It must have been after five when I arrived in Denver. My boarding pass promised it would be closer to four, but seldom does a flight ever leave Atlanta on time. The father of the two brothers that were to be my guides regrettably had to wait, but I was so grateful for his and everyone else’s kindness. The whole family went out of their way to accommodate me. There is nothing in the world like bonding with others who appreciate the wilderness. I was glad I took the initiative to apply for a tag and set up this hunt.
When I arrived at camp, I felt at home and quickly fell asleep watching hunting DVDs. The next morning, I arose before 4 a.m. and was out hiking with one of the brothers before daylight. In a perfect world, I might have allowed a couple days to become acclimated to the elevation, but then I would not have enjoyed such a humbling experience. Repeatedly I stress that climbing ridges 10,000 feet above sea level was challenging for this flatlander, that being in shape in the South equates to very little in the mountains. However, my guide and soon-to-be friend was mindful of this and he set a comfortable pace for us. I, in turn, gave all I could.
We were able to cover ground quickly. Silly me, I was stuck on making a mental memory tab of the scent of decaying aspen leaves when my guide stopped mid-stride and turned to me. My head-lamp blinded him, and I equally felt like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. We averted our eyes to the ground. He asked me if I smelled anything, so I sniffed. Wait a sec! I had worked for the CDOW; I could recognize that aroma anywhere – ELK! Bedded down, probably chewing their cud. We kept moving from then on so as not to give away our knowledge of their presence.
When we got to the fort, I battled the effects of jet-lag intensified by over-exertion. My guide and I wrapped ourselves in blankets and began to wait for light. Directly in front of us, we caught a glimpse of a falling star. A curious chipmunk rummaged through our packs and scurried over me. My girly whimper was the first of several times I would cause my guide to question my sanity on that trip. Coyotes commenced a chorus of yipping in the distance. And the most remarkable thing happened once again: another star fell from the sky. I cannot remember when, if ever, I last witnessed a falling star. This hunt was blessed from above.
At daybreak, we instinctively began to glass. My guide stood up to gain a better vantage point. We watched a couple of mule deer feed, and a hunter cross in front of the very area we were glassing. I could not believe it…my first exposure to public land laden with hunters competing for that same elk you want to tag as your own. The echo of a shot resounded nearby, and my thoughts refocused on why I was there.
Then, I noticed an irregular brown blob closing the distance, migrating toward us like a gigantic amoeba. When he happened to turn that way, I was about to shyly ask my guide if they were elk or figments of my imagination, but he delivered the announcement before I could open my mouth: "Get ready!"
Snap, those were elk coming my way! Wow - first hour of the first day of the season. And was Southern belle here just going to watch the show and do nothing about it? No way! I set up on a rock and took my guide’s jacket as a rest. "Start breathing now," he kept repeating. At first I thought he meant for me to take my shooting breath, but it would be several moments before I would have a shot. No, he meant exactly what he said – just breathe! The sight of the elk took his breath away, and I was fighting for mine just as earnestly. It goes against the law of nature to ask your body to calm for a healthy aim when adrenalin is increasing your heart rate almost to the point of hyperventilation. That has to be one of the most amazing challenges hunting offers. My friend predicted where the elk would reappear when they followed the ravine, but the lead cow turned the tables and took the herd to a mountain crossing nearly out of range.
My guide was persistent. After his second cow call, several in the herd paused at 326 yards. I was offered a fleeting broadside shot at a female elk, so I lowered the crosshairs on the cow and squeezed the trigger. It may have been a good idea to call the one I shot, but my guide knew soon enough: she dropped immediately. I finished her off with a neck shot that may or may not have been necessary. Time number two my guide likely questioned my sanity – she’s ruining all the meat – Ahh! I just did not want that meat catching her breath and running off across Colorado, never to be seen again.
That scenario almost materialized. My guide called his brother to tell him I had an elk down, and in our chattery excitement we passed right over my elk. I almost escalated into panic mode, but my guide remained level-headed. He returned to trail the blood while I covered the valley below. Soon, he whistled and motioned to indicate that the cow was indeed down where she dropped. How beautiful my elk was! I ran my hand over her coat and offered up a prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord. He had been so good to us. Cell coverage was awesome in the middle of nowhere, so I called my parents and shared my excitement with them. My dad had just shot a whitetail during that very same hour back home! While I was talking with my friend who invited me on the hunt, I discovered some lung tissue. "Ooh!" I exclaimed into the receiver. "I did hit the lungs!" The third time my guide could have written me off as an insane southern blooming biologist. Here is his brother’s friend he’s never met before, proudly displaying a flapping, bubbly piece of lung tissue, almost shoving it in his face while she talks to his brother. Needless to say, I could not resist a little field work, and proceeded to collect tissue samples for Chronic Wasting Disease testing.
