Marriage changes everything. After 40 years running solo, my time my own, and a lot of it spent hunting, it seems Cupid finally beat me in an archery contest. After a couple years of dating, which mostly consisted of her tolerating my hunting stories, I married Sherry in June. I expected life would look different, expected adjustments, but hoped I could still sneak away for a hunt here and there. I was a bit shocked and excited when she informed me she’d like to come with me on my next adventure. My typical backcountry/DIY/grunge mode of hunting suddenly got a lot more…interesting.
For the second year in a row, I found myself holding a Montana either-sex elk tag. However, this wasn’t the late rut rifle tag I’d burned my points on last year. This would be a tough-going, hot weather, deep-and-steep mountain archery hunt for pressured elk with a lot of competition from other hunters. Not the kind of hunt a smarter man would use to ease his new wife into the idea that DIY hunting is “fun!” As we packed supplies and planned for a week in the mountains, I ran scenarios in my mind. Better to focus on a great experience with her than to burden us both with the pressure of tagging out. I decided if a bull gave me the opportunity, great, but I wouldn’t hold out for a big one and I wouldn’t be bummed if we went home with just memories. This would be a new kind of adventure for me…for us. I spent the rest of the summer getting my bow and my muscles back into tune.
Before we knew it, August rolled into September and we were driving the many hours from our home in North Idaho to the prairies and mountains of Montana. Eventually, asphalt turned to gravel and then to dirt beneath the wheels of the truck. As expected, hunting rigs were tucked into almost every pull-out on the Forest Service two-track. We found a space near the end of the road, but I knew it would be a lot of work to escape the competition. I would need to hike three to five miles into the non-motorized areas if I wanted to get clear of the tent camps and foot traffic. I don’t mind a rustic, backcountry, dirt bivouac, but I wanted a relatively comfortable truck-camping experience for Sherry, and that meant long daily treks into the more remote hunting areas. I didn’t mind the extra nocturnal miles, and as a trade-off, the end-of-the-day table fare took a huge step up in quality!
The day before the opener, we hiked a wide loop through the area. We scouted a few long, thin valleys littered with cow patties and fallen aspen trees. We found some elk sign but nothing fresh. Where’s the beef? Crowding out the elk, that’s where. I would need to push further back into the mountains if I wanted to get clear of the occupied grazing allotment. Sherry decided she would rather explore the rocky valley behind camp the next day.
She was still sleeping when I drained my coffee cup and slipped into the early morning darkness. Several miles later, I heard the first whispers of distant elk songs on the still air. I picked up speed. They were here…for now. I knew it would only be a few days before the elk felt pressured and headed for private ground. Time was not on my side, and I couldn’t afford to pass up opportunities. I was nearly running in the dark, bugles getting louder. I broke into a grassy valley just as it was light enough to glass the elk on the far side. Thirty to 40 head streamed through the field quickly, already on the move and agitated. A shrill bugle from further down the valley was clearly fake. I was too late. I spent the next hours playing cat and mouse with mostly unseen elk in thick trees as they moved up the ridges toward bedding areas. The ground was crispy and noisy. The wind was swirling in the rising heat of the morning. My soft cow calls were being ignored. I backed out and returned to camp.
I was only at camp long enough to grab a bite and gear up for the evening. The elk had moved further from the road, and I would need to be fully five miles back if I hoped to locate them again that evening. I told Sherry she should not expect me for dinner and to go to bed without me. If I were back around 10 p.m., I’d have no elk. If I got back around 2 a.m., I’d have an elk down. If I wasn’t back by morning, then she was allowed to get worried. As I headed back up the mountain, she settled into a camp chair with a book.
I’d crested a ridge five miles from camp by late afternoon. Below me, a narrow, grassy valley was shaded on both sides by gnarled old Douglas-fir and ponderosa pines. The grass was tall and free of cow patties. A stand of aspens in the meadow shaded a small spring. There were a few springs in the area, and some were showing signs of elk activity with fresh tracks and wallows in the mud. I checked the spring and followed the soggy ground to the edge of the meadow. Sure enough, a small pool with several fresh wallows around it. I hadn’t heard or seen any elk since the morning, but the heat was intense and I knew they would be laying up on the ridges. In a couple hours, activity would pick up. Maybe a bull would remember this spring and come down to freshen up his perfume before date night. I gauged the wind, stacked a few fallen branches at the base of a tree, and settled in for a sit with a good view of the wallow less than 30 yards away.
