Great day in Chukar country

Despite the mix-up in our reservations we were highly motivated to take advantage of the excellent weather forecast—morning’s in the teens, warming into the 40′s and no precipitation.  The only other thing we could have asked for that would have made the hunt more perfect was about a half-foot of snow a week before our outing to congregate the coveys and drive the birds further down the slopes.  As I glared up at the steep ascent required to get to the birds at the top of the rim rocked mountains, I know my aging body would have appreciated it.  Also, with the lack of accumulated snow at the upper elevations the birds were spread pretty thin in small coveys that were hard to locate over such a great span of open terrain.  Long story short, over two days of hard hunting we only saw slightly more than a couple hundred birds (about a third of what we normally see in past years) most of which flushed wild and out of range.  We were able to take 32 birds, but more importantly we took home some more great memories. The views were breathtaking and the dog work and companionship always makes the sweat, blisters, and soreness worthwhile.

Ochoco and some hard earned birds

About all you can load on a pack...

I’m approached a number of times per year to offer my opinion on “how and what” to take into the back country. I’ve gone two weeks into the wilderness, and friends and acquaintances ask “how?” I am no expert, I have just whittled-away over the years the things I DON’T NEED! And, every year after returning, I do the same thing over. This year I decided to remove a fairly bulky item—though light-weight—Deodorant! Yes, I’m down to removing two ounces and the bulk of a deodorant bottle. But, you have to keep at it. Yes, some years you’ll miss something or “think” you need something. Don’t leave behind the necessary items, just the unnecessary! Look, I smell really bad within the first ten minutes where I hunt anyway, so I found I rarely used deodorant—it just doesn’t help! The container is 1 ½” by 3” and weighs in at 3 ounces—Still, “what you don’t take, doesn’t weigh ANYTHING!”

Those that are using no-scent everything, “walk-in” on flat ground to a tree stand. I literally can’t move my pack without sweating, so what’s the point? “Watch the wind—that doesn’t weigh anything!” Carrying bottles of “No-Whiff” weighs pounds and takes up precious space–leave it home next time!

I’m continuously paring-down my gear to get more efficiency—multiple uses—from my gear. This is only one aspect of the gear-head’s mindset—and I believe there should be three. Three legs to the stool of function!

So, the first thing you should judge is cost. Most of us on are a budget. If you are not, then I’ll make YOU a third—stand-by. Can you change or modify the gear you own (at minimal cost), or not? I learned to sew by modifying gear that didn’t offer the “multi-use” concept. Yes I bought the item, only after years of searching for multi-use and ighter weights did I venture forth and learn to modify the gear I owned, before looking for new.

Secondly, reduce weight. I laugh at those that cut the handles off of tooth brushes. Why? Because I found it means a measly quarter-ounce of weight. You’ve heard the term, “penny-wise and dollar-dumb.” That is what cutting the handle off of a tooth brush is. Have you ever tried to brush your teeth with a really short handle? It doesn’t work! The same people will carry a 20° sleeping bag that weighs four pounds, in weather that never gets below 30° at night. Maybe they sleep cold.

Thirdly, reduce bulk.That 20° bag, it is 30% bulkier too! You can reverse the order, or not, it’s up to you, but pay attention.

Too much??

These are my three tenants to review each year. The above example is where I have arrived after traveling the back country for the last 31 years. I still suffer from the “Should I? What if I? I think I,” syndrome. We’re human, our brains can “out-think us!”

A concrete plan and a solid weather forecast, has helped me reduce more weight than my own wishy-washy mind! One year I traveled 13 miles one-way to my Bivy camp from a trailhead. I never took a shelter, just a light weight Bivy-sack. Why? The weather was forecast to be “high (high pressure) and dry.” I left the hunting area day five, leaving a five, six, and seven-point bull. The weather was 55° overnight at 5,500’, and 95° during the day. I literally couldn’t drink enough water, nor could I have moved 200# of meat out to my vehicle before it rotted.

Now, for those of you that are not on a budget. Your third point is: “Why are you reading this if you can afford to buy the lightest and most expensive of gadgets?!” Well, for me  function over form wins, and even rich guys have “average” stuff–because it works! Even the most expensive of gear and gadgets has it’s limits. Know your preferences, know your limits and embrace “your way!” I developed a pack system because of my way–I encourage you to find your’s too.

I see a number of backcountry hunter’s with”stuff” hanging-and-clanging from their packs. Now that I have a waterproof pack, I rarely carry anything on the outside of my pack.

More on these topics throughout the year.

Shasta looms..

I traditionally make two trips a year to see my brother and his family in southern California—one trip in July and one in February.  But, I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten older that I can’t stand the heat like I did when I was younger—when I could work in 90-100 degree heat all day, and loving every minute of it.  Don’t get me wrong; I’m still a sun-baby, I just prefer the sun beating down on me during the colder months of the year.  That’s why, for the first time, I decided to switch my July trip to December, giving me two excuses to hunt predators in the golden state.  

