Sorry for the repost guys, but I wanted to save some of the stuff off of the Scout site. So I piled five hunts together in one thread, six from this past season, and one from 2015.
1. The sun set no more than a few hours ago, the closing day of the Utah general season deer hunt. This marks the first year since I began hunting, that I have gone without killing a deer. For years I have anticipated it, not knowing when or why it would come. Every year I would tell myself; maybe this is the year I go without. But through some kind of blind luck, I have always managed to get a tag, as well as a deer to go with it. I wouldn’t have guessed that it would take so many years for it to finally happen, but the beautiful memories that took its place are even better.
2016 was a special year for me, for the first time in my life, I would be hunting with both my Father, and my Son. Surely we had been together many times, but this was the first time that all three of us would be carrying a rifle. I thought for sure we could find three bucks, and what a special hunt it would be, that three generations of my family could once again draw blood. If you read the first part of this story, you are likely to remember the handy little rifle that my son is lucky to have. A pieced together Remington 700, with a 16” .260 barrel, I had loaded it with some 120 grain match hollow points. And whenever the squeeze was good, this little rifle hammered.
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After a few adjustments, to make the rifle fit him better, we spent as much time as we could practicing. I would have liked to have him shoot it a lot more, but keeping a twelve year old’s attention for more than a few minutes proved difficult. But the calendar waits for no one, and so the practice we got, was all I had to work with. Because before I knew it, the deer hunt opener was upon us. I drove up the dark and winding canyon roads, my Brother and I discussing the plan for the day, while my Son sat quietly in the back. The day was as usual on public land general season, armies of orange covered every vantage point. But despite the state wildlife agency’s prognostication of a great season, we never got to put eyes on a deer with antlers. It did however give Jr. plenty of opportunity to practice his trigger pulls, and prepare himself for the moment that would surely come.
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Day after day went by, miles and miles of hiking, glassing, and chasing. But we still never got to put our eyes on a buck through a rifle scope. I had on several occasions had the opportunity to shoot a buck, but I had promised myself that I would do so only after my son had his chance. It was really starting to weigh heavy on my conscience, it had never seemed so hard to get on a buck, even the little ones seemed to be out of our reach.
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Though the hunting wasn’t going as well as I had hoped, we certainly enjoyed good company. Like always, we hunt together as family, and for good reason. After five days of fruitless efforts, I was beginning to loose my cool. As the weather finally turned sour, my hopes for success were peaking. But when even that didn’t provide us a good opportunity, I was quite frustrated. Luckily my Father was there to help me see the big picture, as well as the little guy who was watching me.
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Just when I had lost hope, and the dreaded sun came out, threatening to send all the deer to bed, things changed. My good friend signaled me from the opposite side of the ridge we had straddled, and I wasted no time getting to him. He quickly pointed out a deer he had spotted across the canyon, and for the first time in a few days, the fire inside me was lit. I hustled back to where my son was waiting, we scrambled our gear together, and made our way back to a good shooting position across the canyon from the young buck.
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His antlers shining in the mid-morning sun, picking his way down the steep mountain, the deer had no idea what was being planned for him. I helped Jr. get into a good shooting position, and pointed the deer out to him. One of the reasons I opted for the Minox 1-6 optic, was because of the often difficult task of getting inexperienced shooters on target. Less magnification helps easily spot distant targets by not taking away the big picture. Jr. had on many occasions used the 6X to engage targets at 500 yds, and I had used it on targets to 800yds. Contrary to popular belief, huge magnification is not as big a deal as some people would make it. After a few moments, Jr. picked out the distant buck. He steadied his little rifle, and I had him dry fire a couple more times, just to make sure it felt right. When I was convinced he was ready, a round was chambered, the bolt closed up tight. I watched as close as I could, barely breathing, listening, waiting. The deer turned broadside, giving us a perfect shot. My mind raced over all the steps we had worked on, steady the rifle, breathe out, squeeze. I could only wait now to see if it all stuck.
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As I heard his breathing pause, the rifle pulsed into his shoulder, and the subdued report of the rifle hissed across the dry grass before us. I watched in suspense as the trace peaked across the 490 yards that separated us from our prey. The bullet struck the deer, right behind his left shoulder, perfect elevation. I watched the rippling waves of energy as they were soaked up by his body. His rear legs collapsed, and he fell immediately to the ground, and slowly slid down the steep slope. As he slid, I saw blood pour from the exit wound, flowing down his side. He slid some 20 yards into a large brush pile, where we lost sight of him. The satisfaction of a perfect shot, that was so so long in the waiting, a shot that I alone had been anticipating since the day he made me a Father. As I hugged my boy, I was reminded what made this year so special. It wasn’t filling three tags that made it special. It was standing next to my Dad, holding my son, having just made a perfect shot, on his very first deer. After some high fives, and a congratulatory hug from Dad and Grandpa, we decided to empty our backpacks, and head down after him. I could see a different attitude now, Jr. had been along on who knows how many recoveries. But this one was his. He had been dying to try his brand new virgin skinning knife that his uncle gave him for his birthday last year, and finally the moment had arrived. As we hiked into the brush filled draw, I happened on the blood trail where the deer had slid down. I stopped there to see what my Son would do. He quickly followed the trail down hill to the buck, I had already spotted it, but I followed behind to let him find it on his own, and feel that rush and sense of accomplishment.
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He was very excited, but I took a moment to remind him, the importance of respect and reverence for such a beautiful animal. We took pictures, and admired him for a time. Then quartered him up, and put him into our backpacks. I was certain that there would be significant whining as we hiked the half mile back to the four wheeler. But to my surprise, he quietly followed me, he rested when I rested. When he did mention how hard it was, and how his legs hurt, I told him the truth; A week from now, you might remember how hard it was, and how much it hurts. But by next year, you’ll have forgotten, and want to do it all over again. And the memories, of all the fun we’ve had, are ours to keep forever. So I sit here, listening to the thunder, and the winds blowing outside my door, as the storm I needed finally arrives. My melancholy has turned to a feeling of satisfaction, sharing one of life’s exciting moments with two of the most important guys in my life. What more could I ask for?
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKV8aA8l2D8
2. I finally put eyes on the small herd of elk that winters in the canyon above my home, every year like clockwork, they show up just when the weather gets bitter. I usually pick their tracks out in the deepening snow, as they make their way, and this year was no different. In years past, its always the cow elk that are harder to find, and show up last. But this year we were lucky, five cows were all I could see for now. Two adult cows, and three calves. I couldn't wait to get up there, and by up there I mean about 3500 vertical feet. They seem so easily in my grasp through the spotting scope, even though they are about three miles away. As Jr. counted them through the scope, I told him of my plans to get up there and get them. He looked at me with a bit of a smug little smile, I think he thought I was a little crazy considering where they were, and what it would take to get there. But I'd been watching them for days, and I knew where they were headed. The same spot where I had engaged them plenty of times before.
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The two of us headed up into the mountain in the morning, not too early, as we had to make arrangements for little Mrs. CBM. It wasn't as cold as normal, which was nice. But we made our way up the snowy trail, and to the spot where I had previously planned on encountering the herd. It took almost no time at all, the habitual migration of this herd betrayed their safety, as did my pursuit of adventure. We found them high above us, on a steep and rocky canyon-side. At 1400yds, their brown color was easily identified against the deep and pure white snow. We hastily began closing the distance, quickly turning 1400yds into 800.
It was at this time that I had to make a choice, weighing out many variables. I knew we could maneuver for a shot, and I didn't want my son to shoot any further than he was comfortable with. But the terrain and complexity of extraction had me seriously debating whether or not we should drop them.
With time on our side, I figured there was little harm in getting closer, and re-evaluating the situation from there. So Jr. and I trudged up hill, through the snow and rocks. We had closed the distance to where a shot could be made, and there I continued my evaluation. With little time available to hunt up here with my son, I wanted to take advantage of it today. I could always return on my own to fill my own tag. And if Jr. did shoot one today, it would most certainly take the rest of the day just to get to her, and clean her. Then make our way out with what we could carry, a task which seemed quite taxing after the short hike we had already made.
The elk appeared again, and I decided that it was worth a shot. So I had Jr. get on the gun, and prepare himself. The terrain was thick, and steep, so finding the cow we were after took a little work. When she finally emerged from the brush, Jr. was watching through his rifle.
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We waited as she moved around, digging through the snow for something to nibble on. I watched anxiously, fighting the urge to rush my son. My hands shook from the cold, and I watched my son's little hands shake as well, not so much from the cold as much as from the excitement. He seemed to be gripped with the fever that consumes us all. I waited, and waited for him to shoot. But I was surprised as he kept telling me, it's not a good shot Dad. Whether it was angle, movement, or another obstacle, I was glad he was smart enough to not make a poor shot. This is NOT the kind of country you want to chase a wounded elk through. He wasn't steady enough for the only good broadside shot he got, and as the elk made their way back into some thicker brush. I began to feel it was the right thing to do, to wait. We decided that we would stay after them, and follow their movement, and shoot them another day, when things were more in our favor. We made our way back to the fourwheeler, and spent the rest of the day searching for more elk, and sledding in the fresh snow. You have to make it fun, sometimes the intensity of a hunt needs to be tempered with the laughter of a child's play. I dont ever want hunting to not be a good experience for him, and the smiles from his little face are what keeps me focused.
