Diplomat’s Gulch - Like Father, Like Son
Our typical elk camp was all dialed in: consisting of myself, couple of uncles, father, and grandfather. Everyone was overly anxious and dreaming of that hunt filled with a flawless locate, stalk, set-up, call, shoot, harvest. This will be our year! With an Idaho elk tag burning in each of our pockets, we showed up wide-eyed and bushy tailed; eager to take on the challenge of a public land OTC elk hunt. The challenge that often leaves us with a paper tag, bruised ego, sore legs, and a broken heart. All the drive was there, but so was the reality that this was no walk in the park.
Our first morning hunt was a flop. Two 4-wheelers and a pickup at the trail head quickly stopped all that energy and excitement that was previously built up over the past eleven months. Our secret spot was had (queue the eye roll). As public land hunters, this is often one of the largest obstacles: getting away from people! No worries, I thought, my dad has been hunting this area since the 1960’s, while I was privileged enough to be able to join the hunting camp at seven years old, I was confident that we would find our own space.
However, mid-September comes with it’s own set of challenges. The temperature seems to be continually rising, along with the popularity of archery, and often times the moon. In addition to that, wolves continue to terrorize Idaho, logging takes it’s toll on what used to be great elk country, and even the way elk herd up has changed pretty drastically (but let’s save that for another story). No excuses, we have been at this long enough to know the challenges and not dwell on them. We have been successful many times in the past; this year should be no different. The archery success rate for elk is around 10% annually, we expect to be that 10%.
We spent much of the first three days reacquainting ourselves with dirt bike seats, numerous trail-less hiked miles, early morning bugles (not much after that), steep country, hot temperatures, hidden wallows, and the beloved forested midday naps. This was all well in good, but we did not have any quarters hanging yet. Then, the late afternoon of September 18th, three days in to our ten day hunt, our luck changed. We had worked our way back to the dirt bikes and we were officially “scouting” for tomorrow’s hunt. With temperatures hovering around ninety degrees, much of the bugling we heard was at dawn or dusk. And with our butts squarely planted on the bikes, this was a locating mission. On a ridge top, we heard a few bugles, but one was intriguing. It was directly across from us in a huge canyon (like all day hike, huge). But we had a fortune of good luck… motorized vehicles and a Forest Service road that got us headed in the right direction so we took off to more closely pinpoint this bull. You know, scouting for “tomorrow”.
Upon arrival, we were still a ways off from the river bottom, and a LONG ways from making it back up the other side where we initially heard the bugle. However, with enough time to think on the ride over, I had convinced myself that it would be no problem to hoof it down to the creek bottom, up the other side, shoot this elk, field dress him, and be drinking a celebratory beer around the campfire by 9 p.m. My uncle and father thought otherwise. As I pleaded my case, my uncle grew more concerned about my sanity and my dad was hemming and hawing about the idea of this evening hunt. He was waffling. I almost had him convinced that “tomorrow’s” hunt was today! So I asked my dad, with a little frustration in my voice, “What are you thinking about?” and he quickly snapped back, “Well, son, I am trying to think of a good way to get in there.” And before my brain could stop and re-frame my thoughts, my elk crazed mouth said it, “Well, you better start by getting off your f**king dirt bike!”
I am not sure if it was shock, irritation, proving a fatherly point, excitement of actually hunting this elk, or the echoing of the last bugle still playing in his mind, but it worked! Within seconds, The King of Elk Hunting was off of his bike and ready to go straight down to the creek and straight up a near cliff to go after this taunting bull. Just like that, dad and I were headed off! The ‘A’ Team back at it, and with something to prove to boot.
As we huffed and puffed the last few steps into a bench just off the ridge line, we stopped to listen (aka catch our breath). In my head, I thought, we made it. Now we call the bull in, double lung him, high five, and start the real work! We let out the first bugle. Nothing. Second bugle. Nothing. Small series of cow calls. Nothing. I began to taste the crow, so I avoid looking the general direction of my all knowing, sweat soaked, father. I just made him hike his tail off to prove to me that he is still The King and I have more to learn. Got it. But then he turns to me and says, “one more bench and call again?” Naturally, I am game!
