Even though these columns are labeled “opinion,” much more often than not they are really just observations, both young and old; meaning instances I have observed, some a long time ago and others more recently. This column is going to depart from that practice a little bit in that the reader will also find opinion herein. More specifically, they will be my opinions about some of my observations over the past few years.
While some opinions can take a positive tone, others tend to be more along the negative lines, and unfortunately, the following thoughts will not be all that positive. Be forewarned.
Just this past week, I spent three days elk hunting near the South Pass end of the Loop Road above Lander, and I have to say I really enjoyed that time. Rolly Cox, my high school math teacher described elk as “those mythical creatures.”
I don’t think they are mythical, but to me they are ghosts of the forests. Although, last week I didn’t fire a shot at one of those apparitions, I did have an opportunity. On the morning of my second day, I arrived at the spot I usually park to begin my hunt. When I stepped out of my pickup, I was immediately overpowered by the smell of elk.
Any elk hunter will recognize that odor. It somewhat resembles the smell of a barnyard, and is easily mistaken for that fragrance. Therefore, as the area was saturated with black angus, I dismissed the possibility of elk nearby and proceeded to collect all my gear necessary for a morning away from my truck. Having accomplished those small tasks in a few minutes, I then started humping toward the top of the ridge.
As I considered myself a few minutes late for the prime glassing time, I let myself be in a hurry to arrive at a predetermined spot to glass the surrounding country just before dawn. As a result, I was not as careful as I should have been, and in the gathering light, I bumped into a cow elk about two hundred yards from my truck. I was hustling along a game trail, (as much as a sixty-four year old man can hustle) uphill of course, and turned a corner in the trail and glanced up the hill. Not more than fifty yards distant, standing in the trail, an elk stared down at me. As I raised my weapon of choice, she vanished in an instant.
Even though I knew the futility of the effort, I followed her tracks in the moist sandy soil until she entered some rocky country, where I lost her trail. That hopeful effort pretty much burned the prime hunting time of early morning. I spent a couple more hours optimistically exploring likely looking pockets of mixed aspen and limber and lodgepole pine but without even seeing any fresh elk sign.
In the afternoon, I hunted a nearby area where I have encountered elk in the past. Thick trees dominate the terrain, with small open areas interspersed here and there. Hunting slow and methodical and expecting a close encounter is the only path to success. A hunter looks not for the whole animal, but for bits and pieces and colors that might suggest the presence of Mr. Cox’s “mythical creature.” A nonhunter might be surprised to know that binoculars are a must for up close hunting.
As the sun was inching toward the western horizon, my binoculars picked up an image of elk hair not far up a small hill thirty yards distant. Closer examination also revealed an elk leg and its attached hoof sticking out roughly parallel to the ground. My heart sank and I knew, upon closer inspection, what I would find.
A few seconds later I was pondering the carcass of what was only a few days previous a regal and impressive, fully functional five point bull elk. Although certainly not of trophy standards as they relate to Boone and Crockett, the animal’s antlers were the picture of nature’s effort at symmetry and perfection. Its bloated and grotesque form could not hide the fact that not long ago this animal epitomized the essence of wild places, and is one of the reasons why we hunt them in wild places. That and the fact that elk steaks prepared just right on the barbeque are nothing short of sublime.
I did not linger long, as the odor of rotting meat, although not overpowering yet, might attract animals I’d rather not shake hands with in close quarters, particularly those of the ursine variety hoping to wax fat before taking a long rest during the coming winter.
A completely healthy elk does not die of boredom, particularly during rutting season, and as I walked away, awash in feelings of loss and regret, I could not help but think that the person responsible for this animal’s demise must be experiencing those feelings exponentially more than me. At least I hope he or she is. I did not move the animal, but the side visible to me did not have any outward signs of wounds, but there is no doubt in my mind that this animal did not die a natural death.
Most hunters, if they stay at it long enough, will experience the heartbreak of losing a wounded animal. I have, unfortunately more than once, and I can assure you that that experience can ruin a hunter’s desire to finish out the season and question himself if he should be hunting in the first place. Rationalizing that nature wastes nothing doesn’t take the sting out of knowing an animal did not die quickly and was not recovered.
