On the day of the trip, they were up before the sun, gathered at Ed’s place for a hot breakfast supplied by his wife Netti.
Braxton was standoffish, at first. But as the sharing of hunting stories started to circulate, he began to relax. Within time, he felt accepted in the group and the excitement of the trip began to affect him.
With a good meal under their belts and hot mugs of coffee in their hands, the men climbed into their rigs and started off.
It was a long trip, taking most of the day over a route they took every year. They followed the county roads out of the state, the dust rising until they reached Highway 26 in Wyoming where they joined the freeway east, winding among the mountains following the Snake River, south of Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
Then, about two hours into the trip they took an exit off the freeway and headed to Jensen’s cut off. It was on private property with a security gate, barring passage to those without a key. Ed took his out and opened the gate, locking it securely behind them, once they were through.
Traveling through the ranch, they turned onto Bull Hollow and drove through the thick forest. Once in a while, grand vistas revealed mountains covered in snow and beautiful valleys below, as the road climbed and scaled the terrain.
Coming at last to Forest Route 10125, they traveled south for another hour, passing meadows among the thick timber, as their 4x4 rigs continued kicking up the dust.
They were headed toward an old campsite they liked to use, when they could get to it. It lay at the end of an old, unmarked, service road they knew well. The elk were plentiful in there, among the brush and ravines of Mount McDougal, where large open meadows provided easy grazing for the herds.
“It should be about another half hour,” Ed told Pastor Tom as they turned down the last road on their trip, bumping and jostling over the rough terrain.
Several times they encountered washouts, which they were able to get over with their 4x4’s, after tossing rocks and dirt into the deepest of the ruts. Several fallen trees were encountered lying across the road from past storms. Cutting them up quickly, they rolled them out of the way, having no room in the trucks for firewood, and continued on. The road finally dissolved into a large clearing. A forest of tall, giant trees surrounded the camp site, creating a wind break and protection from any unexpected weather.
Though arriving later than they had planned, they had plenty of time to set up camp. Getting out the huge white tent, the men put it up and got a fire going in the wood stove inside the tent, its black chimney poking through the roof as the smoke rose lazily into the late afternoon sky.
Cots were setup, sleeping bags thrown on top, while some of the men added large wool blankets for additional warmth and protection.
An aluminum table was set up inside, alongside a couple of Coleman stoves. Lanterns were placed nearby, while ice chests were brought in with their food and cold drinks, along with large jugs of clean water for drinking. A stream flowed nearby for washing.
A clothes line was strung up inside the tent for wet things. They knew they would have plenty of things to dry after walking in the snow higher up, or wading through small creeks and wetlands looking for their prey.
Aluminum chairs with canvas seats and backs were set up outside, for now, around the old, fire pit. Harley and Ross brought out the kindling box from the pickup and set it next to the old firewood stack, left from the previous year.
A short search obtained more wood, which was cut and stacked on the old pile. The pit was prepared and set ablaze. Before long, a large fire roared consuming the logs greedily, its flame licking the sky and warming the men.
As the sun set for the day, the men gathered around the campfire, sipping coffee or drinking pop and talked of past hunting trips. The wind sang softly in the trees, while the aroma of the fire awoke a sense of wellbeing and contentment, from being outdoors and in God’s country.
They watched the flames flicking skyward as sparks and smoke swirled in a dance of its own, rising into the evening air.
“So, I understand this is your first time hunting Pastor Tom,” Harley remarked.
“Well, not exactly. I went hunting with my dad when I was young. But this is my first attempt at it in this country, and as an adult. Not sure if being older will make any difference,” Tom replied smiling.
“Where’d ya hunt before?” Fred asked curious.
“We lived in Africa at the time.”
“Africa! No kidden… with lions, tigers, and bears, oh my?” Fred teased.
“Yep. Hunted Thomson’s Gazelles mostly,” Tom told them.
“Cool,” Fred expressed his delight. “Did your dad ever get Buck Fever?”
“What’s that?” asked Pastor Tom.
“That’s when the hunter gets so excited and nervous that he can rarely hit anything,” he explained, snickering. “Their mind and body fall to pieces at the sight of a buck and they may wound it, not hitting anything vital.”
“I don’t think my dad ever suffered from it. He was a good shot and was always careful when he hunted,” Tom explained.
Harley brightened with a story.
“I’ll never forget the time I was hunting out in Montana, near the Little Powder River, with a new hunter. I’ll call him Chet to protect his identity,” Harley grinned wisely.
“The scheduled hunt was actually over. It was early Saturday morning and everyone had left, except for Chet and me. We had the rig all packed and ready to go, but Chet wanted one last chance at filling his tag. Who couldn’t blame him?”
“Anyway, I didn’t mind staying for just a bit. We had an hour before dawn, which is the best time to hunt. So I gave him one more chance and dropped him off at the northwest corner of the ranch and told him I’d wait for him back at the pickup.”
