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.