Which brings me to the opinion portion of this column. We hunters, as a group, must do a better job of preparing ourselves for the hunt, and a necessary part of preparation is to know our weapon and ammunition of choice thoroughly, and we must become proficient with their use, and we must continue to practice with that weapon in the off season to maintain that proficiency.
The last game animal I lost was an antelope I wounded with a large caliber handgun. About twenty years ago, and for several years after that, I had applied for and received an antelope license in the South Pass area for a muzzleloader/handgun season that opened in late August and remained open through early September. Each year, I had successfully filled my tag with one of Rugar’s finest double action revolvers until the year I made a poor shot and did not recover an antelope I had wounded.
The experience left such a bitter taste in my mouth that after the season ended, I cleaned the weapon and placed it in my gun safe. There it remained for the past fifteen years approximately, until I sold it this past summer, probably for less than it was worth, but I didn’t care. The weapon remained a deadly piece of machinery, but I had completely lost confidence in my ability to use it proficiently.
I don’t miss it, and have successfully used rifles since that time; but even those weapons have changed. Instead of bolt action rifles, which are, and have been, the most popular weapon of choice for big game hunters in America, I now mostly use single shot rifles in what I am sure most rifle people would consider obsolete chamberings. This year, the rifle of choice is chambered in 30/40 Krag, but I have others in 30/30 Winchester, 35 Remington and 25 Remington, each chambering more than a century old. The choice to use those rifles forces me to approach game animals to within 200 yards or closer before I choose to shoot, and with only one round immediately available, I must make it matter.
One piece of equipment I will never change is a good quality rifle scope. I have used rifles with iron sites successfully in the past, but when one considers the parentheses of legal shooting light, those few minutes in the morning and evening when a hunter awaits the sun’s rays or they have disappeared, I can no longer see them clearly enough to use them ethically.
These words sound a lot like preaching, and I wanted to avoid that. I don’t expect anyone to replicate my decisions, but they have worked for me. Yet, in the past few years I have encountered two other previously wounded elk in the same area. The last elk, a nice 5X6 point bull was still alive, and a well placed shot relieved its suffering two years ago. Its meat has provided countless meals over the past two years.
However, there are those who consider themselves to be hunters but lack the ethics to prove they belong, and they are the folks who disturb me the most.
My first experience with the results of one of these so-called hunters occurred a decade and a half ago. A calf elk was shot and left to rot in a large meadow during the late cow season. Finding the elk first and then tracing the blood trail in the snow back to its origin, I could see that the elk had traveled only a short distance before expiring after being shot. I’m assuming, because it seemed obvious, that whoever shot the animal either didn’t want a calf or didn’t want to make the effort to retrieve it. Either way, the person responsible for its death, cannot in any responsible way, call themselves a hunter.
Neither can the lout who left a wounded doe antelope to suffer and die three years ago near the area of Beaver Rim, which is where I found her while hunting sage grouse. After parking my pickup at a stock pond, I began a long circular walk. Near the spot where I planned on turning back toward my vehicle, I spied an antelope. As I approached within about two hundred yards, the animal did not run, which is not normal behavior for those animals as I was completely within its view.
Curious, I walked closer. I could see the animal struggling to move. When I approached to within a few yards, I could see the poor animal had two shattered hind legs just above the knees. The day, along with being the opening day of sage grouse season, was also the opening day of antelope season.
I can speculate what happened but I won’t publicly. I do know that it is impossible to shoot at an animal, break both its hind legs, and not know it. Whoever was responsible chose to leave a mortally wounded animal to suffer for hours.
Not having an antelope license, I hustled back to my truck and drove to a spot where I could call the game warden. None were readily available, but I was asked to wait until one could arrive. One did as soon as he could, and I led him back to where the antelope was located. Several hours had passed, and when we drove up to that location the animal was already dead.
His disgust, mixed heavily with mine, left us without words for a few moments, and then he offered this statement, “I see so much of this, I can’t even hunt anymore.” Strong words, but I can understand them.
He then vowed, because the animal had recently died, to save as much meat as possible for those in need. A saint, indeed.
While we hunters can’t claim sainthood, we should all strive to better demonstrate respect for the animals we hunt. We do that by becoming proficient with our weapons of choice and by making every effort to recover any animal that has been wounded, no matter where that path may lead. We also need to report any illegal behavior we encounter in the field in order to weed out those who feel that by purchasing a hunting license they are entitled to break the law.