Six Days on the Road. 2022 Utah Elk

I pulled out on Wednesday morning on September 14 and encountered scattered thunderstorms through out Nevada. Silly me, I thought I could beat the odds and sleep on a cot with my sleeping bag and all the weather I drove through would magically disappear when I went to sleep. I spent four hours under a plastic tarp listening to loud booms of thunder and grape size drops of rain pound. I awoke before daylight and threw my damp bed in the back seat to dry out as I headed East.

I arrived in the Unit on Thursday (9/15) and set up camp in a beautiful Aspen patch. I’d packed six Breakfast Burritos, anticipating one every morning for the duration of the 6 day season

Because I had a limited amount of vacation time left for the year, and I doubt I will ever draw another LE Early Season elk tag, I engaged the services of a Utah outfitter who was really helpful in recommending units to apply for. I’d intended to hunt General Hunts to get to know the unit until I drew the LE tag, but I ended up drawing the LE tag first. I bit the bullet, got an Airline Miles credit card with 0% APR for 12 months. Creative Finance Plan in action.

After paying my deposit, I was called by my guide Eli in the middle of May. I never spoke again with the outfitter until the final settlement, Eli handled all my questions and probed me about “whatcha looking for?” I told him I valued character over score, and I’d never killed a bull over 300 inches. He laughed and said “I won’t let you”. Our deal was, I took care of all my own lodging and food and he would pick me up where ever I was and we would go hunting. I told him I’d prefer to camp and he sent me a pin for where his travel trailer would be, and that’s where I set up my camp.

When I joked he might have to carry my bullets he quipped: “BS buddy, I’m holding your bolt. You might have a shell hid out!” Right then I figured we would get along just fine.

Throughout the summer he sent me pictures and videos from previous hunts. The week before the season he sent me video of a bull feeding. It was hard to make out through the smoke, but i could tell he had tall antlers and was better than any of my previous bulls. I told Eli as much. I also determined from my research that bull was on other people’s radar as well. I told Eli i wasn’t up for being part of a shooting gallery and he assured me we would try to find undisturbed bulls elsewhere in the unit….

One cool experience the second morning of my journey was when I encountered a bull with seven cows along the freeway. I was rocketing along at 80 mph listening to Outlaw Country when I saw him and jumped out to film him. You can hear the Ray Wylie Hubbard song playing in the background…

Eli took me on a general tour of the hunt zone that first afternoon. We made the rounds and shot the breeze with a number of folks in the unit. Other guides, locals helping friends, folks with rifle tags, bowhunters, one of the cattle permittee’s, etc….I figured out that every BIG bull in the unit is known about by locals who glass all summer. The bulls are visible, it’s just a matter of getting TO them. I could see being an outsider, trying to learn the unit i would have been at a disadvantage. Especially when the bulls move 5-10 miles in the rut.

The first afternoon I got to lay eyes on the bull Eli had seen earlier miles away. He was on a steep sidehill with a bunch of cows. It didn’t take much time for me to declare him as “good enough”. Problem was we weren’t the only ones who saw him. We spent that evening trading bugles with a bull that had a nice growl to his voice and heard his cows mewing and striking rocks on the hillside. We never saw that bull that night but it was a solid backup. We also saw a small 6 point on a steep rocky hillside with cows that was too tough an approach to make unless he grew 100 inches overnight.

The morning 24 hours before the hunt, we loaded up the four wheeler before dawn and drove to a distant part of the unit where Eli had seen a really good bull last season. When we arrived and called at the crack of dawn, it was silent. As the sun rose we looked for sign at water and it was evident there were no elk there recently. We hiked and glassed and called for a number of hours, and finally wrote off that area and decided to go back to our core spot in the unit where we had seen and heard bulls. That evening, the growly bugler we’d heard the night before had retreated further up the ridge and a couple of small squealers answered as well. When we arrived back at camp we pow-wowed about our options for the next morning. I elected to go after the best bull we had seen. We knew how good he was despite other hunters knowing about him as well. We made a gameplan and had a plan B in the likely event someone who was quicker than us and a longer shot would beat us to the punch on opening morning.

I fully expected to be pivoting to another opportunity shortly after first light…..

My daughters have a tradition of drawing me a good luck drawing before each hunt. This sketch was all I could coax out of my 16 year old.

So I prepped my gear for the next morning since we were going to be leaving camp in full dark. I had the coffee in the percolator and the breakfast burrito wrapped in foil to go on the propane grill. When the alarm went off at 4:30 I fired up the Coleman, the Buddy Heater in the tent and the propane grill on the tailgate and got dressed. By 4:45 I had my coffee, warm burrito, rifle and pack loaded in the pickup headed to the trailhead.

Nights were getting down to 38 degrees and warming up into the 70’s by midday. This meant Elk were out for 30 minutes in the morning and evening but headed to the dark timber as soon as the sun hit them. When we parked at the trailhead, there were 2 trucks there all ready and another pulled in behind us. Wordlessly we shouldered our packs and hit the trail, determined to not be outrun to our perch to unleash death from afar….

A mile and a half in we were nearing the clearing on the hill that we had planned to be to watch the hillside across where we had spotted the bull 2 days before. Out of the darkness a beam of light hit us, then switched on and off right from where we wanted to be. We shrugged and headed further up the valley to the next open finger. The folks behind us had not caught up to us, and I was steaming with the early morning exertion at 9000 feet.

