By Caleb McClain
It was the end of the line. We stopped where we were, leaning against the rock face to catch our breath, and looked at each other. It was beyond frustrating as we had run out of logical real estate for an elk to traverse, unless they were able to climb sheer cliffs. We had been deep into the Colorado wilderness for days, but it was only halfway through the first day of the season. Worse than that, it was 40 degrees, and we, two first-time elk hunters, had been soaked to the bone since midnight.
“Well, hell. What now?” I asked Garrett as I pulled out my maps.
“You’re the one who planned this. You didn’t see this on the map?” He replied while doing the same.
I should have known better—topography is always steeper in person, especially with 10 days of gear on your back. I noticed another pile of droppings on the ground, bent over, and poked it.
“Dry and dusty again. Every bit of sign is old. We need to go up. It doesn’t look like they’ve pushed down yet. Look at these areas.” I pointed to a spot on his map about 2000 feet in elevation higher than where we were and another five miles in the opposite direction of the truck. “We could hunt the main trail tonight, then head back to the truck early in the morning and drive around. With any luck, we can be there by lunch.”
The plan was executed perfectly, and we made it there by 1:00 p.m. after a quick stop at a diner in town.
It was immediately clear that we were in the right area as we were finding an abundance of tracks that were made within the past couple weeks. About three miles into the hike in our new area, we stopped where we were again, but this time in disbelief. What was rain at the lower elevation the day before was snow up here, and at my feet were fresh tracks from a sizable herd, including some that were noticeably larger indicating a bull. We found a knob with a dead tree almost to the top of this half-mile long and 200-yard-wide stretch of hillside grass, dropped our packs, and readied our guns. Suddenly, something hit me on the back of the head. I turned back, only to now be hit in the face by a still-wet elk turd.
“Is this shit fresh enough for you?” Garrett asked while lobbing another one at me. “How about this one?”
All around us there was fresh sign, and it was clear that they were right where we were sitting within the past day. We glassed down the hill, occasionally looking behind us, rifles ready, waiting for an elk to pop out.
Two hours and nothing.
“Stay here and I’m gonna go check the next little meadow over,” I told Garrett as I stood up. The truth is, after 10 miles or more of hiking the day before, he was not going to fight with me.
As I came around the four spruces behind us, I saw them plain as day: six elk including at least one bull. I backed away slowly to motion to Garrett, but they evidently saw me too as they were no longer there when I came back just a minute later. Our first opportunity, completely blown. We headed back to the truck after dark and slept in the cab on the well-below-zero night. The morning hike back in was cold, to say the least, and Garrett’s eyelids froze shut at one point. No movement whatsoever, all day. I would occasionally break off and check an adjacent meadow, but there just were not any elk to be found. I had a hunch based on the day before, so I went and laid prone under one of the spruce trees behind us at 3:00 PM.
I was checking in with my wife on the Inreach when it happened, my first real-time texting her in four or five days. I caught movement from the top of the hill and dropped my phone, mid-message. First a cow and a calf, running over 200 yards, nearly trampling me, then circling back to the meadow above me to be with the rest of the herd that was slowly trickling over. Then antlers. I slowly slid my .300 Win Mag to my shoulder, found his perfectly broadside shoulder in my crosshairs, and squeezed. I chambered another round, found him limping up the hill, and fired again. He dropped to his knees. The third shot was placed in the center of his still upright neck, and I watched it fold over like a boxer who had just been delivered a knockout blow.
I jumped up, turned backwards, and saw Garrett running full-sprint towards me, hooping and hollering the whole way. We walked up to my bull, marveled, then started the butchering and packout process.
And to answer his question from the day before, yes, that shit was fresh enough for me.
