I've been waiting for a few weeks to write this post. My preference is to write more proximate to the subject experience, but in this case, I did not have a computer to use back in November. My PC was horribly slow and my work PC treats blogger.com as a blocked site. So, today I opened a box containing a new computer. It's the first that I've purchased in 8 or so years. Wow. Time to write.
In this pandemic, there has been a tremendous loss of life and residual suffering among survivors. With 3,000 Americans now dying each day, more and more of us are affected in significant ways. Among people who have not experienced the death of a family member or friend, there is still unemployment, food bank lines, depression, and anxiety. And, finally, for those who haven't lost a loved one or a job, there is a persistent sense of melancholy and malaise. We wait in hope with anticipation for vaccines, while knowing we are yet far from the finish. As Homer's Odysseus ordered his men to lash him to the mast of his ship, lest he heeded the Siren's call, so too must we stay apart from friends and family until we complete this passage. We're not quite there yet. The expression holds - We are all in the same storm, but not the same boat.
And then there is the political shit show of life under the reign of the Toddler King. Sorry, neither this blog nor this post is intended to be political, but I can't help but note that this never-ending post-election fundraising campaign adds to our national suffering with each new assault on political norms and Constitutional principles. He's no longer an alpha male disrupting the deep state, he's just a sore loser. Whether you agree with my sentiments or not, I think we can all agree that we need closure to this fall's shit show. We've got enough on our plate.
To break the grip of the pervasive craptastic information bubble, I venture outward. I take walks around the neighborhood, weekend hikes in the nearby hills, and trips to the mountains whenever practical. Places where nothing separates me from the heavens, save pine boughs, and my tarp. I wouldn't say it fully brings me peace or puts my mind at ease, but the great outdoors is a marvelous distraction.
For the week of November 7th, my distraction was a tag to hunt wapiti, which European-Americans have misnamed "elk" after the moose-like cervids which roam Eurasia. Our North American wapiti is a closer relative of red deer. Whatever you call them, I had a tag to hunt the female version for the 3rd Rifle Season in Game Unit 18, near Lake Granby, Colorado. I've been pursuing these hoofed beasts afield for 10 years now without filling a tag. I've had no luck putting one in the freezer. One might argue that the best thing that can happen for elk is for me to draw a tag for their unit. It's one less hunter those critters need to worry about. In full disclosure, I have had my spirits lifted by my sons' successes in the interim. They both managed to fill cow elk tags on their first trips, one in 2014 and the other in 2017. So I must be doing something right? But for me, it's been an entirely futile experience ending in a big bowl of tag soup at the final sunset of each hunting season.
So, why do I go back? Just as hikers "hike your own hike", every hunter draws upon a deeply personal motivation for the pursuit of meat on the hoof. I could wax on and on about this, there is a lot to unpack here. But the thing I enjoy the most about my hunting experiences is that hiking generally features a path to be followed, whereas hunting offers an opportunity to blaze one's own path. I find myself feeling completely immersed in nature when I slash through a willow bog or scramble up a scree slope to stumble nose-first into a piss-soaked bull elk bed. But I'm too purposeful of a creature to behave as John Muir and wander without purpose about the high granite. As much as I respect that man, and those who don't require a targeted motivation to wander, having objectives drives my movement and spirit. This was true when my wife and I thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail for our honeymoon over 20 years ago. It is also true when I am side-hilling through beetle-killed lodgepole pine timber, strewn about like jackstraws, in deep snow at 10,000 ft in elevation. I would not likely summon the motivation for this knee twisting experience but for the prospect of bringing home loin strip steaks to my family. It is exhausting and exhilarating. The way I hunt recharges my understanding of pain and comfort, and resets my compass.
I hunt public land in North America. I'm not the descendant of any nobility or landed class of men. You won't see me on horseback chasing hounds into the forest after a fox. Born in New York City, I'm not even the descendant of any hunters, as far as I can tell. I do not do guided hunts or pay for canned private land hunts. I might be willing to pay a small trespass fee to hunt a good tract of private land, but haven't yet had the occasion. Out of environmental concerns and respect for endangered species, I will never leave the continent in search of prey. I do not tool around in a truck trying to glass for animals from the road, although I do not begrudge those who do, so long as their activity is legal. That's just not my thing. My preference is to throw on a backpack, and engage in spot and stalk hunting in wilderness areas (or at least areas without too many roads or ATV access points). Heavy timber attracts me for its difficulty, and its ability to reduce pressure from other hunters. It contributes to my sense of exploration and solitude. Unfortunately, if you've ever hunted elk in heavy timber on public land, you know that it also stacks the odds against the hunter. In most of the units I hunt, only 10 percent of issued tags are filled in any given year.
Hunting season starts for me the day after the last season ends, sometimes sooner. I pore through electronic and print guides, and data of Western states to figure out an area where I can afford a tag. In deciding where to hunt, there are additional calculations as to the odds of me drawing a tag for that unit and the odds of filling that tag. While my hunting goals include reducing dependency on technology, obtaining a tag is really a data-driven process. My pattern the last few years has been to try and get a deer tag in the Sierras, and then go for an elk in Colorado. I end up in Colorado because there are units I know well from having lived there, and one can get an over-the-counter bull elk tag if the draw doesn't work out. Good luck trying to get an elk tag in California, it is a 20 year process if you are lucky!