My journey always starts with a trip over to the Klamath basin where I try to call in a coyote before crossing the state line.  When I reached my Klamath destination for a morning hunt I was greeted with single digit temperatures.  The snow was so frozen and crusty, each step sounded like I was walking on bubble-wrap.  I still put in the effort which produced a set of large mountain lion tracks that were a couple days old.  Coyotes took a back burner at this point and I followed the cat tracks to see if they would lead to a kill.  I followed the sign for over a mile until they met up with some elk sign and petered out in a densely brushed creek bottom.  I knew stealth was impossible as each step breaking through the crusted snow echoed throughout the woods. 

It was time to head for the Shasta area and obtain my non-resident hunting license and bobcat tags (when hunting bobcats in California, only five bobcat hunting tags can be procured per individual).  The next morning I hunted some beautiful habitat below the snow line of Mt Shasta, but I found very little predator sign and called in no critters. 

The real desert arroyo

My next stop were the mountains about an hour northeast of Los Angeles where gray fox, bobcat and a few coyotes abound.  I decided to spend two full days there before heading further south to see my brother in San Diego county.  I had some new areas plotted out on my topo maps, but first I wanted to hunt my old honey holes.  I spent the first day hiking up familiar dry washes, steep draws and arroyos with tricklings of water.  I could tell the area was blessed with a wet Spring season as the vegetation was unusually thick throughout the mountains.  I only managed to call in one small gray fox who didn’t hang out long enough for a shot from my lead-free shotshells (condor country restrictions).  The one thing that made a slow day of calling more worthwhile than traipsing through some truly beautiful country, was a set of small bear tracks I found in one of the dry washes.  I was totally stunned to find bear sign in such an arid and non-typical environment, and one in which I have hunted for many years.  It was a great find for an avid bear hunter.  Overall predator sign was low however—not near the amount of sign I see in February where predators are paired up for the breeding season.  It was time to explore new ground.

Scouting out new potential call sites is always exciting.  Sometimes the new area pays off and other times it is a dead end.  The new sites I decided to explore on this trip turned out to be productive in terms of sign and habitat.  Before heading south I was able to call in three more fox, but was only able to take one.  I knew these new areas, in addition to my regular calling sites, would produce fur year after year.  Time to head south and hunt the Cleveland National Forest and the deserts adjacent to the Anza-Borrego.

My brother and his son started hunting predators this year and they took their first coyote before I arrived.  I stayed a week with his family and hunted both the mountainous high chapparrel country and the cactus/boulder-infested desert environs. The weekend I spent in the desert with my bro was exciting, but not-so-much for the calling activity—only one coyote came into our calls but never presented a shot opportunity. 

Max, all "buggy-eyed" to hunt

My brother races the desert circuit with his single-seater desert race vehicle.  He also has a ”truggy,” a four-seater pre-race vehicle he uses to scout out the race course prior to the event.  He strapped me in for a ride and we were soon reaching speeds over 100mph on such brutal terrain you would think the vehicle would simply fly apart.  It gives you a greater appreciation of the skill and abuse a body and vehicle must endure to complete a race sometimes several hundred miles long.  After the desert weekend, I spent the rest of the time in the mountains hunting fox and bobcat at elevations exceding 4500 feet.  I called in 3 more fox of which I took two.  At one point I set up in a small oak grove about a mile and a half from the trailhead and began my calling sequence with a bird-in-distress mouth call.  In less than five minutes a bobcat came tearing around the corner heading straight for me.  I had to turn slightly to make the 15 yard head-on shot with my stubby-Benelli shotgun loaded with #4 buckshot. He was a beautiful mature tom with great markings.  

The Ghillie guy...

Once again, coyote sign was minimal and it was now time to head back home with a couple more stops in central and northern California.  I only made three more sets on my way home but called in two more gray fox.  They were big males, and both critters came in on a string for an easy shotgun harvest.  California is a highly populated state, but with a little research and a lot of boot leather on the ground one can experience great expanses of some beautiful backcountry and maybe a little success along the way.

The Orion carrying two beauties...

His story below is a lesson for all of us.

Here’s his story.

 I learned a valuable lesson about being familiar with your instruments and tools for carving up your big game harvest.  Most of my knives are short, with rounded tips and when I hold the handle in my hand, I am able to hold my finger tip along the back side of the blade and the tip of the blade does not extend much more than 1/4-1/2″ beyond my index finger that is supporting it from the back.  My good friend, bless him, gave me a new knife to use on this particular hunt and he wanted me to “christen” it by using it on the particular elk I had just harvested.  It was a very sharp edge and very pointed and long and more sleek than knives I typically use.  A perfect dagger in waiting.  When I held it like I do my other knives, the tip extended 1 1/2-2″ beyond my finger tip.  I’ve gutted, quartered and skinned more animals than I can count with not much more than one or two nicks of a finger–like anyone–but never a true cut.  Always aware of my hands and fingers as I need them for my job.  I always work the blade away from me.   Well, as misfortune would have it, as I was kneeling awkwardly on the side of a steep canyon trying to process this elk while holding a portion of the front quarter away from the area I was working, the knife broke free suddenly and apparently stabbed my thigh, right up to the point of the knife where my finger was supporting the back end of the blade, so it penetrated my thigh just over 1 1/2 inches deep. 

