This elk hunt would be an adventure. An adventure than would ultimately change the course of my life.

               After what seemed like ages, the departure date was upon us. Sixteen hours of driving found us in Loveland, Colorado, picking up our licenses and last-minute gear. Several short hours later and we were in northern Colorado’s beautiful Rocky Mountain region. We were renting an old two-room cabin in a small mountain town, a short drive from several trailheads that accessed a vast wilderness area. It was not long before the small cabin was crammed with duffel bags, bow cases, and plastic totes as we readied for the hunt. We ultimately decided to save most the unpacking for later and drove to a nearby trailhead, planning to take a quick hike.

               I will never forget that first hike into the wilds of the Rocky Mountains. The old trail snaked its way through a lush meadow, crossed the Colorado River, then slowly switch-backed its way up a lodgepole covered ridge. After a youth spent exploring the thick pine forests and confined bogs of northern Minnesota, my mind reeled at the incredible vistas and vast expanses of mountain country. Every bend of the trail held an overlook more beautiful than the last. It was hard to comprehend. For the first time in my life, the term “pictures don’t do it justice,” made perfect sense. Two hours into the two-week trip and I knew I was in trouble; how was I supposed to go back to Minnesota knowing this existed? 

                After several hours of glassing, the sun eventually began to slide down the western horizon, disappearing behind the tall jagged peaks. Daybreak would find us at the base of those mountains, hopefully amid hordes of bugling bulls.

               All hunters are familiar with the night before opening morning. Endless hours of tossing and turning while anxiously awaiting daybreak, half-conscious visions of giant bull elk chasing themselves through one’s head. The night before my first elk hunt was no different. Not knowing what to expect in the morning, my mind raced. Was I ready? Was my bow turned up enough to handle an elk? Did I pick the right broadheads? After what seemed like an eternity of staring at the cabin ceiling, the alarm finally rang out. Jolting out of the small twin bed, I hurriedly pulled on my pants, threw on a camouflage sweatshirt, and jammed my feet into an old pair of Danner boots. I wanted into those mountains as fast as possible.

               We made our way up the mountain trail under the light of more stars than I had ever seen. Bugles echoed up the ridge in the crisp mountain air, rising from the valley below us. Waiting until the mountain thermals switched, we crouched on top of the ridge, our breath rising in the air and wafting down towards the valley. Finally, the mist from our breath changed directions and the thermals began rising. We began to pick our way down the ridge. Reaching a thick pocket of pines, we made our game plan. Scott would remain in the pine thicket to try and call the bugling bulls in while I would sneak further down the ridge and set up for a shot.

               It did not take long for the bugling bulls to eventually fall silent. I could just make out dad’s cow calls coming from the pines behind me as the bugles drifted farther and farther away. Shivering in the brisk chill that accompanies dawn in the high country, I waited. And waited. Bugles ceased to rise from the valley floor. A silence fell upon the ridgeline, the only noise coming from the intermittent cow calls behind me. Slightly disappointed that our first morning of elk hunting did not result in a giant bull, I wondered how long we would continue calling. Before I could hypothesize an answer, a flash of antler through the trees caught my eye. A bull elk.

               All the sudden I was breathing like a marathon runner. The pine boughs behind me danced up and down as I started to shake. Silently praying the symptoms of sudden-onset buck-fever did not scare the bull away, I readied myself.  The bull continued picking his way across the ridge, moving to the north, only twenty yards or so below me. Trying to find the source of the cow calls, the bull turned his head. I drew back.

Time seemed to slow as the bull took one more step. A broadside shot. The shakes subsided. My twenty-yard pin came to rest behind his shoulder. Looking back, I do not recall squeezing the trigger. What I do recall, and what I will never forget, is watching the arrow disappear behind his front shoulder. With a shudder, the bull lurched, swapped ends, and crashed off into the timber.

Dad rushed down the ridge, hardly believing it. “I hit him good,” I whispered, the shakes returning with full force. Giving the bull time to expire, I recounted the shot, telling him how the bull had come in quietly from the south after all the bugles had died away.

Excitedly following the blood trail, I expected to come across him any second. Instead, the trail grew cold. I lost blood. No tracks in the dirt. Confused, I looked back at dad. Smiling, he simply pointed. There, just below the last spot of blood, was my bull. He had expired on the run, rolling down the hillside. I was elated. The arrow had passed through both lungs, killing him quickly and cleanly.  He was a respectable five by five, not extraordinary by any measure. In that moment, however, he was the greatest trophy I had ever laid eyes on.

