I had formulated a plan for opening morning based on scouting and noting the movements of a particular herd. I knew the Plan was good only for the first morning as hunting pressure compels the elk to change their patterns almost immediately. The Plan entailed threading through the swamp using a trail that I had established, positioning myself in the timber just back from the edge of the meadow, and calling as the elk left at first light for the safety of the thick timber. I had tested my strategy the week before and it worked perfectly and so I was confident it could work again.
I arrive on Thursday evening. This is a popular hunting area so I camp in a secluded spot away from the mass of humanity and machines that will be spilling into the valley all night and the next day. By Friday afternoon the place looks like the opening of rifle season with hunters camped at every pullout off the main road – it was as crowded as I have ever seen it. Given the number of people, ATV’s, gunfire (really!), generators, etc., I know that my only hope is a perfect execution of my opening morning strategy. I figure I'd have between 30 and 45 minutes before a horde of eager hunters overruns my position and the herd that I had carefully observed for the past weeks would alter their routine for the remainder of the season.
I awake at 4:00 AM, gulp down some orange juice and slip silently past dark camps full of hunters dreamily visualizing trophy elk. When I arrive at my trail I flip on the red headlamp and navigate to my setup spot using the reflective pins that mark the approach. I cut the light, sit quietly in the blackness of the swamp and began the wait. Within minutes I am enveloped by the sound of cow elk. A bull bugles off to my right. My thoughts are screaming – this is too early, they shouldn’t be here yet, I have no light! The herd noises fade and a bull bugles distantly to my left. The forest returns to quiet. The elk are gone and so is my best chance, defeated by a slight variance in timing. I sit pondering what just happened when I realize an alternate route that I had prepared the previous year was in the path of the moving herd. I hurriedly backtrack to the main road, sprint to the head of the other trail, and tumble back into the swamp hoping desperately to cut them off.
Upon reaching my new spot I plop down and began to listen for the telltale cow calls, splashing and snapping branches that indicate a herd is moving - nothing. Had the herd passed? Perhaps they stopped to water and have not yet arrived. I strain to hear any slight noise that might reveal their presence - nothing. Well, no point wasting a perfectly good setup and I could certainly use the practice. My calling routine begins with light cow calling, ratcheting up then breaking in with light chuckles and some short squeals. Some long pauses and then a chorus of cow calls to suggest an excited herd capped with a bugling crescendo. The routine felt right and I am satisfied that my calling skills had recovered from the long hiatus between hunting seasons. I begin the final 10 minute wait when I hear a slight crunching sound in the trees just beyond sight. Could that be the sound of an elk stepping on skunk cabbage? I wait expectantly. Another crunch followed by a snap. A squirrel sounds off with fast and high pitch chatter. Could this be an elk? After more agonizing waiting, I turn my head toward a slight rustling to witness antlers rising up from behind a giant fallen log. With an easy fluid movement an elk leaps over the log and stands broadside at 40 yards. I catch myself as I gasp at the sheer mass of this magnificent animal. It is the size of a large horse and its body is covered with mud from wallowing. I try not to look at the horns, but I see shards of torn velvet hanging loosely from antler tines. It stands still for a moment and swings its antlers and head back and forth looking for the interloper whose butt it is surely about kick. But the distance is too much for my primitive bow – the bull would have to come closer for me to chance loosing an arrow at it. I watch in awe as it steps forward, its massive shoulder and leg muscles rippling in the dappled light. It begins moving toward me. I struggle to control my breathing, my heart is beating violently, I need to somehow regain my composure – I feel like I am going to faint.
What happens next I am not certain. The bull appears directly before me like an apparition. Instinctively my bow arm raises and my body prepares to act. A moment ago I was shaking and my mind was buzzing but now I am eerily calm. The gray-brown of the bull’s huge body fills my vision and I focus on a crease between the front leg and rib cage. For thousands of years men’s survival hung in the balance on moments like this. That is no longer the case, but the primal blood of my hunter-gatherer ancestors still courses through my body and I feel how they must have. I taste bile, take a breath and draw my bow back.
It is gone. Somehow a thousand pounds of flesh, bone and horns has managed to pivot and vanish before the arrow is away. I instantly realize that I had violated a basic tenant of close encounter hunting – wait until your prey cannot detect your movement before you strike. I listen after the bull as it crashes through the dense foliage. I even manage a half-hearted cow call in hope that it might stop, but it does not. Today the great bull elk will live, and the hunter leaves empty-handed and humbled.
