Okay, howdy folks, this is Brian Hoske here with Chapter 4 of this 2019 archery elk season. And hey, just wanted to say thank you to the folks that have sent emails or texts or whatever, letting me know they enjoy hearing about this stuff. That means a lot to me, and it's definitely a driver for me to keep doing what I'm doing and telling these stories and sharing them with the audience out there that likes hearing them. So thank you for that.
And yeah, here we go. Off to Chapter 4, this is called Reckless Precision. It was September 24th now, the final full day of my final trip of the season. I was well aware of the circumstance that this would be my last opportunity for archery success in 2019.
Looking back, I realized I'd been in the same position two years prior just before taking my best vole. And that's described in the Skylines episodes of the 2017 RUP reports. Although at the moment that specific recollection did not occur to me. My dear friend Ian had joined me for this trip, and the two of us had split up earlier in the morning.
From a ridge top, we had each pointed in different directions at the sound of bugling elk, and we agreed we would investigate our respective leaves individually. I dropped into a panel of timber I referred to as the Stormfront, where a great sounding bugle had earlier boomed out of. A few minutes into my descent, I had a good bearing on where I thought the bull was located, and a powerful bugle followed by a sequence of chuckles confirmed that I was getting close. I slowed my pace to 90% creep and set my eyes to 100% scan as I carefully stepped my way through the thick timber and downfall.
Minutes later, I had advanced 100 or so yards, and like an airliner coming in for landing, lowering its flaps and landing gear, I reduced my speed even more and knocked an arrow. And I bumped my eyes to 200% scan. My movement now resembled the pace of honey pouring from the freezer, and I paused at the slightest clue to analyze where I could expect to land to my eyes on elk. The wind here on this panel of timber I referred to as the Stormfront had proven as reliable as anywhere I'd hunted.
Over the course of the season, I'd hunted this south facing slope five times previously. In each of those times, the wind had been a steady push from south to north. The previous razor-close encounters I'd had with large herd bulls and other locations were all foiled by swirling sand, and I'd long ago come to accept that I could never beat the wind. A new perspective and attitude, however, had convinced me that there was a way I could beat the wind, and it was by the numbers.
Although the wind dominates outcomes at will, I told myself the wind couldn't screw me over every single time, and if I kept putting myself in situations where I could shoot an elk, eventually, by the numbers, I could sneak one by when the wind wasn't paying attention. This mantra was running through my head when the thumping of hoofbeats stopped me in my tracks. There's no way I said to myself. I could feel that the wind had been pushing up against my face this entire approach, and I refused to consider that I was hearing elk spooking away from me.
The burst of noise was brief, just a few trotting thumps, and in fact it helped guide me to its source location. Another 20 or so yards later, I halted again as my eyes caught the flicker of movement and the layers of fur and white pine trees ahead. I could make out a single cow elk, calm in demeanor, and facing uphill towards me. She was maybe 80 yards away.
A powerful bugle startled me, and I purred at the potential the scenario was shaping into. Behind the cow, the shape of another elk advanced into view, first just a nose, but above the nose curled brow tines of a big, mature herd bull. The bull gradually slid into view, revealing himself little by little. As more of him became visible, I begged for it to be the Royal Crown 7x7 I'd missed two trips prior.
Like watching the outcome of a slot machine from left to right, the first two windows were giving me what I hoped for. Big bull, antler points G1, G2, G3. Finally, he stepped far enough forward that I could see his entire rack, of bull 6x6 emerged, minus the stunning crown points of the bull I was hoping that he was. All the same, it was hardly an actual disappointment.
This bull was big, the same class size as Royal Crown 7x7, and moreover, he was right in front of me, like the cow, 80 or so yards below, although it may as well have been a mile since the trees were so thick there was zero chance of a shot presently. But this situation was already golden, several factors pumped in my confidence. First off, the wind was steady and I was as sure as I could be that it would remain that way. Second, I was already almost within range, confident in my shooting up to the mid 60 yards or so.