The remaining two weeks of that trip passed by far too quickly, as all hunting trips tend to do. Before I knew it, I was back in Minnesota. It did not take me long to realize that living in a land with no elk and no mountains was simply not going to work.

Six months later I quit my job, cashed out my bank account, and loaded all my belongings into a Ford F-150 and a rented U-Haul trailer. I was moving to Wyoming. No, I did not know anyone there. No, I had never actually been to Wyoming. No, I did not have a place to live just yet. “But,” I explained to my dad as I got ready to head west, “resident elk tags are only $52.00. I’ll figure the rest out.”

RUSHED

September 14^th, 2022, dawned far too early for my liking. Swinging my legs off the bunk, I stared groggily at the floor for several minutes before deciding a big bull elk was not going to be killed in my old camper. Blearily rising out of bed, I slowly dressed and decided to hike in to area I had dubbed “sheep meadow.” The first two weeks of archery elk season had started rough, and the days were slowly turning into a grind.

A large L-shaped clearing, sheep meadow typically held fair numbers of elk when it was not being grazed by flocks of sheep. Seeing no sheep, I settled in behind several pines on the north side of the meadow. A thick blanket of pre-dawn clouds muffled the bright moon. Settling in a little too comfortably, I quickly nodded off. After an unknown amount of time, the sharp snap of a breaking branch finally yanked me from my slumber. Gamely struggling to pull myself out of my post-nap stupor, I opened my eyes and peered around. There, directly in front of me, was a large black blob. The blob was slowly ambling away through the timber. As my vision cleared, the blob eventually turned into a bear. A large bear, by looks of it.

All thoughts of elk hunting vanished as I suddenly remembered the bear tag nestled in my pocket. Slowly, I lifted my bow from the tree limb it was hanging on and pulled out my rangefinder. Sixty-five yards and walking directly away from me. Drawing back, I waited for him to turn. He did, offering a slight quartering-away shot. My seventy-yard pin settled low behind the front shoulder as the hulking brute stopped and looked back. I squeezed the trigger let the arrow fly. The bear spun; snarling and snapping as he swapped ends and thundered into the thick timber.

Excited by the size of the bear, I quickly strode across the meadow to where he had stood. Almost immediately I located the arrow, the white fletches bright red with blood. Overconfident and about to learn a hair-raising lesson, I ducked into the timber and began tracking.

I had no problem locating the blood trail. Large splashes of blood covered the tangled deadfall. The downed trees were so thick I eventually left my bow behind, figuring I would not be needing it based on the blood trail. He had to be dead, I was sure of it. This was a move I would soon regret.

After dropping my bow, I clambered across another fifteen yards or so of crisscrossed logs when I caught sight of a large black mass in the pines ahead of me. There, slouching up on all fours in front of me, was my dead bear. Very much still alive and far too close for comfort, he lurched out of the deadfall, lumbering away as I stumbled back. Scrambling back to my bow, I decided that I needed a follow-up shot as quickly as possible.

Setting back upon the trail, I tracked him from the pines he had just exited, this time with my bow in hand. It was not long before I caught sight of him through a patch of open lodgepole pines, slowly cresting a small rise. Throwing caution and good sense to the wind, I sprinted up the slope just in time to see him disappear into a deadfall thicket no more than twenty yards away. With no clear shot, I doubled down on my previous bad decision and climbed over a tangle of deadfall and dropped into the thicket, landing right in the big bruin’s lap.

Scrambling away from the bear, I drew back and quickly loosed an arrow, hitting the big bear in the hind. Roaring, the bear reached back and grabbed the arrow with his teeth, breaking it off and tossing it away. Snarling, he spun towards me. I let fly with another arrow, this one hitting him square in the chest as he lumbered towards me. With a shudder he abruptly stopped. Groaning, he swayed and slumped over, finally breathing his last. Shaking, I took out my rangefinder. Too close to read. I paced off the yardage. Eight yards. Eight yards of forest floor was all that separated me from the great bruin.

Upon inspection of the bear, I discovered my first arrow had taken him right where I had hoped. It had entered behind his front shoulder, striking the lungs. The fault was mine. Rushing the follow-up, I failed to give this incredible animal enough time to expire. Here was a bear so tough that it took three arrows to finally stop.

A light rain started to drizzle as I caped the bear out. After hiking back to the trailhead, I spread out the hide and laid the tape measure on him. The bruin measured six feet and eight inches from nose to tail. A great mountain black bear.

Lady luck was with me in sheep meadow that morning. Despite my poor judgement, I had somehow escaped harm and ended up with a great trophy besides.