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3. I love to hunt elk, the excitement and challenge they bring to a hunt is difficult to describe. Every year I do my best to get my hands on a tag, and this year I lucked out, as both myself and my son drew a late season cow tag. With the late season tag, comes a longer season, and we hunt them through the first half of the winter. Some of you may already be familiar with our pursuit, Junior and I have spent as much time as possible in the rocky mountains that rise just a few miles east of our home.
Last week Junior had a close call, and almost shot a cow, but he wasn’t comfortable with the shot, so we let them go. I am quite familiar with the habits of this herd, so I would rather wait for a perfect shot, than rush a bad one. We will get back up there, and get him a good shot.
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As the sun came over the frosted white mountains this morning, I prepped my gear to go up, once again hoping to fill my tag. Everybody else had plans for the day, but I found myself with no excuse to not go elk hunting. In no time at all, my boots were crunching through the hard crusted snow. I had ridden my ATV up into the mountain, the rumble of the motor breaking the bitter silence that seems to be held down by the cold air. I moved slowly, and deliberately, I knew where to expect them. But just to be safe, I inspected the ridges thoroughly before getting too close. The lower herd that I had seen last week was no where to be found, likely hiding in the thick brush patches that were peppered across the front. I kept moving slowly upward, my eyes pouring over the black and white details of every draw.
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My cautious advance paid off quickly, as I approached the canyon where I expected to find the second herd, I dismounted my ATV, and rounded the corner on foot. My eyes watered as I squinted to see through my Swarovsky range finder, the cold breeze bit both my face and fingers. As I scrutinized the canyon where I expected to find my elk, my eyes would jump quickly about, drawn to shapes of so many deer that were scattered around. I looked further and further up the draws of the canyon, and suddenly my heart stopped. Sometimes elk are very hard to find, and one sees so many deer in the process that you begin to second guess your own eyes. Everything looks like an elk, and you soon tire of jumping to label something as an elk. But when you finally do spot one, all that second guessing, and frustration is hastily turned into adrenaline. My eyes had spotted a lone cow elk, kicking into the snow with her front hooves to expose the dry grass underneath. Instinct took over, and my frozen hands suddenly found new motivation to move. I removed my rifle from its case, and quickly grabbed the rest of the gear I needed from my backpack. I looked back at the distant clearing where she fed. And as I suspected, there were at least three more feeding up behind her. This was the herd I had been watching for weeks, waiting for them to migrate into a position that I could not only shoot at them, but also extract them afterwards. I knew that today was that day, the clearing they were feeding through lay a mere four-hundred yards from the trail where I could get my ATV. It seemed like a perfect plan, there was only one small problem, the elk were making their way from my right to my left, and the ridge that rose between us would soon give them cover, and wreck my opportunity for a shot. I knew I had to move quickly, I had to get into a shooting position, and get ready to shoot. With likely no more than twenty to thirty seconds before they became obscured, I laid down in the snow behind my rifle.
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My SRS A1 Covert was kitted out with everything I needed to pull this shot off. After obtaining the distance with my rangefinder, I referenced my drop table on Trasol. I dialed the 5.2 MIL that it suggested into my ER25 scope. My rifle was mounted into my tripod, and I quickly deployed the monopod to stabilize the whole setup, and align it with my target. Inside the rifle itself, I had mounted my 7SAUM barrel, which had proven itself time and again when engaging elk. The cold air would test both myself, as well as my collection of gear. As I finished my shot prep, I rested the reticle on the shoulders of the first cow I had spotted. The other three were slowly walking to my left, but she stood there with her head to the ground, poking at the snow.
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I felt the warm and moist air as my last breath escaped me, my body lay still in the snow. I could feel the surge of my blood as it pulsed through my body, the steady pause before breaking the trigger was complete. I pressed the trigger, and set ablaze the 183 grain Sierra Match King. As it flew I caught a few glimpses of its trace, arching high above everything between me and my prey, who stood there unaware of the speedy menace that was closing fast. The impact was not particularly dazzling, it struck her with a rippling effect across the body. She immediately staggered, and took an awkward step forward. Her company quickly cantered away, while she staggered forward, trying to keep with them. She made it about fifteen yards, then landed her belly into the snow. She rolled over, and slid down the steep hill. Leaving a blood stained path behind her.
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I drew a deep breath, and jumped up from my rifle. The elk had slid behind the ridge between us, and I lost sight of her. I quickly gathered my things, and rode up the trail towards the canyon where she fell. It took me a few minutes to get there, the bullet traveled the complete 970 yards in less than 1.2 seconds. It took me several minutes just to get to the bottom of the hill where she lay. As I got there, the remainder of the herd was seen on the opposite canyon slope. They heard me pull up, and slowly walked out of sight. I hiked the remainder of the way uphill to where she had gotten hung up in some brush.
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As I always do, I spent a reverent moment knelt by her side, to appreciate the beauty of life. How incredibly lucky I am to experience something so primal, and to enjoy spoils of the life of this magnificent animal. As I sat there in the snow, the warm sunlight came out, and for a time the cold was withdrawn. I was grateful for everything in that moment, the warm sun reminded me of how blessed we are. I got on my phone, and called my brothers, who were quick to come and help me. And in just a couple hours, we had her back down to the ATV’s. From start to finish it was a pretty smooth adventure, I can still taste blood in my mouth, from hiking hard and fast. From the warm comfort of my home its nice to share the story, while still fresh in my mind. The work isn’t over yet, right now she is hanging just outside, waiting to be butchered. And now I can work even harder to get Junior a shot at one of these beautiful Rocky Mountain treasures.
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4.
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As the sun sets this time of year, frigid cold air rushes in to fill the void left by the sunlight. We watched as the last few glimmers of the sun disappeared over the cloudy horizon, the cold grip of winter seemed to tighten around us in the eerie silence. My son, my cousin and I, sat in the snow regaining our composure as natures evening show came to a close. It had been a busy day, and we finally had a moment to pause. For the past few months, we had been following the habits of a small herd of elk that live in the steep and rocky mountains that surround this valley. You likely read about our previous encounters with them, only last week I took one of the herd myself after we got into them. My son still had a tag, and he hadn’t burned out yet, so we had returned to fill it.
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This time of year, getting up the mountain early doesn’t seem to have the benefits it does during the normal season. The cold temperatures, and the lack of hunting pressure have animals out and about during the daytime. Deer, elk, coyotes, etc. can all be seen and heard during the day, and its a great time to just be out there. Once we got above the cold fog in the valley, there was a beautiful sunny day waiting for us. As Junior and I made our way up into the canyons, I scoured the draws and hill’s where I expected to see our herd. Moving slowly, we would stop every so often to glass the brush covered ridges. It is amazing how little it takes to conceal a whole elk. I hadn’t even planned on shooting anything today. I figured we would go for a nice ride up in the sunshine, and if we were lucky, maybe spot the herd on some distant, miserable, and untouchable ridge line.
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It is of course Murphy’s law, that as soon as you least expect something, or ill prepared for it, that something will happen. This was the case, as Junior and I rounded a turn, and my eyes focused on familiar brown and tan shapes that stood above us on a slope. Four of them, kicking away the snow to find the grass underneath. Not wanting to spook them, we quickly and quietly grabbed our gear, and made our way to a clearing. Once we had gotten a good position, I helped Junior get his rifle setup over a pack. It was a fairly steep angle, so we had to build a little taller position to get him comfortable. In just a few moments, we were fixed on our target.
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There were four elk visible, all cows and calves. This herd had once numbered six, besides the one I had already taken, the missing one must have been just out of view. There was a single elk off to one side of the herd alone, and her broadside position made her the ideal target. While Junior prepared himself, I hit the elk with my rangefinder. The distance to our target was 540 yards, not a short distance. But I knew he could pull it off, as he had done before. We had practiced as much as time would allow. A shot like that requires a good rifle, and my son carried it in his hot little hands. A custom Remington I had put together for him the year preceding. It was a sixteen inch .260 Remington, today it wore a Delta P Designs Brevis II 6.5, and a Minox 1-6X30 scope. Junior had shot this rifle with great success, and it fit his stature. Well enough to shoot his very first Mule deer buck a few months ago at a similar distance.
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So now we sat there, ready to shoot, all that was left was the trigger pull.
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My son has been hunting with me since he was two or three years old. Even though he has been there, and seen it done so many times, he still gets that pounding heart and feverish excitement when its time to shoot. He was nervous for a moment, but after we locked eyes, and had a little Father & Son pep talk, he calmed down. He resigned himself to it, and I watched through my 8X rangefinder, waiting patiently. Maybe it was that he needed to just get one shot off to feel at home, or maybe it was the shot itself that focused his little mind. But whatever the reason, that first shot pealed across the slope without hitting the elk. And as if a switch had been flipped, Junior’s demeanor changed, and he was now “in the zone”. After a reload, he re-engaged the elk, and put a bullet into her. She walked a few steps forward, and laid down in the snow. We put another one into her moments later, to make sure she was dead.
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The steep hike up the hill to the elk took a little time, but it was very gratifying once we got there. Habitual observances took over at that point. We took some time to take plenty of pictures, and clean her up. The beauty of the snow covered landscape lit by the unfiltered rays of sunshine made the experience even more pleasant. Just a short time earlier, we were covered with coats, hats, gloves and the typical winter gear. The cold fog below had left our beards frosted, and yet in this moment of pristine success, we stood in the sunshine wearing only T-shirts under blue skies.