This is what you do....

It was so quick and sharp I felt no pain and didn’t even know I was cut for a couple of seconds until I realized my thigh, knee and calf were quickly had warm liquid running down my leg.  It took my brain a second to process what could feel like that, and instantly realized I had cut a blood vessel in my leg.  I stood up, quickly pulled my pants down to see that my long underwear was already drenched in blood and watch two pumps of blood gush out with my heart beat.  I quickly sat down and pushed the gash closed with my hands and put direct pressure on the area and described to my hunting partner the various scenarios that could take place in the time to come and what he would need to do should I not be able to administer help to myself.  Having been a medic and surgical nurse, I knew to keep calm to prevent shock and continued the pressure and eventually made a make shift tourniquet.  I felt fine other than the bit of nervousness if my first aid did not work.  We gave the wound some time to stop bleeding, placed a belt over the wound that pinched the gash closed so I could make the hike to the truck, slowly and cautiously checking the wound frequently for any resurgence of blood.  Fortunately, my cut was parallel to my leg and the blood vessels and not diagonal or horizontal so the artery was not severed.  It was only just punctured or partially gashed open which allowed the blood pressure to keep blood flowing through the artery rather than running out with no other avenue of escape.
 
A couple things I learned:  I forgot to put my SPOT unit in the pack I took that day and if things would have been more severe for me, I would not have been able to use a valuable piece of equipment that I actually own, so that will always be with me where ever I travel in the mountains or high country, with friends or alone.  Secondly, use equipment and knives you’re accustomed to and are comfortable with, and especially use knives that are not longer than they need to be to do the job.  And lastly, no matter what your safety record or experience, sometimes processing game in the field puts you in a compromising position whether it be a steep slope or not, it’s not easy to access all parts of the carcass and we find ourselves bending over ourselves and hunched over in precarious positions while using knives.  

The kicker to this story, I had just a couple minutes before this incident told my hunting partner not to use his knife in a direction that brought the blade back towards him, so I was fully aware of that danger of inappropriate knife use.  From the excitement, I honestly can’t remember the vivid detail of how the knife came back at me, other than being in an awkward position bent over trying to get at the front shoulder on the side of that canyon, but obviously, I did do something wrong.  Those of my friends that know me, I’m over the top with details and safety…..look at me now.  Another statistic.  Damn it!!   I got lucky, and I know it.

What do think?

SiliPint is a revolutionary new cup, made of food grade Silicone.

Russ's first Elk

The trip is ten days door-to-door. Ten days doesn’t involve the preparation, loading, range-time, pack loading, etc. It is an all-day drive, boat prep, float and then nearly an all day hike to the Bivy-camp. Hauling meat can last days and involve elevation gains and losses like climbing Mt. Hood. And the final float-out can take two half-days (ten hours), and then an eight-hour drive home. It all equals constant motion; sleep is too short each night–days begin hours before daylight and end well after the sun sets. I typically shed ten pounds over the season.

Weather can be good or bad—bad weather is good, good weather can be bad, if you know what I mean.

The low pressure systems were due to arrive for the opening weekend. Blowing snow made the hike-in long and cold. The first three nights well below freezing and the first two days never got above that.

This is what we live for. But, when your house is on your back, it can add to the stress and fatigue of a ten day adventure.

This is our story.

Russ’ and I shoulder our Oregon Pack Works WholeShabangs!.  At 60 and 70 lbs. respectively, including our rifles, we set out for the top of the mountain range, extra clothes and calories locked-in food, our companions due to the forecast. Our goal is 4,500’ above us and that means hours of slogging. Trekking poles assist in moving us up the mountain, and help burn 40% more calories, but also lessen the impact on our knees. We arrived just before the horse-packers ride in—we’ve taken the one good camp for some distance, but feel our six hours of hiking justifies the site as the snow swirls around our head as we gather water and firewood for the next two-days.

We arrive early so as to have a Bull or two located prior to the opener, but nothing appears within hours of our location, and the hunters begin to show as we glass the surrounding drainages in order to have a game plan for Saturday’s opener.

Our packs are converted to Orions for the scouting trips and day-hunts that will occur. We’re carrying the twelve essentials as well as a nearly frozen gallon of water. Our drinking tubes freeze often so we have to blow back into the hose—preventing the water from freezing in the line—and the sloshing sound will soon drive me nuts.

Saturday ends with no shooter bulls located.

Sunday morning arrives below 20 degrees and with frozen boots. We proceed out the door trying to hold on to the heat from the back-pack stove as its in the teens and the sky dawns crystal clear. In route to our destination–over two-hours from camp–we locate a small heard of elk moving off the top of the highest ridge and we beat-feet to get a look at the group before they’re out of range—a 45 minute charge—hopefully it will yield something.