LOGISTICS

Elk hunting is hard. Elk hunting with a bow, even harder. Anyone who has chased these animals around the west with archery tackle can attest to that. Fully aware of the difficulties and low success rates that accompany our favorite pastime, my father and I were staring down the barrel of four archery elk tags when September 1^st, 2024, finally rolled around. Living in Wyoming, I was lucky enough to draw a limited quota elk tag. Tag 1. My father, who lives in Minnesota, drew a non-resident elk tag for a different region. Tag 2. We had each bought Colorado non-resident over-the-counter archery tags. Tags 3 and 4.

Not only did dad and I have two elk tags a piece, but we had them spread across three different units in two different states. Our odds were not great. The harvest success for archery hunters in our over-the-counter Colorado unit was 4% in 2023. Dad’s Wyoming unit typically hovers around 20-30% for all hunters, with the vast majority of elk being taken during the October rifle season. My limited quota Wyoming unit enjoyed a higher success rate, but archery harvests remain low. With these odds (and the logistics of hunting different areas and states,) we agreed that filling three out of our four tags would be a massive success.

Tag 1

               Our first elk camp consisted of a wall tent nestled in the high Wyoming desert. This was my resident Wyoming tag. Dad made the drive down from Minnesota and we officially started our archery elk season on September 3^rd.

               The weather was sweltering. Temperatures ranged from low thirties in the morning and soared into the high eighties by afternoon. After several days of sorting through smaller bulls, we decided to split up. Dad took off to scout another part of the unit and I hiked into a ravine that held several wallows. After several hours of sitting on the wallow, I decided to climb out of the ravine early, using the last bit of daylight to glass. Cresting the ridge, I spotted an elk in the sagebrush about 500 yards away. A quick look through the binoculars revealed a bull. A bull that was bigger than any we had seen. I let out several cow calls, watching the bull through the binoculars. Bugling, he immediately began trotting towards me.

               Scrambling, I tucked myself into the edge of a tree line that ran perpendicular to the ridge. A bugle ripped from the trees below me; he was closing the distance, fast. His feet appeared first, flashing through the low pine branches. I drew back, hoping he would exit the tree line just below me. He did. A quick glance at his antlers qualified him as a shooter. Judging he was about 35 yards away, my thirty-yard pin settled high behind his front shoulder as I squeezed off the shot. He jolted, took two steps, and stopped. Seconds later he swayed, stumbled, and then crashed, falling just out of sight below me. 

 

               Giving him time to expire, I hiked out, found dad, and returned with empty packs. A beautiful 6x5 greeted us, laying right where he had crashed, not five yards from where he had been standing. Tag 1 was notched, September 6^th.

Tag 2

               After several days of rest, butchering elk, and checking in at the office, we pulled up stakes and relocated two hours south, trading the high desert sagebrush for the beautiful aspens of the high-country. Instead of a wall tent, we used our truck beds. Instead of enduring the sweltering temps of the high-desert, we enjoyed the cool breezes particular to fall in the high country. My father’s Wyoming tag was up next.

               For the first two days we chased bugles up and down drainages, stumbled our way through deadfall-choked ravines, and lounged around camp during the midday lulls.  Day three found us in a brand-new spot; a beautiful open-growth pine forest. The sun’s journey towards the western horizon was well underway, casting shadows across the pines and aspens. We had been cold-calling for the last several hours, but the mountainside remained deathly quiet. Stepping into a clear-cut, we let out several cow calls. Less than a second later, a bugle answered, echoing through the pines. Cutting the distance, we called again. Once again, the bull bugled, much closer and moving our way in a hurry.

               Holding a quick council, I decided to run back to a small clump of aspens to call and dad would press up to the edge of the clearing. My dash to the clump of aspens took no longer than ten seconds, yet as I turned around, dad was already at full-draw. Standing directly in front of him, no more than eight yards away, was a beautiful 5x5, peering into the clearing trying to find the cow. A small pine was obstructing the bull’s vitals and dad was unable to shoot.

               After what seemed like hours, dad finally had to let down. The bull jumped back in shock, trotting away as I let out a cow call. He disappeared back into the tree line as dad came to full draw again. There was no letting down this time. He let the arrow fly. A resounding “smack” echoed from the tree line. I ran up into him, my arms up in the universal “what happened?” gesture. Dad smiled. “Think I hit him good.” Darkness was falling rapidly, enveloping the woods around us. Nighttime temps were cool, so we left the tracking job for the daylight. Daybreak came, and with it, a blood trail that led to a long-tined 5x5. The pack out was smooth, the tailgate beers were cold, and our second bull was on the ground. Tag 2 was notched, September 14^th.