By spring I've usually put in for draws in my selected states. The waiting game then begins. As summer starts the draw results start coming in. If I am trying my luck with my preferred weapon - the bow, archery season is only a couple of months away at this point. But lately, I've been too busy for bow season, so I wait for the late fall rifle seasons. November is my preferred month when many Western states offer an additional season for hunting. I like late season hunts because, if I ever do put an elk down, the cold weather will keep the meat fresh while I pack it out piece by piece. Warm weather is a significant concern. Just this October I shot a mule deer with temps in the high 60s and was accosted by flies and yellow jackets who made my meat processing/transporting quite a challenge.
I'm on a low budget. The clock starts winding down in earnest for me when the kids go back to school. As the first cool crisp fall air comes in, I start prepping my gear and thinking about what I want to bring. I check out websites like Cabelas "Bargain Cave" and REI's "Garage Sale" to find the gear that might fill in any holes in my kit.
My anticipation builds as I get closer to opening day. I start visualizing and planning my hunt, and watching Randy Newberg, Tim Burnett, and Steve Rinella on t.v. I begin the thoughtful process of prepacking and establishing a logistical and operational plan. I'll even get out my elk calls and let out a bugle or two in the garage.
Each week-long hunt is a mini-novel, with a prologue, rising action, plot twists, climactic turn, and denouement. Being 0-10, most of my drama has nothing to do with the act of shooting. This year's hunt featured more drama than I care to imagine. On October 14, 2020, a later than usual fire began in the forest north of Kremmling, Colorado. This East Troublesome Fire would go on to become one of the largest in state history, causing destruction and two fatalities in Grand County. The fire overlapped large portions of Colorado Game Unit 18. The conditions giving rise to the fire included a significant recent drought. The flames raged across tracts of forest blanketed with fallen lodgepole pines that were killed by pine bark beetles, whose spread across the Western United States was exacerbated by a prior drought cycle over a decade ago. Climate change is real, and this fire is one manifestation of it. There are other causes and contributing factors to be sure, and I won't be the one to write the full postmortem. But thanks to some heroic fire fighting the loss of life and property damage was kept in check until the first winter storms rolled through the Rockies in earnest and blanketed the fuels in a foot of snow. The East Troublesome Fire was referred to as "Grand County's September 11th" and, having seen the destruction, I would say that parallel is appropriate. My heart goes out to those folks who still struggle to recover. If you are interested in helping or making a donation, Grand County Disaster Assistance Center is a helpful site.
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| This view, over dense fog, looks at the very ridge that burned only three weeks earlier. Now blanketed in snow it is hard to imagine the inferno. |
In the face of this cataclysm, my hunting problem was a very small one. I ask for no sympathy in writing this story. I only offer my perspective because it is what I experienced, so it is what I know and what I am competent to describe.
In truth, I was already paying attention to Colorado fire weather before East Troublesome broke out. I was aware of drought-induced fire restrictions and closures to nearby units in the National Forest. I had my elk and doe tags for Game Unit 18 and had already planned the general area in which I intended to hunt. I'll leave the specifics of where I hunt out of the story, with an intent to preserve a reader's right to have their own adventure. But as the fire developed, worsened, and then waned, it was apparent that the area I planned to hunt was not directly affected. So, I held on to "Plan A" even when I learned that my entire Game Unit was closed at least temporarily in the weeks before my hunt.
Colorado Parks and Wildlife took the unusual measure of allowing a refund for elk tags in the affected units. It would have been easy for me to cash my tag back in and just put in for an over the counter bull elk tag, which would have been usable in other parts of the state. But I held fast. I held fast even when an old hunting friend, with impeccable judgment, recommended I pull the ripcord. I just had a feeling that if my area wasn't burned, and the snowfall mitigated the threat of fire, that the U.S. Forest Service managers would want the space opened for public use. I left home for a drive across the Great Basin not knowing if my unit would be open when I arrived.
Pulling up to my hotel in Hot Sulphur Springs, I was greeted by "Sunshine" the owner-front desk clerk. She asked me if was going to be hunting. I said "not sure yet" which must have been an unusual response. The forest access ban would not be lifted until the next morning. Ever the optimist, after settling into my room I prepared as though it would be open.
I woke up the next morning, Friday, November 6, and checked my iPhone. My bookmarked U.S. Forest Service web page showed that, alas, my unit was open for access. In true Curly fashion, I belted out a line or two from "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning" and summoned my son to arise from his slumber. A cup of tea and bagel, and we were off to the Byers Canyon gun range to sight in our rifles at altitude. A quick note about that range. It is designed for self-administered rifle shooting, with large earthen berms running on both sides of each shooter to about halfway to the 100-yard target. There is no range master, and you have to place and check your target without the ability to shut down the shooters to your right and left. When walking out to my target, I heard bullets whistling past me from 40ish yards to my right and left. It was a scary sound. I trusted God and fate that there could not possibly be a ricochet from the adjacent targets? Not to overdramatize it, there was no line of sight to the other shooters and no way a direct shot could hit me, but it was still a scary setup. I haven't heard of any safety problems there, but I might be trying another range next time.