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With the help of a couple good friends who came to help, we tied her up, and drug her down the hill. It took quite an effort, but it was well worth it once we had her back to the truck, and ready to bring home.
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As night drew near, the ice cold fog that had hidden the valley from us, worked its way back up the mountain and threatened to envelope us once again. As it does every year, the bitter sweetness of the end of the season came over me. Knowing that we are done hunting for the season brings a somber feeling. The blood dried on the backs of our hands, as well as the freezer full of meat, fills me with satisfaction, and gratitude. These two contradicting sentiments are what give spice and excitement, they are part of the experience that comes with participation in this primal circle of life. The only thing better than experiencing such exhilarating highs and lows, is doing it with the ones we love the most. I am a very lucky person, being able to share this with my son, and family. We are already looking forward to next year.
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5. It's not often, at least for normal folk, to get a shot at hunting the biggest of Utah's Rocky Mountain Elk. Every now and then, you, or somebody you know gets a shot at it, and when you do, its the beginning of many amazing stories that will stick with you for life. This is one of those.
One of my favorite parts about hunting, is the good company of family and friends. Elk hunting for those who haven't done it, has a way of refining friendships. Like cream floating to the top, or the one M&M in a handful of trailmix. You see, you cant just go elk hunting with anyone. Much like an emergency call from the roadside on a dark winter's night, you only call on those who you know, will answer.
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I am lucky to have the best group of friends, some of whom are blood, and others that should be. And every year, when even the sun seems lethargic in its ascent, and the air turns cold coming down the mountain, with a smell of the forest, our minds and eyes are turned upward. The colorful beauty that comes every fall, brings dreams and hopes to every hunter who's heart still beats.
This year was special, my brother in law had drawn one of the coveted limited entry bull tags, and the thought of ivory and bone was on all of our minds. It was his hunt, but I felt like it was as much my responsibility to make sure that we got a good bull. We spent as much time as our schedules would allow, searching the best places inside the unit. But on opening day, we found ourselves hunting the same few canyons that have brought us the most elk over the years. Familiarity is sometimes good with hunting, we know the land, the animals, and where they go when they get bothered.
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It was in this familiar place that I've seen some very good bulls running around, so I was fairly confident that one would wander across our path. But it wasn't until seven days later, that just such a bull would answer the call, literally.
We saw several bulls that first weekend, but only one I would deem a shooter. And unfortunately, I got a prime seat to stand and watch him, completely unawares. But the man with the rifle, was in an inopportune place, that kept him from making a shot. Days went by, though I had but little invested in this adventure, I could feel the days passing like bricks being stacked on your shoulders. The weather changes seemed like a good thing, but they failed to bring any bulls out of their deep hiding.
It wasn't until the second to last day of the hunt that luck would trot our way, scraping his antlers through the quickly thinning aspens. The morning had brought a few inches of snow, usually I like that, because its easier to spot animals. But this storm seemed to keep the elk holed up tight in their hideouts. Afternoon came soon enough, and with it came the sun, liberating the whole mountain of the white blanket. In short time, the snow was soaked up into the hills, and it turned into quite a beautiful afternoon. Feeling that our luck had to be peaked, I knew that we had to close the deal that evening. A sense of anxiety that most of you probably understand, had my eyes running in overdrive, looking hard, trying to find not just an elk, but one we could take home.
As the afternoon breeze faded into evening, silence took hold of everything. I drew my grunt tube, and did my best to make vulgar and threatening sounds, sure to drive an excited bull into a pigeon chested rage. The silence brought back calls from several bulls, the closest of whom sounded to be just around the nose of the next ridge. After a few minutes, I continued my vocal assault, and he responded in turn, this time a little closer.
By this time, the sun was hidden from us, behind the pink clouds that hung low in the western sky. Light was quickly escaping us, we looked hard into the grove of trees where we suspected the bull was headed. Again and again I called to him, and each time he would answer, always closer. Our hearts were racing, knowing that any moment, any second, we might see the bull who would magnify our hunting stories forever.
I scoured the hillside through my Swarovski, searching for him. And as though he was waiting for an invitation, he finally stepped into view. I caught a glimpse of him walking towards us in the aspens, screaming what would be his last call. I judged the antlers as best I could in that short window, and announced to all that a shooter had joined the party.
It was now time to put a skill set to use, that had lain dormant for ten days. Luckily, we spend a good amount of time behind a rifle. And today that rifle was mine, a Desert Tech SRS A1 Covert. Days earlier, before I had left home, I installed one of my favorite barrels of all time, a twenty four inch 7MM Short Action Ultra Magnum that I commissioned from the good people at Short Action Customs several years earlier. My fondness for this barrel was born of an absurdly accurate pattern, and the ability to shoot heavy bullets in top fuel bracket speeds. My handloads consisted of the finest bullet available for the SAUM, a 183 Sierra Match King, pushed down the bore by 62ish grains of H4831SC at a scorching 3100fps. It literally was like a sharp rocket full of badgers and razor blades sitting on a box of dynamite, you DONT want to be in front of this damn thing.
Some 550 yards across the canyon, our bull stood quietly in the trees, knowing nothing of badgers and dynamite, nor did he know of very little elevation this laser beam of lead needed to reach out to him (1.9). As our bull stepped clear of the aspens that had afforded him security, the safety came off the rifle, and I watched intently as he slowly stopped. The suppressed sound of that SAUM going off startled no one, it was perfect timing. I watched the bull jump, and turn back into the trees, the quickly diminishing light made it hard to tell what had happened. But I knew one thing for sure, and it was like a warm blanket in cold wet tent, did I mention we slept in a cold wet tent? I knew that the SAUM was a golden hotrod, and I knew that though the bull appeared at last sight, to be moving under full steam, he was foreordained by the good folks at Sierra to become my dinner.
I lost him in the trees, but I quickly gave another yelp on the tube, in hopes to grab his attention, be it one last time. The mountain was silent, not even the breeze could be heard. No response came from our bull, and my warm blanket just got warmer.
Ive done some scary things in the past, but walking through bear and cougar infested woods, in the dark is probably in the top ten. I had to make sure, I had to put hands on him, and I had to do it then. I couldn't wait til morning to scramble the rest of the crew, who still had a three hour drive to make just to get to the bottom of the hill. My brother in law had proven himself unworthy of crepuscular navigation, and there was no way I was taking my children with me down there. So it was my fate, to search out this bull, in the dark and quiet forest. I made extremely good time first descending and then climbing the opposite side of the canyon, my fear of bears and cougars fueled my hasty step. And with a flashlight and a .44Magnum in each hand, I searched with the guidance of my brother from across the way. In surprisingly short time, I had found our guy. He lay on his side, against a dead aspen, his antlers buried deep in the black soft earth. As usual, the size of these animals astonished me. I walked around him, taking it all in. Blood still flowed from the exit wound on his starboard side, foaming from his final breath escaping his lungs. The 183 had punched through both lungs, almost perfectly centered, leaving a 1.5-2 inch exit wound. I knelt beside this incredible animal, and cherished his beauty, grateful and reverent for his life, and what it would yield.
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Phone calls were made, both to scramble our ready five team, as well as to keep my sanity as I made my way through the dark fallen timber on my way back to the truck. The following morning, we made our way back to the spot, and began the heavy labor of extricating such a huge animal. Packs were filled with meat, whole quarters hauled out over shoulders, even the kids helped.
The beauty of a sunny fall day surrounded by my closest friends and my kids doing what we love the most, it was almost a perfect day. One can only hope for days such as this one, the camaraderie shared when shoulder deep in meat and blood, when we share down to the last water, and last granola bar, brings people together like nothing else can. The manic high's and lows brought on by such a high stakes hunt invigorate friendships and the memories last forever. We have two more weeks till the general season starts, better get to bed...
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRO1-fx3FXA
6. I’ve spent many years trying to get the most out of my kit, one of the ways I’ve tried to do it, is by sticking to basics. And by basics, I mean the stuff that dreams are made of; fast, and flat-shooting shoulder artillery that would make guys like Weatherby and Lazzeroni covetous...
But seriously, those who really know me, know that is both nonsense, and not representative of my perspective. I have a very white bread interpretation when it comes to cartridge selection, that is; use what (1) works best (2) the longest life (3) for the cheapest amount possible. The only time I venture beyond this moderate and some would say mundane recipe, is when the speed is worth the cheese. This years Wyoming Pronghorn hunt would bring just such excitement.
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Many of you may remember the Winchester Model 70 that I had rebuilt for my father some years ago, chambered in a cartridge some say was born before its time, the 264Winchester Magnum. While the 264 breaks away from my conservative tendencies, my father had always wanted it, and it was chambered thus. Dad was the only one with a tag this year, the game and fish seem to see fit with just teasing the rest of us, and playing with our money for six months before they give it back. Dad isn’t as big a fan of eating antelope as my young and foolish dog, but I have been known to cook the stink out of even the fowlest duck, so I convinced him to put in. So between all the other things we had planned this fall, a trip with my two brothers, my Father, and I was planned. One of the benefits of hunting antelope in Wyoming is apparent to anyone who has done it, the beautiful badlands harbor so many of these animals it is at times astonishing how they can smell so bad...(ok last joke). Dad had a doe tag, so it immediately threw out having to judge horn size and length. All we had to do, was find a good doe.
