The Elk Skull in My Tree

The summer of 2013 was abnormally wet in the Rocky Mountains of central Colorado. Record rainfall, I believe, only to be broken in 2015. We had planned to hunt the high country, if possible, in anticipation of good grass up there.

We started out the archery season targeting high country mule deer. After what was quite possibly the heaviest, hardest pack-in I have ever endured (as a civilian), for a four-day hunt, the afternoon weather rolled in. Although a wet year, we were not certain we would find water as high as we intended to camp, so we carried several extra liters apiece. We ended up being able to gather water from a pocket of melting snow. Over the course of our hunt, in late August, we received rain every single day, snow, hail, sleet, and thunderstorms brought us strong gale-force winds. When we made our way off the mountain after four days, Joe and I had each made stalks and taken shots at above average bucks. Bringing one off the mountain with us just was not in our cards. I can say this about the high country: if your alarm clock has never been the pre-dawn calls of a white-tailed ptarmigan, you are missing something great and spectacular. We didn't bring out any meat, but I still remember this as one of my greatest hunts, ever.

The next week, we targeted elk. Another four day hunt. Joe hit a drainage with Aron and I went into a drainage by myself a few miles down the range from their position. I parked at the end of a 19 mile dead-end road, the last three miles of which took 30 minutes to navigate in four wheel drive. I was the only person there. I do thoroughly enjoy the vast, remote solitude and loneliness of such places, but it can mess with your mind. It's not a "normal" situation in today's society and I do not get to do it as much as I would like. It takes a little contemplation once you are there to be okay with it. After all, you simply cannot get these experiences from the couch.

I was consistently in elk, trying to get ahead of their next move, to no avail. I was unaware, until I came out of my fortress of solitude three days later, that Joe and Aron had both tagged on their first afternoon and evening. I moved and spent a day in their drainage before I headed home for the weekend. On that one day, I experienced just how ghostly a mature bull elk can become. I happened into a small box canyon-like pocket surrounded by aspens with a small, open meadow in the middle. I wanted to stay there, forever, but since that was not possible I decided to sit and enjoy this place for a little while and call for elk. I moved about slowly and meandering making cow and calf calls for twenty minutes or so and then sat on a rock for about thirty minutes. After no calls in reply and no sound, sight or smell of elk, I decided to move on. I made it just across the meadow into the edge of a thick patch of spruce when I spotted him in my peripheral, coming in on a string. A nice, mature branch-antlered bull. I had less than seconds to react and make a decision. My only shot would be to squat and have a 25-30 yard shot at his vitals. As the proverbial story goes, he stopped just shy of the opening. I stared, intently, unmoving, as minutes passed. Half-cocked to draw and squatting on my heels, fatigue was becoming unbearable. He had not moved a muscle. I gave in as I lost feeling in my lower legs and leaned forward onto my knees. He made no reaction. I finally decided to ease out my three power range finder... he was not there. Right before my eyes, as I was watching, well within archery range, he disappeared. He got away without me knowing while I was watching. I will forever be humbled by this experience.

It was still raining every single day. There was no staying dry. The following week, I went back for another four day stay. Joe and Aron were planning to meet me at a predetermined rally point (RP) the day after I arrived, about four miles bushwhack, from the trucks. On my way in, I zero'd in on what turned out to be three moose cows. It was exhilarating to make the stalk, heartbreaking to get within range and realize they were not elk, and humbling to share the mountain with such awesome creatures. They were not concerned in the least by my presence, as if fully aware of the elk tag in my pocket. I sat down for a few minutes. As I wolfed down a snack, letting out some cow and calf calls, I realized I had left the RP coordinates at home. I had not marked the map (I knew the vicinity) and I do not make a habit of using a GPS. Though I was reasonably certain I could get where I needed to go, there was no trail and I had never been there. Somehow, I had enough signal to call my wife, Becky. I copied the coords and packed up. As I stepped off, literally within a few steps, I heard elk talking on the mountainside not far below me. As I studied the situation, a young 5X5 began to materialize in front of me in response to the calls I had made earlier. He was closing in quickly. I managed to nock an arrow without detection. Without even having time to range anything, I was poised to draw, back and arms tense in anticipation. He stopped behind two small aspens blocking a vital shot. "Under 30 [yards]," I thought to myself. He casually turned his head and made eye contact. I made no movement. No sound. Breaths short, shallow and focused; my eyes frozen, unblinking - all in hopes to appear as nothing more than maybe a tree stump. It didn't work. He whirled and disappeared within seconds. As much time as I'd spent afield chasing elk (this was my fourth archery elk season), I thought, "Well, there goes my only opportunity."