As my breathing slowed we heard a bugle from up the valley to our left. Eli and I looked at each other, both pointing to the south. Five minutes later the bugle was repeated and we lost no time grabbing up our packs and heading through the next finger of trees cautiously until we saw the light shadowy figures of elk in the meadow. I didn’t count but it seemed to be a portion of the dozen or so cows we knew the big bull tended. They were 400 to 450 yards away and I couldn’t make out antlers through my binos. Eli whispered that he saw the bull. I looked further to the right of the clearing and saw a mud caked black beast emerge from the trees with white tips gleaming in the half light four feet above his back. Eli hand signalled me “FOUR-ONE -FIVE” as I tried to read the yardage chart and then the scope dial in the low light. We fumbled with the phone screen to shine just enough light to dial the correct MOA without alerting the herd to our presence. Then I got prone over my pack on a low rock to try to steady my cross hairs. Problem was the rise in the ground and the low sagebrush made it tough to see the bull. After a couple moves and standing my pack up, I finally could see my crosshairs and the bull.

Glancing over at Eli he said, “Yeah I think he’s good enough…”
I hissed “How is our time?” meaning shooting time 30 minutes before official sunrise
He gave me the thumbs up, and as I settled into the scope, I saw the bull suddenly on the left side of the cows and cows began trotting across the meadow from left to right, angling in our direction.
Eli hissed “He’s on the move!” as the cows went from a trot to loping into the trees on the edge of the steep ridge.
The bull was behind them and kicked up a gear following his harem. I swung through and pulled the trigger as the crosshairs approached the shoulder. Shortly after the BOOM, I saw the bulls hind end go down and heard the solid “SMACK!” of the bullet. I jacked in another shell as the bull wheeled to quartering away and fired another round, heard the distinctive SMACK, and the bull dropped to the ground. He never got up.

Eli and I looked at each other and acted like a couple of kids who had just found a stash of nudie magazines and illegal fireworks. our celebration was interrupted as Eli began making strange sounds “EEEERRRRPPPPP—-ERRRRPP”
In all the excitement, my seasoned guide had swallowed the fresh wad of Copenhagen he had uploaded when we had stopped a few minutes earlier. When I determined he wasn’t going to die, I began walking towards my downed bull who blended in quite well to the dark sage and wet dirt, except for a massive white tipped beam arcing out of the sage like a snow stripped fir tree…

My emotions were pretty mixed at this point. I’d never, in nine previous bull elk I’d killed, been able to go and look at the elk I ended up killing before the season and made the conscious decision to go after that one animal. It felt surreal that the biggest elk of my life was dead on the ground in front of me.

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After we took a few hundred pictures it seemed, we caught a glimpse of what made the cows spook. Further up the valley four orange hats bobbed in our direction. As we looked towards them I could feel the slight breeze on my face and knew that had been the cause for alarm and helped us in our position.

Eli radioed for some help from friends, one of whom had heard the shots early and called to check in. We began skinning the mud soaked bull as the sun peeked over the horizon. Help arrived before we had removed the half a hide. A few minutes later we heard the group behind us shoot twice. A lone hiker who came by 5 minutes later informed us his group had just killed a bull on the steep face. We discussed it and decided it was probably another bull that had been with the herd we had ambushed.

Pretty soon we had the carcass skinned and gutless quartered and bagged. The four of us shouldered loads, and I chose unwisely to pack the antlers, skull and cape. It was an unwieldy load of what I estimated to be 150 pounds. The Badlands 2200 I’d had since 2005 struggled to contain and control the top heavy antlers. After about halfway back to the truck I’d traded the pack off for a lighter load as Eli’s friend marched the twisting load back to the trailhead.

Eli instructed me to stay with the rack at the truck as the three of them made a second trip. There I fielded questions from curious onlookers and met the other party who had killed the other bull moments after us. They told us they had seen the bull the night before rolling in the mud while his cows watered. They had history in the area as the hunter’s wife had killed an outstanding bull two years before in the unit.

Pretty soon we had all the pieces of the bull in the truck and we headed back to camp after an extended stop at the local store where the rack definitely caused some traffic slowdowns and a crowd gathered.

That afternoon we delivered the meat and head to White’s Custom Meat Processing. Wayne promised he would get it cut up wrapped , caped and frozen on Monday so I could be on the road Tuesday morning.

That night in camp after a shower and hot meal of pork tenderloin and rice pilaf, the celebration kicked into high gear. i broke out the bottle of Crown Royal I’d saved for the occasion. Eli’s wife played DJ and we danced around the campfire and sang along to the Bluetooth speaker. It was a late night and I woke up to the sun beating down on my tent and heating me up like my morning burrito.

Tuesday morning I packed up my tent and sleeping bag. (I had put most of my camp in the truck Monday night). I met Wayne at his shop and loaded my Igloo 165 full with solidly frozen cut and wrapped packages. Even my bulls cape was a solid frozen block in a banana box. Wayne told me his cooler could freeze two tons of meat in 12 hours. That was well beyond the ability of previous operations I’d dealt with. By 9:30 I was loaded and on the road.

I got a lot of heads turned and thumbs up from folks as I passed through small towns. Fuel stops had plenty of positive comments. By 5 pm the sun was shining in my eyes and I headed towards a friend’s ranch along the Carson river in Western Nevada. for an early night’s rest in the bunkhouse. Just as I began drifting off to sleep the other residents of the building decided to have play time….

