Knife Education 101: Karl J. Findling
Once the many big game seasons ended this fall, stories were passed-on, and one of those I have to write about here. I have heard of a number of serious injuries from knives while field-dressing our kills, but this is the second one that I know of. It too became a fight-for-survival. At the Central Oregon Elkcamp this August, I met a number of new OPW friends. One of those was a fella that won the Orion pack that was donated to benefit the Hunt of a Lifetime. NOTE: The author’s name is not shared here.
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.
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The Deadline Bull By: Karl J. Findling
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.
Max’s Meanderings: (Another) last minute Blacktail for 2011
I cut my teeth hunting deer nearly 40 years ago as a traditional archer. In so doing, I learned to hunt deer as my mentors Fred Bear and Ruben Powell, up close and personal as a still-hunter. I never hunted deer with a rifle until 10 years ago, and I only did that to spread out my hunting seasons a bit more evenly. But even as a rifle hunter I kept to my old ways and what I knew best, and that was to still-hunt blacktail deer along game trails in tall timber and along brushchoked draws that these deer call home. I never did gravitate towards hunting clearcut/reprod units which is the norm for most rifle hunters of blacktails. Consequently, the deer that I have harvested in those 10 years have been at ranges less than 100 yards, and more than a half-dozen at less than 30 yards. This year was no exception.
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...
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Max’s Meanderings: Bear number three for 2011
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.
My first Blacktail Buck(Adventure). By: Karl J. Findling
- 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!
- Not so intimidating…
Packing commenced, (I did notice later that I’m the only one in thirty miles either side of me that camped in a tent)maps acquired and kisses to those I love, and I was off. I was off like a Prom-Dress. The drive was rather pedestrian–no traffic for a Friday evening before the deer rifle-opener, and the openess of an adventure that is just beginnning–no expectations other than pure experience.
- Why aren’t I smiling?
The rain subsides by 5:00 a.m. and I’m up for coffee and a quick breakfast before donning the headlamp for a mile hike to the “huntable” area a ways from camp. Still no tracks in the muddy game trails. I’ve seen two fresh buck tracks and they look like yearling Mule Deer buck tracks. I wonder, ” is this a mature buck track?” Only two tracks in three full days?
- The whole buck on the Orion pack
Then, a buck captures my eye, and it appears to be a forked-horn, but at eighty-yards I’m guessing, but will shoot a legal forked-horn as I only have another 24 hours to shoot my first Blacktail. So I follow his path until a shooting lane appears and make the decsion to shoot a frontal-quartering shot at fifty-yards as the six does may give-up my location and the gig’s up! I get the first 150 grain Nosler Partition right behind the shoulder–and he stops–he’s a four-point–so, a second shot is racked, but not fired as he turns and faces away and a Texas-heartshot is all that’s offered. I wait, then a second and larger four-point noses-in as if to say, “Hey buddy, did’nt ya hear that rifle shot?” then eases away from the buck. The does all turn and do their “whitetail” flag-run and bound away.
Max’s Meanderings: The (whole month of) September Bull
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
Let’s look at the “system”…
We get many emails asking how the “system” works.
So, we’ll post some photos of the DIY backcountry way, then we’ll downsize it for the guy that “can’t” do it like he used to.
WholeShabang! is 23 packs in one!
So the WholeShabang! was created because no commercially made pack could do what “I wanted.” I had an early design and found Dan the co-owner (that makes ALL of our beautiful packs!) at an archery 3-D shoot. We created the first pack in 2001.
By 2004 my first traditional-archery killed buck “helped” change the design. Dan was working on making a Search and Rescue pack that could essentially change the suspension to fit the various torso ranges that accompany volunteer groups–short-torsoed petit women, to over-weight retired men.
We had that proto-type by 2006–but we weren’t a business for three more years–it worked on this Bull!
2006 Bull proved we had something
By 2008 friends wanted our “pack.” We made one for a friend–he’s bought two more since and now wants a photographer’s pack.
Mike wearing the "second" pack we made--2009 Orion without stays.
We sold 12 packs in 2009 and started the business in August. We launched the on-line store in March 2010.