After cleaning and oiling our barrels, we embarked for the trailhead. We arrived with plenty of daylight to venture in and scout. We climbed 2000 feet over three miles the first day and saw mostly moose tracks. We finished the day by camping on a ridgeline in a dense pine forest. It was a crisp cool night. The following morning we woke up at 4:00 and set out to canvass nearby ridgelines. It was opening day and we hiked a total of 14 miles, mostly on wilderness trails. We saw no elk and only one set of tracks. Not ideal, but I was hunting an area of a unit I had never hunted before so I did not expect to know where the critters were. The following day we were joined by my nephew and hiked approximately ten miles into a new drainage. On this foray, we did come across some fairly recent sign but still didn't see hide nor hair of our target species. After a long day in the field, we drove to another hotel. The following morning the boys took off for Canon City so that my son could continue his remote schooling and my nephew could get back to work.
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| Elk Bed |
Their departure left me alone on Monday. Having only seen a few signs of elk in our first two areas, I drove back to the trailhead and set out on a new trail. [All of these trails were, more or less, in the same vicinity of one another, probably about 70 square miles of terrain and about 25 miles of trails.] I had scouted this trail about 9 years ago. Back then, I saw a large bull up in the drainage while hunting deer, and I figured it had all the makings of good habitat. That bull would be long gone, but perhaps the herd still frequented the area. Unfortunately, after hiking in deep snow for a mile or so, I came to an area of heavy deadfall. The trail was impassable. I was a bit puzzled because downed trees are the norm in the Arapaho National Forest but these down trees still had a lot of greenery on them. It seemed like they were not killed by disease, but perhaps blown down in a storm? Either way, the steep sides of the canyon allowed for no workaround. I had to detour to another drainage that had not historically featured much elk or elk sign. History was, indeed, the best predictor - I saw no elk, no sign of elk, and lost my wool sweater while hiking out at night under my headlight. Defeated, I made a hot meal at my car and slept at the trailhead. I've learned that the only time military MREs taste good is after 12 or so trail miles. Much respect to those who have to eat them as part of their regular duties!
The following morning I went back in on the trail we had hiked on Sunday. This time, after the first 2.5 trail miles, I broke out the compass and bushwhacked. I figured that with only a few hunters who all appeared to be sticking to the trail, just a bit of penetration into the forest might yield more signs of elk. I was right. After hurdling dozens of downed pines, I arrived at a meadow where elk had bedded within the prior 48 hours; my assessment was based on tracks in the snow. Following tracks uphill, sidehill, and then down hill and back, I came to realize that the area had a lot of elk traffic, just no elk at present. I made a few calls from behind a log and drew in a bull. I never saw him because of a small hill, but I distinctly heard him and would later discover not only his fresh tracks but the spot where he turned and bolted upon picking up my scent. I was getting closer and closer.
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| Venus and Moon in morning |
The following day I took the trail a bit further, hoping to keep the wind in my face as I hunted back through the tangled dead fall toward my camp. With stealthy footsteps in the powdery snow, I came within 30 yards of a cow moose, who stood and stared at me before resuming her grazing. Unfazed, she was either mocking me or too tired to care. I can't blame her, if I had bad intent I would have shot her already, so at that point she was making a perfectly rational choice not to run. Moose don't like running much anyway. Apart from man, they don't fear too much in Colorado. We had our moment, I wished her well, and proceeded on in search of my quarry.
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| Cougar tracks, with glove for scale. |
I pushed high up to the ridgeline over fresh cougar tracks, with another 700 feet of climbing I might have looked down on Rocky Mountain National Park. There was definite sign of bull elk, but fewer cow tracks up there. If I come back again I will keep that in mind. But bed after bed was empty. They either had the drop on me due to the swirling wind or had pushed onto a new area in search of better grazing in the new snow. I continued working this ridge for two more days before the season came to a close and I had to leave.
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| Elk bed and scat |
I logged an average of 11 miles per day on steep terrain in deep snow with heavy deadfall. Schlepping a 25-pound pack and an 8-pound gun, I lost 8 pounds body weight in total. I think I have mostly regained that while sitting behind my work computer in the weeks since. For 48 hours I did not see another human. There's nothing wrong with that type of social distancing in the Covid-19 pandemic.
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| More elk bedding |
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| Funny shot, I was cleaning my camera, didn't know I took this picture |
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| Elk ivory rubs |
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| My nemesis trees everywhere |
I have to get back out on the trail, I have to stay sharp, I am not getting any younger.
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| View from the long ride home on I-80 across Nevada. |
I am already planning for next year. I think I've figured out a way to get up onto that ridge without leaving much of a scent signature. And that is just it. You see, each hunt brings a new lesson about the flora, fauna, habitat, climate, and human impact of the area you hunt. There is always a take away, and hope springs eternal. It's like the school of hard knocks for me, and after ten years I am still working on my thesis.
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| Coyote walking in my old tracks |
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| Skittle Brittle? |
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