By Mike Zusman
The antlered wapiti, white rump in Shawnee and Cree, is also a reference to elk. The elk were bugling as they’d been since Monday’s season opener, and all late North American summers since the Pleistocene. The roaring bugles gave me a false confidence that, combined with my last three years’ performance, led me to believe that another dead bull was in my near future. So in the first hour of the first day, I passed on two shot opportunities on cow elk, and watched their white rumps meander away through the timber.
By Thursday morning, still elk-less with one day to go, the action continued as JP and I made a play on a bull with a perfect, iconic bugle. By 10:30, he moved his herd into the thick shit to bed, and then went silent. We could see a couple of cows up and down the ravine, and knew one was hidden 20 yards behind us. We were in the middle of them, and JP and I had stalked our way to a precipice, giving us great vantage above and below as well as into the timber on the opposite side.
Things were looking really good.
We began settling in to wait out the bull. After I found a seated position that didn’t cause excruciating knee pain, JP wanted to do a little housekeeping and clean up some shooting lanes for us. Kneeling at my side, he asked me to hand him his small pruning shears in the spirit of minimizing movement.
“They’re in the top pocket,” he whispered.
I’ve followed JP all over these mountains for years, so I’m used to seeing the shears in any of his many pants’ pockets. I gingerly shifted my bow to my right hand, placed it on my lap, and reached over to his top pocket on the right side of his posterior.
With my left hand, I grabbed the zipper, hoping it would open silently without me needing to touch his ass too much. It wouldn’t break open, so I had to go all-in, using my knuckles to create enough leverage against his butt cheek to get the zipper to silently give way. I opened it enough so that I could reach my fingers in, feel around, and grab the shears.
Unfortunately, all I found was a handful of early September 80-degree swamp ass. No pruning shears, only sweat drenched wapiti.
Thinking they must be in the left side top ass cheek pocket, I reached further around to his left side. I grabbed the zipper, and once again it wouldn’t easily rip open. Not wanting to waste any more movement or make unnecessary noise, I made the logical decision and determined that this was in fact the correct pocket.
I used the TSA-approved reverse palm technique, and began a back-handed groping of JP’s ass. I couldn’t really see it as his backpack obscured it, so I covered a lot of surface area to make sure I wasn’t missing anything.
I don’t know why JP didn’t say anything after I first groped the right side of his bony white rump. But this time, he subtly turned his head so as not to spook the cow behind us, gave me a scolding side-eye, and sternly whispered, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Looking for the shears; they’re not in the top pockets,” I answered.
“Of my backpack. They’re in the top pocket of my backpack, you retard.”
No elk were harmed on this day, or this trip. But if you asked me if I got my hands on some wapiti, I’d be lying if I said no.