I did get to sleep shortly after dark, but rain on the roof woke me at 2:00 am. By 2:30 I was on the road driving through thunderstorms over the Sierras, through Tahoe, and down into the Sacramento Valley. I pulled in the driveway at home at 7:00 am and delivered my daughter to her high school with the antlers sitting high and drawing a crowd of curious teenagers.

It was 9:00 pm before I was done putting away meat in the freezer, delivering the cape to the taxidermist and drying out my tent and gear. All in all a good “Six Days on the Road”

2020 Turkey

Turkey Season opened Saturday March the 28th. There has been a couple toms and 3 hens roosting in the grove of trees behind my house for the last couple of weeks. They would fly down into our upper pasture then feed over into the neighbor’s pasture for most of the day then in the evening go to the front pasture by the creek. it was a pretty set schedule and I would wake up to gobbles every morning.

On Saturday my daughters decided to move the beef cows and calves into the front pasture as part of the rotational grazing plan. That made for interesting dynamics as a turf battle ensued between Melagris and Bovine…The curious cattle would gather around the birds until they attacked then the cows would chase them out of the field.

On Monday, that battle resulted in one tom standing alone outside the net wire fence on the neighbors. I arrived home and saw him , slipped on a Camo hoody, and grabbed a couple of turkey decoys out of the garage. I set the decoys up in the horse pasture that adjoined the back pasture and took cover in some weeds and brush by a rock. If the tom came back into the back pasture he would see the decoys and he would come through the gate that was 40 yds. from my hiding spot. the decoys were 13 yds. from me

I hit the pot call and the tom gobbled back instantly. I could see through the weeds and trees he was against the fence onthe neighbors answering back. For 5 minutes we called back and forth. Finally I heard his gobbles moving into what sounded like the back pasture. Hunkered down i could just barely make out some movement as he made his way through the gate between pastures.

 

I knew he could see the hen decoy and jake decoy in the open about where the sunrise photo was taken. He paced back and forth behind the brush and I was worried he would come behind me through the trees. So when he went out of sight, i tried to “throw” my calls over in the direction of the decoys. He was coming from my right to my left as I was positioned. Finally he seemed to commit to the decoys.

35…31….25, the range came back on my range finder. Finally he and the decoys were in the same view. I tried to draw as he looked at the decoys hoping the shadows of the trees obscured my movement. After all I had no blind to hide me.

I held my 20 yard pin low at the junction of the leg and body, and jerked the trigger on my release.

I heard the arrow hit and I watched him take a few running steps and then head for an abandoned barn. 

Just then, my children’s dog Pandora, a mixed breed mutt with no real purpose in life came trotting over to investigate the ruckus. She took to the blood trail and followed it into the old barn. Pretty soon the tom comes sailing out of the barn with Pandora on his tail. He hit the ground and she pounced on him. She held him there as I put away my arrow I was going to finish him with. The arrow had missed the Chest cavity but had cut the jugular or carotid by the crop as it passed clear through. Had it not been for the dog he would have found cover and died.

 

 

The Look

 

I thought this Great photo by Brent Paull deserved a caption.  Check out his other work at http://www.amwestphoto.com/index.htm

Geography to a Western Cowboy….

I remember being chided by an Idaho acquaintance as to if I was “Western Enough” to hang with their cowboy crew. My retort was “I’d say if I can see the ocean while I gather cows I’m probably more Western than you!”

While chatting with a 4th generation Californio from the hills of the East Bay, he took it a step further. He called the Rocky Mountain Cowboys “Midwesterners”, then expounded upon the “East”, “Middle East” and “Far East”

So I will concede to all you Hawaiian Paniolos, and Alaskan Bush Cowboys, you guys are MORE WESTERN than I…

2016 New Mexico Elk

The story of course starts with drawing a coveted tag like all hunting fairytales do. But along the way, I met a princess of my own. I’d found an adventurous soul who was willing to sleep on the ground in a tent, camp and cook in the rain, and enjoyed fitness and outdoor adventures. When I asked her to join me on a late summer scouting trip she jumped at the chance.

 

Over four days we drove the unit, glassed and camped and hiked. When we jumped a herd of elk in thick timber, I reveled at the look on her face as they crashed through the downfall. The excitement had her. Glassing a herd of elk a mile away and hearing the mews and chirps of cows and calves through the clear morning mountain air, she proclaimed “John, you look like a kid in a candy store. I see why you love this so much!”

In the following months life had its ups and downs for both of us. She was a steadying influence on my nerves and always reminded me of the great hunt I had coming up in October. Time after time, she expressed how she would love to be in elk camp with me during the hunt. But her career had her pinned down during that time period and it wasn’t in the cards for her to make the trip. She would root me on from afar, awaiting my call that I had succeeded in my quest.

While we were scouting, I was introduced to George Rael. He was a local outfitter the same age as I. We instantly bonded as Elk Junkies, and he marveled at my luck drawing the tag. I told him that I was not going to have my usual contingent of family, (Father and Uncle) with whom to camp and handle horses. He immediately offered me his assistance, and I accepted the offer of packing services and saddle stock. While I would miss having my trusty steed Bob, in camp, it made the two day drive from California much simpler without having to haul stock. While I would camp solo, I’d have some local knowledge of the country and his energy to spur me on in the thin mountain air.