Once to the location of the herd “spill-over,” we range them at 250 yards below us. With only six cows and a spike, we run through scenarios at various distances and discuss shot angles and say no to the spike. Suddenly, I spot a six-point bedded some fifty yards uphill from the last elk in the group as they fed downhill. With the six point now on his feet I give Russ the prompt to hold dead-on and prepare for a shot. Once the bull gives us a broadside to quartering away presentation, a shot echoes in the high rim rocks initially confusing the group as to where the shot originated. All the elk are sniffing and looking for a reason to bolt, but none seem too excited—yet. Russ’s hit is in the boiler room, and he racks a second round to finish the bull before it mixes in with the group preventing a second and final shot. Once the bull drops he falls onto a small bench and then flips down a fifty foot free-fall and over a thirty foot cliff breaking his right antler off mid-rack, and into three pieces once a large elderberry arrests him on the 45 degree slope.

Russ is a 71 y.o. friend and former whitetail hunter from Michigan. Since arriving in Oregon 14 years ago he has wanted to kill an elk. He has hunted them for eleven years. Russ and I Nordic ski all winter to stay in shape for this. I convinced him to start applying for a tag and we would have an adventure of a lifetime. Two years ago was a shake-down trip for a spike without success, but lots of practical knowledge about the land and its requirements were gained, and two years later we drew the branch tags.

The measure of a trip has many facets. The need to kill, for some, is the only measure of “success.” Others, use a scale based on the unknown.  The idea that we don’t know what lies ahead is enough for me. My bull is the fourteenth elk I’ve taken. I still have half a spike elk and most of a Blacktail buck in the freezer. It seems that I don’t “need” the meat.

This leads to confidence...

But what I must have is an adventure. When the time comes to give the animal back to the earth, it is done ethicly, efficiently and humanely. The animal and its recovery then becomes the priority no matter the pain, the weather or the other human factors.

We care for the animal, worried about the meat even in mid-November, as many friends have lost game meat here this year and last, losses due to heat and bears. Heat shouldn’t be an issue, and with bears beginning to Den, neither should they.

Adventure to me, is a story that is yet to unfold—each day unfolds a chapter —until the drive home, when the stoies begin to come out as we rehash, and friends voice mails are returned.

We head for camp knowing that Monday will bring a bivy-camp move and a base-camp move. Tuesday an all day meat-haul is in order.

We break camp and pack the ice-laden tent and re-stuff our stuff. We make good time, as the 4,500′ vertical descent happens much faster than the ascent. Neither of us have knees that are screaming–thanks to the water, Glucosmine supplements and trekking poles.

We break the base-camp in record time and float at 5 mph average. In just an hour we are back at it setting-up a quick-camp, but know this one could last three to four days, so we make sure the tent is on level ground.

Tuesday is a 3,500′ hump to nearly the ridge top to retrieve most of Russ’s bull. Coming down that steep pitch will take as much time as climbing I’m afraid. No elk in the area for the most part, but we are busted on the way up by a small group of 37 with only a spike in it.

We’re relieved that Tuesday has ended with only a small amount of meat loss due to both, a cougar (odd) and a bear (also odd). The tracks in the snow are hard to read, but normally a cougar likes to kill and rarely eats carrion, where as the bear should be denning, but is likely to fatten up on a gut pile or two in the mild conditions of the temperate canyon.

Wednesday morning I fail to hear the alarm. It’s 0600 when I awake. I appreciate the extra hour and fifteen minute sleep-in, but hustle through my morning routine in fifteen minutes, as I know going to the top and back to retrieve the last amount of meat means at least five hours, and if I’m going to find a bull, needs to happen by 12:00 noon.

Fifteen minutes from camp, I’m head-down and moving with my trekking poles, when I pear to my left and in a shaded side-hill and notice elk–Oh God! They’re only ten minutes out of camp, and here I’m fifteen minutes from camp–I’m soooo pinned down!

So, I slowly move back down hill from my super-exposed placement on an open hillside. Over one-and-a-half hours go by before I’m out of sight as the last seven elk of a herd of fifty, feed out of sight.

Plans are made to stay on the backside of the ridge, as the canyon they’re feeding into is steep and I doubt they’ll cross-over. It is possible they’ll climb the other side, then I’ll have to play even more catch-up than I do now. So, I hump it up above them out of sight, anticipating the thermal shift any hour. I arrive. From my catbird seat I can now spot over fifty elk with one branch bull–0930.

I stay well hidden behind tall grass and an occasional over-grown rose bush, and lie on my belly to stay hidden. Elk at are ease and are going to bed for sometime. But I know I only have till about noon to make this happen, as Russ and I discussed the timing in order to depart and arrive on-time for work. Sure I can haul meat with a headlamp if I have to. So I set-up my position and get the rangefinder and start ranging various locales inhabited by elk. The nearest at 357 yards and the furthest nearly 410. I feel confident and that the ranges and scenarios are well rehearsed as I bracket the elk in the heavy-duplex Leupold scope as the hours tick by.

There is only one reason I can’t take a shot at the branch bull–a bedded calf at his stern! There is a calf literally in the lower portion of the target, and if I make a ranging mistake, that calf would take a bullet–so I wait–for the bull to get-up, or the calf to move.