Have you ever heard elk hunters or outfitters always say the work begins when you drop the elk? They could not be more right. I had dressed deer before, but I just could not believe it when this man said elk were just like deer to field dress, albeit a little bigger. This is precisely where I began to become aware of and realize my limitations as a woman. When he lifted the carcass to drain the blood from the cavity, I really did not think only he and I could do it. Well, I will tell you, he nearly had to do it all himself, as I was physically inadequate in that regard.
The fun increased even more when we began to pack the elk out of the mountains. The first time out, I packed the clothes and my guide took a front quarter. I could hardly handle a quarter with that altitude. Fortunate we were that my guide’s father came to help. But if that was not enough work for my new friend and guide, imagine having to drag both hind quarters – half of an elk –over mountains to reach a game cart. This he did for me. On top of all this, my poor guide had classes and work the beginning of the week. I am amazed how he coped, but I know he did. With regards to the hunt pack-out, I suppose I came in somewhere between steering the cart while trying to keep the majority of the meat’s weight off my guide’s shoulders and offering moral support. (I write this tongue-in-cheek: it was all him!) All I know is that this is a very different kind of hunting, more real than I have ever before experienced, and I grew and took so much from it as a sportswoman.
After my initial exciting adventure on the elk hunt, my friend and guide’s older brother came to spend some time in the mountains showing me around. He took me shed hunting and totally smoked me. I am proud of the single antler I found, even if I did sort of trip over it. That evening, we went out in hopes of seeing some mulies, and we did. The following day I went with him to scout for the upcoming third combined rifle season. There were a couple of inches of snow on the ground, and the layers packed densely beneath my feet with every step. I hadn’t even gotten a couple miles before the altitude started to get to me once again. Not fair! I am not out of shape; why must I pay such a price for growing up a flatlander? Better for the exposure to be sooner rather than later.
Around mile three my friend told me his plan of crossing several ridges and continuing to glass for deer. The sweeping gesture of his hand seemed to encompass the whole state of Colorado, and when I followed his eyes over the terrain, I wondered if human feet could cover so much ground in one day. My head started to spin. He said that I could either go with him, or he would set me up on a hill with a radio to wait. C’mon, which would you rather do? My mind was already made up. Before long, we had crossed the grove of quakies that was to serve as my stopping point. I wondered if I could press on. That was something I was going to do, case closed; I resolved to press on, remain in for the long haul. I resigned to keep within two strides of him during the entire hike. Very quickly I learned how to negotiate slopes that I would have never thought I could scale. We paused to rest on the edge of a mountain, and the view was absolutely spectacular. This was God’s country: Untamed wilderness with unspeakable beauty that captures your soul, your imagination, your heart.
So as we continued, we encountered a jackrabbit, several grouse, pronghorn antelope, mule deer, and the highlight of our scouting – a very nice 4x4 mulie buck! Maybe someone in the family’s hunting party will be able to tag him third season. Around mile ten or twelve, I think I started hallucinating. On the ridge above us, I could have sworn I saw a giant elk antler. My friend looked up and spoke my mind exactly. "Elk shed!"
Man alive, he climbed that mountain (he will call it a hill, but do not be fooled) like he was part bighorn sheep or mountain goat. I trailed a couple bounds behind him, hoping I did not lose my footing and tumble down to meet my death below. Imagine the newspaper headlines covering that one! I wouldn’t exactly say my whole life flashed before me, only those dreams I have yet to chase and call my own. When we got to our prize, it was one pretty awesome piece of wood. Yep, our antler was a piece of wood. We sat down at our defeat and marveled at its uncommon driftwood-like texture. Probably hallucinating some more.
We soon moved on. By now, I had surpassed the threshold of the limit to physical activity, and could go on forever. The mountains were no longer intimidating hindrances; out of nowhere they morphed into beautiful marks of some of the last truly rugged wilderness in the country. Grouse flushed to our left and made me jump, sweetly reminiscent of woodcock hunting down south along our creek. It was around mile thirteen or fourteen when I finally wondered how this guy ever learned how to navigate across so much land. And then it happened, again.
"Kim! Do you see what I see?!"
"Sure do, and hoping it is not another branch," I responded. I wanted to deny what I saw. Like clockwork, the spotting of what we knew to be another elk antler made us sprint up the mountain using energy reserves we had already depleted. Neither of us smoke, and I am convinced that this is the reason I survived this amazing adventure. Oh, but yes! This time we were definitely right – it was an elk antler! Talk about cool! My friend made the fashion statement of the season with that antler playfully upon his head. For once, my stride shortened to keep a little distance between me and the elk-man in front of me as we headed into a dense grove of aspens. No stray bullets for me!
As we made our way down from the mountains, we passed several other hunters unfamiliar with the area, and my friend gave them helpful hunting strategies. Two men from Kansas tackling the wilderness together, several brothers with tired eyes and wide grins, and an older local who was enjoying yet another solitary season of elk magic. All of these hunters, myself included, would grow to know someone more intimately over the course of the hunt, whether it be ourselves, the others in our hunting party, the wilderness, God, or all of them.
