Okay, hey there everyone, this is Brian Husky and the Skylines Podcast, thanks for listening, gonna take a spin way back in the memory and the old photo albums here for my first archery hunting season, I hope you enjoy it. The year was 1995. I had a good paying job and owned my own truck. I just graduated high school and moved out of the house.
Life for me was shifting gears and really beginning to open up. Following my first hometown summer as an adult in Bend, Oregon, September found me pursuing new and exciting endeavors that would shape the rest of my life, like community college, and archery hunting. My first archery season began in the pine forests of an area south of Bend called China Hat. All summer I'd blazed down the endless miles of logging and forest service roads of the region and in doing so had deduced areas with the highest traffic of elk.
For camp the night before opening day, I parked my Toyota truck in a shallow dip in the woods where it would be as low profile as possible. I tossed a sleeping bag in the back and likely ate cold pizza for dinner. Come the early dawn of morning, I walked half a mile or so further down the dirt road to the area that I considered most active. Elk sign was thick and fresh and there was no need to even leave the two track road as it provided fast and quiet walking where I could use my eyes to watch for animals with little focus on where I was stepping.
Maybe an hour into this, my first archery hunt, I spotted tan a few hundred yards off in the maze of lodgepole pine. Keeping a sharp eye on where the animal's head was and what it could and could not see, I promptly closed the distance. A hundred or so yards out I selected a cluster of bitter brush and settled myself down inside the mess of branches. I did not own a single piece of camouflage, but I knew how to hide.
I only had one cow call and had never called to actual elk before, but I knew exactly what I was doing. The bow in my hand was new, only a few months old, but it was the cheapest entry level option from the local shop, Dells Archy Den. I only had five arrows and three of the aluminum shafts were bent and I had to recognize and label each of them individually to adjust for their respective flight characteristics. And I only had three broad heads.
My number one arrow was knocked to the string and balanced on its rest perfectly calm while I shook. In my left hand I held the elk incorporated cow talk between my thumb and first finger while placing the connecting cable of my release between the last two fingers to keep it from flopping. I lowered my hat and hunkered down low, placed the matchbook shaped call between my teeth, bit a few pounds of pressure and delivered the first words of my elk speaking vocabulary. My proposition was well received and I watched the cow elk's head pop up and her eyes lock on my precise location.
My backdrop was a collage of pine bark and branches and my profile was expertly broken with a bitter brush behind me. I was wearing a gray long sleeved event sweatshirt from the aluminum man triathlon which I competed in, wrangler jeans with a Copenhagen ring, mini-mart work gloves and a Ben Concrete hat. I held perfectly still as the elk struggled to pinpoint her counterpart that she was certain she just heard. As casual as could be, she and another smaller cow strolled in my direction.
While they passed behind a thick stand of trees I called again and to my elation, one of them called back. This was my first dialogue with elk. I had introduced myself to these wild animals and they liked me. They welcomed my invitation to mingle.
While calling and hunting was unfolding exactly as I'd read from the handful of books I'd acquired on the topic. Larry Jones, Dwight Shoe and Gordon Eastman were alright and I was applying what they'd taught me along with my already 18 wealth of predator calling experience to perfection. Their hooves clumped along through the white pumice floor. It was thrilling to hear them walking towards me as I refrained from looking up to watch, knowing that I needed to remain hunkered down in granite spill.
As they continued their approach, I could even hear them breathing. This encounter was absolutely stunning. In no time, the pair were inside 20 yards of me and turning broadside as they pondered why they'd yet to see the elk they'd been talking with. With a call still clasped between my teeth, I rose up to my knees and drew my bow in a single motion.
I was shaking considerably as excitement of the moment surged over me, but I was able to contain the moment just well enough to proceed and I placed my 20 yard pin on the boiler room of the larger cow. My finger dropped, dripping the trigger of my release and launching my arrow toward its all but certain target. I watched an astonishment as my arrows puffed violently in an up and down waveform, eventually passing over the back of the cow in an erratic arc. The pair bolted, but as soon as they turned to do so, I swiped another arrow from my quiver and pulled full draw again.