Third, off to my right were multiple openings that could serve as shooting lanes if the elk passed through them. Straight ahead and to my left was less promising. A single lane extended out to maybe 50 yards, but it was very, very narrow, and had a sprawl of dead branches above it that could be problematic in allowing the arc of a longer distance shot. Right in front of me was a pretty open lane, although it only worked from about 10 to 20 yards deep.
And it had a large tree trunk right in the middle of it. Fourth factor was there appeared to be only these two elk. The rest of the herd could be heard milling about much further down below us, along with another bull whose bugle was slight and flutey. From there, I could imagine that this herd was dispersed among this timbered slope, with the herd bull in his cow at the far uphill perimeter.
And that's exactly where I stood. Now, the final factor I enjoyed was that these two elk were pointed my way, making it possible if not likely that they would continue in my direction. And I hope, passed to my right where I'd have a clear shot at either one of them. Yeah, that was one thing I was wrestling with in my head.
The fact that given this was indeed my last hunt on my last day, and I would take any elk at this point, even this cow. The thought of shooting a cow with a herd bull right behind her was uncomfortable to say the least. Not unacceptable, but certainly made me squirm. I mean, I'd made so many gambles this far on the season, and faced with the ticking clock and the risk of going home empty-handed and eating tag soup, I'd accepted that I would shoot any elk I could.
Which meant passing a clear shot on this cow would be yet another gamble that I did not plan to make, assuming she presented one before the bull, which was highly likely given that he was following her. And so I confirmed, as hard as it was, that I was going to take a shot at this cow if it developed. The cow, after all, is better than a skunk. From where I stood, I could only make out small patches of each animal.
I could see a foot here, an antler tip there, ear flickering, and such. I studied the ground ahead of me intently. When considering shooting lanes and opportunities, inches matter, and decisions are based on variables that are just too hard to guess. If I try and advance to step towards the elk, I'll only lose the shooting lane in front of me, and then I might have to go about 10 yards before it looks like there might be another opportunity for shooting lanes over here and there.
Yeah, staying put, I knew I had this one micro lane at my 12 o'clock, and several more at my 2 and 3 o'clock positions. If I tried to move closer, I'd be forfeiting the lanes that I had with only a hope of other lanes at all. I felt like a chess player, studying the board and imagining possible outcomes of moves 2 and 3 or 4 moves later following that. My eyes were not convincing me that better positions were feasible.
The twig snapped under my boot. It felt the size of a toothpick and simply shifting my weight caused its crisp report. Ears perked to attention in the gaze of both the bowl and the cow locked on my direction. There is no way I am moving, I said to myself.
Fortunately, the bowl was far more interested in the cow than any tiny squirrel-sized sounds trickling through the woods. He pushed up closer to her now, invading her space and prompting her to trot a few strides uphill, and yes, closer to me. His disruption overrode the tiny sound that I'd made, and both elk resumed at ease activities. At this point, the cow was advancing closer to me in the shooting window at my 12 o'clock.
She was around 30 yards at this point, just to the right of the narrow open space. But both elk were clearly on leisure time. No rush to move or to do anything besides just stay on there, sniff the air around them. Blocks of 5, even 10 minutes past with the elk just standing there.
None of this really bothered me. I have the patience of a granite boulder when in the company of elk. But aches and pains in my body were marking time by the second. Other than shifting weight from one foot to another, I had not moved now for over half an hour.
Just for fun, try standing perfectly still for half an hour sometime. It sounds easy, and at times it is. But in full disclosure, I carried with me this pesky ailment, this jacked up back shoulder that Jay Puterman from Seinfeld so eloquently described as one gargantuan monkey fist. This fist of knotted rhomboid muscle had been haunting me since back in August.
At home, I could deal with it. A quick internet search of the condition described extended computer desk work, rowing, overhand tennis serving, and heavy backpack use as primary triggers. Check, check, check, and check. All season long, I've been walking around the woods with my right elbow up in the air, hand gripping the center loop of my backpack.
This was the only position I could temporarily relieve that knotted, cramping pain that accompanied every minute I wore my heavy hunting pack. For each mile upon mile I'd covered all season, this was my default form. Never comfortable, but the back and forth pattern I followed would usually keep my whining groans at bay. That and a lot of ibuprofen and Tylenol.
