The herd bull was gone. But around me the bugles continued. Cow elk had been stolen and were either being blocked by satellites from following the herd bull or had just given up and accepted their new suitor(s).
I could see three or four bulls right from my sit spot.
A first year 5x started up the short slope toward me. Oh great, I thought, another frontal. This is a shot I am comfortable taking now, but back then it was definitely not one I would attempt under any circumstance. I had not done my homework. Where to place the arrow, distance limits or self-confidence. None of these parts were in place in my hunters mind.
The young bull was prime. His fur flashed sheen, his muscles full and powerful rolled under the skin. As he climbed toward me I already knew I would shoot this bull. He was fit and fat, and had that " something" an animal must have before I click the internal button saying yes, yes, this is one to be proud of. It has never been the antlers for me. Sure, I always focus on trying for older, larger animals. But my prime directive has always been an animals vigor.
I was on my knees and down in one of those small ground dents just large enough for an archer to hide most of themselves from wary eyes. The bull paused several times on his accent toward me to look back over his shoulder. I used these brief moments to adjust my body set, nock an arrow and try to manage my personal hunt shot nemesis, sweaty palms.
He was maybe 20 yards now and the next time he came forward I thought it would happen but something, his sixth sense, his supernatural smell and hearing or some part of his rustic wariness brought his head up and his eyes locked onto me. I kept mine lowered, seeing him just on the edge of periphery knowing full well the intensity of my gaze, not to mention the blazing force behind it.
He was frozen. I was a rock. We stayed this way for a long time. The wind lay against my right cheek. Somewhere, on the edge of awareness, elk ran by and bulls bugled. A deer mouse rustled under the duff of leaves and needles. Ours was the old formal dance of the hunter and the hunted. Choreographed long ago, our roles had already been determined. The bull elk and I knew our places on the stage of life and of death.
What motivates us to be traditional hunters? What ancient impulse directs us to touch the past and connect to ourselves in a way that is right and honest?
I don't know.
It is enough that it is.
When I step out into daily life, that rushing pace that sometimes is heavy responsibility, I also carry inside myself this other man. He is a free spirit and his heart is woven into the branches, the dirt and the water.
The bull, finally satisfied that maybe his concern was false started forward. He came around a small tree and when his body started to turn I came to anchor his muscles loading into a crouch as he flinched at my movement. It was now or never the bull launching himself forward and away the arrow white fletches proud against the back drop of sky and fur. The bull and the arrow met at 6 yards, the timeless dance completing its cycle. The hunter rejoiced in silent awe, the bull, its spirit alive climbing upward into the air above them.
Topic: The Elk Opera (Read 2812 times)
