It was as nice a day as I’ve ever spent hunting. The sun was out, not a cloud in the sky and it was warming up. I probably had a good mile of hunting in front of me. Once I reached the north end of the meadow, I would find a dry pine log and sit and wait until my boys made it in.
I walked silently, listening and with binoculars, glassing the forest ahead if I could see it, look out toward Bull Meadow. Occasionally I would stop and rest, give a cow call, swallow a drink of water and take a bite of jerky Patrick had made. The meadow was on my left and I was looking for elk, bears, mountain lions and whatever else might be out there. I followed game trails through the thick pine forest, occasionally finding dry ground to walk on. I had good boots and my feet were still dry. In the snow I numbered elk and moose tracks almost equally and once in a while, mule deer tracks. Red squirrels would scamper out ahead but were mostly silent and Gray Jays were plentiful in the deep woods.
It was four hours later when I reached the north end of Bull Meadow. I emerged from the pines and walked into the sunny meadow, feeling the sun’s warmth as all the snow had finally melted. I found a dry log at the forest edge and dropped my day pack and rested. At 10,000 feet, a 20-pound pack feels like 30 pounds, an 8-pound rifle feels like 10, and a mile is a mile-and-a-half.
Taking in the view of the snow-covered mountains of the Uintas wilderness, the treeless summits are home to the elk during the summer. After 20 minutes I grabbed my pack and walked into the meadow and marveled at the many watering holes and elk wallows that were there. I walked over to a weathered backbone of an elk carcass killed many years ago. I could imagine when this valley had buffalo and the Ute Indians occupied these lands. Later trappers and mountain men moved through, then cowpokes rounding up cattle that grazed in the meadow. Now, packtrains of horses taking guided elk hunts into the high Uinta mountains.
I walked over to where the two moose crossed the meadow on Saturday and tried to follow their trail. Across the stream on the other side was a large, downed pine tree at the edge of the forest which looked like a good spot to rest, to view the meadow and meet up with the boys.
If I learned two thingswhile elk hunting, it’s to have good boots and a lightweight rifle.
About 3:15 the walkie talkie crackled, and I heard Patrick’s voice asking where I was.
“Just come on down the mountain into the meadow and you’ll see me”, I replied.
Soon the two orange clad hunters were visible, and they made their way to the big pine I was sitting in and unshouldered their heavy packs and rested a few minutes.
“Saw a cow and a calf and big bull this morning”, Ben said, and proceeded to tell the story of their morning hunt for the bull which they never saw again.
The conversation turned to the present and Patrick said, “Let’s just stay here till dark.”
I agreed but Ben said he was going back to camp to drop off his pack and hunt the lower meadow this evening. Ten minutes later, Ben straps his pack back on and starts back toward camp while Patrick and I stayed put.
Then like divine intervention I hear, “Elk, elk, I see elk”, said Patrick.
From across the valley six cow elk emerged from the pines walking in a fast gait across the meadow.
“Bull, bull, behind the cows I see a bull”, said Patrick.
Looking through my binoculars, 50 yards behind the cows stood a big bull elk surveying the landscape, his head and antlers held high in a sight I’ll never forget.
I looked toward Ben who was now 300 yards away walking down the trail wondering if he was even aware of the elk across the meadow.
The elk were still 500 yards out when I glanced back at Ben a second time and he had taken the backpack off and was laying on the ground in prone position with his rifle across his pack.
Through the binoculars I tried to determine which direction the elk were headed while reaching for my rifle.
Ka-Boom! Ben’s 30-.06 cracked.
“Where’s the bull, I don’t see the bull”, said Patrick.
We both scanned the horizon for the bull which we thought might have disappeared back into the timber. The cows seemed disoriented and ran past us with a wild look in their eyes. Then Ben gets up, picks up his pack and slowly starts walking to where the bull was last seen. Patrick said, “I going to go with Ben and see what happened” and put his pack on and hurriedly started walking across the meadow to catch up to his older brother.
Minutes later and a quarter mile away I see Ben put his hand in the air, next I hear Patrick on the walkie talkie say, “Bull down, bull down!”
A strong indescribable feeling came over me at that very moment. Of all the elk hunting we had done the past four days, this was really the first time we were all together in one place at one time. And it was not lost on me that during this brief moment in time six cow elk and a bull decided to cross Bull Meadow in front of us. And that my son Ben, who is an Army Marksmen, was in the exact right place at the exact right time.
The shot was 470 yards, the 5×5 bull elk was hit in the base of the neck, dropping the bull in its tracks which is why it disappeared so quickly from sight.
When I finally reached the boys, they were joking, laughing, celebrating and cherishing the moment and I looked over to Ben and said, “That was a long shot!”
Then he looked at me with a grin and says, “What do you think I’ve been training for the last twenty years.”
After some photos, Ben tagged the bull, and I left my pack frame there as we all hiked back to camp to unload our packs. It promised to be a long night. Once back at camp, Ben and Patrick gobbled down a chicken salad sandwich before heading back to Bull Meadows to the downed elk and I said to give me a few minutes to rest and change my wet socks and I’d be along.
By the time I got back to the elk it was pitch black darkness with innumerable stars above and the elk was half skinned and halfway quartered out. I watched two brothers working together in perfect harmony field processing the elk, enjoying their time together, going about the task at hand, immersed in a moment they will remember for the rest of their lives.
They packed the elk quarters, back straps and tenderloins into cheesecloth like game bags which they strapped to their pack frames. It was exactly 2.7 miles back to camp and we only made it halfway before exhaustion set in and we had to hoist two rear quarters and a front quarter over a tree limb. In the background we could tell the coyotes had already found the elk remains. Tomorrow we’ll return and retrieve the elk quarters. It was 1 a.m. before we finally made it back to camp.
The next morning, after a breakfast of summer sausage and coffee, we hiked to where we hung the elk quarters and brought them back to camp where we hung them in trees again.
We broke elk camp that afternoon and, on the trip back to Morgan that evening, the last rays of warm sunlight just before sunset, shown more brightly on the snow-covered peaks of the Uinta Mountains than it ever had before.
Leave a Reply