When I was nine my Dad took me with him on an elk hunt in Colorado. It was he and I with a guide on horseback for nine days and I can remember that hunt like it was yesterday. On that trip he put an arrow into the shoulder bone of a big bull that he never recovered and that was the last elk he ever arrowed. For reasons that only a son would understand I made a personal oath to be there when he finally succeeded in getting his bull. So it was that my two brothers, (one through blood, one through choice), and I decided that we would "gift" my Dad an elk hunt, paying his way as thanks for being the man he is. One brother and I are trad. My other brother and Dad are wheel guys. If you want to stop reading at this point, no hard feelings, but I think that most all of you realize that there is more to the hunt than just the kill.
The best hunt we could afford that we believed gave us the most of what hunting elk in the Rockies offered was an unguided drop camp where we were packed in on horseback. The area was public land in the Zirkel Wilderness north of Steamboat, and I told everyone that the chances of us getting an animal, (only Dad had ever really elk hunted before and I can't honestly call him an "elk hunter"), were slim to none. That wasn't the point. The four of us around the fire, under the stars... mission accomplished.
The hunt started under auspicious beginnings as we met the outfitter the night before we were to pack in and the only advice he gave us was, "well, we saw elk sign near camp, and we once packed an animal out from around these lakes here... you know, you just have to hunt and find sign". It didn't sound any better when a ranch hand mentioned to me on the ride up the mountains that no drop-camp group had taken an animal, bull or cow, in over two years. Our confidence rose as we rode the horses 16 miles to the camp nestled a mile and a half west of the Continental Divide at an elevation of 9500 feet, figuring that hunting pressure would be light despite it being the third week coinciding with the muzzleloader season. That thought was dashed as we encountered 18 other hunters in the first day and a half of our hunt! There was no fresh sign and all the hunters we met gave us the same story of "haven't seen or heard anything yet."
In my family I'm considered "the hunter" which is well and good, except that as I mentioned, I'd never hunted elk since I was nine. That second night I sat down with the topo and tried to figure where the elk might be. Most all of the other hunters we encountered where on horseback so it just made sense to go to a place where horses couldn't. Two miles to the northwest of camp began an series of east/west canyons that were extremely steep and choked with downfall. I'd spent the last year studying Elknut's playbook and practicing my calling, so I grabbed my bugle and headed a mile down the horsetrail to an outcropping that would carrying my locator bugle towards those canyons.
daytime view of my nightime calling location
That night I got a response so immediate that at first I thought it was an echo. Another bugle, another response and I hotfooted it back to camp with the news that we had a place to start!
The next morning my Dad and I began our descent and two ridges over began finding some fresh sign. We spent the day covering as many miles as our flatlander legs and lungs could manage. Although we didn't see any elk, the sign was fresh, rubs, scat, beds and wallows with muddy water.
Taking one of many breaks to let me... 'er Dad catch his breath.
Having found nothing but petrified scat my two brothers decided to join us the following day. As we were side hilling a ridge 2/3rds from the top I spotted a bedded cow 40 yards from us. The wind was right, but the cover so thick with deadfall that sneaking in any closer wasn't an option. We tried a calling setup, but the only response was the bull giving his glunks and chuckles as he herded the cows down the slope. The coolest part of the hunt was the realization that you can smell them! I'd read about it, but never given much thought to actually using your nose to locate animals.
Taking my first whiff of elk from where the cow had been bedded
The next couple of days were spent covering as many as 11 miles a day trying to locate the herd. We only saw one cow. Sometimes I think that trying to find a mature whitetail here in the big woods of northern Wisconsin is like trying to find a needle in a haystack, but this kind of country really is vast. Coupled with the altitude, the inclines and the blowdowns, my brother said it best, "Dude, they could literally be anywhere." But, the scenery was beautiful and the hunting so far removed from our lives back home that only with effort could one visualize it, and isn't that in essence the point of going there?
My brother getting creative in crossing streams when wearing low cut boots.
The night before our final day my Dad and I went back to my "calling ridge" and I sent my locator once more across the expanse. Three bulls answered. "Here's the plan," I said back at camp as we prepared for our last hunt.
What happened next doesn't fit within the context of this site which is our home away from home and I wouldn't have it so. The story ends with Dad standing over his bull, and an oath fulfilled. When I returned home, my wife asked if I was disappointed that I didn't get an elk. I told her that I never really thought I'd pull the string on this trip. She shook her head and said that she didn't "get it". I smiled and told her she didn't have to.
I would like to add a sincere thank you to tradganger Pete Iacavazzi for his extensive help to a neophite elk-hunter whom he'd never met. Thanks again Pete and I'll call you with the full story.
Topic: Recap of my Zirkel Wilderness elk hunt (Read 393 times)