Now, we have great fabric, great features–like eight improvements for 2011–and a great percentage of owners that have “killed” using our system. We are hearing about 98% of you think it’s “the most comfortable pack you’ve ever owned!”
My new running partners–Or, just great Mule Deer Stalking shoes!
Baby I was "Born to Run"
This Morning I awoke to 50 degrees and a renewed energy to run–again. I’ve been “plagued” with injuries and it just doesn’t seem fun anymore!
But, last Friday I finished “Born to Run,” by Christopher MacDougall, it is awesome!
RESET: August 21st, 2010
I had a horrible case of Plantar Faciitis, and walking (especially when I got out of bed)–let alone running–just plain hurt. I had gone to REI to find some last minute items for the opening weekend of archery, which was one-week away. I found a pair of Vibram Five Fingers on sale.
So, I thought that they would make great stalking shoes for desert Mule Deer.
So, I started walking around in them and fell in love. Day two I hiked Tumalo mountain, which is about a 45 minute anaerobic hike here in Central Oregon. It’s about 1,500 vertical gain.
So, the great news I got rid of my PF in FIVE DAYS!! And saved the $120.oo per visit to the physical therapist. And again, how much for orthotics over the years as well?!
My feet felt great, so great that I kept wearing them for the remainder of the fall. Including six-hour days in New York City, in October–on concrete.
So, today I report my FIRST run in the Five fingers! One year to the day after purchasing them.
So, I’m ditching the orthotics in all of my shoes and boots. I’m just hiking in boots when I have to. I’ve had orthotics since an achilles injury 12 years ago. Plus, various running injuries from a track (sprinting, not distance) career spanning 10 years which I’ve had two Podiatrists, shin splints, plantar faciitis, and too many other aches and ailments to list.
I’ve lost the strength in my feet just as Christopher describes, mostly from my Salomons–which I love!–But, the truth is my feet have gone from 8.5 in High School to 10.5′s at 47. Just as the book depicts, my feet are getting lazy–as if in casts–atrophed!
I want to lose weight and learn how to run like a kid again! I remember running like Chris explains in the book when I was 10, 12, 14 years old. Then it happened: An injury–a Stress Fracture. It happened at an indoor meet in Moscow, Idaho in 1980. I was 16. I’ve had injuries every year since–if I ran. I recall the entire track team at Western Oregon loading up and going to the beach for track workouts and we even had a cinder track back then. We’d run like loose dogs on the beach–we felt young and free-like kids run, with no stress on our bodies. It made us strong no matter if we ran in the soft sand or the packed sand. Guess when I got an injury running at Western? When we put spikes on for the first competition on a rubber-asphalt track!
So, distance running has been low on the list of fun workouts. This year a ruptured bicep tendon brought home the bad news again–I need “weight-bearing” activities. I’ve shunned them because of injuries and now I’m injured because I went too far the other way avoiding high-impact activites–especially running. Over 75 days on Nordic skiis this year is great, but too one-dimensional.
So, wish me luck at adding a few more dimensions to my workouts–you won’t find me in the gym still, I’m guessing.
Good luck archers and stay healthy!
Max’s Meandering’s: South-Central Leftover tag=Bear Two, for 2011
I’m back and as the late Paul Harvey would say: “And here’s the rest of the story.”
Max Bear Two
In some Native American cultures it is believed that black bears roaming the dark woods possess the reincarnated spirits of long lost deceased relatives. I had just taken my second bear for the 2011 Spring Bear season—this one in the South Central region, an area deep in the heart of traditional Indian country, steeped in tribal lore derived from centuries of trials and tribulations between tribes and non-tribal entities alike. At 1:30am, the night after killing my bear, I woke up with a jolt staring at the ceiling of my tent and breathing hard. I had just had a dream: I was living in a rickety old shack with my dad who was suffering from the last stages of a mastesized prostate cancer. We both heard yelling outside our little hovel—the neighbor lady (it turns out to be Roseanne Arnold of all people) was screaming at another neighbor. My dad struggled to go outside to investigate as I followed trying to convince him he was too sick to leave. Once outside, he hobbled to a creek that separated our properties and I could see he started to weaken and was going down. I ran over to him, scooped him up and ran back to the shack to put him in bed. On the way back, while cradling his body in my arms he whispered in my ear, “this is it—I’m going now—I love you.” I started crying saying, “I love you too” (we never expressed this verbally our whole lives). I quickened my steps, but like in many dreams, I wasn’t getting anywhere. I finally made it to the side of the bed and laid him gently down on the white linens, but I could see that he had already died in my arms. I was heartbroken, begging him to wake up as I scooped him back up hugging him tightly. When my sobbing had ceased I slowly pulled him away from my body and back onto the bed and realized, I was no longer holding my dad, but the black bear I had just killed the night before. True story.
