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.