It started raining again. An hour or so later, I found a dry area, about 3ft by 3ft, under an ancient spruce. No telling the fires, storms, snow loads and drought this old tree had survived. "Thank you," I expressed to the old warrior tree, and I prayed in praise to God for these places and experiences. I wanted to check out a couple small flats, identified by topo map (again, never been to this area), in the opposite direction I needed to go. I stashed my pack next to my new-found tree friend, marked it with the GPS and headed off. Within a couple hundred yards, I had passed a wallow and some good, fresh sign. "Those elk I saw probably came from here," I thought. The second flat I investigated was a decent small meadow with good grass so I decided to sit and call. Within a few minutes, it sounded like a horse was barreling through the timber in my direction. An elk calf whizzed by and kept going. I still have no idea what happened there. After a half hour or so of no activity, I headed back toward my pack, probably a mile away. On the entire trek to the flats, I had been making calls, thinking I might sound like a few cows and calves out for a stroll. I should not have been surprised when I thought I glimpsed an antler through the trees. The forest floor being soaked made for ideal still-hunting conditions. My adrenaline instantly spiked. I slowly eased backward to see behind the boulder I had just passed. A minute, not more than two, of hyper focused, snail-like movement and intensely picking apart tree limbs at various depths resulted in the conclusion that it was a limb I saw and that my mind had tricked me.

I started off around the boulder and came face to face with a small four point bull, maybe ten yards away. He immediately spun and bolted down the hill. "Crap," I thought, "there goes my only other opportunity." I heard cows chirping and mewing and knew the hunt was not over. The hunt was still on. I slipped through the trees a few yards at a time, scanning the forest floor for noisy debris to avoid and planning my steps in stride for a stealth approach. Everything was soaking wet after weeks of consistent showers; conditions were ideal for a fairly aggressive stalk to close some distance. I was close, but could not see a single darn animal, but could still hear them. I paused, crouched, in a naturally open shooting lane. As I listened, observed, studied and planned my next maneuver, a bull stepped into the lane. His head was down, behind a large, wind-sheared, tree stump. I probably had a confused look on my face when I realized I was free to stand, range him -47 yards- and draw without detection. I settled in on my target and loosed the arrow. You cannot mistake the sound of a good hit. I listened to him crash through the timber a short distance and stop. Silence. More crashing. Violent coughing. At this point, I knew he was done. A fall. Brief thrashing on the ground. And again, silence. From the time I shot to the final silence was easily less than one minute. After all this played out, a second bull stepped out, a little further down the lane. This bull dwarfed the first, well into the 300s. A third bull stepped out, even bigger, then a couple more raghorn bulls. It was amazing. I was in a pseudo state of shock of knowing I had just killed my first elk and what I was seeing in front of me. I stood in silence as they made their way across, as if nothing had happened.

I never found my arrow, and even came back by myself another time to look for it. Complete, double-lung pass-through. What a blessing. There was not one, single drop of blood to track, either. This was worrisome at first. I tracked the bull by his hoof prints. Bull elk can take long strides! Again, the wet ground was another blessing. I found him in about 100 yards. Joe came up to help me field butcher and pack out the meat. We went back three weeks later to pick up all three of the skulls. Mine is hanging in a tree in the front yard. I see it every day and think about the mountains and all the splendor found within.