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At times you can sneak up on an antelope, with surprising ease. Other times, it seems like if you open the truck door in the same county, they will bolt for ten miles, or at least to the unit boundaries. On this day, it seemed there was a healthy mix of both types. We spent the morning putting a spectacular stalk on a small herd, it worked exactly as I had planned, except for the antelope. After sneaking across a shallow canyon with a bed of Wyoming’s gray moon dirt and dry yellow grass, we crested over a small drop off. There we sat, waiting for our prey to come up the draw before us. The always present winds were blowing in our favor, concealing our scent, much like the shadow that was cast over us. As we sat there waiting, Dad lay his old Model 70 down, pointing into the draw where I had suspected our small herd was headed. Almost perfectly on time, we spotted a nice buck making his way up, and right behind him, was a doe. Unfortunately, the rest of the does had broken off, and gone elsewhere. And the doe we were looking at seemed quite small. Already somewhat disconcerted with having to shoot a doe, Dad was not going to shoot a little one. So we let her walk.
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After a couple more tries, we found a better quarry to pursue. We spotted a small herd hiding out in a little valley below a steep drop off from a stony plateau. With the wind blowing straight up the hill, it was a good spot for a sneak. All four of us made our way to the top of the plateau, and hunkered like savages as we hustled towards the point we had anticipated to give us the best shot. The wind was getting out of hand, but I couldn’t help but think that it was helping conceal us. We peeked over the edge of the drop off, and spotted ears and eyes. My heart stopped as it looked as though they were looking right at us, so I froze. The one buck in the group began pestering the ladies, chasing them around in circles, I knew then that we were safe, with him distracting them. Now on our bellies, we crawled closer and closer to the edge, gently pushing the rifle over it. Dad and I were next to each other, him on the rifle, and me running a camera. The wind kept howling, and the antelope were still playing around, making a shot somewhat difficult. They kept standing in a group, so we had to wait until one of the does had stepped out, exposing herself. After a few moments, the suspense was driving me crazy. It seemed like every time they moved, they were going to run from us, the mere hundred and fifty yards between us made them feel dangerously close to discovering us. Finally, after a minute or two, one of the does stepped out to a safe distance from the others. I knew I didn’t even have to say anything, I could almost feel Dad’s trigger press. It was in that moment, that the 264 Winchester brought out the speed, break neck speed. The howl of the wind was suddenly put to shame by the hiss of the suppressed 264, and the 140 grain match burner was there directly. The impact was spectacular, if the impact of the bullet didn’t snap her neck, her recoiling head surely did. She hit the ground as a spray of blood erupted from her throat. The other antelope fled, as her lifeless body settled on the dry and dusty ground.
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Upon close inspection, the devastating power of the 264 on the antelope was very impressive. She had bled out, leaving a bright red puddle conflicting with bleak and color free landscape. We cleaned her up, and got her on ice, and began gathering our stuff up to head home. We may have taken a few shots at some over inquisitive prairie dogs, because it’s Wyoming.
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Standardization of common cartridges surely has its place for economic minded shooters. But every now and then, a bright and contrasting prospect brings a little spice into life, and today it was head-stamped Super Speed.
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https://youtu.be/-Am6l9uCRho
7. The snow has finally come here to the Wasatch Mountains, the last few storms have left our mountains and valleys white. For those of us that love to hunt, this is a special time of year. Several members of my family had drawn some late season cow elk tags, and the lure of an adventure and putting hands on elk was upon us. The nature of these late season hunts is very dependent on the weather, and the animals reaction to it. We run the odds of timing it just right, when there is enough snow to push the animals into a location where we can get them, but before there is too much snow to be able to get in there ourselves. The last few years have been pretty poor snowfall, so we run right down to the wire as far as season limits. This past weekend was the last few days for my cousin, his tag expired yesterday. Luckily we finally got into them, as they made their way towards wintering grounds.
The start of our hunt Saturday morning was a bitter one, the thermometer was showing six below zero as the pale early morning light made its way over the windswept mountain tops. It was hard to tell yet if it was clouds accumulating at the peaks, or if it was just dusty dry snow being blown into the sky. We found our way to the end of civilization, or at least to where the roads were impassable. It was there that we left the warmth of the truck, and traded it for the speed and mobility of the snowmobiles. We made our way up the snow covered trail, stopping every now and then to do some glassing, and knock the ice from our face masks. On one of those stops, we lucked out, and stopped just over a rise. As we sat there looking around the valleys and canyons that surrounded us, talking quietly about the next planned move, my eyes caught a glimpse of brown. I quickly brought up my Swarovski rangefinder for a closer look, and to get a solid range. It came back 408yds. Had we gone even fifty or so yards further, we'd probably of spooked them. But there they were, a spike and a few cows, some standing, some sitting. My cousin steadied my SRS over his backpack, and located the best looking target. A young cow, laying in the snow. With the sharp crack of the shot muffled by the cold dense air, and surrounding snow, the shot went over without much attention. Except for the one elk who felt it, the bullet found its mark perfectly, hitting the snowline just in front of the bedded animals shoulder. It pulverized her lungs, and she rolled her head back, and expired.
We made the quick little ride up the trail towards her, as the remaining elk slowly scattered. It was a quick and easy drag downhill to get her to the trail, where we gutted her, and put her into the sled. The below zero temperatures froze the blood so quickly that it turned pink as soon as it dripped. All said and done, we were back having steak and eggs by 11:00AM, some days are good like that. Anyone who hunts elk with any frequency knows, there are good days, and then there are "other" days.
Having had an easy hunt on Saturday, with time to get home, and quarter up the elk, I was quite rested come Sunday morning. I woke up lazily, and after making breakfast for my kids I decided I'd go into town to get a little shopping done. But, as I mentioned previously, timing is everything with these hunts. And I couldn't let the perfect window of time go bye, so I decided that before my shopping trip I had better stop bye my spotting position, and make sure that the elk hadn't already moved into their winter grounds. The smooth hills that lay some 3000ft above my home happens to be the chosen winter grounds for a habitual herd of elk. Every year, I can narrow them down to one ridge. So I threw my spotting scope, and tripod into my grocery getter, and drove to my spot. After spotting a good mess of deer, including some great bucks, the H32 reticle in my spotter landed right on the herd. I counted 14 of them, three or four bulls, and the rest were cows or calves. In a moments time, my shopping plans had been shot, and I was making one call after another trying to scramble the team.
Two and a half hours later, my brother in law, myself, and my cousin, wearing our still bloody snow gear from the day before, were making our way up into the blinding white canyon that held our prize. We got to the spot I had formerly planned to start our stalk. We stopped for a moment, to check for the elk. And as I'd hoped, there they were. Not fifty yards from where I had spotted them three hours and two and a half miles ago. We left the snowmobiles, and launched into an uphill battle that would claim most of my days calories. Our design was to skirt the opposing ridge line as we climbed parallel to the elk harboring flat. Point being to get a better angle, allowing for a better shot and selection. The waist deep snow made for a miserable hike, but a fantastic solid and comfortable rest. We maneuvered into a shooting position that gave us a good view through the gaps in the trees. We had closed the distance to five hundred and seventy-eight yards. And it was time to put practice into action. My brother in law setup on top of our packs, and laid motionless in the snow. As he went over his firing scenario, my cousin setup behind him to spot. And I got into position with my video camera. Once we had accounted for just about everything, he gave the ready signal, and we hunkered down behind our respective optics. He was shooting a Remington 700 custom chambered in the Rocky Mountain favorite 300Winchester. He had already dialed the appropriate 4.0mils into his SS5-20HD scope, and with everything but the trigger pull done we waited...
Being accustomed to overwhelming noise that typically barks from the brake end of that Remington, I was expecting my ears to ring. But again, the viscous atmosphere, and the fluffy snow took all the edge off of the magnum. The bullet found a delightful path through the trees, across the canyon, and I watched it impact right into the left brisket of one of the mature cows. She jumped a bit, took a few steps in our direction, and went facedown into the deep snow. She never moved again. The remainder of the herd looked on, as if confused. But after a second or two, their instinctive distrust of loud noises followed by dropping companions got them turned around. They slowly made their way opposite us, never showing much excitement. We exchanged high fives, and reenlisted to the uphill fight.
Several hours later, we stood over her. As always, I took a moment of reverence for these beautiful animals that I love and respect. We made short work of the cleaning, the hot blood felt good on my frozen hands. The bright red stain on the snow was a stark contrast in a world of white and black. The early setting winter sun threatened to leave us, shadows were already growing into the east as we finished. My frozen gloves gave no purchase on her slippery legs, but down the steep mountain slope we went. It didn't take long to get a system going, we sat in the deep snow behind her, and leg pressed. A few yards at a time, we'd slide down behind her and push again. Hours later, we arrived back to the road. Frozen, exhausted, but as alive as ever a man can feel. The cold silence that surrounded us in the endless expanse of a dark and starry sky was beautiful. But with frostbite nipping at my fingertips, the silence was quickly cut short by the roar of a two stroke motor.