11:30, a few cows are now asleep, and the bull stretches his head out and appears to fall asleep for a bit. I’m ready for the shot and think that the perfect time to shoot is when the bull is asleep, as it would take him just a moment longer to know what hit him, and a second shot opportunity would be likely.

The first shot--held high--the grazing wound; 385 yds

1201–The deadline: The calf moves her head back toward her back-end and the shot is off. All the elk stand at the sound of the shot, and the bull is acting much like Russ’s did when hit–but the “thwack” never came back. Was it a miss. Probably at 385 yards, but he’s acting really weird–like he’s hit, but when the cows start milling single-file and start walking away, he’s not following. He’s dazed, but did I miss? I wait for the broadside shot to appear and throw another round in the BAR magazine.

He presents with a broadside target and my homework pays off as the “thwack” comes back and the stagger. I’ve done it! My farthest shot to date–puts him at about 406 yards–thirty inches of drop. The bull staggers and is moving downhill as the bulk of the herd moves up hill. He’s standing dead, but I’ll shoot one more time and he spins at the hit and tumbles about three-and-a-half rolls and then comes to a stop on the steep side hill.

Through the Aorta; 406 yds

The radio crackles as Russ chimes in, “how big is he?” I state that he is a six-point and if he could find the trail and head-up as soon as is convenient we won’t have to desend with heavy packs in the dark. Russ acknowledges and begins preparations for the climb.The bull is quick-quartered before Russ arrives, and the photos, the short-story and the the Orion packs are loaded. Half the bull and the head will remain and we’ll pick it up in the morning before we float out.

Thursday dawns cold and clear, even at 1000′ elevation, it must be 28 degrees. We get an early start as this day will be almost as long as tomorrow, but with a toast of Single-malt scotch and a camp fire.

I'll take it! 1:00 minute after the bell....

We break camp around 11:20 and we row hard to catch the current. The GPS reads 5.5 MPH. We have to average 4+ MPH to make good time. Days are short and eveninigs cool, so setting up a camp quickly off a boat is an hour-and-a-half job. A large white-sand beach is found; each trip down this canyon is somewhat different as the spring floods scour and tier the beaches like the North Shore of Oahu in winter time. But we locate a large fire ring and a semi-buried wood pile and begin unearthing it to start a fire.

Oh, just to sit for an hour. This level of “go-go-go” we’ve held for the last eight days reflects my normal pace in life that started once the business launched. This trip–a metaphor of my life–successful, but at a cost, reminds me constantly of the “need” to slow down. Even here it is difficult, as I find myself more guide, than relaxed “hunter-guy.” But tonight it is sweet. We set-out to kill two bulls, and the odds were against us yet we worked harder than I have on any past trips to this sacred land–even the mountain bike year with a foot of snow–and we succeeded.

Everything in the coastal woods seemed to occur late this year, from the weather to the ripening of the foodstuffs to animal movement across the board.  The first couple weeks of October were wet, just the kind of weather one would hope for the last two weeks of the season.  But the remainder of the month was generally mild, and so was deer movement—I was barely able to find deer tracks, let alone a deer .  It wasn’t until the first of November that I started to see an increase in deer activity, as if a switch was turned on.

At first light, I was working a half-mile stretch of game trail along a knife-ridge surrounded by big secodary-growth timber and a thick understory when I popped out onto a small, logged-off opening enveloped in a thick fog, limiting visibility to less than 30 yards.  I decided to wait out the mist in order to glass the brushy meadow for bedded deer—it was a long wait.  Three cold hours later the fog lifted and I was dissappointed that no deer were visible in the opening before me.  However,  across two draws, about 400+ yards away, I spotted another similar opening that was twice the size.  There, I spotted a bedded buck that was one of the prettiest blacktails I have seen to date.  He was laying in the shadows on the red mulch of a decaying old stump, and the colors of his throat and face were striking even at that distance.  He had two distinct white throat patches on his brown five-gallon bucket-sized neck, the white of his muzzle went from his black nose all the way past his eyes, and the toupee at the base of his alder-stained rack was jet black.  His rack was as wide as his ears, but at least two times as tall.  I just knew he had to be a 4-point or bigger, but as hard as I tried I couldn’t make him out any bigger that a huge forked horn—a special kind of blacktail in their own right.  The sun finally showed itsself for another bluebird day and I could see the shade of the buck’s bed slowly giving way to the encroaching glow of the sun’s light.  As soon as the sunlight hit the buck he was up, and what a speciman he was.  I could see the large rack clearly now, glistening reddish-orange from the stain of alder; and his blocky, chocolate-brown body shimmered like a wet seal.  He was absolutely beautiful.  About this time, a doe rose to her feet 20 yards from the large forky and a smaller forked horn came over a rise 50 yards from the other two.  The large forky decided that was close enough and chased the smaller buck into the timber never to reappear.   The large forked-horn shadowed that doe for another hour as she played coy before both bedded down again for the remainder of the morning.  I had no way of making a stalk to their position, and I wasn’t sure if the property I was looking at wasn’t on private ground, so I just accepted the observation as a great encounter and left it at that.  Besides, I had lots more public ground to cover.  At 0-dark:30 that evening, as I was hiking out of some bottomland, I bumped a small doe out of a thick patch of timber.  I immediately swung my binocs up as another deer followed, but it was too dark to see any details on the second deer except white on the nose and throat area—it had to be a buck.  I knew where I was headed first thing the next morning.