Hours later, the last rays of sun left the meadow and the air started to chill. Game time. Half an hour before dark, a branch popped on the ridge behind me. Hooves crunched the dry ground. Three cows and a calf strode into the meadow 150 yards above me, and a bull screamed down at them from the hill. I craned my head around to see him as he broke cover. He was nice! I didn’t think he would leave his cows and come down to my position, though. I watched them feed, just enjoying the beauty of the scene. He wallowed in the wet grass near the spring but seemed unsatisfied with the outcome. Like a dream, he turned, left the cows, and swaggered toward the little pool near me. Time crawled. I was ready, but he would need to come all the way down for a broadside shot. Slowly, cautiously, he strode in, waded into the mud, and started slurping dirty water. Was this really happening? My heart was thundering, but my arrow quietly slipped through both sets of ribs. The bull jogged up the hill opposite the wallows and stopped, looking back at the scene. I was able to watch it all. Coughing. Wobbling. Tipping over, antlers rolling back. Unreal! The cows in the meadow gawked as I whooped and ran up to the bull. Opening day and it was already over! I got close to the bull and realized he was good. Really good! The short tines in the back weren’t big, but they made him a 7x7 and easily my biggest archery bull.
Sherry woke at about 2 a.m. as I opened the camper door. I had blood under my fingernails and a pack full of meat to unload. She was excited for my success but much less excited to sleep next to someone smelling like I did now. I told her it would get worse before it got better. With two to three days of meat packing ahead of us and hot days, it got much worse. Two days and dozens of miles later, we had everything at the truck. Sherry had helped me with two trips. She can walk faster than many men on flat ground, but a Michigan childhood doesn’t include much mountain hiking. The steep trails slowed her pace, but she was determined and persistent. I was grateful for the help and the company. Far beyond my expectations, we headed back to Idaho with memories, meat, and great set of antlers.
I love hunting, and I will continue to, but a life is built on many loves. Luckily, they’re not all mutually exclusive. We grow, we adapt, we adjust to the demands on our time and resources. We blend our priorities where we can and thank God for his gifts in whatever form they arrive.
And who knows, Lord willing, maybe the first line in my next hunting story will read, “Kids change everything.”
For the second year in a row, I found myself holding a Montana either-sex elk tag. However, this wasn’t the late rut rifle tag I’d burned my points on last year. This would be a tough-going, hot weather, deep-and-steep mountain archery hunt for pressured elk with a lot of competition from other hunters. Not the kind of hunt a smarter man would use to ease his new wife into the idea that DIY hunting is “fun!” As we packed supplies and planned for a week in the mountains, I ran scenarios in my mind. Better to focus on a great experience with her than to burden us both with the pressure of tagging out. I decided if a bull gave me the opportunity, great, but I wouldn’t hold out for a big one and I wouldn’t be bummed if we went home with just memories. This would be a new kind of adventure for me…for us. I spent the rest of the summer getting my bow and my muscles back into tune.
Before we knew it, August rolled into September and we were driving the many hours from our home in North Idaho to the prairies and mountains of Montana. Eventually, asphalt turned to gravel and then to dirt beneath the wheels of the truck. As expected, hunting rigs were tucked into almost every pull-out on the Forest Service two-track. We found a space near the end of the road, but I knew it would be a lot of work to escape the competition. I would need to hike three to five miles into the non-motorized areas if I wanted to get clear of the tent camps and foot traffic. I don’t mind a rustic, backcountry, dirt bivouac, but I wanted a relatively comfortable truck-camping experience for Sherry, and that meant long daily treks into the more remote hunting areas. I didn’t mind the extra nocturnal miles, and as a trade-off, the end-of-the-day table fare took a huge step up in quality!
The day before the opener, we hiked a wide loop through the area. We scouted a few long, thin valleys littered with cow patties and fallen aspen trees. We found some elk sign but nothing fresh. Where’s the beef? Crowding out the elk, that’s where. I would need to push further back into the mountains if I wanted to get clear of the occupied grazing allotment. Sherry decided she would rather explore the rocky valley behind camp the next day.