We made our way back down the canyon, and to the truck. What an adventure I thought, as I peeled my frozen socks away from my thermals. We'd made it out, pushed our limits, and we won. From the safety of my warm bath, I sat and recounted the days events. Later I called my father and shared the whole experience with him, he loves hearing the stories as much as we love living them. It is in these adventures, and the memories we make therein, that defines me, and brings us together as blood brothers. Love and passion for the hunt, may they never dim.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPAmF9hCbso
1. The sun set no more than a few hours ago, the closing day of the Utah general season deer hunt. This marks the first year since I began hunting, that I have gone without killing a deer. For years I have anticipated it, not knowing when or why it would come. Every year I would tell myself; maybe this is the year I go without. But through some kind of blind luck, I have always managed to get a tag, as well as a deer to go with it. I wouldn’t have guessed that it would take so many years for it to finally happen, but the beautiful memories that took its place are even better.
2016 was a special year for me, for the first time in my life, I would be hunting with both my Father, and my Son. Surely we had been together many times, but this was the first time that all three of us would be carrying a rifle. I thought for sure we could find three bucks, and what a special hunt it would be, that three generations of my family could once again draw blood. If you read the first part of this story, you are likely to remember the handy little rifle that my son is lucky to have. A pieced together Remington 700, with a 16” .260 barrel, I had loaded it with some 120 grain match hollow points. And whenever the squeeze was good, this little rifle hammered.
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After a few adjustments, to make the rifle fit him better, we spent as much time as we could practicing. I would have liked to have him shoot it a lot more, but keeping a twelve year old’s attention for more than a few minutes proved difficult. But the calendar waits for no one, and so the practice we got, was all I had to work with. Because before I knew it, the deer hunt opener was upon us. I drove up the dark and winding canyon roads, my Brother and I discussing the plan for the day, while my Son sat quietly in the back. The day was as usual on public land general season, armies of orange covered every vantage point. But despite the state wildlife agency’s prognostication of a great season, we never got to put eyes on a deer with antlers. It did however give Jr. plenty of opportunity to practice his trigger pulls, and prepare himself for the moment that would surely come.
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Day after day went by, miles and miles of hiking, glassing, and chasing. But we still never got to put our eyes on a buck through a rifle scope. I had on several occasions had the opportunity to shoot a buck, but I had promised myself that I would do so only after my son had his chance. It was really starting to weigh heavy on my conscience, it had never seemed so hard to get on a buck, even the little ones seemed to be out of our reach.
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Though the hunting wasn’t going as well as I had hoped, we certainly enjoyed good company. Like always, we hunt together as family, and for good reason. After five days of fruitless efforts, I was beginning to loose my cool. As the weather finally turned sour, my hopes for success were peaking. But when even that didn’t provide us a good opportunity, I was quite frustrated. Luckily my Father was there to help me see the big picture, as well as the little guy who was watching me.
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Just when I had lost hope, and the dreaded sun came out, threatening to send all the deer to bed, things changed. My good friend signaled me from the opposite side of the ridge we had straddled, and I wasted no time getting to him. He quickly pointed out a deer he had spotted across the canyon, and for the first time in a few days, the fire inside me was lit. I hustled back to where my son was waiting, we scrambled our gear together, and made our way back to a good shooting position across the canyon from the young buck.
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His antlers shining in the mid-morning sun, picking his way down the steep mountain, the deer had no idea what was being planned for him. I helped Jr. get into a good shooting position, and pointed the deer out to him. One of the reasons I opted for the Minox 1-6 optic, was because of the often difficult task of getting inexperienced shooters on target. Less magnification helps easily spot distant targets by not taking away the big picture. Jr. had on many occasions used the 6X to engage targets at 500 yds, and I had used it on targets to 800yds. Contrary to popular belief, huge magnification is not as big a deal as some people would make it. After a few moments, Jr. picked out the distant buck. He steadied his little rifle, and I had him dry fire a couple more times, just to make sure it felt right. When I was convinced he was ready, a round was chambered, the bolt closed up tight. I watched as close as I could, barely breathing, listening, waiting. The deer turned broadside, giving us a perfect shot. My mind raced over all the steps we had worked on, steady the rifle, breathe out, squeeze. I could only wait now to see if it all stuck.
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As I heard his breathing pause, the rifle pulsed into his shoulder, and the subdued report of the rifle hissed across the dry grass before us. I watched in suspense as the trace peaked across the 490 yards that separated us from our prey. The bullet struck the deer, right behind his left shoulder, perfect elevation. I watched the rippling waves of energy as they were soaked up by his body. His rear legs collapsed, and he fell immediately to the ground, and slowly slid down the steep slope. As he slid, I saw blood pour from the exit wound, flowing down his side. He slid some 20 yards into a large brush pile, where we lost sight of him. The satisfaction of a perfect shot, that was so so long in the waiting, a shot that I alone had been anticipating since the day he made me a Father. As I hugged my boy, I was reminded what made this year so special. It wasn’t filling three tags that made it special. It was standing next to my Dad, holding my son, having just made a perfect shot, on his very first deer. After some high fives, and a congratulatory hug from Dad and Grandpa, we decided to empty our backpacks, and head down after him. I could see a different attitude now, Jr. had been along on who knows how many recoveries. But this one was his. He had been dying to try his brand new virgin skinning knife that his uncle gave him for his birthday last year, and finally the moment had arrived. As we hiked into the brush filled draw, I happened on the blood trail where the deer had slid down. I stopped there to see what my Son would do. He quickly followed the trail down hill to the buck, I had already spotted it, but I followed behind to let him find it on his own, and feel that rush and sense of accomplishment.
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He was very excited, but I took a moment to remind him, the importance of respect and reverence for such a beautiful animal. We took pictures, and admired him for a time. Then quartered him up, and put him into our backpacks. I was certain that there would be significant whining as we hiked the half mile back to the four wheeler. But to my surprise, he quietly followed me, he rested when I rested. When he did mention how hard it was, and how his legs hurt, I told him the truth; A week from now, you might remember how hard it was, and how much it hurts. But by next year, you’ll have forgotten, and want to do it all over again. And the memories, of all the fun we’ve had, are ours to keep forever. So I sit here, listening to the thunder, and the winds blowing outside my door, as the storm I needed finally arrives. My melancholy has turned to a feeling of satisfaction, sharing one of life’s exciting moments with two of the most important guys in my life. What more could I ask for?
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKV8aA8l2D8
2. I finally put eyes on the small herd of elk that winters in the canyon above my home, every year like clockwork, they show up just when the weather gets bitter. I usually pick their tracks out in the deepening snow, as they make their way, and this year was no different. In years past, its always the cow elk that are harder to find, and show up last. But this year we were lucky, five cows were all I could see for now. Two adult cows, and three calves. I couldn't wait to get up there, and by up there I mean about 3500 vertical feet. They seem so easily in my grasp through the spotting scope, even though they are about three miles away. As Jr. counted them through the scope, I told him of my plans to get up there and get them. He looked at me with a bit of a smug little smile, I think he thought I was a little crazy considering where they were, and what it would take to get there. But I'd been watching them for days, and I knew where they were headed. The same spot where I had engaged them plenty of times before.
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The two of us headed up into the mountain in the morning, not too early, as we had to make arrangements for little Mrs. CBM. It wasn't as cold as normal, which was nice. But we made our way up the snowy trail, and to the spot where I had previously planned on encountering the herd. It took almost no time at all, the habitual migration of this herd betrayed their safety, as did my pursuit of adventure. We found them high above us, on a steep and rocky canyon-side. At 1400yds, their brown color was easily identified against the deep and pure white snow. We hastily began closing the distance, quickly turning 1400yds into 800.
It was at this time that I had to make a choice, weighing out many variables. I knew we could maneuver for a shot, and I didn't want my son to shoot any further than he was comfortable with. But the terrain and complexity of extraction had me seriously debating whether or not we should drop them.
With time on our side, I figured there was little harm in getting closer, and re-evaluating the situation from there. So Jr. and I trudged up hill, through the snow and rocks. We had closed the distance to where a shot could be made, and there I continued my evaluation. With little time available to hunt up here with my son, I wanted to take advantage of it today. I could always return on my own to fill my own tag. And if Jr. did shoot one today, it would most certainly take the rest of the day just to get to her, and clean her. Then make our way out with what we could carry, a task which seemed quite taxing after the short hike we had already made.
The elk appeared again, and I decided that it was worth a shot. So I had Jr. get on the gun, and prepare himself. The terrain was thick, and steep, so finding the cow we were after took a little work. When she finally emerged from the brush, Jr. was watching through his rifle.
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We waited as she moved around, digging through the snow for something to nibble on. I watched anxiously, fighting the urge to rush my son. My hands shook from the cold, and I watched my son's little hands shake as well, not so much from the cold as much as from the excitement. He seemed to be gripped with the fever that consumes us all. I waited, and waited for him to shoot. But I was surprised as he kept telling me, it's not a good shot Dad. Whether it was angle, movement, or another obstacle, I was glad he was smart enough to not make a poor shot. This is NOT the kind of country you want to chase a wounded elk through. He wasn't steady enough for the only good broadside shot he got, and as the elk made their way back into some thicker brush. I began to feel it was the right thing to do, to wait. We decided that we would stay after them, and follow their movement, and shoot them another day, when things were more in our favor. We made our way back to the fourwheeler, and spent the rest of the day searching for more elk, and sledding in the fresh snow. You have to make it fun, sometimes the intensity of a hunt needs to be tempered with the laughter of a child's play. I dont ever want hunting to not be a good experience for him, and the smiles from his little face are what keeps me focused.
