GoneWalkabout - Hunting Notes and Tales

REEVALUATING MY PRIORITIES
-Jordan Seitz-
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September 28, 2012

I live, breathe, and dream archery. Opening weekend for elk found me with three days off work, looking through optics at several nice bulls, focusing on a huge 6×8. So why was my bow still in the garage…and why was I eight hours from my hunting haunts wearing jeans and a t-shirt?

Labor Day Weekend

I moved from Michigan to Wyoming four years ago. After three hunting seasons, and two and a half years of being married, I set some quality goals for the fall of 2012. I wanted to be a better husband during hunting season, shoot my first branch antler bull, tag my first archery elk, and spend more time packing into the wilderness. I’d hunt smarter, tougher, and with unrelenting determination. That said, where did spending opening weekend in Yellowstone fit into the equation? I’d reevaluated my priorities.

A good neighbor once told me: “If she is happy, then you’ll be happy.” Therefore, hunting season found me vacuuming, doing the dishes, and cleaning the bathroom. Brooke desperately wanted to make a trip to Yellowstone, so I decided to take her before I spent the next four weeks archery hunting. All my focus needed to be on elk, so for the first time in my life, I didn’t buy a deer tag. Weekends would be spent sleeping in an open bivy in the wilderness I’d hunted for the last couple years, and I’d spend week nights covering a lot of ground closer to the road system.

My first weekend was relatively uneventful despite adding twenty miles to my boot soles.

Frosty Morning

Bivy 1

Pika

The second found me accessing the wilderness area through a “back door.” A couple canyons from my truck, with light barely filtering through the pines, I ran into several cows and a bull within shooting range. He evaded me, and I had no idea I’d spend the rest of the season hunting “him.” After that encounter, I forged on into the wilderness with better luck than the previous week. Ironically, I also ran into four different hunters. The trip ended with me feeling charged up about elk, but disappointed I wasn’t the only one hunting “my area.” Hunting somewhere else would be necessary until I returned to the wilderness for a four day pack trip at the end of the month when the others were gone.

Golden Sunrise

Bivy 2

Saw-Whet Owl

During the next ten days, I hunted the area I’d run into “the bull” on my second trip to the wilderness. After I blew two easy shots at spikes, I dubbed the area Spike Creek and Spike Ridge. A cow and calf fed within touching distance from me while still-hunting one evening, and I had “the bull” within shooting range three times without laying my eyes on him. I continued to try everything in the book, getting close to many other elk and a massive black bear, but nothing worked on “the bull.”

Blue Grouse

Becoming sick a week before the season’s closure cost me valuable hunting time and I knew I had to shorten or cancel my pack trip. For once I decided getting healthy and staying safe was more important than hunting myself to death; there are too many variables when you’re hunting rough country solo. With strong meds I barely recouped enough to hunt the last four days of the season, though it wouldn’t occur as a pack trip in the wilderness as I’d planned for a year.

Thursday brought rain and snow. I hunted the morning and evening, spending the middle period drying out at home. I was too drained to stay in the elements all day, and I wanted to recoup enough to spend the next three full days in the mountains.

First Snow of the Season

Friday I felt stronger and 9am found me on a saddle, getting ready to head up into some bluffs to spend the day still-hunting “the bull.” That’s when I glanced down and stared in shock at my arrows…all of my vanes were loose or missing! I was disgusted because I built them and take pride in my work. Frustrated, I hoofed it back to my truck and spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon rebuilding my quiver, and allowing the glue time to set-up.

Missing Fletchings

By mid-afternoon I was sitting on Spike Ridge glassing nearby bluffs and listening for bugles. One drifted up from the bottom of the canyon, but before pursuing it, I gave some bluffs (below the timber where I was to look for “the bull” that morning) to my right one more glance. Startled to see a yellow blob, I immediately brought my Nikons up. Twelve power magnification confirmed it was a nice bull, along with six cows and calves. I could tell he had six points on his right side, and at least four on the other. I watched the bull feed into some timber as I made a game plan. Stalking up on him from below would nearly be impossible with his cows and his open location. Calling had been futile during our earlier encounters, and I couldn’t get above him unless I wanted my scent to drift right to his nostrils. Contemplating a semi-active wallow in a small opening 200 yards below him, I knew it was the closest water around if he’d been up in the bluffs all day. Squinting up at the bull, I figured sitting by it would be my best option.