A foggy dawn broke and I was already in position for a slow stalk through a thinned stand of 30 year-old timber within a quarter mile of the deers’ evening position.  I worked my way to a small grassy meadow not more than 30 yards wide and 50 yards long.  I set up just inside the dark timber, crouched down next to a tree among the tall sword ferns, and made a series of soft grunts from my grunt tube.  Twenty minutes passed when not 10 yards to my right I heard two loud, quick series of what sounded like grouse wing beats. Now let me digress a bit; and for those of you who are upland bird hunters with long-eared companions, you will understand.  When I’m at that intense moment of an imminent flush hunting upland game with my close-working, floppy-eared Labradors,  they will, without fail, get a tickle in their ear that makes them shake their head violently, slapping their ears against their medullas and creating a sound that replicates the flush of a bird, making my heart skip a beat.  This was the sound I just heard next to me in the deer woods.  I couldn’t see over the ferns, but a minute later there was a beautiful, young forked-horn standing broadside twenty yards in front of me raking a cedar sapling.

Pretty Coastal Blacktail

Beggars can’t be choosers—the shot was true and I had some delicious venison on the ground.

No pack needed here...

Number Three in 2011

I reserve the month of August strictly for hunting bear eventhough the soft mast crop doesn’t ripen until the end of the month.  September is my time to hunt archery elk, and in October I’m after blacktails with a rifle, but bear hunting is my passion so my eyes are always peeled for bruins during my pursuit of ungulates.  I told myself at the beginning of the Fall season that I would not take a bear under 200 lbs and, of course, that’s all I saw—16 to be exact.  Eventhough mid-October is later than I normally like to hunt bears, I just didn’t have it in me to give up without taking advantage of the late huckleberry crop and mild weather. Besides, deer hunting was slow and I had a promising late-season, berry-laden area in the SW region.

By early evening on 10-20 I quietly approached the north face of a steep draw that runs east to west, a 10+ year-old reprod unit heavily brushed with every bear attracting berry bush a bruin could ask for.  But at this time of the year it is the mountain blueberry that reigns supreme, and there were plenty of them at the peak of ripeness.  My goal was to make a stand at an old rotted stump on the north face and glass the south face for bear activity.  I made it to the stump without a sound and set up.  Before I even pulled the binoculars from my Bino-Bro I could hear movement in the brush 200+ yards across the canyon and I had to smile—I knew that sound meant a feeding bear.  At the very top of the opposite ridge I instantly spotted the bear as he slowly worked his way down the slope and towards the tall timber bordering the reprod unit.  As he stopped to grab a few mouthfuls of berries I could see he was a decent bear, probably close to my 200lb minimum.  It’s always fun and informative to watch bears and I was in no hurry, so I decided to observe his antics before deciding to take a shot.  At one point he decided to lay down on an old, whitened deadfall and eat from a prone position, but he kept looking downhill from his perch. Even at 230 yards I could tell it was something that intrigued him rather than concern him.  When he got up he moved directly into the big timber, and for the next half-hour I could occasionally hear him as he continued to work his way down the steep slope.

I thought maybe I had lost my opportunity at taking this bear when I heard more movement a couple hundred yards to my left midway up the south face of the same unit.   I glassed until my eyes were sore as I heard brush popping several more times, but I couldn’t spot the elusive hooligan.  Finally, a black head surrounded by a sea of bright yellow thimble-berry leaves poked out for a brief instant.  I followed his movements as the brush he was buried in moved once in a while.  Eventually, he climbed on a large, rotted old-growth stump and was reaching as far as he could for a limb covered in dark elderberries.  I almost laughed out loud as he had to catch his balance a few times from falling off the stump and possibly roll a ways on that extremely steep incline.  He was a smaller bear, so my attention went back to the first bruin who seemed to be moving back towards the reprod unit, and the area that caught his fancy from up above.  He finally emerged from the second-growth timber at mid slope and was now only 150 yards from my position.  Not only was he closer, but he also entered a patch of ground that had the best visibility in the entire unit.  I could now see what had interested him from above—an especially thick grove of huckleberry bushes.  What an amazing sense of smell.  At this point I decided I would take this bear, and he obliged me by climbing atop another large, white log framed between two 15′ fir trees, and then standing there perfectly broadside.  I placed the crosshairs on his left front shoulder and touched it off.  The shot from my Ruger .30-06 thundered through the narrow canyon and the bear didn’t move a muscle.  He just stood there.  I couldn’t believe it—the hold felt solid and the shot true.  I thought the thunderous noise would at least cause a reaction, but there he stood.  Of course, this was all being processed in my brain in mere seconds as I rechambered a new round, took aim and fired a second shot at his ribcage.  He never took a step.  He just tumbled off the log and barrel-rolled down the hill until the thick brush put an abrupt end to his forward momentum.  I heard one short moan and the bear was still forever.