Frankly, I blared out more cow sounds and the elks skidded to a stop and turned around and walked back into the open, a little closer even, seeking to get a clear and open look at me. They could see by now that I was certainly not an elk, but the sounds I was making and the fact that the wind was in my favor and perhaps since I was not moving or chasing after them, it all seemed to keep them calm and curious. I only had three pins on my bow, a 10, 20, and 30 yard ranges. For the second time, I settled my nerves and took aim behind the big cow shoulder.
My 30 yard pin should be perfect. I clicked the trigger and released this second arrow, another sure thing chip shot. Defying logic, my second arrow behaved just like the first, focusing from tip to knock and bounding over the elks back. The pair turned tail and ran for good this time, and I returned to sitting position and contemplated what had happened to my arrows flight and why.
It just didn't make sense. I'd never seen my arrows fly like that before, although throughout my practice shooting, I recognized that consistently getting arrows to fly straight was a science, and that I was no scientist. Tuning broadheads had proven to be frustrating, so I wasn't entirely confident that that wasn't the problem. Also, I figured it was possible, I supposed, that I'd somehow bent the aluminum arrows without realizing it.
Honestly, I didn't let it consume me that much, as this encounter was such a tremendous victory in itself, my confidence brimmed. I had gone out on my own, scouted and found elk to hunt, slipped into their mitts, and called them in all on my first morning. I was so stoked, and forever changed. I don't recall for sure, but I think that big game hunting begins at the age of 12 in Oregon.
And as a kiddo, that could not come soon enough for me. I'd been hunting uplandbirds, rabbits, varmids, with my old man since, well, hard to say, let's just say as soon as I was old enough to aim and be trusted with my own trigger. My first few seasons of big game hunting were lackluster though, with a yearling cow elk to show out for my first six seasons. I'd had one heartbreaking miss at a big buck at 15 or 16, and that's about it.
During high school, I had buddies that were into archery hunting, and that seemed so rad to me. Hunting elk, moreover, calling elk sounded fascinating. In my experience as tracking and stalking animals for fun and love of calling bobcats and coyotes dovetailed perfectly with the concept of becoming a bow hunter. My old man wasn't much interested in making the transition to archery, so while a kid at home, brief and limited rifle hunts were the default.
But along with moving out of the house and establishing my own identity as a young adult, committing the month of September to archery hunting was instant. Shooting a bow was fun and inviting, as I could do it pretty much anywhere. I'd haul a bale of hay around in the back of my truck at all times, and would often toss it out in friends backyards as flinging arrows became a popular social pastime. My friends who archery hunted all went with their own fathers and crew, so I was somewhat on my own for actual hunts.
My solitary introduction didn't bother me in the slightest, however, as I had plenty of means and opportunity to go on my own. Roaming the back roads and back country of Central and Eastern Oregon was pretty much my favorite thing to do anyways, so I had a clear picture of what my best options looked like. And my options were expansive, to say the least. The community where I grew up is almost entirely surrounded by public land.
Archery hunting was fairly unregulated at the time, in the sense that for the most part, I could hunt anywhere I wanted. Anywhere that I wanted to hunt at least. An prominent feature of the landscape there was also extensive primitive road systems. In ranching and grazing the arid regions and logging operations on the timbered areas, there were tons of dirt roads.
Now, in today's prevalent social media culture of wilderness and roadless back country hunting, this description of roads everywhere may sound like a turn off. But there is an argument to be made, I think, that it made hunting for me at least, even better. There were simply so many roads that people were extremely dispersed. I mean, trying to give directions from bend to my hunting zone would include 147 different intersections, road numbers, junctions, spur roads, you name it.
And this maze of access really did make it rare to encounter other people, once departing a few intersections off the main arterial gravel roads. So that summer of 95 I drove gobs of miles of two tracks with my head out the window scanning the ground for tracks and surrounding critters. I was fast and accurate at spotting fresh tracks at 45 miles an hour, which is pretty average speed for me driving off road, frankly. I'd bomb the long roads I came to know like the back of my hand and be able to catch where a few new sets of tracks crossed older ones from the week before.
Add to this with my off road and racing background, I'd take my Toyota pickup places that 90% of today's ATV owners would not drive their quad, much less a side by side. I covered huge areas of the map and really zeroed in on places with the highest concentration of elk. Then once there, I refined finer deals like what they were eating, where they were bedding, and where the bulls hung around most often. I was observant and efficient.