Once again, weather was the real story this spring bear season—some good, some not-so-good. I arrived at my campsite, the sun shining long enough to set up my wall tent with all the fixins’. I still had enough daylight to look over some areas I had scouted two weeks prior when four feet of snow blanketed my favorite bear hot spots. There was still plenty of snow that hampered access to some areas, but I was pleasantly surprised that green-up had finally taken hold in several meadows and swampy locations, and that the hunt would be on. Between intermittent sun breaks; rain, snow and hail dominated most days of my two-week stay.
It wasn’t until my third day of hunting that I spotted my first bear. My daily routine started by getting up at 3:30am, stoke up the wood stove, get another hour of sleep in a warm tent and then be out the “door” at 5am so I was in position to hunt just after daylight. I basically hunted all day every day, from “see” to “can’t see,” taking a mid-day nap in some dry hollow in whatever swamp I just happened to be in. At 6:30am on the third morning I was still-hunting a very dark patch of jack pine timber when I caught movement of a bear about 60 yards ahead of me. He cut across my path at right angles and I knew he was headed towards a nearby creek. I turned around, found the stream, crossed it and proceeded to follow it to a grassy meadow where I thought the bruin would emerge. Well, somewhere along the way he decided to make another right-angled turn and before I made it to the meadow I caught his movement again, but this time he was traveling directly towards me. I was exposed on a large patch of frozen snow so I just knelt down at the edge of the creek as his body passed behind two large lodgepoles. He moved through the timber like a shadow, no sound, looking bigger with each step he made in my direction. The small trib between us somehow comforted me into thinking that this was some kind of barrier that would thwart a head-on collision. When the bear finally emerged from the black canopy of jack straw 20 yards in front of me on the opposite side of the stream, he paused. I looked over the top of my scope and I could see he wasn’t so big after all, but a perfectly furred sub-adult cinnamon bear—really too small to shoot at this point. I think we were both wondering if he would/should cross the stream into my lap, but he decided to move along the opposite shore and then back into his dark world of thick timber. That was the jump-start I needed for the rest of the week.
Spring Gree-up
The next day I was looking over some different country a little higher in the mountains to see how far up in elevation green-up had spread. I entered a very small, half-acre clearing in the early afternoon and found the grass was sparse and only about three inches in height. Elk had already been feeding in the meadow so my hopes of finding any bear sign was minimal. Low and behold, tucked away at the edge of the timber I found one pile of bear scat and it was very fresh. I backed out so as not to disturb the area with human scent and planned on returning a few hours before dark, setting up in a location with favorable wind, knowing the bear would enter the undisturbed meadow again to feed.
Three hours before nightfall I was in position, but the wind was unpredictable as another weather front was trying to work its way into the mountains. As evening approached the breeze started to settle down, but was going in the wrong direction in relation to my stand. An hour before darkness, I heard a twig snap in the surrounding timber about 80 yards ahead and to the left of my position. Soon a large velveted bull elk stood at the edge of the clearing. He was beautiful, his tall and wide rack was already budding again at his fifth points and his brow tines were at least a foot long. He took a couple steps into the clearing, then went on high alert sniffing the air. He took one more cautious step then wheeled around and trotted back into the forest. At that point I knew he had caught my scent. Instead of being disappointed and giving up on the area I learned from my mistake and, thanking the bull, decided to move in a 90 degree arc to a more favorable position along the edge of the clearing sitting with my back against a large Ponderosa Pine. Just before dark I caught a slight movement out of the corner of my right eye. I slowly turned my head.