In October I made the drive over two days to the camp at the end of the road two days before the season. It was situated on the backside of a ridge that was the unit border and we had a mile and a half ride to reach our hunting zone. I visited with George at his home on my way to camp and saw the caliber of bulls he himself had killed and drooled at the possibility of putting a tag on what could be the biggest bull of my lifetime.

When opening day came we rode out under the rapidly filling moon, so bright, it cast shadows as we rode along the trail. In addition the wind howled with gusts and swirled unpredictably. At First Light we spotted a herd of elk far below us out of my effective range. We watched them head over the hill and heard the bulls bugling. The rest of the morning we chased bugles along the ridges until they clammed up at about 10:00 am. I remember being determined to keep up with my acclimated local as I gulped the thin air at 10,000 feet, and tested my legs endurance up and down the fingers and ridges.

We napped through the midday, alternately glassing the ridges and valleys below. As the sun began to drop, we headed down toward the creek in the direction the elk had gone that morning. Soon two bulls stepped out of the trees across the canyon. A six point and a five point. They cautiously made their way to the creek and I positioned myself on shooting sticks and held my crosshairs on the six point at 350 yards. After the big bull we had seen that morning I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger and end my hunt on Day One. We rode back to camp arriving after dark.

The second morning we were out again before light. More close calls with vocal elk in the morning. A rope burn from a hesitant mule the day before nagged at me. Each little ridge and valley seemed to have its own little pocket of elk and the switching winds kept giving us away. We were in them though. Later that morning we bumped a lone bull bedded high on the main ridge as we rode along. Just enough of a glimpse to see he was a nice bull, but not enough time to get off for a shot.

That afternoon we trekked to the far reaches of the public land in the unit and played cat and mouse with a bull in the timber. He had cows and we circled him trying to get in his path of travel before dark. After a couple times back and forth we got to an opening where he showed himself in range uphill. I took a rest on shooting sticks but had to crouch while standing to see the bull in my crosshairs. My tired legs trembled and I rushed the shot, missing cleanly.

I was furious with myself. All this way, all this time, all this effort to miss! Now we were 10 miles from camp, it was getting dark and we still had two miles to hike back to the horses. I’d been up since 4:00 am, and now it was 7:00 pm. My foul mood did not go unnoticed as later that night George exclaimed to the rest of the crew “Damn dude, he was PISSED!”

I was not looking forward to the two hour ride back over the ridge to camp. Even the horses were dragging. But as the full moon rose and bugles echoed throughout the valley, my tired eyes gazed on the shadows of the trees in the moonlight and it was etched in my memory as a bittersweet occasion.

I arrived back to camp a couple hours after dark and collapsed in my bed after a quickly reheated meal. Doubts crept in about my endurance and shooting ability. After all I had done to prepare, this hunt was kicking my ass. I was exhausted physically and mentally. The missed opportunities weighed on my mind along with the visions of heavy horned mountain monarchs trotting off into the timber unscathed. It was a fitful night of sleep, and morning came too early once again.

That morning we rode up in the dark as before and tied up near where we had begun on opening morning. The wind had calmed some and we could hear a bull moving his cows up the draw to our left. We circled around to peer down in the draw expecting him to be on the ridge we started on, then back to near where we started. We saw his cows filtering through the trees below us and he just appeared on the open hillside 150 yards away, bugling like a dunghill rooster. After the evening before’s shooting foul up, I felt I needed to take the next branch antlered bull I could get in my crosshairs. I could see he was a good sized 5x with broken points and decided I was ready to be done hunting.

 

I steadied the crosshairs on his left shoulder as he was quartering to me and his cows continued to filter through the trees below us. I squeezed the trigger and saw the bullet hit as he reacted, packing a limp front left shoulder down the hill. I reloaded but he entered the trees and disappeared from sight before I could follow up. I had feelings of misgivings as his cows streamed over the hill across the draw. I was worried the bullet had not entered the chest cavity with the quartering angle. We cut across the draw looking for blood, and George went downstream in case he had made tracks down low. I worked back up to the site of the shot, picking up a small shed antler just before finding him expired under a small dead tree his death tumble had uprooted. I hollered out to George that I’d found him. He made it back to me in about 10 minutes, and we admired the warrior’s broken rack before hiking back to the horses to retrieve the kill.

Those mountain horses earned their keep as we each led a pack horse down the steep ridge to where my bull lay. We each readied our knives and made quick work of breaking down the bull. We bagged the hams, shoulders, loins and tenderloins in game bags and loaded them on two pack horses. The skull and antlers rode on top for the 7 mile trip back to camp.

 

It was nice to ride along the ridge I’d only seen in the dark and see the surrounding mountain ranges in the distance. We even had a few photo ops as we toasted the bull with the flask reserved for the occasion. We arrived in camp a little before lunch, and hung the quarters in the shade before relaxing with a cold beer and chips and salsa. The horses rolled and enjoyed their early respite and fed on a bale of hay.

That morning George had mentioned to one of the other guys that the wood pile was getting low. In my quest for good karma I’d made the statement “If I kill today, I’ll cut your wood”. So that afternoon we felled standing dead trees, limbed and split stove length logs. My successful hunt adrenaline kept me hustling as we made a sizeable stack. We continued the celebration into the evening, and I retold the tale of the shot throughout the night.