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3. I love to hunt elk, the excitement and challenge they bring to a hunt is difficult to describe. Every year I do my best to get my hands on a tag, and this year I lucked out, as both myself and my son drew a late season cow tag. With the late season tag, comes a longer season, and we hunt them through the first half of the winter. Some of you may already be familiar with our pursuit, Junior and I have spent as much time as possible in the rocky mountains that rise just a few miles east of our home.
Last week Junior had a close call, and almost shot a cow, but he wasn’t comfortable with the shot, so we let them go. I am quite familiar with the habits of this herd, so I would rather wait for a perfect shot, than rush a bad one. We will get back up there, and get him a good shot.
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As the sun came over the frosted white mountains this morning, I prepped my gear to go up, once again hoping to fill my tag. Everybody else had plans for the day, but I found myself with no excuse to not go elk hunting. In no time at all, my boots were crunching through the hard crusted snow. I had ridden my ATV up into the mountain, the rumble of the motor breaking the bitter silence that seems to be held down by the cold air. I moved slowly, and deliberately, I knew where to expect them. But just to be safe, I inspected the ridges thoroughly before getting too close. The lower herd that I had seen last week was no where to be found, likely hiding in the thick brush patches that were peppered across the front. I kept moving slowly upward, my eyes pouring over the black and white details of every draw.
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My cautious advance paid off quickly, as I approached the canyon where I expected to find the second herd, I dismounted my ATV, and rounded the corner on foot. My eyes watered as I squinted to see through my Swarovsky range finder, the cold breeze bit both my face and fingers. As I scrutinized the canyon where I expected to find my elk, my eyes would jump quickly about, drawn to shapes of so many deer that were scattered around. I looked further and further up the draws of the canyon, and suddenly my heart stopped. Sometimes elk are very hard to find, and one sees so many deer in the process that you begin to second guess your own eyes. Everything looks like an elk, and you soon tire of jumping to label something as an elk. But when you finally do spot one, all that second guessing, and frustration is hastily turned into adrenaline. My eyes had spotted a lone cow elk, kicking into the snow with her front hooves to expose the dry grass underneath. Instinct took over, and my frozen hands suddenly found new motivation to move. I removed my rifle from its case, and quickly grabbed the rest of the gear I needed from my backpack. I looked back at the distant clearing where she fed. And as I suspected, there were at least three more feeding up behind her. This was the herd I had been watching for weeks, waiting for them to migrate into a position that I could not only shoot at them, but also extract them afterwards. I knew that today was that day, the clearing they were feeding through lay a mere four-hundred yards from the trail where I could get my ATV. It seemed like a perfect plan, there was only one small problem, the elk were making their way from my right to my left, and the ridge that rose between us would soon give them cover, and wreck my opportunity for a shot. I knew I had to move quickly, I had to get into a shooting position, and get ready to shoot. With likely no more than twenty to thirty seconds before they became obscured, I laid down in the snow behind my rifle.
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My SRS A1 Covert was kitted out with everything I needed to pull this shot off. After obtaining the distance with my rangefinder, I referenced my drop table on Trasol. I dialed the 5.2 MIL that it suggested into my ER25 scope. My rifle was mounted into my tripod, and I quickly deployed the monopod to stabilize the whole setup, and align it with my target. Inside the rifle itself, I had mounted my 7SAUM barrel, which had proven itself time and again when engaging elk. The cold air would test both myself, as well as my collection of gear. As I finished my shot prep, I rested the reticle on the shoulders of the first cow I had spotted. The other three were slowly walking to my left, but she stood there with her head to the ground, poking at the snow.
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I felt the warm and moist air as my last breath escaped me, my body lay still in the snow. I could feel the surge of my blood as it pulsed through my body, the steady pause before breaking the trigger was complete. I pressed the trigger, and set ablaze the 183 grain Sierra Match King. As it flew I caught a few glimpses of its trace, arching high above everything between me and my prey, who stood there unaware of the speedy menace that was closing fast. The impact was not particularly dazzling, it struck her with a rippling effect across the body. She immediately staggered, and took an awkward step forward. Her company quickly cantered away, while she staggered forward, trying to keep with them. She made it about fifteen yards, then landed her belly into the snow. She rolled over, and slid down the steep hill. Leaving a blood stained path behind her.
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I drew a deep breath, and jumped up from my rifle. The elk had slid behind the ridge between us, and I lost sight of her. I quickly gathered my things, and rode up the trail towards the canyon where she fell. It took me a few minutes to get there, the bullet traveled the complete 970 yards in less than 1.2 seconds. It took me several minutes just to get to the bottom of the hill where she lay. As I got there, the remainder of the herd was seen on the opposite canyon slope. They heard me pull up, and slowly walked out of sight. I hiked the remainder of the way uphill to where she had gotten hung up in some brush.
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As I always do, I spent a reverent moment knelt by her side, to appreciate the beauty of life. How incredibly lucky I am to experience something so primal, and to enjoy spoils of the life of this magnificent animal. As I sat there in the snow, the warm sunlight came out, and for a time the cold was withdrawn. I was grateful for everything in that moment, the warm sun reminded me of how blessed we are. I got on my phone, and called my brothers, who were quick to come and help me. And in just a couple hours, we had her back down to the ATV’s. From start to finish it was a pretty smooth adventure, I can still taste blood in my mouth, from hiking hard and fast. From the warm comfort of my home its nice to share the story, while still fresh in my mind. The work isn’t over yet, right now she is hanging just outside, waiting to be butchered. And now I can work even harder to get Junior a shot at one of these beautiful Rocky Mountain treasures.
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4.
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As the sun sets this time of year, frigid cold air rushes in to fill the void left by the sunlight. We watched as the last few glimmers of the sun disappeared over the cloudy horizon, the cold grip of winter seemed to tighten around us in the eerie silence. My son, my cousin and I, sat in the snow regaining our composure as natures evening show came to a close. It had been a busy day, and we finally had a moment to pause. For the past few months, we had been following the habits of a small herd of elk that live in the steep and rocky mountains that surround this valley. You likely read about our previous encounters with them, only last week I took one of the herd myself after we got into them. My son still had a tag, and he hadn’t burned out yet, so we had returned to fill it.
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This time of year, getting up the mountain early doesn’t seem to have the benefits it does during the normal season. The cold temperatures, and the lack of hunting pressure have animals out and about during the daytime. Deer, elk, coyotes, etc. can all be seen and heard during the day, and its a great time to just be out there. Once we got above the cold fog in the valley, there was a beautiful sunny day waiting for us. As Junior and I made our way up into the canyons, I scoured the draws and hill’s where I expected to see our herd. Moving slowly, we would stop every so often to glass the brush covered ridges. It is amazing how little it takes to conceal a whole elk. I hadn’t even planned on shooting anything today. I figured we would go for a nice ride up in the sunshine, and if we were lucky, maybe spot the herd on some distant, miserable, and untouchable ridge line.
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It is of course Murphy’s law, that as soon as you least expect something, or ill prepared for it, that something will happen. This was the case, as Junior and I rounded a turn, and my eyes focused on familiar brown and tan shapes that stood above us on a slope. Four of them, kicking away the snow to find the grass underneath. Not wanting to spook them, we quickly and quietly grabbed our gear, and made our way to a clearing. Once we had gotten a good position, I helped Junior get his rifle setup over a pack. It was a fairly steep angle, so we had to build a little taller position to get him comfortable. In just a few moments, we were fixed on our target.
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There were four elk visible, all cows and calves. This herd had once numbered six, besides the one I had already taken, the missing one must have been just out of view. There was a single elk off to one side of the herd alone, and her broadside position made her the ideal target. While Junior prepared himself, I hit the elk with my rangefinder. The distance to our target was 540 yards, not a short distance. But I knew he could pull it off, as he had done before. We had practiced as much as time would allow. A shot like that requires a good rifle, and my son carried it in his hot little hands. A custom Remington I had put together for him the year preceding. It was a sixteen inch .260 Remington, today it wore a Delta P Designs Brevis II 6.5, and a Minox 1-6X30 scope. Junior had shot this rifle with great success, and it fit his stature. Well enough to shoot his very first Mule deer buck a few months ago at a similar distance.
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So now we sat there, ready to shoot, all that was left was the trigger pull.
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My son has been hunting with me since he was two or three years old. Even though he has been there, and seen it done so many times, he still gets that pounding heart and feverish excitement when its time to shoot. He was nervous for a moment, but after we locked eyes, and had a little Father & Son pep talk, he calmed down. He resigned himself to it, and I watched through my 8X rangefinder, waiting patiently. Maybe it was that he needed to just get one shot off to feel at home, or maybe it was the shot itself that focused his little mind. But whatever the reason, that first shot pealed across the slope without hitting the elk. And as if a switch had been flipped, Junior’s demeanor changed, and he was now “in the zone”. After a reload, he re-engaged the elk, and put a bullet into her. She walked a few steps forward, and laid down in the snow. We put another one into her moments later, to make sure she was dead.
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The steep hike up the hill to the elk took a little time, but it was very gratifying once we got there. Habitual observances took over at that point. We took some time to take plenty of pictures, and clean her up. The beauty of the snow covered landscape lit by the unfiltered rays of sunshine made the experience even more pleasant. Just a short time earlier, we were covered with coats, hats, gloves and the typical winter gear. The cold fog below had left our beards frosted, and yet in this moment of pristine success, we stood in the sunshine wearing only T-shirts under blue skies.
