Here's a write-up of my elk hunt in Wyo on National Forest land in Area 7.
While taking the three hour drive to my hunting location on opening morning of rifle season, I was reflecting on my elk hunting adventures leading up to this point in the season. I’d been going into the same hunting area that my brother, Andy, had filled me in on virtually every weekend or day off from work since early August. My first trip into the area, which requires an approximate two-mile hike, I was armed with nothing more than a GPS unit with a keyed-in way-point and a can-do attitude. This was the first time I’d ever been hunting in this area of the state. With changing jobs and relocating in the spring, I’d decided to apply for a bull tag closer to where I was working instead of applying for the more familiar areas near where I grew up. This was also the first bull elk tag I've been lucky enough to draw through the limited quota drawing in Wyoming for 15 years, so I was determined to give myself the best opportunity possible to harvest a quality, mature bull. Once my GPS told me I’d arrived at my destination on that warm August day, I started glassing around the area analyzing the terrain. There was an abundance of good grass in the drainage bottoms for feed, springs and creeks for water and wallows, large patches of heavy timber for cover, good vertical relief for protection from the Wyoming winds, basically everything that an elk would be seeking was on this piece of National Forest. Only one thing was missing, the elk. There was plenty of sign around that a good number of animals had been in the area earlier in the year, but I wasn't seeing any fresh sign. After walking around for a couple of hours familiarizing myself with the terrain, I decided to glass a bit more before making the trek back to the pickup, eventually picking out a few cows and a young bull confirming the possibility that this was a good spot. Throughout archery season, the weekends found me chasing the growling bugles and faint chuckles of the large bulls trying to establish their dominance that I had come to learn frequented this area. ‘Close, but no cigar’ was the theme of my archery hunting after having a seven point at 53 yards that never presented a shot, a six point that pinned me down at around 75 yards, and a handful of encounters with immature bulls. There was no doubt in my mind where I was going on opening day of rifle season. There wasn't any reason to even consider a change of venue after seeing three or four “Big Boys” in there while scouting and archery hunting.
As I pulled up to the area where I parked and began putting my things together for the day’s hunt with the sun beginning to brighten the eastern horizon, I was filled with anticipation and optimism of how this day would unfold. So much so that I walked about 50 yards away from the vehicle before realizing I’d neglected to grab any ammunition for my rifle. “What an idiot”, I said scolding myself for not mentally being in the game. Finally, with all of the necessities in tow including ammo, I set out up the trail on the 45 minute hike to the hunting grounds. Once I gained some elevation, I was walking through an inch of fresh snow on the ground from the storm the night before. ‘This is perfect’ I thought to myself as I picked my way through the pines to my vantage point above the drainage's. Upon arrival to my glassing spot, I took off my day pack and began to raise my binoculars up to assess the situation when, “BOOM”, a rifle shot rang out from a quarter-mile up the drainage. I carefully glassed the opposing hillside watching for movement instigated by the first gun shot of the season seeing about 15 head of elk, including a small six-point, go over the peak about 1,500 yards away from my location. After coming to the conclusion that the gun shot had spooked any elk over a year old out of the area for the time being, I curiously made my way towards the direction of the shot to see if the hunter needed any assistance. Given the fact that I was hunting alone, as I’d done throughout the entire season, I figured that making a few friends in the field couldn't hurt since I could be the one needing assistance at some point. I tracked down the hunters that had fired the shot and chatted with them for a short while finding out that they had cow tags and had missed the one they saw. Being about mid-morning at this point, I thought it could be productive to take a ‘sit and watch’ approach to the rest of the day’s hunt with other hunters in the area milling around. I found one of my many vantage points where I was semi-secluded from the wind and glassed the sparse timber for movement the rest of the day seeing a small herd of five or six elk with a nicely proportioned five-point. “You can do better”, I told myself as I watched them lay down on the hillside. I conceded defeat for the day a few hours later and snuck around the small heard as to not spook them on my way back to the truck. Given the fact that opening day was on a Tuesday and I had a mountain of work to do, I spent the next two days in the office. However, I don’t know if I was all that productive since my thoughts were mostly occupied with elk hunting at this point. Thursday night rolled around and another early winter storm was in the area so I called up my boss and told him I wouldn't be in on Friday, I was going back hunting. After the commute and hike required, I found myself in familiar territory back at the same location I had started glassing on opening morning. I glassed, moved, glassed, and moved, and glassed some more before deciding to go back up on the highest vantage point where I had started. It was about 11 o’clock at this point and all I had seen was a rag-horn bull for about half of a second. I found my perch in the rocks and began glassing around again until my arms needed a break. Giving way to hunger, I started casually munching on a granola bar and mindlessly gazed across the terrain. I looked down, about 1000 feet vertically, where the two drainage's met and something struck me as ‘not quite right’, so I picked my binoculars up for further investigation. It was an elk, it was a bull, and it was a big bull. I watched him feed across the small meadow and lay down in the sun, ‘I can get him’, I thought to myself as I made a plan on the best route for the stalk. I made my way down the hillside and entered the creek bottom, picking my way carefully through the dense timber as to not make a sound until the terrain leveled out and the two creeks converged. The wind was blowing out of the West at about 20 mph so I began veering towards the East to make sure I’d be downwind of the bull’s location when I came out of the timber and could figure out my exact location in relation to his. I exited the timber on the far Eastern side of the long, narrow meadow which I’d watched him lay down in and took my pack off, to be a bit more agile, then setting it under a tree before I started slowly making my way Westward up the clearing. Walking ever so gingerly through the brush, I kept carefully looking around and looking back at the area which I’d spotted him from until I came to the conclusion that I had to be right on top of him, if he was still there. I began watching for movement along the tree line that he bedded under when I made out the tip of an antler above the brush only 50 yards away. I knelt down quietly as I cranked my scope down to 3x. ‘A lot of good all of that practice at 600-700 yards did you’, I thought to myself as I planned my next move. I watched the antler tip intently for a couple of minutes never seeing it move. The bull was sleeping 50 yards from me. Upon careful consideration, I decided to break a twig to arouse the bull. “Snap”…..no movement. Next, I softly whistled…..no movement.
‘I wonder if it’s a shed’, I thought to myself.
‘That would be too coincidental’, I retorted, to myself.
Next, I whistled louder and the horn moved as I prepared for the action. I waited a good minute but he never picked his head up. So I whistled about five times as loud as I could and the horn moved, I looked through the scope, the bull picked his head up where I could see the top portion of his neck, and I settled the cross-hair on this neck and shot. The bull rolled over on his back with two legs kicking in the air as I stood up basking in my accomplishment when suddenly he seemed to spring up off of the ground as if he was struck by lightning. I cycled the action on my rifle and put another shot in him through the lungs as he began to run, which didn't seem to faze him, as he continued over the knoll and out of sight from my vantage point. I back tracked to grab my pack and began tracking the bull while wondering how this bull ran off. Elk, and especially old bulls, are one tough animal I've come to learn through my years of hunting. After tracking for approximately 100 yards, I found the bull deceased. His last steps were down an eight-foot cut-bank onto a dead tree on the ground, which, naturally, his horns became wedged in upside down. It took me about an hour of cutting tree limbs to free his horns and get the carcass situated so I could begin the quartering process. Once that was complete, I stashed the quarters and the head about 100 yards away under some trees for retrieval the next day, which was a chore but well worth it. Thankfully, my brother, Andy, and his friend, Brendon, came back with me the next day to help pack out. For which, I’m eternally indebted to them for.
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