“The Bull”

Decision made, I trotted across the ridge and up through the timber until I got near the wallow. I slowly approached it, staying fully alert. Confirming he wasn’t in the immediate vicinity, I searched out a good place to sit. I finally chose an unorthodox position: to sit facing away from the wallow with my back against a big pine tree with plenty of pine branches around me. It gave me good cover, safe scent drift, and what would be a thirty yard shot at both the mud holes split by a small clump of trees. If the bull snuck in on me, there was no way he’d pin me down before distracting himself in the wallow. For the first hour, I sat there watching squirrels and listening to the cows and calves move through the timber about 100 yards behind me. The second hour was much quieter and I dozed off several times. As the evening wore on and the sun began sinking, I felt it unlikely the bull would show up since his cows were long gone.

Set Up

The thought of getting up and sneaking off had occurred to me when I heard a weird noise behind me. With a glimmer of hope, I slowly peaked around the tree. My chest nearly exploded when I saw “the bull” walking through the opening towards the wallow. The beast sauntered into the first mud hole and proceeded to roll in it, on his back, like a dog rolls on something rank! I gasped for air as I shakily pulled out my camera and took a blurry picture through the pine boughs. If I didn’t kill this bull, I wanted a picture to at least document what was happening thirty yards from me! He got up and began flinging mud all over with his rack and hooves. When he moved behind the small clump of trees, I began backing out on my knees from behind the tree, ready to draw. I moved in minute increments to avoid detection. Twice, before I could finish getting into position and before there was any way of him really seeing me, the bull stopped and glanced up at me between tree trunks; I nearly died! It took all my willpower to keep from shaking any more than I already was. With almost a shrug, he ducked back down and continued to tear up turf as I finished settling into position. He moved out from the clump of trees and immediately flopped down into the second mud hole, repeating his routine. I was trembling violently as he got up and tossed more mud around, without presenting a shot. Shaking his hide, he turned broadside, directing his attention to some deadfall branches, shattering them with his rack.

Bull Wallowing

Attempting to stave off the convulsions that engulfed me, I drew my Drenalin; sinking into the “zone.” Not wanting to spook him, I refused to use my diaphragm cow call to make him pause. His leg moved forward and his constant movements seemed to slow for a second as I settled my pin behind his shoulder and unleashed an X7 Eclipse. The synapses in my brain misfired and he was crashing over the deadfall when I snapped out of my trance and watched, in awe, as he bolted into the timber with a big red blotch growing on his left side. Barely composed enough to utter a couple cow calls, I tried to slow him down, but he ignored me. I heard him crashing for 100 or 150 yards and then all went silent. If I hadn’t already been on my knees, I certainly would’ve dropped to them! In shock that I’d just arrowed an elk, and a nice bull at that, I forced myself to breathe and think about the shot. Concern that the arrow struck farther back than it should have crept into my mind. I don’t know if I shook too much when I shot, or if he shifted forward as I released. I’ve killed a couple pronghorn bucks at sixty yards, and wondered how I’d messed up a shot at half that distance. The arrow placement had to be double lung or liver, but it was a gamble as to which one. From the sudden stillness, I could assume he might be dead, but I also knew there was an opening below me he may have entered into, causing the silence. A liver hit meant I risked “bumping” him and sending him into a death run. Weather was cool enough he could lay overnight, and as long as the resident bear didn’t show up, I was certain I’d find him intact in the morning. With my scent blowing in the direction I’d last heard him crash, I wasted no time grabbing my gear and literally running out of there, not dawdling to look for my arrow or first blood. I’ve screwed up before by tracking too soon, and I refused to screw up again.