Tag 3

               With our Wyoming elk season wrapped up, it was time to head south and cross the border into the rugged mountains of northern Colorado. Instead of a truck bed or a wall tent, we would be using an Airbnb rental as a base camp, with backpacking trips interspersed as needed.

               The weather cooled as the days rolled by, nights and mornings were regularly in the high twenties and the days rarely crested sixty. Hunting solo, we covered a lot of ground, trying to find elk. The night of September 22^nd found us strung out along a large mountainside, hunting different zones and enjoying the cool mountain evening. Settled in behind several lodgepole pines, I was cold-calling down the ridgeline when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Surprised that I had service, I pulled it out. A text message from dad flashed across the screen. “I think I just drilled a nice 5x5.” I smiled to myself and checked the time. 5:47. Nice. Enough time for me to finish my hunt and enough light for him to break the elk down. We had each hiked in on sperate trailheads earlier that afternoon. We were both a long way back and miles from each other, so rushing out to help him wasn’t in the cards.

               As full dark enveloped the mountainside and the last glow of light faded from the sky, I started my descent to the trailhead. After getting down, I made the drive to the neighboring trailhead dad had parked at. It was late, and the only truck left was his. Parking next to it, I killed the lights and looked up at the dark mountainside. Two pinpricks of light were bouncing down the trail; two headlamps that I knew belonged to my dad and my cousin, Brad. I hiked up the trailhead and met them; both smiling, both weary, and both burdened with heavy packs. Dad had called the bull right into his lap, offering him a perfect quartering-away shot at ten yards.

               We returned the next morning to grab the remaining quarters and antlers. He was a beautiful bull, with a tall, narrow rack. We high-fived and realized we were only one bull away from our perfect season. Our third tag had been notched, September 22^nd.

Tag 4

               It was up to me to fill our last tag and cap off a perfect archery elk season. I decided to strike out and backpack in, planning on spending two days hunting a ridgeline that had been productive in the past.

               Heading out from the trailhead, I made the two-and-a-half-mile hike in. Reaching a bench near the top of the ridgeline, I set up my tarp and sleeping gear, not wanting to fumble with it in the dark.  Satisfied with my handiwork, I continued the trek up the ridge, carrying just my bow.

               Settling in on top of the ridge, I began cold calling. Several cow calls followed by stretches of silence, listening. It was not long before I caught a flash of shadow along the deadfall below me. Movement. Hunters, I thought, slightly disappointed that someone else was willing to hike in this far. Peering into the pines, I quickly realized I was wrong. An elk was picking its way through the downed timber, a flash of sunlight revealing a four-point rack; a legal bull.

               Quietly I readied myself, silently urging the bull to get closer. He had stopped about 65 yards away, his vitals safely covered by the scattered pines. Slowly turning my head, I let out a quick cow call, facing away from the bull. It worked, and the bull resumed his slow journey, heading my direction. He cautiously made his way towards an opening about 30 yards away. Looking like he would emerge at any moment, I drew back.

               Time trickled by as I held at full draw. The bull was perfectly content to take his time, eventually finding an alternate route that offered no shot. With no choice, I let down. Another ten minutes ticked by as the bull slowly wandered around, offering no shots.

               Abruptly, he turned around and stopped behind a small cluster of pine trees. If he took two more steps, he would be in the clear. I drew back again. Slowly, he took one step. Then another. He emerged from the pine trees, facing directly towards me; a clear frontal shot. Judging the distance at 25 yards, I settled my thirty-yard pin low on the center of his chest. Squeezing slowly, the arrow released, burying itself in the bull. He whirled, crashing down the ridge, smashing into deadfall and making a ruckus that echoed across the mountainside.

               Waiting fifteen minutes, I made my way down to where he had emerged from the pines. There was a splash of blood across a downed log. Another splash of blood followed the first. And then another. This continued for fifty yards before I came onto the bull. The shot had been quick and clean. The bull was a small 4x4. Smiling, I took a moment to take it all in. The evening was beautiful. The sunset, pristine. Everything was perfect.

               I took my time breaking the bull down, trying to prolong the season as long as I could. Darkness settled into the pines as I enjoyed the bittersweet feeling that all hunters are familiar with; joyous success that sadly marks the end of another elk season. With the bull fully quartered, deboned, and hung, I shouldered a load of meat and started the slow trek down the mountain.

               The lights were still on at our AirBnb when I finally pulled into the driveway a half-hour past midnight. Smiling, my dad greeted me at the door. We had done it.

Four tags. Two states. One month. Four archery bulls.