She was still sleeping when I drained my coffee cup and slipped into the early morning darkness. Several miles later, I heard the first whispers of distant elk songs on the still air. I picked up speed. They were here…for now. I knew it would only be a few days before the elk felt pressured and headed for private ground. Time was not on my side, and I couldn’t afford to pass up opportunities. I was nearly running in the dark, bugles getting louder. I broke into a grassy valley just as it was light enough to glass the elk on the far side. Thirty to 40 head streamed through the field quickly, already on the move and agitated. A shrill bugle from further down the valley was clearly fake. I was too late. I spent the next hours playing cat and mouse with mostly unseen elk in thick trees as they moved up the ridges toward bedding areas. The ground was crispy and noisy. The wind was swirling in the rising heat of the morning. My soft cow calls were being ignored. I backed out and returned to camp.
I was only at camp long enough to grab a bite and gear up for the evening. The elk had moved further from the road, and I would need to be fully five miles back if I hoped to locate them again that evening. I told Sherry she should not expect me for dinner and to go to bed without me. If I were back around 10 p.m., I’d have no elk. If I got back around 2 a.m., I’d have an elk down. If I wasn’t back by morning, then she was allowed to get worried. As I headed back up the mountain, she settled into a camp chair with a book.
I’d crested a ridge five miles from camp by late afternoon. Below me, a narrow, grassy valley was shaded on both sides by gnarled old Douglas-fir and ponderosa pines. The grass was tall and free of cow patties. A stand of aspens in the meadow shaded a small spring. There were a few springs in the area, and some were showing signs of elk activity with fresh tracks and wallows in the mud. I checked the spring and followed the soggy ground to the edge of the meadow. Sure enough, a small pool with several fresh wallows around it. I hadn’t heard or seen any elk since the morning, but the heat was intense and I knew they would be laying up on the ridges. In a couple hours, activity would pick up. Maybe a bull would remember this spring and come down to freshen up his perfume before date night. I gauged the wind, stacked a few fallen branches at the base of a tree, and settled in for a sit with a good view of the wallow less than 30 yards away.
Hours later, the last rays of sun left the meadow and the air started to chill. Game time. Half an hour before dark, a branch popped on the ridge behind me. Hooves crunched the dry ground. Three cows and a calf strode into the meadow 150 yards above me, and a bull screamed down at them from the hill. I craned my head around to see him as he broke cover. He was nice! I didn’t think he would leave his cows and come down to my position, though. I watched them feed, just enjoying the beauty of the scene. He wallowed in the wet grass near the spring but seemed unsatisfied with the outcome. Like a dream, he turned, left the cows, and swaggered toward the little pool near me. Time crawled. I was ready, but he would need to come all the way down for a broadside shot. Slowly, cautiously, he strode in, waded into the mud, and started slurping dirty water. Was this really happening? My heart was thundering, but my arrow quietly slipped through both sets of ribs. The bull jogged up the hill opposite the wallows and stopped, looking back at the scene. I was able to watch it all. Coughing. Wobbling. Tipping over, antlers rolling back. Unreal! The cows in the meadow gawked as I whooped and ran up to the bull. Opening day and it was already over! I got close to the bull and realized he was good. Really good! The short tines in the back weren’t big, but they made him a 7x7 and easily my biggest archery bull.
Sherry woke at about 2 a.m. as I opened the camper door. I had blood under my fingernails and a pack full of meat to unload. She was excited for my success but much less excited to sleep next to someone smelling like I did now. I told her it would get worse before it got better. With two to three days of meat packing ahead of us and hot days, it got much worse. Two days and dozens of miles later, we had everything at the truck. Sherry had helped me with two trips. She can walk faster than many men on flat ground, but a Michigan childhood doesn’t include much mountain hiking. The steep trails slowed her pace, but she was determined and persistent. I was grateful for the help and the company. Far beyond my expectations, we headed back to Idaho with memories, meat, and great set of antlers.
I love hunting, and I will continue to, but a life is built on many loves. Luckily, they’re not all mutually exclusive. We grow, we adapt, we adjust to the demands on our time and resources. We blend our priorities where we can and thank God for his gifts in whatever form they arrive.
And who knows, Lord willing, maybe the first line in my next hunting story will read, “Kids change everything.”