“We agreed to an hour hunt, so we could catch up with the others for breakfast.”
“The time came and went, but still no Chet. I was thinking he’d be back any moment, when the sound of three rifle shots went off out in the distance.”
“Oh boy, he’s shooting, I said to myself. I quickly jumped the nearby fence and ran toward where I thought the shots had come from. After about a half mile, I came upon Chet’s backpack and orange safety vest lying on the ground, but he was nowhere to be seen. That’s odd, I thought to myself. He must be marking a spot.”
“Continuing on, I soon found him on the backside of a saddle between two ridges. Chet was on the east side of the draw, searching. Oh no, I mumbled. He’s lost it!”
“Meeting up with him, he pointed in the direction the buck had gone. He told me it couldn’t have gone far. It was severely wounded. We spread out looking for it along the fence line. I expected to see it lying dead close by. Yet, there was nothing.”
“Within a couple of minutes, Chet spotted it on the hillside across from the fence, bedded down at the bottom of the hill. Well, at least we’d found it I told myself.”
“I grabbed my rangefinder and ranged the buck at 203 yards. There was open ground between us and the buck, so getting closer would be hard without spooking it.”
“But, since we weren’t that far away and within shooting distance, I told Chet to use the barbwire fence as a rest. He knelt down on his knees and placed his rifle against the fence post, along the barbwire. I grabbed my binoculars and anxiously watched the buck, waiting for Chet to take his shot.”
“As the shot rang out, I was viewing through my binoculars and saw it clearly… the first shot was low, hitting the ground right below the buck’s belly. The impact of the bullet spraying dirt up into its face as it lay there.”
“The buck didn’t even flinch! I couldn’t believe it! It must be hurt really bad, I thought. Looking over at Chet, I could see he was already preparing to take another shot. This time it went high and over the buck’s back, dirt flying everywhere. Still the animal didn’t move. It must be dying. It’s not going anywhere. So, we decided to get closer so Chet could put it out of its misery.”
“Climbing the fence we cautious
ly walked toward the buck. Once we were within thirty yards of it, we stopped and I told Chet to finish it.”
“Before he could get his sights settled on the buck, without warning, it jumped up and took off! The right hind leg flopping sideways as it ran, broken at the joint. What a sight. Boy were we surprised,” Harley laughed.
“Chet reacted quickly as he regained his composure and shots sounded off rapidly. He was blasting away at the fleeing buck. It was wild. Bullets were flying and the buck was madly running through the sagebrush. After the barrage of bullets, it ran about another fifty yards and dove headfirst into a patch of tall sagebrush! Good, he’s finally got it, I told myself!”
“As quickly as we could, we ran to the sage patch and there we found the buck lying on its side. For some reason, I had an odd feeling that the buck wasn’t dead. I told Chet so and told him to put another round into it. How many bullets you got left, I asked him. He said he had only two. Well, I told him you’ve got enough to get the job done.”
“We were about fifteen feet away from it by this time, when Chet took aim and shot. To my disbelief, he missed. I don’t know if he missed because he was out of breath from all the running or the excitement was getting to him. All I knew was there was only one bullet left and this would be the last chance. I didn’t have any with me, because I wasn’t hunting. I had bagged my deer the day before.”
“At this point I had a strong urge to shoot the buck myself. I started to ask for the rifle so I could finish the buck off, but then I realized that if I killed it, Chet would never have felt he did it by himself. This would be a tainted hunt for him, so to speak. So, I knew Chet had to do it on his own.”
“Suddenly the buck raised it head and stood up again. With the last bullet in the chamber, Chet raised his rifle and shot. Down it finally went and for the last time.”
“We went over and examined it and found several of the antler tines freshly shot off. We put all the puzzle pieces together and realized that Chet’s barrage of shots had hit it in the knee, once in the hind quarter, grazed it two times across the belly and taken off three of its antlers. That’s what knocked the buck silly and out cold for a short while, so he could finally finish the job.”
“Chet had gone to the last morning of the hunt, to the very last minute, to the last chance to fill his tag, to the very last of his bullets, before finally taking down that buck. That’s a first hunt for the storybooks!”
The men were now openly laughing at the follies of the new hunter, all except Pastor Tom, who thought it wasn’t so funny.
What a gruesome story. I hope I’m a better shot then that.
“I sure hope my first shot, will be the only shot,” he said firmly, concerned that he wouldn’t waste the life of an animal he was hunting, nor take the chance of it running off and suffering.
“That’s the best way to look at it Pastor,” Ed said. “It’s better to make sure of your shot, than miss and cause such turmoil. But, in the heat of the hunt it’s not always that easy.”
The men agreed and continued to share their hunting experiences.
Fred lit the cook stove and started dinner. After a good meal and friendly chatter around the fire, the men bedded down for the night to get a good night’s sleep, before starting very early the next morning.
Hunting Elk