But now, besides holding my bow vertically with an arrow knocked right in front of me, the dull, tightening, charlie horse and my neck and shoulder was consuming my body, my posture, my form, and my focus. I was beginning to sink beneath the weight of my pack, sagging and compressing like melting ice gulps are in the sun. I needed to stretch, I needed to get this pack off my back, I just needed to move. All these distractions were going through my head as the bowl and cow continued their dance.
Their romance, as nature would have it. He was courting her after all. And once again, he made another advance, charging up behind her, testing if the moment was right. But once again, the cow trotted ahead, preventing the bowl from getting a chance to mount.
This latest surge pushed both her and the bowl right through my only shooting window. At a rate and angle, I didn't even consider attempting a shot. They were now both past my 12 o'clock shooting lane, safe from the thick tangle of trees that filled everything from my 6 o'clock to 12 o'clock. Yet they were even closer than ever, each within 30 yards of where I stood.
But again, it may as well have been a mile. And to make matters worse, they were both now pointed squarely to my left, meaning that any continued steps would be away from me now at this point, and away from any chance at a shot, easily gone forever. The silver lining of all this was that I now felt I could safely and very slowly squat to the ground and remove that groaning weight of my pack from my shoulders. Doing so provided little relief, but at least the weight was gone, and I took time sitting on my heels to recompose my focus.
This was fortunate, as the bowl had seemed to sense my activity, and as I was in the process of rising back up to my feet, I was able to spot a tiny few inches of his outline through the tree branches, and he appeared deadlocked on me. Fifteen or so minutes later, his fixation on my location had eased as the satellite bowl from the rest of their herd I'd almost forgotten about sounded off a bugle. As King of the Woods, the bowl before me fired back as if to squash any doubt that he was still right here, just outside the orbit of the main herd, and present to any challenge of his dominance. This exchange tempted me to enter the conversation.
Able to slowly rise to my feet, I stood tall and enjoyed the opportunity to roll my shoulders, and slowly rocking my head, four and aft, side to side. I felt the shape of diaphragm calls in my pocket, and contemplated putting one to use. It's interesting to take note of how much elk like to hear noises. While spending this time so close to these elk, I noticed that any time either the bowl or the cow would make a significant noise, a hoof clunk, branch break, rock roll, or whatever, the satellite bowl below us would bugle at the sound.
Likewise, any slight commotion below us would initiate a vocal response from the big bowl. Elk hear everything. At one point, I shifted my weight, and for the second time, I swear it was nothing more than a few pine needles softly breaking under my foot. It was barely even audible to me.
I had a reaction and ear direction from both elks snapped to attention and scanned for the source of the sound. I don't think many hunters realize how much animals can hear. And as annoying as they can be, I count pine squirrels as the archer's best friend, given how much noise and racket they make, and how often elk must write off audits of sound to their noisy neighbors. I'm so close, crazy close.
If I were to either bugle or cow call it this range, the bowl would have to investigate, right? He would close the short gap between us to confirm if I was a willing cow or a rival bowl, in doing so, possibly step through a shootingly. Or, he and the cow would bolt and all opportunity would be lost. I weighed the possibilities of making a move versus sitting tight.
Back and forth I debated. I had been in this very scenario a week prior, with a big herd bowl I named Houdini for his trickiness, and seemingly magical ability to throw his voice and eluded me several times when I thought I had him all figured out. I recalled the first time I was within his herd. The wind was right, and I'd made my way to within 60 or so yards of him in his cows.
We'd been exchanging bugles leading up to that point, so it was clear that I was posing as a rival bowl, challenging him for his harem of booty. The boy had been working up to that point, but I was pinned in a position where I could see several cows and I could move no closer myself. I needed Houdini to close the remaining gap for me to have a shot. Eventually, when I could see him looping my direction in his circuit of the herd, I poked at him with a bugle, an attempt to insult him, to become a pestering bother that he needed to squash once and for all.
It's a play that every seasoned elk hunter knows, and it's a gamble. A herd bowl has to be in just the right mood, a fighting mood for this kind of proposition to work, most times it does not. Houdini scoffed at my insult and turned back to his cows, hurting them up and out of their beds and off to quieter pastures. So here I was again, pinned in position with no chance of moving and a huge herd bowl so very close yet so far.