I knew I had my work cut out retrieving this bear with only an hour-and-a-half of daylight left.  As brush-choked and steep as my side of the hill was to navigate, I knew the south facing slope was steeper and more impenetrable.  As I crossed the darkened creekbottom, I was immediately subjected to clawing my way with hands and feet through 70 yards of inch-thick blackberry vines tangled between fir trees and every imaginable pucker brush a reprod unit has to offer.  It was literally a wall of vegetation on a pitch that was nearly straight up.  It took over an hour to get to my bear, and it was nearly impossible to take a photo without the bear sliding downhill.  That done, I knew I couldn’t process the bruin on that thick slope, so I used the bear’s weight to tunnel my way back down to the trickling creek.  Another half-hour later I made it back down to the creekbottom, and it was pitch black.  With the aid of my headlamp and all the fixins’ in my Orion pack,  I had the hindquarters bagged in my Orion by 9pm and the rest of the skinned bear on his back cooling for a morning recovery.  That night I called my friend Nate who, once again, graciously offered to meet me at first light and help pack out the rest of my bear.  Nate also did an exceptional job handloading the cartridges (using my favorite bullet, the Barnes TSX) I use in my .30-06, so we were both curious as to how the bullets performed.

Beautiful Black Bear

The field autopsy revealed that both bullets hit exactly where I had aimed, and it was determined that the shock from the first bullet’s impact literally rendered the bear immobile.  We loaded our packs and pushed up the north slope, ending another successful bear hunt.

A fine first try

MY first…Blacktail that is, is as good a memory as any other “first.” First home-run, first blue ribbon, or your first……Ummhh..you know what I mean!

One happy guy

Two weeks prior to the opening of the 2011 archery elk season I was walking up a game trail that sidehills a draw which empties into a larger river basin in the central Coast Range mountains.  I was scouting for Roosevelt elk and wanted to see if they had yet moved into my favorite meadow at the end of the aforementioned trail.  It was early morning, and halfway up the trail I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard a raspy bugle bellow from across the draw not two hundred yards away on an impossibly steep brushchoked and timbered southfacing slope.  I stood there and listened in delight for a half hour as he bugled a half-dozen times, raked trees, and tried his best to impress the cows I now heard softly chirping in that temperate jungle.  In the area I hunt it is quite rare for me to hear more than a few bugles the entire season let alone this early.  I decided to continue on to the meadow, upon which I entered to another encouraging sight.  On the open slope overlooking the meadow stood a four-point bull feeding within a few feet of three blacktail bucks (two spikes and one wide forked horn).  I could still hear the faint bugles of the bull down the draw, but the rag-4 and his three companions paid him no mind.   I left so as not to disturb the area any further, deciding to return a couple days before the opener and see if the elk were still hanging out there.

The fall beauty in the Coast Range

On Wednesday morning before the Saturday opener I was sneaking back into the meadow when right at the forest’s edge I caught movement in the pre-dawn mist.  I stood statue still and only moved my eyes.  There, feeding peacefully a mere 20 yards to my right was the 4-point, but 80 yards across a shallow rocky swale lined with alders was a larger bull with cows.  I could only assume this was the bugler.  When the 4-point’s eyes were averted I slowly lifted my binoculars from my Bino-Bro and glassed both bulls.  The 4-point had a weird rack like “Roosies” often do, with brow tines that hooked sharply down like sagging twigs and velvet hanging off his upper tines in ragged shards.  His rack looked a mess, but his body was big, sleek and muscular.  The bigger bull was just that—a heavier bodied 6×6, with a rack one might typically see on a RM elk.  The fifth and sixth point were by no means very long or deeply forked, but a beautiful bull nonetheless.  I stood there for nearly an hour until the herd melted back into the cool dark timber, the 4×4 always keeping his distance from the bugler and his harem.  Now I was really getting excited for opening day.

Wouldn’t you know it, opening day had me in the meadow well before daylight but no elk showed all day.  This day, and nearly all the days throughout the season, were hot and dry.  I took extra precautions at scent control and hunting into the wind.    Walking on dry alder leaves is akin to chomping on potato chips, so most days I stalked in my stocking feet (three pairs of thick wool socks) tiptoeing my way between bare spots—quiet as a mountain lion.  Half way up to meadow on the second day I heard the big bugler, but he was a cagey one.  He had moved his carcass and his cows across the river canyon onto unhuntable private property (he taunted me every morning and evening of the season with his song—he never moved from that one spot).  I continued my way into the meadow and started glassing the openings.  In a hidden part of the valley I could hear a large animal shuffling through the half-dried wild sweetpeas and it wasn’t long before the 4×4 showed himself.  He was already moving up the slope to the timber when he stopped in the middle of a particularly large patch of sweetpeas at the edge of the forest and began feeding.  He was at 180 yards.  I quickly devised my plan of attack which would include over a quarter mile hook to get directly above his position.  I knew the dried knee-high sweetpeas and alder leaves were formidable obstacles, but over an hour later I managed to sneak within twenty yards of his feeding site without hearing him spook.  I peeked over the edge and he was gone.  Then I heard movement just inside the timber and I inched closer into the wall of vegetation.  We were both at a standstill for what seemed like a half hour and I kept searching for any movement or hint of tan and brown, and then I saw the tips of two antlers sway ever so slightly at only 12 yards away.  The rest of him was just over a steep drop-off and I had no option except for him to move forward and onto my level.  I could tell from the position of his antlers he was facing me and knew something wasn’t right, so any movement on my part was impossible.  Well, as is usually the case, the wind finally gave up my position before he made a fatal move, and he busted out of there expeditiously.  By midseason, the 4×4 picked up a lone cow, but both were weary.  I had several more visuals, but always moving away at long distances into areas that were unstalkable.  I just had to be patient, so I hunted several other locations, got into several more bulls, but could never close the distance for an ethical shot.

