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.”