Moreover, I recognized small winds like the opening day encounter with the two cows as major victories that boosted my confidence. I was accustomed to getting skunked big game hunting after all, and so the calling encounters and close calls that began stacking up were ulcera rewarding in themselves. Plus, I loved this purpose-driven exploration. And I explored a lot.
Even after discovering really juicy areas I knew the elk loved, I'd still venture out to new areas just for the sake of enjoyment and wanting to have multiple options. Central Oregon has a variety of landscapes and terrains, so it was fun to have high alpine zones, swampy river areas, old-growth timber hunts, ancient juniper and lava forest buckets, high desert expanses, and big arid canyon country to hunt in Rome. A week or so later in the 1995 season, I'd perched myself atop a huge first dump along the edge of a clear cut, high above the town of Tumelo. I'd been calling a little and was just sitting, watching and listening.
During the bow in my hand, I noticed something peculiar. Two well-defined scuff marks on a section of electrical tape that I'd added to my arrow rest as a precautionary hack to keep my arrow from falling between the two prongs of the rest. While prepping my gear in the back of my truck the night before the season, I noticed that with a little pressure or inevitable bump of a loaded arrow, that the arrow shaft could fall between these prongs that hold the arrow like a pair of curved fingers. That scenario would be disastrous than the heat of a shot opportunity, and the last thing I wanted was trouble like that.
In a painful moment of realization, I groaned in awareness that my pre-emptive fix had actually caused the bounding arrow flight and subsequent misses of what would have been certain kill shots on that opening morning encounter. The gap between the finger-like prongs of the arrow rest is necessary for the bottom feather or vein to pass through as the arrow fires out of the bow. And by bridging that gap with tape, the downward facing veins hit in the tape and kicked the back of my arrow up like it was launching off a jump. The two scuffs on the tape stared back at me as if to say, well, what did you expect would happen, you jackass?
I squirmed with regret, literally jumping around and cursing out loud at my mistake. Had I not screwed with the rest on the eve of my hunt, which was simply an application of my enthusiasm and stoked to be pruned and prepared, I would have certainly taken that big cow elk on my first day as an archery hunter. Oh, and I need to issue a correction here before I forget. In my description of the 2019 season in Miss of that huge, the Bull of the Royal Crown Bull, I stated that it was the only time I'd missed an elk entirely, except for this opening day encounter.
I realized a few days ago that I also missed another elk completely, the big six point in the first chapter of my 2017 season. So just to clear that up for the record. That moment of regret really set something off in me, just how close I had come to achieving such crazy success. I don't even think any of my high school buddies had harvested elk yet, and they'd been raised archery hunting elk.
So I was like jumping up and down, pulling my hair out, realizing how and why I'd come so close, but shot myself in the proverbial foot. It really let a fire in me to want this moment back, to reclaim the success I'd earned, but inadvertently squandered. This hot burning fire was honestly a second layer fire, as I was already plenty enamored with everything else that archery elk hunting represented. And I was building this pursuit, a career of elk hunting all on my own, which made it even more meaningful to me.
As the 1996 season kicked off, I had another year of scouting and preparation under my belt, and once again I found myself among the same maze of logging roads, creeping away from my truck and reading sign on the ground like pages of a book. By the second day of the season, I had a vocal group of elk located, and I was stalking the perimeter of the herd. I had yet to lay eyes on any of them yet, but I'd been calling and had several bowls bugling back at me. The beginning shadows were long, and the air was sugary sweet with the cooling dampness on the fragrant pines.
One bowl in particular was especially responsive to my calls, and my knees began to knock as I came to realize he was indeed coming in to me and my calls. I stood like a statue among the tall and skinny lodgepole pines, some nothing more than towering poles of golden bark and some juvenile enough to have thick branches at my level. The bowl was coming from my right to left, and I had a shooting lane directly in front of me, forty or so yards deep. Sliding blotches of tan and mocha colors were about all I could make out as I first laid eyes on the bowl.
His booming bugle seemed like it could blow the hat off my head as he approached, and my heart still pounds were calling that feeling. He stopped for what felt like minutes, just out of sight and range, and I begged him to continue the path he was on. I knew better than to call at such a close range, as he pinned the sound and not likely continue without seeing a real elk. I waited.