I didn't want to call, and I found it highly unlikely that elk would reverse direction and move towards me at this point. I needed something to happen, to turn the elk around them and move them back closer to me. I needed something to stir the pot. Sometimes when you're in the woods you hear sounds that you dread.
Sometimes you hear sounds that bring elation. When it's very quiet, so quiet you can hear squirrels dropping pine cones from far distances or the buzz of B-wings meters away. Our imagination can play tricks on us. Taunting with hints of things we desperately want to hear or haunting with threats of sounds we despise.
There's a period of time, moments when sounds are in transit from our ears to our brain that are pregnant with possibilities. What am I hearing? It sounds like it could be rocks crunching or wheels rolling, propeller blades thumping the air or ATV exhaust, or hooves speeding the ground. Seconds drag out in prolonged analysis.
The brain measures data and offers ideas. I was hearing something. It was getting louder, and it was coming up behind me, and fast. The pot was about to be stirred.
By the time my brain processed what I was hearing, the sounds came to a clunking halt, hoof beats. A few more cloven hooves clicked to a stop, some rocks tumbled down the hill. I turned my head 180 degrees to look over my right shoulder, and I saw a group of cow elks staring at me. I was nearly in the primary pathway they likely wished to follow through the tangle of trees and downfall.
Four or five cows were looking over each other's shoulders wondering why the lead cow had stopped. A handful more idled in from behind and moseied around the outside. The group of them were about 30 yards from where I stood. 30 yards exactly opposite of me is where the bull and single cow were posted up.
I was smacked between the groups. With all this commotion, the bull, of course, welcomed the arrival of these fine ladies, and greeted the group with a hefty bugle. Clearly seeing and hearing the bull, the group resumed their entry and sauntered onward, coming to a stop five to ten yards directly below me. However, the lead cow was still acting wary.
No doubt reassured by the presence of the bull, but also visibly concerned by the strange things standing so close and upwind. The bull emerged from all the cover that had prevented any shots up to this point, and eagerly approached the lead cow. I could not believe my eyes. Like a horse trotting up, I could feel the ground thump beneath the bull's feet.
He was jogging right up to me. This is insane. As he passed through a bundle of branches, I lifted my bow and came to full draw. He closed in at 20, 15, 12 yards till he was directly below me and stopped, nose to nose with the lead cow.
In disbelief I calculated. This huge bull I'd been watching was now broadside in front of me at 12 yards away, with a large tree trunk completely blocking his vitals. I've never been this close to a big bull before. It was truly an intense feeling.
The bull was absolutely transfixed on the cow, who was completely transfixed on me. You see, as the bull was approaching, she totally saw me draw my bow, but had to have been confused, overstimulated by the fact that this veteran bull was not alarmed, and he was jogging right up to greeter. So she and the other cows stayed put and did not spook on my draw. The bull was stari-eyed, gazing at this fresh group of cows, while my vision probed the tree trunk boundaries of his natural shield that he'd accidentally stop behind.
Could I sneak an arrow around the left of the tree and get in the back of his lungs? Or maybe just trust that this range of my arrow would penetrate his shoulder blade if I could tuck a shot just right of the tree trunk. God, what if my shot were to stray at all and grazed the tree? Maybe half an inch on either side of the tree would work, but I concluded that these options were simply unacceptable.
This was brutal. For like 30 seconds, the stalemate lasted until finally, the bull came to recognize that this cow was completely ignoring him and locked on me. He turned his head and locked on me as well, and I had no shot at any of them. Another 30 or so seconds passed and nobody had flinched.
At this point, the entire group of elk had sensed danger thickening the air. I felt the burn of every elk staring at me, picking me apart in ways that I was a foreign object and did not belong where I stood. With each second that ticked by, the tension escalated, reducing the likelihood the bull would leisurely take the single step I needed for a shot, and more likely that everything was going to erupt in a chaotic mad dash away from me. I imagine no chance of getting a shot in that scenario.
