For the third week in September, we as a family had banked all of our resources for me to have five full days to hunt. This was it. I really needed to make something happen during this outing, as getting me back up here again was not going to be easy for any of us. So as I'd complained earlier, I was over the long miles commute into the prime hunting areas and had indeed prepared this trip to pack up a camp up and into the juice and stay.
It was the only realistic and responsible way that I could imagine being able to pack an elk out of this country this year. And frankly, I was giddy at the thought of posting up a camp deep in the guts of such a wild and rugged place. A friend from out of state had been hunting elk in some adjacent areas, and we'd talked on the phone and decided that if he'd like to join me for a few days, we could pack up and spike together. The plan came together and I directed Brad, win and wear to meet.
I left Boise at 2.30am and greatly enjoyed the streamlined drive, with barely another set of headlights the entire way. When I rounded the corner to where I'd park, however, I was punched in a gut to find six other vehicles. And this was before sunrise on a Sunday morning. Meaning that all these parties were not only hunting the spot, but they were also packed up in there as I'd planned to do.
I was dismayed, and for a while my temper boiled with trying to understand why it's been that time after time, I research and discover areas to hunt and have a few years of unvathered experiences. And then it's like somebody puts ads on social media or something saying, Come and hunt me, yada yada yada yada yada, hashtag big bowls, hashtag no hunters and a geotag of where to find me. Now, I do not have proper spite camping equipment, meaning that my sleeping bag weighs I don't know how many pounds but a lot, and it's the size of a beach ball. My tent could serve as a peg leg for an NBA player, and thanks to my love, I just recently acquired Campstove and water filter.
My backpack, an early generation Everly stock, was given to me by Glenn Everly himself 15 or so years ago. A massive, extremely durable and capable pack. It's tremendously bulky and heavy by today's standards. So with my five day camp strapped together, I looked...
well, I don't really know what to describe what I looked like. Maybe like an ant carrying a moustered. It was not a pretty sight. As Brad and I worked our way up Canyon, I outlined the general areas of the drainage that we would split up.
I had described that I preferred to hunt alone, and the country was large enough for us to depart from our spike camp and have plenty to hunt daily without overlapping zip codes. As we reached a midway bench of open sage, I spotted two colored shapes on the fringe of the timber a few hundred yards away. I stopped to rest and quickly made out two hunters, hunkered down and glassing us. I pointed them out to Brad and suggested we'd better go over and talk to them.
I always prefer to communicate and at least get some understanding of what others are up to, rather than leave everything as a guess. Half the distance to the tree line, the hunters had dropped off the edge and clearly decided to keep their plans private. I doubt they even realized that I'd seen them. Running into other hunters was going to be a new component of this trip, and something that I worked so hard to avoid in all my hunt planning.
Now all this complaining aside, here's the thing that was incredibly cool about it. From what I could tell, all the other hunters in this area were legit. They get it. They came from far and wide across the country from what I saw in their license plates.
In one way or another, they found a place on earth to hunt elk that met whatever their various criteria that they had in their minds for planting their elk hunt in Idaho. They too had huge dreams to find a place that still felt wild, submerge themselves in it, and commit to the opportunity to shoot an elk many, many miles from the truck. I dig people like that. Here's what's even better.
In five days hunting this drainage, with let's say a minimum of seven hunters here on my final trip, I didn't hear a single hunter bugle. I didn't hear a single hunter cow call. For whatever reason. Well, yeah, all of the added human elements, duh.
But yeah, the elk had shut up and we're not talking. And from what I observed, all these hunters were savvy to that fact, and not jacking off power bugles from every crest. What this delivered was a hunting experience that was shared by myself in a handful of additional hunting friends and companions. It's fantastically cool, like fishing a river where respectful etiquette still exists, and everyone gives everyone else their space to enjoy their day and not be disturbed by the greed or carelessness of others.
Now in this case, I'm not sure how much actual etiquette came into play, as much as just the basic fact that these hunters just knew what they were doing. That is, when the elk aren't talking, then it might make sense to stop and really think about what you do with all those calls you carry around. Sometimes, well, actually for me I guess all the time, it just makes sense to sit and chill and see what happens, see what the critters set up on their own. If they're partying, then you bet, show up with bells on and throw the clown oil cap out.
But when something has the elk on the lowdown, I like to follow suit and I lay low, quiet like a cat, and careful to remain unnoticed. These other hunters did the same thing. I cut their tracks in several places, glassed a few of them every now and then, and at one point, even had a couple walk by me in thick timber. They were quiet and careful, and not a peep out of them.
Too bad I just knocked an arrow and dang near had a shot at a really nice bull just before they arrived. I've been hearing some knocking noises that stopped me on a microbench in thick old-growth white pine and fur. It was really windy that day, so I was trying to determine if it was actually just a treat trunks clunking together, which happens often in the woods when it's windy. Afterstanding spill for a minute or two just listening, a bugle piped in on the gusty afternoon wind, first of the day.
I guessed it at around 200 yards straight below me. I had a diaphragm in my mouth as I knew I was basically prowling through elk hotel rooms, and was on high alert, expecting an encounter with every step. So when the medium but respectable sounding broadcast hit my ears, I opted to fire a reply instantly. Although a very humble and cautious response, I was careful to sound inferior to him, yet a little bit irritating by such a prompt reply.
I also pushed the call at an angle behind me in upstream in the gusty wind to add a token of misdirection to my offering. Moments after the sounds of my long-note bull talk had left my tube, I spotted elk legs moving through the timber like 70 yards in front of me. The wind had totally fooled me too, and I was already right on top of this bull. Realizing this, I instantly regretted replying it all, for if I had just taken a moment before bugling back, I would have found that I was already within range of this bull.
I could have simply slipped forward as needed to find a shooting lane, and this deal would have been in the books. But as it was, the bull still took a few more swipes at the tree he was rubbing, which was indeed making the knocking sounds that had stopped me in the first place. And now knowing my presence, he started walking ahead and above me. It was thick enough that I couldn't see far at all, and the bull was out of sight almost immediately.
From my location, I didn't know if he was circling and coming in, or if he was headed away. One thing I was certain though, I'd relinquished the element of surprise with an opportunity that could have been far better played if I'd remained silent. Fifteen or so minutes later, I heard the bull crash away as I tried to backtrack behind a dense clump of trees. The late afternoon sun was super low and bright in my face, and I know that I glowed like a lantern to anything watching what this kind of sun at its back.
Point me that the bull had only gone another 30 yards and stopped to wait and see what would happen. In my decision to advance further, although carefully considered and executed, turned out to be a mistake. Mark the score, Bill 794, me seven.