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With the help of a couple good friends who came to help, we tied her up, and drug her down the hill. It took quite an effort, but it was well worth it once we had her back to the truck, and ready to bring home.
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As night drew near, the ice cold fog that had hidden the valley from us, worked its way back up the mountain and threatened to envelope us once again. As it does every year, the bitter sweetness of the end of the season came over me. Knowing that we are done hunting for the season brings a somber feeling. The blood dried on the backs of our hands, as well as the freezer full of meat, fills me with satisfaction, and gratitude. These two contradicting sentiments are what give spice and excitement, they are part of the experience that comes with participation in this primal circle of life. The only thing better than experiencing such exhilarating highs and lows, is doing it with the ones we love the most. I am a very lucky person, being able to share this with my son, and family. We are already looking forward to next year.
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5. It's not often, at least for normal folk, to get a shot at hunting the biggest of Utah's Rocky Mountain Elk. Every now and then, you, or somebody you know gets a shot at it, and when you do, its the beginning of many amazing stories that will stick with you for life. This is one of those.
One of my favorite parts about hunting, is the good company of family and friends. Elk hunting for those who haven't done it, has a way of refining friendships. Like cream floating to the top, or the one M&M in a handful of trailmix. You see, you cant just go elk hunting with anyone. Much like an emergency call from the roadside on a dark winter's night, you only call on those who you know, will answer.
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I am lucky to have the best group of friends, some of whom are blood, and others that should be. And every year, when even the sun seems lethargic in its ascent, and the air turns cold coming down the mountain, with a smell of the forest, our minds and eyes are turned upward. The colorful beauty that comes every fall, brings dreams and hopes to every hunter who's heart still beats.
This year was special, my brother in law had drawn one of the coveted limited entry bull tags, and the thought of ivory and bone was on all of our minds. It was his hunt, but I felt like it was as much my responsibility to make sure that we got a good bull. We spent as much time as our schedules would allow, searching the best places inside the unit. But on opening day, we found ourselves hunting the same few canyons that have brought us the most elk over the years. Familiarity is sometimes good with hunting, we know the land, the animals, and where they go when they get bothered.
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It was in this familiar place that I've seen some very good bulls running around, so I was fairly confident that one would wander across our path. But it wasn't until seven days later, that just such a bull would answer the call, literally.
We saw several bulls that first weekend, but only one I would deem a shooter. And unfortunately, I got a prime seat to stand and watch him, completely unawares. But the man with the rifle, was in an inopportune place, that kept him from making a shot. Days went by, though I had but little invested in this adventure, I could feel the days passing like bricks being stacked on your shoulders. The weather changes seemed like a good thing, but they failed to bring any bulls out of their deep hiding.
It wasn't until the second to last day of the hunt that luck would trot our way, scraping his antlers through the quickly thinning aspens. The morning had brought a few inches of snow, usually I like that, because its easier to spot animals. But this storm seemed to keep the elk holed up tight in their hideouts. Afternoon came soon enough, and with it came the sun, liberating the whole mountain of the white blanket. In short time, the snow was soaked up into the hills, and it turned into quite a beautiful afternoon. Feeling that our luck had to be peaked, I knew that we had to close the deal that evening. A sense of anxiety that most of you probably understand, had my eyes running in overdrive, looking hard, trying to find not just an elk, but one we could take home.
As the afternoon breeze faded into evening, silence took hold of everything. I drew my grunt tube, and did my best to make vulgar and threatening sounds, sure to drive an excited bull into a pigeon chested rage. The silence brought back calls from several bulls, the closest of whom sounded to be just around the nose of the next ridge. After a few minutes, I continued my vocal assault, and he responded in turn, this time a little closer.
By this time, the sun was hidden from us, behind the pink clouds that hung low in the western sky. Light was quickly escaping us, we looked hard into the grove of trees where we suspected the bull was headed. Again and again I called to him, and each time he would answer, always closer. Our hearts were racing, knowing that any moment, any second, we might see the bull who would magnify our hunting stories forever.
I scoured the hillside through my Swarovski, searching for him. And as though he was waiting for an invitation, he finally stepped into view. I caught a glimpse of him walking towards us in the aspens, screaming what would be his last call. I judged the antlers as best I could in that short window, and announced to all that a shooter had joined the party.
It was now time to put a skill set to use, that had lain dormant for ten days. Luckily, we spend a good amount of time behind a rifle. And today that rifle was mine, a Desert Tech SRS A1 Covert. Days earlier, before I had left home, I installed one of my favorite barrels of all time, a twenty four inch 7MM Short Action Ultra Magnum that I commissioned from the good people at Short Action Customs several years earlier. My fondness for this barrel was born of an absurdly accurate pattern, and the ability to shoot heavy bullets in top fuel bracket speeds. My handloads consisted of the finest bullet available for the SAUM, a 183 Sierra Match King, pushed down the bore by 62ish grains of H4831SC at a scorching 3100fps. It literally was like a sharp rocket full of badgers and razor blades sitting on a box of dynamite, you DONT want to be in front of this damn thing.
Some 550 yards across the canyon, our bull stood quietly in the trees, knowing nothing of badgers and dynamite, nor did he know of very little elevation this laser beam of lead needed to reach out to him (1.9). As our bull stepped clear of the aspens that had afforded him security, the safety came off the rifle, and I watched intently as he slowly stopped. The suppressed sound of that SAUM going off startled no one, it was perfect timing. I watched the bull jump, and turn back into the trees, the quickly diminishing light made it hard to tell what had happened. But I knew one thing for sure, and it was like a warm blanket in cold wet tent, did I mention we slept in a cold wet tent? I knew that the SAUM was a golden hotrod, and I knew that though the bull appeared at last sight, to be moving under full steam, he was foreordained by the good folks at Sierra to become my dinner.
I lost him in the trees, but I quickly gave another yelp on the tube, in hopes to grab his attention, be it one last time. The mountain was silent, not even the breeze could be heard. No response came from our bull, and my warm blanket just got warmer.
Ive done some scary things in the past, but walking through bear and cougar infested woods, in the dark is probably in the top ten. I had to make sure, I had to put hands on him, and I had to do it then. I couldn't wait til morning to scramble the rest of the crew, who still had a three hour drive to make just to get to the bottom of the hill. My brother in law had proven himself unworthy of crepuscular navigation, and there was no way I was taking my children with me down there. So it was my fate, to search out this bull, in the dark and quiet forest. I made extremely good time first descending and then climbing the opposite side of the canyon, my fear of bears and cougars fueled my hasty step. And with a flashlight and a .44Magnum in each hand, I searched with the guidance of my brother from across the way. In surprisingly short time, I had found our guy. He lay on his side, against a dead aspen, his antlers buried deep in the black soft earth. As usual, the size of these animals astonished me. I walked around him, taking it all in. Blood still flowed from the exit wound on his starboard side, foaming from his final breath escaping his lungs. The 183 had punched through both lungs, almost perfectly centered, leaving a 1.5-2 inch exit wound. I knelt beside this incredible animal, and cherished his beauty, grateful and reverent for his life, and what it would yield.
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Phone calls were made, both to scramble our ready five team, as well as to keep my sanity as I made my way through the dark fallen timber on my way back to the truck. The following morning, we made our way back to the spot, and began the heavy labor of extricating such a huge animal. Packs were filled with meat, whole quarters hauled out over shoulders, even the kids helped.
The beauty of a sunny fall day surrounded by my closest friends and my kids doing what we love the most, it was almost a perfect day. One can only hope for days such as this one, the camaraderie shared when shoulder deep in meat and blood, when we share down to the last water, and last granola bar, brings people together like nothing else can. The manic high's and lows brought on by such a high stakes hunt invigorate friendships and the memories last forever. We have two more weeks till the general season starts, better get to bed...
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRO1-fx3FXA
6. I’ve spent many years trying to get the most out of my kit, one of the ways I’ve tried to do it, is by sticking to basics. And by basics, I mean the stuff that dreams are made of; fast, and flat-shooting shoulder artillery that would make guys like Weatherby and Lazzeroni covetous...
But seriously, those who really know me, know that is both nonsense, and not representative of my perspective. I have a very white bread interpretation when it comes to cartridge selection, that is; use what (1) works best (2) the longest life (3) for the cheapest amount possible. The only time I venture beyond this moderate and some would say mundane recipe, is when the speed is worth the cheese. This years Wyoming Pronghorn hunt would bring just such excitement.
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Many of you may remember the Winchester Model 70 that I had rebuilt for my father some years ago, chambered in a cartridge some say was born before its time, the 264Winchester Magnum. While the 264 breaks away from my conservative tendencies, my father had always wanted it, and it was chambered thus. Dad was the only one with a tag this year, the game and fish seem to see fit with just teasing the rest of us, and playing with our money for six months before they give it back. Dad isn’t as big a fan of eating antelope as my young and foolish dog, but I have been known to cook the stink out of even the fowlest duck, so I convinced him to put in. So between all the other things we had planned this fall, a trip with my two brothers, my Father, and I was planned. One of the benefits of hunting antelope in Wyoming is apparent to anyone who has done it, the beautiful badlands harbor so many of these animals it is at times astonishing how they can smell so bad...(ok last joke). Dad had a doe tag, so it immediately threw out having to judge horn size and length. All we had to do, was find a good doe.