And that scenario was exactly what happened next. Like Olympic divers shooting from their blocks, the elk lunged in unison through the web of trees, branches, brush, and arrow deflecting objects of the sort. I recall side stepping to my left, squatting at my knees, and bobbing my head side to side, trying to find any clear lane through the trees in which an arrow could pass. I located the zone that looked somewhat clear, and it was small, but it looked somewhat open enough, and more importantly, it was in the path of where the bull was charging.
I just needed him to pass through it. Blurting out loud, my goat bleats begged the bull to stop, but to no avail. This encounter was plainly too close to coax any of the elk to halt their barging dash. While holding full drop pose, my left eye tracked the bull's massive body through the tiny peep in my bowstring, while my right hand navigated the needlepoint sights of my pins, attempting to land pins on tan hide.
Like the fighter pilot scenes in Pop Gun, except there's no missile lock that grabs and holds the target once moused over. In my periphery, I sensed this pursuit approaching the single lane that a shot could be possible. I slid my pins off the running bowl and ahead to the narrow opening. He was running directly away for the most part, however slightly angling to the left and approaching the hole I could shoot into.
Just as necessary, he entered that precious slice of negative space in a scene otherwise littered with arrow stopping wood. I remember his huge light beige body searching up and down as he ran, getting my pins aligned and ahead, knowing I had to leave his body for the running factor in order to land a shot behind his shoulder. I continued bleeding like a goat as he slowed to a jog and looked back slightly at this perplexing sound, my finger dropped, opening the caliper of my release once again, and I watched in seemingly slow motion as my arrow sailed through the mountain air. Launching an arrow is a moment of suspense, like shooting a basketball from half court, watching that arc unfold.
The anticipation of where it will land when it's up and down path comes to a stop. Early senses get a read if the shot is lined up. We've all heard or described knowing that a shot is good from the moment it leaves your fingers. But as the basketball falls, that's where it gets tricky.
Backboard, airball, rim, or net. The sound of an all-net swoosh is in fact similar to the sound of an arrow hitting its mark. When something of a snap, slap, or slurp, the sound can have a note of a wetness or the crack of snapping bone. As the trajectory of my arrow's path fell into the shape of the bull's outline, it disappeared.
Audio chimed instantly with a slapping wet report. As he crashed away through the timber, a tiny mark appeared. Somewhere midway up his body as all I could really tell. I thought it was a little high and back.
Around the last of his ribs? Maybe? One thing was certain. I knew I hid him.
And based on the angle and the center mass location, I knew the strike was fatal. I dropped to my knees, quickly set my bow on the ground and pulled the hood off my head so I could cut my ears with my hands and listen. Crashing and thumping hooves filled the air, and though my eyes were closed, I imagined what was taking place. Sounds of running elk faded, and then all quiet resumed.
Moments later, another barrage of sounds crunched and crashed through the air, followed by a crescendo of hooves fading, falling further and further into the void. I could paint pictures in my imagination of two different outcomes. Either that of the bull losing his feet and falling to the ground, dead, or that of him resuming his retreat from the area with a mortal wound and uncertain eventual outcomes. I'm no stranger to this situation, or all the emotions associated with it.
13 times before I've watched my arrow disappear into bull elk, results and outcomes have varied. I've never watched a bull hit the ground. I've never even heard one hit the ground for that matter. But I've listened to all of them beyond where I could see.
I've seen my arrow land in bowls and places I thought were absolutely perfect and yet never recovered them. I've seen my arrows hit in places that instantly filled me with regret, and with a few I've been uncertain exactly where my arrow went. Each time I've dropped to the ground to focus on listening for clues, take stock of the situation, and get myself grounded in reality and major of optimism. My shot could be called reckless, but it was executed with precision.
I know what I'm doing. I am in fact a veteran elk hunter, Archer and Marksman. Experience has led me to a place where I can call myself these things, and every shot of the living animal is reckless, as we do not absolutely control outcomes. We can only try our best for the desired results.
We apply our skills, our best intentions, our hopes and dreams to harvest wild animals, whose fate is to leave this world eventually in ways worse than bullet or arrow, yet rarely considered. When the moment arrives, we take our shot with reckless precision. Hey, thanks for listening and coming along this far. Stick around and watch for the fifth and final chapter coming up here soon.