My final trip of the 2013 season, my last chance of finding the big bowl I'd lost a week earlier. And there's snow. Cutting through endless sheets of fall transition, my imagination played a loop of events from the season thus far. More than enough elk were available each time I'd set forth, and my buddy's Bobby and Will had been along to witness some epic days of running elk commotion.
I thought of the many big bowls I'd drawn in to Arrow's Reach and the haunting ordeal from the week prior, which hung over me like the clouds that drenched the region I ventured into once again, solo. Recalling the peering gray light of opening morning and every other morning after that, I pretty much found elk to hunt each day I'd been in the field. Opportunities were there to be made, as long as I kept at it. Kept working, glassing, calling, tracking, climbing, searching, and trying.
I made all of those things happen to the best of my abilities, and was for the most part rewarded accordingly with chances to cut my tags. It really was a season of elk hunting at its best. Big, focal bowls, relative solitude, with great friends along to film. What more could a guy ask for?
As gravel roads swirled over the September snow line, the snake I drove upon turned from brown to white. I felt warm inside, embracing what I had been fortunate to experience this season thus far. And I was happy to acknowledge and even proud to appreciate all the wonders Idaho's backcountry had given to me. I'd engaged in many great calling dialogues with elk over the season, which by itself is intensely rewarding.
But it's hard to feel grateful for long. When you've won a marathon, only to have the finishing ribbon vanish as you lean forward to break through it. In addition to the big bowl I'd lost, I struggled to feel content for it in other mid-season encounters that turned fucking right before my eyes. Like a huge tax return lost in the mail.
In IRS responding, tough luck. Maybe you should have worked harder. This stud bowl was one of several we'd been glassing from across the canyon. Following several hours of thoughtful, strategic calling, I'd successfully established something of a relationship with the bowl, and he finally committed to a head-to-head battle.
His bugles let us know that he was coming, and we maneuvered into position for our ambush. Will and his camera peered over my shoulder. While Bobby perched 30 or so yards above and behind us, the wind was perfect. The setup was perfect.
My composure wavered, like a flag in the breeze, as motion of the bowls feet appeared on the trail that passed not 30 yards away. I focused on the tree I'd used as cover to draw my bow when the bowl passed behind it, and the broadside 24-yard shot that I knew I'd sink. It was like watching a bobber go down in deep water. This bowl was on the hook, and all that I had to do now was simply reel him in without tripping on my shoelace, fumbling the rod, and dropping it into the water.
His rack slid casually into view, but then it suddenly froze, and locked in one direction. He was already within range, and only needed to continue a few more yards for my first shooting window. He barts in my heart's sink. A barking elk is saying, Whoa, what the fizzizzle?
I see something that is not right here. What are you? Like spoken in plain English, I heard the bowl continue. I see you whatever you are up there, but I can't smell you, yet.
I saw motion in your form, and I'm going to hold back here and bark to try to make you move again, so I can be absolutely sure you are indeed a living thing, and probably a threat. I'll stand here at this safe distance until I can get the wind to push your true identity to me. And just where is this cocky little bowl that was popping off talking shit while I was in the bottom of this canyon. And all the drunken horny cows that were shooting their bikini tops at each other?
Where are they now? Why is it totally calm and quiet here? Okay, hey guys, what's going on? I get the feeling this is a trick, and I'm not coming any closer until I see or smell an elk right here right now.
Now I knew the tables had turned, and I was in a standoff. I began trying anything, even calling to the bowl at point blank when his view of me was blocked. I knew better than to expect the bowl to accept my calls and resume his saunter towards us like he'd been doing. But at this point in an engagement, anything is worth a shot.
There was a sliver of chance he'd step into an opening that could perhaps serve as a shooting window, but I knew this was highly unful. I imagined the bowl now saying, nope, didn't think so. Peace out, jokers, not your sucker. Standoffs with elk are common when calling them in or trying to sneak into their midst.
And this encounter was typical of how they unravel. The three of us stood on our trembling knees and shared accountability for our forced-down failure. It was hard to be disappointed in the moment. Being in the presence of a big bowl like this, while the wind pushed the scent of his licorice musk in our direction for a change, it's a rare and intensely wild experience.
And I think we were all pumped to be there. This is the only grunt tube I've ever had also. And I'm really keeping stuff I've had for a long time. We just get making this interesting.
I've only had one malt. I've had this for 26 years. And to keep it and stop it, I've had to get it once. You've been up here calling through the walls for four or five hours.
Across the canyon from where we were at, they talked back. I'm really good at going to the block in the pocket. That sounded fantastic. So, the old fells me, I've got to try this on the grunt tube.
I blew a couple of hauls on this one and it was like, wow. Now, I'm kind of a hard sell when it comes to products. Like, honestly, a grunt tube is a grunt tube is a grunt tube. I figured, you know, what's really the difference?
Well, I blew on this thing and I couldn't believe actually how good it sounded on top of that. This bullet was over here cranked back in response. So, we sat there for another 15, 20 minutes. I've got a couple more casts with this too.
These little button up. The next thing we knew that bullet was over here. It was inside of 100 yards of this. So, I don't know.
I mean, how much products really played a part in this, but I got to tell Corey, Jacobson, this scratch tube kicks ass. That's all. I want one. Will gave me that grunt tube, carrying on the tradition that his dad began and giving me the face mask and grunt tube so many years prior.
I still use them both, by the way, here in 2020 as I record this now. In the dark of night, I arrived at my parking spot deep in the high desert canyon with the occurrences of my season rolling over and over in my head and I was grateful. But there was one big bull out there I still needed to find. Dead, real life.