The next morning I packed up my gear and meat and made the drive to Flagstaff Arizona for the night. The next day I made it all the way to home and delivered the meat to Bud’s Meats, my favorite cut and wrap butcher. Thanks to dry ice and coolers some pieces were frozen, and all of it was cool. A week later, my freezer was filled with white paper wrapped roasts, and a month later, 60 pounds of sausage was added to the larder.

My bull’s bleached skull and antlers now adorn the wall in my bedroom. The small shed antler I found while searching for my downed bull has “VV 2016” inscribed in it resides with my princess. I am constantly reminded of the luck that I must have been blessed with to draw such a great tag, and meet a woman who has been so supportive of my love for the hunt.

Returning to write soon!

Things have been quiet here for the last year or two but life has been going on. Since my last entry I’ve scouted and hunted Elk in New Mexico, run a couple of trail races, remodeled a house (ok, still in process), and shuffled around some things in my personal life.

Maybe getting back into the swing of writing will help me pick up where I left off. Kind of a fresh start I guess!

Running the Mountain

The following words were written after a rainy trail run on Taylor Mountain, a 2.4 mile ascent gaining 1152 feet to the summit.  It is a run I like to do weekly on Tuesday mornings.  The time I began running it coincided with my divorce.  In fact the first ascent I made was the morning after I’d filed the paperwork at the county courthouse.  Each time I do this run I think about how it is the perfect metaphor for the challenges we each face in life.

 

I sat in the warm cab as the rain beat down on the windshield. A hot cup of coffee sat in the console and I knew my work colleagues were either still in bed or just getting up. I was at the trail head, it was 5:45 am, nearly 2 hours before official sunrise, and I had 2.4 miles of vertical trail I would cover twice taunting me to come out and meet it’s challenge.

As I exited the truck and shrugged into my hard shell rain coat in the downpour, I briefly questioned why I was putting myself through this. Before I could talk myself out of it my feet began pulling me up the mountain. Truth was I didn’t have to be out here. No one was depending on me to go out in the storm and perform some heroic measure. But it was the vision of what lay ahead that drew me up the mountain.

Despite the knowledge that I was going to be cold, wet, muddy and tired, I knew this was an investment in my future. Fourteen weeks away from a trail race with 300 other hardy souls, Eight months from a high mountain elk hunt that would test my lungs and legs and extract a hefty sum from my fitness bank account. Today was about making a deposit in that account. The deposit slip would detail the sum of vertical ascent, viscious weather, missteps and mudslides. Like pennies, nickles and dimes, they added up to a paltry sum at the moment, but I was depending on frequent deposits in the upcoming days, and the compounding interest of early saving to be my solution when the mountain and its four footed collection agents handed me the bill.

As I picked up my stride and found my pace with the wind pelting me with raindrops, I thought how this climb seemed to mirror my last year in its challenge. Not happy to sit idle out of the weather in a 20 year marriage, I kicked open the door and took on the elements and rooted rocky trail that is divorce proceedings. At first the residual warmth from my stored up heat kept me comfortable, but that faded with time. The effort of propelling myself forward though kicked up my internal furnace, and as the chill of the first mile crept in, my internal core pushed back the cold.

While the dark was daunting, my headlamp cut through to illuminate the trail ahead. Just far enough to plan my next few strides. Some puddles and rocks showed in the meager light, but others became only obvious under my feet, requiring a path adjustment and a shortening of stride. Much the same way that letters from opposing lawyers, court orders, and legal bills were obstacles in my path. I continued onward as the trail steepened and became rougher. I looked ahead and saw the trail flattened as it passed through a grove of oaks. I imagined the trees would provide some relief from the wind and rain, and my stride lengthened as I entered the cover of the forest. But the trees merely concentrated the precipitation into big soggy drops that found their way down my collar and challenged the heat from my core. What I thought was a haven from the storm was merely a different challenge to my resolve. Shocking at first, the drops mingled with my sweat and equalized the temperature and I soon relished the cool dampness.

“Relentless Forward Progress” I told myself. “As long as you are moving forward, you are making progress. The summit will still be there, whether you are walking or running.” I let my breath become ragged gasps, reminding me to moderate my pace on the steep pitches and pick it up on the more level sections. Pitches and benches, ruts, rocks, roots, and down branches. Each step was challenged, then rewarded with progress. Even the slick muddy section took away progress as a foothold gaveway but my fingers grabbed the turf and pulled me back to my feet. Rocks that were once obstacles became footholds as I scaled the steepest and most treacherous section.

Once I’d reached the bench the narrow singletrack that skirted the hillside gave me firmer traction and I picked up pace despite the rain clouds and fog that obscured the trail ahead. This was the final pitch that would take me to the summit, a quarter mile of treacherous trail that came to a stop at a bench at the summit. There a rock cairn greeted me. A sign that others had been here before me, and the stack of igneous stones stood as testament that I was following a path blazed by many before me. I could ascend no higher.

As the wind drove the rain into my exposed skin there at the summit and my heat rose out of my scalp as steam, I shouted to the gods of weather, light, fog and darkness to let them know I’d penetrated their defenses. That they could not hold me back, like so many other home snug in their beds who wouldn’t even challenge their reign. For a brief moment the wind and rain surged in defiance then slackened as if to acknowledge my claim.

