By Clayton Taylor
Like all Eastern whitetail guys, I grew up fascinated by two things: Western mountain hunting and 18th-century outlaws who used to roam the Rockies. Little did I know going into this elk hunt that I’d have a chance to live out the life of an outlaw and kill an elk at the same time.
The mountains took no time to baptize my eastern back and feet. I was ill-prepared, and the 7 miles on day one had me ready to tap. I felt like Atlas himself toting my 70-pound pack as our leader moved at what felt like a slow jog, his paid-for horse effortlessly carrying his gear. I wished I hadn’t been so cheap.
After what felt like an eternity, we made it to a spot we called base camp. My buddy and I figured we weren’t going to have much luck there, and our group of five was a crowd, so we found a spot on the map and continued to dive deeper into the wilderness. A measly couple of miles took multiple hours. I counted to myself 20 steps and then took a brief break, 20 more steps and a break, slowly but surely working our way straight up to what we hoped would be the promised land.
We got there, and man, did we make the right decision. The sign was unbelievable. We knew immediately that the couple of days of food we brought would have to last much longer. Needless to say, some pounds were lost.
On opening day, we did some exploring but had no luck. On day two, we decided to wake up slowly and just sit and listen for a bit. Sweatpants on, hot coffee in hand, still wrapped in my cozy 15-degree bag, we heard what sounded like a herd of Tyrannosaurus rex picking through the dark timber. My whitetail mind couldn’t comprehend what was happening. We couldn’t move, and my bright yellow sleeping bag was a beacon to our location. Luckily, the wind was in our favor, and thermals were falling like a rock. I was stuck on my back, hot coffee by my side, rifle shouldered with no chance to find a makeshift rest.
I saw the first cow break the wood line into the meadow—my heart instantly beat out of my chest— followed by another, and another, a spike, and then there he was. A legal bull.
My rifle chambered in the Lord’s caliber rang out, and I was sure I nailed him, but he didn’t go down. He wheeled around with the rest of the herd and high-tailed it back to where he came from.
We scoured the crime scene to no avail. No blood, no sign, no nothing. I texted my wife, and I knew she could feel the despair through my Garmin InReach. I’d missed big deer before, and that sucked, but did I just miss an elk the size of a billboard at 100 yards? No way, but maybe. Shit, I didn’t know what to think.
We looked all day, grid-searching the dark timber in the direction the herd bolted. But with no blood, all we had was following the direction of the herd. We struck out. I blew it.
We hunted the following morning with no luck and went back to camp for lunch. As we were eating, my hunting partner and I both caught a whiff of something putrid. Our first thought was somebody else had camped above us and taken a literal shit that wafted our way. But there was no way—nobody else was dumb enough to go through what we did to get there.
Then the thought hit us: it was 75 degrees the day before, and the south slope took a beating from the sun … it couldn’t be.
We dropped our lunch, appetite ruined, and followed our nose. Up the hill and over dark timber so steep I could reach out and touch the dirt at eye level. Before I knew it, I almost tripped over a dead elk—my elk. You’ve got to be kidding me.
The excitement quickly turned to puzzlement. What the heck do we do with this? The elk had been found by bears or a cat already. Its jaw had been eaten off, there was a hole in its side, and bugs were so thick you couldn’t breathe. I’m no law expert, but if I got to the trailhead with a fresh elk head and no meat, Mr. Green Jeans was going to have some questions for yours truly. And I didn’t think he’d be too keen on me saying all the meat was bad due to sitting in the unseasonably hot sun for 36 hours. Even with all the pictures in hand. The way I saw it, to be safe, it was all or nothing. We’d pack out the head with the rotten meat, or leave it all there and take only pictures as evidence of the adventure. I could already see the Rabbit Ranger wanting to go back to the kill site, but with a flight to catch and babies at home, that was not high on my list of things to do.
I can tell you two absolutes: I wasn’t packing out that spoiled meat 7 miles, and I damn sure wasn’t leaving that head in the backcountry. I was taking my chances, and an outlaw life it was for me. I mean, what were the chances of running into DNR anyway? I soon found out the answer was pretty fuckin’ high.
We took the head, got back to base camp, and hit the trail the next morning. My nerves were on a roller coaster of hell yea and oh shit.
We got to the trailhead, no DNR, and I took my first deep breath. Now to the next problem: getting these horses back to their ranch. In order to do that, we had to drive 30 minutes to get service and hope they had a trailer on standby.
On the way out, I passed two wildlife service trucks that sure did threaten to be DNR. The 3 other guys and the elk head were sitting ducks at the trailhead. I knew we were screwed.
A quick call to the ranch, and they were on the way to get their horses. As I was flying down the dirt road back to the trailhead, I passed both wildlife trucks heading in the opposite direction, and I could finally see a way this worked out in my favor. Then I almost hit the horse trailer that had just picked up our horses—but I didn’t. I smiled and thought to myself, This might actually work out.
We skidded into the trailhead on 2 wheels, andalé amigos, it was time to go. We packed up the van in under 5 minutes and headed out. I could already see the skull mount hanging in my living room.
I shit you not, not 90 seconds later, I saw a dark blue F250 crew cab with lights and the state’s insignia coming in the opposite direction on this one-track road. He pulled to the side to let me go, half wanting me to stop, but uncommitted.
I ignored him and kept on going, staring at my rearview like a madman. His brake lights turned off, and he continued to the trailhead. The second he turned the corner, I was off like Dale Earnhardt at Talladega.
About 20 minutes later, we hit pavement, and I thought I was in the clear, but I’ll be damned if that game warden wasn’t screaming up behind me. I was toast. Someone must have seen us at the trailhead and told him to come check us. He got on my bumper, reading my tag, I’m sure, then veered to the middle of the road as I waited for him to flip his lights.
The next thing I heard was an engine screaming as he flew past me and went to God knows where. He had to be screwing with me, but he wasn’t, and I was home free.
We got the elk skull back to the hotel, then the airport, and finally to its permanent home on my wall.
If there’s one thing I learned, Butch Cassidy be damned, this Georgia boy wasn’t cut out to be an outlaw.