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At times you can sneak up on an antelope, with surprising ease. Other times, it seems like if you open the truck door in the same county, they will bolt for ten miles, or at least to the unit boundaries. On this day, it seemed there was a healthy mix of both types. We spent the morning putting a spectacular stalk on a small herd, it worked exactly as I had planned, except for the antelope. After sneaking across a shallow canyon with a bed of Wyoming’s gray moon dirt and dry yellow grass, we crested over a small drop off. There we sat, waiting for our prey to come up the draw before us. The always present winds were blowing in our favor, concealing our scent, much like the shadow that was cast over us. As we sat there waiting, Dad lay his old Model 70 down, pointing into the draw where I had suspected our small herd was headed. Almost perfectly on time, we spotted a nice buck making his way up, and right behind him, was a doe. Unfortunately, the rest of the does had broken off, and gone elsewhere. And the doe we were looking at seemed quite small. Already somewhat disconcerted with having to shoot a doe, Dad was not going to shoot a little one. So we let her walk.
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After a couple more tries, we found a better quarry to pursue. We spotted a small herd hiding out in a little valley below a steep drop off from a stony plateau. With the wind blowing straight up the hill, it was a good spot for a sneak. All four of us made our way to the top of the plateau, and hunkered like savages as we hustled towards the point we had anticipated to give us the best shot. The wind was getting out of hand, but I couldn’t help but think that it was helping conceal us. We peeked over the edge of the drop off, and spotted ears and eyes. My heart stopped as it looked as though they were looking right at us, so I froze. The one buck in the group began pestering the ladies, chasing them around in circles, I knew then that we were safe, with him distracting them. Now on our bellies, we crawled closer and closer to the edge, gently pushing the rifle over it. Dad and I were next to each other, him on the rifle, and me running a camera. The wind kept howling, and the antelope were still playing around, making a shot somewhat difficult. They kept standing in a group, so we had to wait until one of the does had stepped out, exposing herself. After a few moments, the suspense was driving me crazy. It seemed like every time they moved, they were going to run from us, the mere hundred and fifty yards between us made them feel dangerously close to discovering us. Finally, after a minute or two, one of the does stepped out to a safe distance from the others. I knew I didn’t even have to say anything, I could almost feel Dad’s trigger press. It was in that moment, that the 264 Winchester brought out the speed, break neck speed. The howl of the wind was suddenly put to shame by the hiss of the suppressed 264, and the 140 grain match burner was there directly. The impact was spectacular, if the impact of the bullet didn’t snap her neck, her recoiling head surely did. She hit the ground as a spray of blood erupted from her throat. The other antelope fled, as her lifeless body settled on the dry and dusty ground.
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Upon close inspection, the devastating power of the 264 on the antelope was very impressive. She had bled out, leaving a bright red puddle conflicting with bleak and color free landscape. We cleaned her up, and got her on ice, and began gathering our stuff up to head home. We may have taken a few shots at some over inquisitive prairie dogs, because it’s Wyoming.
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Standardization of common cartridges surely has its place for economic minded shooters. But every now and then, a bright and contrasting prospect brings a little spice into life, and today it was head-stamped Super Speed.
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https://youtu.be/-Am6l9uCRho
7. The snow has finally come here to the Wasatch Mountains, the last few storms have left our mountains and valleys white. For those of us that love to hunt, this is a special time of year. Several members of my family had drawn some late season cow elk tags, and the lure of an adventure and putting hands on elk was upon us. The nature of these late season hunts is very dependent on the weather, and the animals reaction to it. We run the odds of timing it just right, when there is enough snow to push the animals into a location where we can get them, but before there is too much snow to be able to get in there ourselves. The last few years have been pretty poor snowfall, so we run right down to the wire as far as season limits. This past weekend was the last few days for my cousin, his tag expired yesterday. Luckily we finally got into them, as they made their way towards wintering grounds.
The start of our hunt Saturday morning was a bitter one, the thermometer was showing six below zero as the pale early morning light made its way over the windswept mountain tops. It was hard to tell yet if it was clouds accumulating at the peaks, or if it was just dusty dry snow being blown into the sky. We found our way to the end of civilization, or at least to where the roads were impassable. It was there that we left the warmth of the truck, and traded it for the speed and mobility of the snowmobiles. We made our way up the snow covered trail, stopping every now and then to do some glassing, and knock the ice from our face masks. On one of those stops, we lucked out, and stopped just over a rise. As we sat there looking around the valleys and canyons that surrounded us, talking quietly about the next planned move, my eyes caught a glimpse of brown. I quickly brought up my Swarovski rangefinder for a closer look, and to get a solid range. It came back 408yds. Had we gone even fifty or so yards further, we'd probably of spooked them. But there they were, a spike and a few cows, some standing, some sitting. My cousin steadied my SRS over his backpack, and located the best looking target. A young cow, laying in the snow. With the sharp crack of the shot muffled by the cold dense air, and surrounding snow, the shot went over without much attention. Except for the one elk who felt it, the bullet found its mark perfectly, hitting the snowline just in front of the bedded animals shoulder. It pulverized her lungs, and she rolled her head back, and expired.
We made the quick little ride up the trail towards her, as the remaining elk slowly scattered. It was a quick and easy drag downhill to get her to the trail, where we gutted her, and put her into the sled. The below zero temperatures froze the blood so quickly that it turned pink as soon as it dripped. All said and done, we were back having steak and eggs by 11:00AM, some days are good like that. Anyone who hunts elk with any frequency knows, there are good days, and then there are "other" days.
Having had an easy hunt on Saturday, with time to get home, and quarter up the elk, I was quite rested come Sunday morning. I woke up lazily, and after making breakfast for my kids I decided I'd go into town to get a little shopping done. But, as I mentioned previously, timing is everything with these hunts. And I couldn't let the perfect window of time go bye, so I decided that before my shopping trip I had better stop bye my spotting position, and make sure that the elk hadn't already moved into their winter grounds. The smooth hills that lay some 3000ft above my home happens to be the chosen winter grounds for a habitual herd of elk. Every year, I can narrow them down to one ridge. So I threw my spotting scope, and tripod into my grocery getter, and drove to my spot. After spotting a good mess of deer, including some great bucks, the H32 reticle in my spotter landed right on the herd. I counted 14 of them, three or four bulls, and the rest were cows or calves. In a moments time, my shopping plans had been shot, and I was making one call after another trying to scramble the team.
Two and a half hours later, my brother in law, myself, and my cousin, wearing our still bloody snow gear from the day before, were making our way up into the blinding white canyon that held our prize. We got to the spot I had formerly planned to start our stalk. We stopped for a moment, to check for the elk. And as I'd hoped, there they were. Not fifty yards from where I had spotted them three hours and two and a half miles ago. We left the snowmobiles, and launched into an uphill battle that would claim most of my days calories. Our design was to skirt the opposing ridge line as we climbed parallel to the elk harboring flat. Point being to get a better angle, allowing for a better shot and selection. The waist deep snow made for a miserable hike, but a fantastic solid and comfortable rest. We maneuvered into a shooting position that gave us a good view through the gaps in the trees. We had closed the distance to five hundred and seventy-eight yards. And it was time to put practice into action. My brother in law setup on top of our packs, and laid motionless in the snow. As he went over his firing scenario, my cousin setup behind him to spot. And I got into position with my video camera. Once we had accounted for just about everything, he gave the ready signal, and we hunkered down behind our respective optics. He was shooting a Remington 700 custom chambered in the Rocky Mountain favorite 300Winchester. He had already dialed the appropriate 4.0mils into his SS5-20HD scope, and with everything but the trigger pull done we waited...
Being accustomed to overwhelming noise that typically barks from the brake end of that Remington, I was expecting my ears to ring. But again, the viscous atmosphere, and the fluffy snow took all the edge off of the magnum. The bullet found a delightful path through the trees, across the canyon, and I watched it impact right into the left brisket of one of the mature cows. She jumped a bit, took a few steps in our direction, and went facedown into the deep snow. She never moved again. The remainder of the herd looked on, as if confused. But after a second or two, their instinctive distrust of loud noises followed by dropping companions got them turned around. They slowly made their way opposite us, never showing much excitement. We exchanged high fives, and reenlisted to the uphill fight.
Several hours later, we stood over her. As always, I took a moment of reverence for these beautiful animals that I love and respect. We made short work of the cleaning, the hot blood felt good on my frozen hands. The bright red stain on the snow was a stark contrast in a world of white and black. The early setting winter sun threatened to leave us, shadows were already growing into the east as we finished. My frozen gloves gave no purchase on her slippery legs, but down the steep mountain slope we went. It didn't take long to get a system going, we sat in the deep snow behind her, and leg pressed. A few yards at a time, we'd slide down behind her and push again. Hours later, we arrived back to the road. Frozen, exhausted, but as alive as ever a man can feel. The cold silence that surrounded us in the endless expanse of a dark and starry sky was beautiful. But with frostbite nipping at my fingertips, the silence was quickly cut short by the roar of a two stroke motor.
We made our way back down the canyon, and to the truck. What an adventure I thought, as I peeled my frozen socks away from my thermals. We'd made it out, pushed our limits, and we won. From the safety of my warm bath, I sat and recounted the days events. Later I called my father and shared the whole experience with him, he loves hearing the stories as much as we love living them. It is in these adventures, and the memories we make therein, that defines me, and brings us together as blood brothers. Love and passion for the hunt, may they never dim.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPAmF9hCbso