Second bench reached. And it is strikingly similar to the first bench: eerily quiet and equally as disappointing. A couple bugles, few cow calls, and silence. After a few minutes, with sunlight beginning to leave the sky, we look at each other and mutually shrug signifying that, once again, we were out smarted by the majestic elk of Idaho. But just as we turn to leave, a branch snaps. A lone snap breaks the deafening silence. Was it my imagination getting the best of me? We froze and listened; ninety seconds goes by, nothing. Then something: brush moves a couple hundred yards down the hill! It’s real, actual movement! Odds are it is a bird, or red squirrel, or my mind creating a noise to stay a little longer. But my dad plays along, he sneaks away from the movement and I find a shooting position with “lanes” (have to laugh here if you’ve ever hunted Idaho brush bulls, lanes rarely exist beyond twenty yards).
Nestled in front of a large pine tree and crouched behind a huckleberry bush standing about 3-4 feet tall, I wait patiently. My caller is now slowly walking away from me towards the ridge top, faintly cow calling as he goes. Three or four minutes pass (which feels more like an hour), scarcely hearing anything except for an occasional song from a bird or chatter of a squirrel, painful silence. But then, right on queue, the swish of brush again. This time the distance is cut in half from the first snap of the branch. And then all of sudden, like every dream leading up to this year’s hunt, the beautiful view of white antler tips come into sight! My Dad has sweet-talked this young bull into my lone shooting lane! As the bull makes his way up the hill, I draw my bow back as he walks behind a tree, a mere thirty yards away. Still crouched behind the huckleberry bush, I wait until he steps into my lane at twenty yards. Here is the moment, I place my pin right behind his front shoulder, slowly rise out of my crouch, and as he turns to see my movement, the trigger is pulled. Thump. I watch the fletchings disappear; a young 3-point bull spins and takes off straight downhill. I hold my breath and listen; seconds go by, and then crash! And just like that, all that off-season training, planning, scouting, shooting, studying, dreaming converged into a sheer fraction of a second. The stars aligned for the ‘A’ Team and we just hit pay dirt! My dad and I reconvene, and I recount the whole story in a fury of adrenaline and joy as we anxiously wait for enough time to pass before we can begin our recovery mission.
Bull down! The joyous hugs and high fives started! Just like that, we went from sitting on dirt bikes in the early afternoon to saying a prayer in the last of the evening light over a majestic bull elk, thanking God for the opportunity and gift that He has presented to us. We both sit down, in somewhat excited shock, and drink our coveted water before the real work starts: field dressing this bull.
As we sit in silence, my dad turns to me and says (or close to), “You know, son, I understand you are pretty intense about hunting and often times right. However, the next time you approach your hunting party with a suggestion, you may want to use a little more diplomacy.” The forest’s silence is quickly broken with a solid laugh out of the both of us! He is clearly still irked that I told him to get off of his dirt bike in a not so nice tone, accompanied with choice words. “Thank you” I say, “ I will keep that in mind!” We both recognize that it accomplished the intended outcome, but we agree two things: 1) Be nicer to your hunting partner, and 2) This drainage will forever be known as “Diplomat’s Gulch” by our team.
We spent much of the late evening and early night field dressing the bull and hiking out (only one cliff scare on the hike, where we vowed to improve our flashlight game). As we reached the bikes, there my uncle sat, anxiously awaiting a good story. More high fives and hugs! We made it back to camp, and that beer was finally had! However, it was not 9 p.m. as my dirt bike daydream had constructed earlier in the day, but it tasted just as good!
This will not go down as our biggest bull, most miles hiked, wildest shot, longest recovery, or any other overly embellished story line. But I will tell you that this bull was a trophy in our freezer, on my wall, and in my heart! This 3-point bull signifies what we all live for as hunters: stories, camaraderie, family, hard work, second-guessing, overly taxed emotions, fun, and filling a freezer! My dad and I have built a bond that goes much deeper than elk hunting, but elk hunting is the reason we are so close. The reason I go left before he says ‘go left’, and the reason he bugles on queue when I am wishing he would hit that high note. We work as a team, and have fun doing it. Even if sometimes we have to convey a message with a little attitude. It is all for the greater good of elk hunting! I have been blessed to learn from the best, and I am so thankful for all my experiences and lessons in the field. Another experience, another lesson! And this upcoming season, I may try a more diplomatic approach to my hunting. Maybe.