As I began my descent, I knew that the same trail sections that challenged my climb lay in wait to trip me or slip my feet out from under me, and my vigilance was heightened. My destination was the trail head below, and I had to negotiate those sections with care. Where I’d slipped climbing up before, my feet quickly went out from under me and I slid on my hip, negotiating the rocks as I slid. Like the new relationship that took me by surprise, I was getting where I was going faster than I’d intended. Despite the startling fall, I steered my way to my feet, and continued the descent, each time falling, sustaining a minor scrape, but continuing down the path to the ultimate goal.

Below, coming up the trail I could see headlamps bobbing, my fellow runners following the path I’d left. Their mountains were different, and they negotiated the obstacles in different manners and at different paces than I did. But we recognized the kinship in each other and greeted one another as brothers and sisters in arms. Nods, grunts, smiles and hand gestures were exchanged as we each continued along our respective paths. It wouldn’t be the first or last time we crossed paths in life and some meetings would be marked with a hug or handshake. And each time we met, we gave a little bit of ourselves and collected some from the other. Another Karmic exchange of goodwill.

As I dropped below the clouds, I didn’t seem to feel the wind and rain any more. Perhaps I’d become immune to it, or it had actually lessened. Morning twilight, muted by the iron grey sky, illuminated the trail slightly and my pace quickened as the trail smoothed and widened. I could see my finish ahead as I kicked up my pace and lengthened my stride. On the final flat section I found more endurance and sprinted to the gate, jubilant in the effort and result.

I’d done what I’d come here to do. To conquer the weather, the trail, the dark and the elevation. As I reached in my pocket I could almost feel the jingle of the coin of conditioning I’d collected, while the currency of confidence filled my other hip pocket. A few brief moments later savoring the hot shower with my warm comforting cup of coffee, I washed the mud of the mountain off my legs and watched my worries and troubles go down the drain. I emerged cleaned and happy and entered life with the rest of my colleagues though the door that morning with a spring in my step. Because I had conquered the mountain this morning. And they never knew what they missed…

Colby and the Cash Money bull

After dinner one day with my uncle, my kids commented that Colby’s elk steak was nice and tender. I explained that the elk we were eating was a young bull. I then coined the term “Cash Money Bull” to denote a bull that is “Legal and Tender”.

Western Wyoming, September 2015.  Transcribed from Colby’s tale…

In the late afternoon on our third day of hunting, Jace, Paul and I left camp and headed east up the creek basin to the southeast when we spotted a bull elk about a mile away up on the rocky face of the continental divide.  Jace in his awesome hunting spirit decided to give him a bugle, just to see if he would hear it.   First bugle…nothing; second bugle….I’ll be damned if a bull didn’t chuckle in the timber to our south about 500 yards away (guessing).

We immediately set up with Paul on the east side of a row of trees and Colby on the west side watching the back door.  More of Jace’s bugles and the chuckler was moving west.  Just before  dusk, the elk started coming out about 400 yards away on the opposite side of the meadow……a cow, another cow, yearling, cows & calves, and three young bulls, the best of which turn about half way into the meadow and retreated to the timber.

Since the sun was setting in the west and I was scoping in that direction the sun blocked out my scope ever time I tried to get my sights on the bulls.  By this time the elk made their way down toward the creek in behind a small stand of timber.  Something spooked them at that point and back they went toward the dark timber.  One young 3 x 4 bull stopped to take a look at the us across the meadow.  His horns stood tall for a young bull.

Jace asked “Do you want him?  He’s about 200 yards.”

“You bet” I responded as I rested my Model 70 against a small pine tree.

Just as he turned near broadside I squeezed the trigger….boom, good double lung shot just above the heart, but that didn’t stop him.  Off he ran quartering away at about 250 yards.  The second shot dropped him in his tracks.  While there was some mild ground shrinkage as we came up to the downed bull, I recognized that I had some great eating elk steaks as no meat was spoiled by the shots.

The flask came out and we toasted the harvest of a majestic elk. The downed bull was only about a mile and a half from camp, so Jace went back to camp to get the pack horses while I dressed out my bull by using the gutless method under Paul’s supervision.  It was late by the time we got back to camp, but the taking of an elk is every bit worth the effort and energy to hunt, field dress and packout a prized bull elk from the wilderness at over 10,000 feet…..spectacular country, spectacular elk.

 

Colby displays the celebratory flask as he and Paul break down his bull by lantern light.

The Retrieval Crew. From left to right Paul, Sally (pack horse),Jace, Colby, Wes, RC (pack horse)

Two years to kill

Wyoming has been very good to me in regards to drawing elk tags and being successful on those hunts. Since 2007 I have drawn 7 elk tags with a maximum of 2 preference points. Up until the Fall of 2014 I was 100% on my success on branch antlered bulls in Wyoming. I knew that these streak was untenable and that October I was faced with my first skunk. It stung, and it has taken over a year an a half to talk about it publicly.

Paul and Colby Martin mounted on CD and Wings

Wes Morris

Dee Morris

We had hunted beside the Morris family for the previous 3 years with them as our resident guides, and had some memorable close encounters with elk. In 2013 they began operating a lodge near a major trailhead into the wilderness some distance from our previous hunting country. Through the summer Wes, the eldest son, led pack trips into new country and found a basin with lots of elk sign. It was beautiful country with trees, large meadows and rugged topography.

