Reader-Submitted Story
In the Dark - Part I
by Howard Pearce
A hunt that had been on the books for well over a year was finally underway. Loaded with the provisions for our first five-day stint, we unpacked the bicycles out of trucks and set off into the wilderness. This would be my second official season with a bow in hand. Simon, the man who introduced me to bow hunting, was my hunting partner on this endeavour. Along the way, we stopped and gazed into basins, glassing the slopes, and taking note of the terrain. Much of what was seen was south facing, and at this time of day we did not expect to see any game. Only premium AAA Alberta Beef roamed out in the open in the midday heat.
After a few hours of biking, we settled on a spot for camp and got busy setting up. We decided at the trailhead that we would spike camp for the first couple of days and if the area proved to be void of game, we would carry on to another location. I had boots on the ground just two weeks ago, prior to the opener and felt we had good opportunities both to the north and south of us. Nearing the hottest part of the day, we settled under a canopy of spruce and got busy lightening our packs of the first day’s food provision. Filling our bellies as we lay facing east, we spoke little of life at home and more of our hopes of what lay in the timber before us.
That evening, Simon and I mounted up on our bikes with lightened packs and set off back down the trail to some ridges we had passed earlier. We weren’t sure where we were going to start just yet; the wind, we decided, would answer that for us.
We arrived at the bottom of a drainage with a steady wind in our face coming off a shaded eastern slope—perfect! About halfway up we couldn’t contain our excitement any longer. Simon made a hand motion to rip a bugle and I eagerly nodded my head with approval. We put a little distance between each other and he let one go. Like an echo, we immediately were met with a reply. The only problem was that we couldn’t agree on which direction it had come from! I was certain it came from above, but Simon was determined that the bull was below us and possibly on the other side of the drainage. Unable to pinpoint the direction of the bugle, we opted not to commit the whole evening to searching for him. Instead, we took the small win at face value; we have a bull that is talking in the basin we picked. Should we had stayed? I don’t know enough about elk to answer that.
We agreed to seize the good down-slope wind and continue up. Whatever became of that elk we will never know, because very shortly after, the woods lit up with an orchestra of bugling bulls. Right around last legal shooting light, the slopes came alive. With barely enough light to glass, we spotted several elk on the slopes of the ridges across from us. We marked the evening down as a success and made our way back off the mountain to the glow of dimmed headlamps. Back at camp, we replenished our water bottles and got busy with supper. Once again, settled under the spruce trees, we enjoyed our meals with the glow of the full moon. That night an orchestra of distant bugles filled the night air. Crawling into my sleeping bag it was hard to sleep. I wasn’t sure if I was hearing bugling bulls or if they were simply being conjured up in my dreams.
At 5:00 am, we rose from our tent to a cold, dew-covered landscape. I contemplated if leaving my puffy jacket at the truck was a bad choice. We were close to where we’d hunted the evening before, about a 20-minute bike ride, but that morning we learned to be flexible. Before we could mount our bikes, a bull called out from what felt like only a few hundred yards away. The mountain was talking; time to adapt. We ditched the bikes and started on foot toward where we thought they might be heading up the mountain. It was too early to shoot, too early to call, and the wind was all over the place. In the dark, with the wind blowing toward a bugling bull, I felt like the hunt might be over before shooting light. Simon climbed the hill behind me, and we waited for legal light. I stood at the edge of an opening, listening intently. Faintly, I picked up soft tending bugles, glunking, and the short chirps of cows moving in the darkness.
Letting one bugle go, we had a response. It was close, but it sounded like he was downwind. We reacted fast and moved on it, but methodically. Just downwind of us was a steep creek bed. We jumped into it and followed it back down the hillside, hoping it would funnel our scent down the mountain and not continue to blow out the timber beyond us. We circled low, and crept along just inside the timber line at the bottom of the hill. A couple hundred yards later and one more “Hail Mary” bugle, we were left with nothing but the chill of the valley bottom and the silence of the mountain. Up we go.
We moved steadily up the mountain, pausing, listening, and watching as the pale morning light revealed more with every minute. We bumped a couple of mule deer on the way up and chuckled at the obscene noises the cattle were making from the valley bottom. The first official day of hunting was starting off better than we could have hoped for.
After climbing about 300 feet, we finally were cresting the ridge of a finger. “ELK! One elk! Two! There’s two elk! There’s two more! Cows! That’s a bull! Two bulls! Three bulls!” Across the small valley the hill was alive. We glassed off of bow cams as best we could. Two cows were further down and feeding. Two bulls were above, in the trees. Their heads were down, facing each other. They looked to be sizing each other up. Between those bulls and the cows was the prize. Simon counted, “He’s a six. He’s a big six!”
I lost control a little bit, I won’t lie. At that moment, I felt like the best way to kill this bull was to sprint down the mountain and up the other side. Clearly this would never work. It took all I had to go slow. We watched. He called out with his head low, hot on the tail of one of the cows. The other two bulls disappeared into the timber. We plotted the trajectory of the 6x6 and cows. They were going to bed, no doubt about it, and we had a pretty good idea where. The wind was with us as we paralleled them on the opposite finger ridge. We had to get across to their side undetected. As we worked down, trying to keep them in sight, and also the wind favourable, we drifted closer to the valley bottom. There was a gap of about 50 yards between the timber lines at its narrowest point. As we neared it. I felt something was amiss. I looked back at Simon and whispered, “I feel exposed.” Not 10 seconds after that, up on the hillside, there she was, a cow elk, locked in on our location. My heart sank.
We were definitely down but not quite out. We held fast, and we held long; really long. We sat for 45 minutes, locked into a staring contest with a single cow. Twice she disappeared out of my view, but just as I felt comfortable to move, she was back at her post and locked onto our location. She undoubtedly had seen us once, but our stillness and patience was paying off. She was beginning to doubt what she had seen. Then a small miracle happened. That noisy AAA Alberta Beef showed up, grazing up the mountain, and blundering through the bush. They came close enough for that cow to chalk up our movement to nothing more than some mangy cattle. Finally, she put her head down and turned, disappearing once again into the trees. It was hard to know what to do at this point. We were saved, but do we continue to press that group of elk? I so badly wanted to and Simon reluctantly submitted to the idea.
We got back into the timber, hurried downhill until we knew it was safe to cross, and then started up after them. However, in one way or another, that cow had done her job. Halfway up the mountain, toward the elk, the wind shifted to an uphill breeze. I looked back at Simon.
“Let’s get the heck off this side of the hill before we blow them out of the country.” She had stalled us just long enough for the daytime heating cycle of the mountain to kick in and we no longer had the wind. If you don’t have the wind, you don’t have anything.
For the previous Reader Story, click here.