Back home well after dark, Brooke immediately knew something had happened and was thrilled when I showed her a picture I’d taken through my binoculars of the bull…some days she wants me to get “a big one” more than I do! A sleepless night ensued as my heart continued to race.

Before dawn, Brooke cooked us a hearty breakfast while I finished loading our packs (“of course I’m coming” she’d responded when I asked) with enough food, water, and gear to be out all day.

The sun’s rays were sufficient for tracking when we slipped up to the small clearing. I ran through my set-up and shot for Brooke. Down in the wallow I searched around for my arrow, and then began looking for blood. Immediately there were splotches, and within thirty yards the blood trail looked like a war zone. The blood didn’t look as dark as liver blood from a whitetail, but it also didn’t look as pink as lung blood. Regardless, there was so much blood I was sure the hit had to be good.

Wallows

War Zone

For almost 200 yards, the blood trail was unbelievable. Then it began to decrease…which wasn’t surprising at first as I’d read that elk clot up easily. Becoming slightly perturbed, I began following tracks and intermittent blood. When I came to a pool of blood at the 3 or 400 yard mark, I became increasingly anxious. The blood trail nearly disappeared at that point, as did the tracks. I told Brooke “the bull” had stopped and then begun walking, and that that wasn’t a good sign. Brooke did a great job remaining calm (unlike myself), finding blood when I missed it. We got on an elk trail and followed random drops of blood or a scuffed hoof print for a ways before I froze, staring at a yellowish heap in the middle of the trail. I spun around to Brooke excitedly asking her what it was. I was nerved up thinking I might be seeing things; however, if it was what I thought it was, I wanted to make sure she saw it! She confidently exclaimed it was my elk! Paranoid it might resurrect and run off, I cautiously approached, watching for any muscle movement or a bear in the shadows; something had begun tearing at the entrance hole.

Obstruction on the trail…

It was stone dead as anticipated. Touching the 6×6 rack, I surveyed the massive brute in disbelief…I’d actually done it! Later inspection proved I’d centered the liver and the rear of the right lung, imbedding the 125 grain Thunderhead in the opposite shoulder. Apparently he hadn’t been broadside like I’d thought.

“My Bull”

We had an extended photo session before I skinned out the skull and began quartering him. We were heavily loaded and the trek back to the truck was nothing short of brutal. I spent much of the time questioning my sanity, but bullheadedness made me refuse to lighten my 120 pound load knowing it would be a great experience to recount. Vowing to spend more time in the weight room before the next season, I grunted and groaned through every step until staggering up to the pickup.

Brooke’s Load

Questioning my Sanity

As we drove off the mountain, I looked back and soaked in the sight of my rack sticking above the sides of the pickup bed. Later we returned, packing the rest of “my bull” out before dark and before our legs finally seized up.

It’s amazing how a series of events can play out with unexpected results! If I hadn’t blown the easy shots at the two spikes, I wouldn’t have fulfilled my goal to tag a branch antler bull. If it wasn’t for getting sick, I’d have packed into the wilderness – possibly connecting with a bull there – but I doubt I’d have seen such an awesome wallowing display. If I’d run into a bull Friday morning, I’d have been sorely disappointed to nock an arrow lacking vanes. Yet, if they hadn’t come off, I’d have stalked up into the small herd’s bedding grounds and likely been busted by the cows. If I’d looked for first blood before running home the night of my shot, I’m sure I would have followed it and bumped the bull sending him into an extended death run. Finally, if things hadn’t occurred as they did, Brooke wouldn’t have been able to share the experience with me!

Growing up in Michigan, I never imagined I’d live in a place where “Get yer elk yet?” would be a common greeting, or that I’d ever have the opportunity to hunt such a regal beast. With years of perseverance, and re-evaluating my priorities this fall, I finally sealed the deal on the kind of hunt that dreams are made of!

Disbelief