Springtime Creek
Thirty yards directly off my right side stood a feeding bruin. It was an above-average sized bear but what really struck me right off was how it’s legs looked like they barely poked out of it’s barrel-shaped, round body—a good sign of at least a mature bruin. With spring bear sightings kinda sparse in this part of the country, I decided this would be a good bear to take home with me. After making sure no cubs were tagging along I started the very slow and excruciating process getting my body turned 90 degrees to my right and rifle in shooting position. Of course, the bear wasn’t cooperating—it was feeding away and more behind me instead of working itself in front of me—plus the fact I was fighting the clock as well. I always say mature bears have sixth sense and I took this into consideration during my laborious turn. It seemed that with every inaudible “swoosh” of my glove or frictional movement of my twisting butt on wet pine needles or the constant grinding of my arthritic joints and lower back, that bear would snap its head up and stare right at me. Several times I thought the jig was up, but again, the favorable wind direction was now my best friend instead of my worst enemy. Finally I had my upper body twisted in a way no 50 year old body should be subjected to, and my crosshairs were on target. The bear was still at about 30 yards and perfectly broadside. I squeezed the trigger. The bear snarled at the impact site, stood up on his hind legs and fell backwards as I chambered another round. I thought it was down for good but being the survivalists that they are it was off and running in less than a heartbeat. I followed him with my scope as he ran awkwardly thru the open timber, squeezing off another round as my crosshairs just passed its chest. He did another barrel-roll and was off again only to be swallowed up by the darkening forest. I waited for the death moan—nothing reached my ears. Darkness had fallen, but I rarely, if ever, leave an animal intact overnight if I can help it. This was one of those sleepless nights. I tried to track this bear for hours, but the forest floor was covered in a wet pine duff that is black at night even with a light, and blood is almost impossible to see. Snow patches, where sign would be easy to track, were intermittent at best. I did find where the blood trail started but the deep, dark forest stymied my efforts until morning.
Finally a bear on Ice
I was back on track at first light and I immediately picked up the trail from where I left it the night before. I could now see the dilemma I was facing from the previous night. Shortly after entering the timber, the bear made a sudden hard left turn higher into the mountains. I started finding more patches of snow with good blood that would almost disappear again when it crossed another swath of pine duff. The bruin was turning in all directions and I was on hands in knees picking up droplets as I realized its thick fur and fat were slowing the flow of blood. Finally, almost a quarter mile from where I started, I followed the blood trail to a stump in the middle of a snow patch surrounded by jack pines. The snow surrounding the stump was ripped apart and I could tell this was the bear’s last ditch effort to maintain it’s footing. Not 20 yards further, my bear was laying peacefully on another patch of snow—but something didn’t seem quite right. As I circled to face the bear I immediately noticed coyotes wasted no time in finding my bear during the night. It wasn’t all that bad though and, actually, they did me a big favor. First of all, the nighttime temperatures dipped down below the mid 20′s which reassured me concerning the cooling of the meat, not to mention it was still laying on the snow. But the song dogs helped by cleanly eviscerating the bear and only chewing on one leg. The meat smelled great and, after dragging the bear to another clean patch of snow processing went flawlessly and I was thankful all around.
A little bonus fun...
The bountifulness of the area kept me occupied for the remainder of my stay. I called in several coyotes, one of which I took after my bear was harvested. The yote pelt was still in great shape so I took care of it properly.
Ahhhh, Mother Nature's bounty...
I picked enough morel mushrooms to put in my bear stews every night, and enough to bring home for friends and family. And, with a few cougar tracks spotted throughout the week I made some half-hearted attempts at calling them in as well.
Meatshelf Coyote
I made a day-long hike and effort into some rimrocked and timbered high country where nighttime cat squallering was making a few valley folks take notice. I was almost in position on top of the mountain on the backside of the rock face when I ran smack-dab into an elaborate and illegal bear baiting station in the timber. Well, the old enforcement ways die hard so I took GPS coordinates and a dozen pictures of the set-up. Needless to say, my longtail hunting excursion was cut short as I exited the area to meet up with an OSP Wildlife Enforcement officer and transfer the information. A little bit of everything on this trip.