The wind was non-existent, and in order for him to resolve this shouting match the two of us had begun, he had no choice but to advance to resolve this dispute. With a few more steps, he nearly cleared into an opening, but his view was blocked by the thick pinebows. I drew my bow without him knowing, and held. Another step in his head was almost into the open, which he was rightfully reluctant to enter, but from where he stood I actually had a trash can-sized view of his broadside body.
I tried so hard to steady my pins, but it was useless. I was shaking so badly I simply couldn't aim with any level of precision. Even with only three pins, I couldn't process which pin I needed to use. I was in a state of suspended shock.
Adrenaline had shoved my thoughts and motor skills beyond my control. I knew the moment would not wait for long, and in a pressure panic, I shot. I heard my arrow land in the bowl and he blasted through the trees. It was only as he bolted ahead into the opening I had been hoping to shoot through that I was able to see a glimpse of his antlers.
A full-figured and symmetrical rack featuring brow tines, thirds, and respectable something more on the back end. Not a fully mature bull, but not a too-aky immature rag horn either. My god I was overwhelmed. Twenty-three years have faded a lot of the details following the shot, but parts remain crystal clear.
I'm sure that I sat and waited before moving. I recall that as the bull, a satellite of the herd, retreated back into the ranks of the group that they all got out of dodge. The commotion stirred things up and the groaning herd bull fired off bugles as they vacated the area. Tracking was tough.
Once on his trail, blood was sparse, and I was going 90% off his tracks alone. I knew how to track and be cat-like in my movements to ensure I spotted him before he spotted me. I took my time. I moved slowly and methodically.
Then darkness fell. The blanket of night that slowly pulled over the china hat forest with warm and calm. It was the first evening of September and still quite mild. I was a few miles from my truck, and the bull's trail had crossed a road where I knew I could resume tracking from.
The walkback felt surreal. I knew I'd hit the bull somewhere in the center mass of his body, and had zero doubt that I'd find him. Eventually. I knew the area so well, and honestly the mild topography of the surrounding lands made travel and tracking easy.
It wasn't like the bull was going to drop off into a massive canyon and be lost forever. I could read the soil with ease and could not wait to get back on the tracks. I returned to my truck and drove to cell service where I called some buddies to join me in the effort. An hour or two later, my friends arrived and I led them to the place on the road where I'd left the trail.
With my hefty six-cell mag light flashlight, we followed the bull's tracks through the timber. His steps were very short at this point, and I sensed that he was stoving up. Just a short distance later, the thumping sounds of hooves kicking logs beaten to the air, and I shined my light ahead to reveal the bull lying on the ground. He had yet to expire, but had nothing left to give.
I approached from his left and stood beside the bull, my bow shaking in my hand. One last arrow would be needed, and I peered through the weak and shadowy beams of the flashlight to get a good angle on his heart. Halfway through drawing my bow for this final shot, something incredible happened. The cable which connected the wristband of my release to the trigger and caliper mechanism snapped.
My freed hand clobbered myself in the mouth as an arm full of 65 pounds instantly released. My arrow skipped off a log and sailed off into the black of night rattling through the trees. Fortunately, my buddy Pat had opted to carry his bow along, and he delivered a quick strike that put the bull out instantly. Ever since that crazy occurrence, I considered how, one by one, as I shot countless arrows for the first two years of my archery career, the small wire threads that made up the cable frayed and snapped, totally unknown to me as the cable was housed in a thick rubber sleeve.
When I drew back and held for an eternity on that bull, there had to have been only a few strands of wire containing my shot, which clung for what would be the last arrow the release could hold, miraculous by any major. My devotion to archery hunting was solidified by the success so early on in the journey. I was a bow hunter, a successful archer. I discovered a kind of success and victory that fulfilled me more than anything else I knew.
The world was a wide open book of opportunity and adventure as I imagined what else was possible. The hunt was officially on, in the sense that taking arrow and string to the wilds was my absolute calling, and every other aspect of this 19 year old life would need to make room. And for what it's worth, I bought a new release right away and selected one with a solid bolt threaded between the wrist and caliper, and I've been using it ever since. My name is Brian Husky.
Thank you for listening and coming along.