We trailered our saddle horses to meet them where they had their summer seasoned pack string at the ready. The thunderstorms followed us menacingly across the Nevada and Utah high desert. We rode in the day before opening day under mixed freezing rain and snow flurries.

Hunting in a snow flurry in 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next two days it snowed. On opening morning we saw numerous tracks pointed downhill, and I caught a glimpse of an elk headed “down and out”. The rest of the hunt we never came across another elk or any fresh sign. We relocated lower, and found old sign, but no shot opportunities. The elk had outsmarted us.

Last Sunset before pulling out of Elk Camp 2014

Our application strategy for 2015 was to take the long shot chance and apply for a unit specific earlier season tag. Drawing that tag gave us a 5 day earlier opening day and more of a chance to get to the elk before Fall snow pushed them to lower ground. Sure enough, my father, uncle brother in law and I were drawn as a party. My brother in law, was delayed and wouldn’t be able to join us on opening day. He would come a week later.

We arrived in Wyoming a couple days early to news that the thunderstorm that had accompanied us had laid down a couple inches of snow in the high basin we had planned to hunt. The clouds had cleared though and snow was melting fast. We could see the snowline receding from the surrounding peaks, although crunchy snow still lingered in the shade.

Riding into Elk Camp 2015 under blue skies with the remnants of a snow storm from the week before on the peaks and in the shade

We rode in under blue skies and finished setting up camp. The evening was eerily quiet, and not a single elk bugle was heard. Thoughts of the year prior were creeping in, despite the better weather. We made plans for the morning, watered horses an had a fitful, night before opening day sleep.

Night before opening Day. Camp is set.

I’d been fighting a cold-turned respiratory infection before setting off on this trip. I had antibiotics at the ready, but my doctor wanted me to hold out until day 3 of my hunt before taking them. The combination of the high altitude, and sickness had me panting for air at the slightest exertion. I know it had my companions concerned as I hacked and coughed each morning. But I did my best to keep up with my acclimated Wyoming partners.

Day One was eventful as my father and Dee were able to have a bugle exchange with a bull up the draw. unfortunately it attracted the attention of some other hunters down slope and that distracted them from pursuing the real elk in the trees above. Wes and I circled the basin to a saddle that looked promising and the number of elk bones bore tribute to the volume of elk that met their demise there. We posted ourselves with a good view of the saddle, only to have the group from below walk through our setup. We spent the rest of the morning working through the trees, finding elk tracks and sign, but nothing live.

That afternoon we looped through the trees above camp. The elk sign was there in scat and tracks and trails. A few distant shots at dusk way down below had us thinking we might be above the elk.

Day Two was more of the same. Boot leather and unanswered bugles. As the sun set though we heard bugles in the dusk to the east. I thought to myself that another hunter had moved into the basin and was trying to locate a bull. We made plans to go the other way in the morning.

On the third morning I awoke wheezing and coughing and sore. Dee assured me we would work up the ridge slowly, calling through the trees. As grey dawn came we paused to readjust clothing and Dee made a few soft cow calls. As we continued along the game trail, I heard a grunt off to our left. We paused, then a squeal and hoofbeats. I motioned to the tree I was going to try to get behind while Dee hissed “don’t think you have time, he’s coming. ”

The tree was twenty yards away and I was ten when I saw the tan body of an elk flashing through the trees less than a football field away. I froze as Dee began his seductive cow calls, and the bull answered as he trotted from our left to right seventy yards away. I saw branched antlers and flipped off the safety. First elk of the hunt was ok with me.

As he cleared a tree I held the crosshairs behind his shoulder and fired. He flinched and jumped and turned, now coming from right to left. At fifty yards he stood there. I squeezed off a second shot, reloaded as he still stood there. A third shot didn’t seem to phase him, and I moved the crosshairs forward to the shoulder and shot number four folded him like a wet tent.

Day 3 of my 2015 hunt with the first elk I saw.

Dee’s whoops and hollers echoed through the basin as we made our way through the downfall to where the bull lay. Six tines to a side, dark with sap and bark, and ivory tips curling up at the ends. We just sat there in silence as the sun rose and filtered through the trees, and the jays began talking once more.

Dee ponders my bull

After telling each other our interpretation of the events, and our thoughts as they were happening, we got out the knives and skinned and quartered the bull in preparation for the packhorse, 1.3 miles away at camp. We bagged each quarter, tender loin, loin and neck meat in game bags as the flies began buzzing in the warming day, and positioned the bags in the shade for retrieval later that day.

Packing out My Bull later on Day Three.

With my bull back in camp the energy was one of renewed hope. Dee and I told the story with about three different variations. Suddenly my respiratory function was much better as I breathed a sigh of relief to have filled my elk tag.

There is more stories to come from our 2015 Elk hunt.  Check back to read about Colby’s “Cash Money bull”, and Dad’s Skunk Breaker.

 

Race Report: Annadel Half Marathon 2015

2015 is the sixth year that the Annadel Half Marathon has been in existence. Born out of a desire to showcase the park and raise funds for park improvements, it has become a running community rally point. The funds raised from the race have been directed to a number of projects, the most visible of which are trail improvements performed by the Sonoma County Trails Council. A boardwalk to protect a boggy area trail crossing, rock causeways in erosion prone areas, trails routed for better visibility and weather resistance, all are the result of funding from the race which has raised between 18 and 20 thousand dollars annually.