I felt I was starting to pattern the 4×4′s movements via sightings, rubs and use of a small wallow.  I’ve always wanted to take a bull on my birthday, 09-20, but that day passed without even a sighting. On the evening of the 21st however, I entered the meadow yet again and soon spotted the lone cow feeding nearby, and this time, heading in my direction.  I just knew the bull was not far behind so I waited patiently. It was nearing darkness and she had already passed me perfectly broadside at 20 yards, but I was confident he would soon be on her tail as I had seen several times before.  The cow was well past my shooting comfort zone when she snapped up her head looking up the slope.  From the edge of the timber 160 yards away the slippery raghorn emerged on a small well-used game trail and remained there till darkness fell.  I did manage to sneak out of the area without alarming the two and I just knew they would be there at first light the next morning.  They weren’t.  I then decided that the bull would use the same game trail that he used the previous evening, so I set up next to some huge boulders and cleared my only shooting lane free of sweetpeas for a 30 yard shot.

At 7pm I heard a large animal heading in my direction from the timber above and soon I saw the tips of antlers peek over the strewn boulders.  It was a matter of timing now with less than a half-hour of shooting light left.  I kept begging him to move a little faster as he picked his way from flower to flower.  I could now see the cow move in behind him and I prayed that she would not overtake him and give up my position.  I think she egged him on because he started to walk faster and before I knew it he was at my 30 yard mark, broadside with head down in a pile of pea-plants.  I drew back without a hitch and buried an arrow right behind his left shoulder.  He baled off the edge of the earth down the near-vertical embankment which would take him to the meadow far below, and a hell-hole of the creekbottom beyond that.  I immediately made a couple of cow chirps and I heard him instantly stop somewhere in the middle of the slope.  All was dead quiet except  the cow started walking towards me exchanging glances between my position and the bull.  Several seconds passed and then all hell broke loose.  It sounded like a huge rock slide and I realized it was the bull dying on his feet and plummeting 100+ yards down the slope.  The cow then bolted up hill from whence she came, barking the whole way until she faded out of earshot.  I walked over to where the bull disappeared over the edge and I could clearly see the swath of downed grass and sweetpeas to his final resting place, in the middle of the only house-sized blackberry patch in the whole meadow.  I crawled into the middle of that hellish briar patch and saw over a quarter-ton of elk tangled up in a ball with berry vines, like a rat’s nest in a levelwind reel. Even with that high-speed, near-vertical downhill tumbling mass, the bull was no match for the briar patch—it stopped him like a big net.  I cut away one-inch vines from around the antlers and legs until the elk broke free and plummeted the remaining 30 feet to level ground.  The fall down the slope was so violent the skull cap around one antler broke away and left the antler hanging off to the side held only by the hide.  As I set up my bull for processing I noticed his right eye was missing with fleshwounds on his eyelid and face which appeared several days old.  It then occurred to me that he probably got a little too fresh with one of the bugler’s cows and paid the price.  No wonder then, that when the 6×6 moved across the canyon the 4×4 stayed behind—he didn’t want another ass-woopin’.

The "best" part of the hunt

These lone pack-outs get harder as I get older, so I decided to head home and call my bear-huntin’ bro Nate who has always generously offered to help me pack game.  His wife, Jamie, informed me he was at a meeting so I waited several minutes before calling back and said I would go ahead and take care of it myself and that I would call back the next day and inform them how it went—I never told her the location of the downed elk.  To illustrate what honorable people they are, once Nate got home, Jamie informed him of the situation and with her blessing he was out the door and on the way to my house when he noticed my pickup parked along the way.  I had half the elk quartered when I heard whistling down the trail.  I whistled my “Marco-polo” response and before I knew it a green headlamp was bobbing up the trail.  Nate had taken several wrong turns going up the mountain (remember he had no idea where I was and had never been there before), but there he was in the middle of the night to help me pack out my elk.  Not only that, but he had just spent 12 hours that day pouring and finishing concrete, and had to be up early the next morning for more of the same.  All I can say is “WOW”—what a guy and what a wife!  I had a great time with Nate—we were done packing by 2:30am.  The only thing better, would be if I could return the favor.

Another Pack-out for the Orion