My connection to the race started in 2009 with my participation in the Fleet Feet Santa Rosa training group. I have been in the group, and entered the race every year since. In that time I’ve seen a range of finish times, with my Personal PR of 2:14:00 in 2013.

 

Training run in March. Photo by Marc Strozyk.

Hanging out with a squad of my fellow Training group runners. Photo by Marc Strozyk

This year I was coming off of a six month lay off from running. In that time span I’d lost nearly all my fitness, and gained body mass in the process. Restarting the training runs in December was a daunting task, as I struggled to regain the frequency and distance of training I remembered from years prior. I found routes that in my memory were “easy runs” pushed my limits when I restarted the training process. As a result, I toned down my distances during my midweek runs, and my pace during long trail runs. Even then the motivation was hard to find when winter colds made running miserable. As a result my training mileage, from December thru race day, was a fraction of years prior. Looking at the numbers it was 25% less than I ran in 2014, and 70% less than 2013 when I had my Personal Record. With that in mind, I adopted my mantra of “Better Performance Through Lowered Expectations”.

A February training run over South Burma. Photo by Marc Strozyk

As per my usual Annadel Race day procedure I arrived early to setup my 12×12 wall tent to serve as a first aid station.  While the majority of the injuries treated are scrapes and sprains, it provides a place for privacy if needed.  The activity of setting up the tent keeps my mind off of the upcoming race and  butterflies to a minimum.

After opening remarks, the race began under clear skies and mid 40’s temperatures.  I already had my race plan of walking all significant uphills.  The trails were well packed from the rain the week earlier, and the 260 plus runners spread out as we climbed the first hill a mile into the race at Rough Go Trail.  My race was uneventful from a running perspective.  I made it a point to drink in the beauty of the park that I so often overlooked while negotiating the rocky trails in pursuit of a race pace.  A sleek blacktail doe watched our multicolored line of runners ascend Rough Go as turkey gobbles echoed off the oak trees in the valley.  I began seeing friends manning the course monitor positions and aid stations.  Each one shouted encouragement and called me by name.  After about the fourth one, the runners immediately in front of me commented about how everyone knew me by name, and I demurred saying that they were all people I had trained with.

Early in the race, it was nice seeing friends along the trail. Photo by Susan Kelleher

We continued past the Live Oak aid station where I refilled about 12 oz. of water in my handheld, and followed a rolling trail for the next two miles through open meadows, and into a north facing shaded section before turning up North Burma and hitting the Richardson Fire road and the Third Aid Station.  After a quarter mile we turned back onto the singletrack and began the mile and a half climb up the South Burma Trail crest.   There I was greeted by our training group coach, Marc Strozyk as he shouted, encouraged, and cajoled runners with platitudes like “It’s all downhill from here!”, “Less than 5 and a half to the finish!”, “if you were a woman, you would be in 14th place!” etc….

At the High point of the Course 7.6 miles in, at the “Top of Burma”. Photo by Marc Strozyk.

 

At this point, I’d made a conscious effort to conserve my energy on the 1300 feet of climbing so far.  In previous years, I would have turned on the jets and bombed the downhills.  This year I found myself stiff and cautiously passing a few runners before the Buick Meadow Aid station.  As we descended Marsh trail, and the ground became less technical, some of those cautious runners were able to gain ground.  What years prior had been a stretch where I picked off other runners, I felt my endurance slipping.  My stride was stiffer and shorter.  Here was where I was going to pay the debit created by lack of deposits in my training miles account.

When the aid station attendant shouted “Just two and a half more miles!” when I turned onto the Canyon trail, I felt my inner motivation drain.  I knew it was just under 3 miles.  The last 2 miles we refer to as the “Fire Road of Despair”.  After three and a half downhill miles on the twisty singletrack with ever changing visual horizons, the flat wide exposed stretch seems to drag by. This is where strong mental fortitude makes a difference for the runners who are racing for age group and over all placings.  I was running against the demons in my mind telling me I wasn’t worthy of a good time, the demons in my stomach telling me I’d taken in too much water, and the very stark reality that I was writing the final chapter in what would be my slowest race in six years.

Free download of the Finish line photo. More races should offer this perk.

I slogged the final stretch conserving my energy to shout thank you’s to the Girls on the run group manning the aid station a mile from the finish.  As runners passed me I remembered when it was I doing the passing in previous years.  Nevertheless, as I rounded the final turn to make the last stretch across the grass to the finish chute I managed to smile, thankful that I was able to continue my 6 year streak of training for, and finishing the Annadel Half Marathon.

After the race I was greeted by my friends with smiles and hugs.   I soon found my way to the refreshment area and recovered with a complimentary finishers meal consisting of Lagunitas IPA,  a plate of pasta, bread and salad.   We recounted our races and enjoyed the sun and 70 degree temperatures as the final runners trickled across the finish.  I was reminded of my ultimate running goal of a lifetime of being active as I got to watch my 74 year-old training mate Jerry Kibler win his age group , and local runner of reknown, 78 year old,  Darryl Beardall cross the finish.  At that point I reassured myself that if  could just outlive my competition I too may see some age group awards…

POST SCRIPT

If you want to read a story of pure toughness from this race, check out the Press Democrat coverage that mentions Al and Anna Myers.  Anna finished the full course under her own power 10 weeks after sustaining  a broken ankle.  They are a couple I truly enjoy knowing and epitomize what is great about the running community in Sonoma County.