Last Elk Hunt

By Patrick J. Stone

Smoke curled through the thick Ponderosa Pine tree branches that reach heavenward in the gathering dusk of late August. Unusual at this time of year is the sudden chill in the brisk mountain air of the Oregon Blue Mountains. Clouds roil over the nearby peaks. Rain sputters while wind driven sleet slaps the sides of the small motor home. For once, a weather front is looming, threatening to dampen the all too dry forests before the yearly rituals begin early the next morning. An urge- surge of testosterone laced with adrenaline course the veins adding life to age dampened enthusiasms. We three do not see much of each other, life required different pathways. But for the next three days Elk camp is once again home. The white mans fire is built of choice not necessity. Flames leap skyward and we are kept warm not by the flames but the regular effort of gathering wood and fuel. Each of us knows the difference between a small warming fire and this monstrosity. We grin with the luxury of hot coals, curling flames, and good friendships based on shared histories. Capricious breezes require a constant jockeying of position around the fire to avoid the hacking cough of smoke filled lungs. Sharp wit, biting sarcasm, maudlin memories, and silence fill our space; the unspoken is the language of choice. Hovering in the foreground are the invited and uninvited guests of our pasts, those who always attend in spirit and those who once graced our fires. We are Vietnam Veterans, an infantryman, a divisional clerk, a navy riverboat operator who in their lives since war practiced psychology, casualty insurance, and the special operations of Delta force. Between us we have quite a collection of medals: Purple Heart, Air Medal, Bronze Star, Silver Star, and Combat Infantry Badge. In various degrees we have been mortared, sniped, and feared for our lives. Our war time experiences prepared us for managing extraordinary life events just not ordinary life. Between us weve had seven marriages, eight if you count the marriage and remarriage to the same spouse changed forever by traumatic brain injury, four children and seven grandchildren. Our lives have not been easy and each feels fortunate to sip once again the deep fragrance of high country. At sixty plus years old we can not longer die young, a thought- fear that pervaded our late teens and early twenties. We also share bad backs, sore shoulders, weak knees, accomplishments, and tragedy, not in equal doses but enough to grasp our silences. Dennis suffers diabetes. Collectively we wonder how much longer we can manage wilderness back country elk hunting. Its beauty is breath taking and solitude from the masses gratifying but lack of access has its costs. How much longer can we climb its mountains, cross its streams and gaze down upon distant meadows? No roads or machines mean heavy packs with survival gear, adequate food supplies, first aid kits and all the mundane we take for granted when near a vehicle.

A typical Rog and Dennis pose

We are comfortable with each others skills. Rog is a key player on the local search and rescue team. Dennis practiced years of exhaustive training in Special Forces and I learned more about maps and compasses than any nineteen year old thought he should ever know. Calling artillery within one hundred meters in triple canopy jungle has to be exact. Compound weenie, pretty boy clothes, past navigational challenges, and personal and military heritages are grist for the evening mill. Politics and matters of faith require a gentler touch. We spend our selves with laughter and delight. Catching up is not hard to do. The ebb and flow of the sometimes boisterous conversation wanes as darkness descends. With no moon or stars it is a black night. As we head to bed amid catcalls, threats and pranks we feel the excitement of the upcoming chase. Morning comes with no dawn. Grey skies, sleet, whipping wind rattle the windows and sway the trees. Close by, too close, a tree snaps under the wind load and crashes to the forest floor. The motor home registers forty two degrees inside and no one will notice if we stay huddled in cozy sleeping bags. I groan, whine, complain and finally stir. Four thirty AM is an unearthly hour for a retired guy. The other two sleeping bags show no signs of life.

Quietly, a glass of milk, breakfast roll and banana are consumed as I strap on the gear laid out the night before. Blurry eyed I trip out the door. The gale force wind catches and slams it hard amid profane utterances of what might be considered encouragements. A smile creases my lips; ah, friendships. The ridgeline is a thousand yards uphill through a tangle of blow downs, new growth and seventy five degree slopes. Unaccustomed to the seven thousand feet starting elevation I quickly move from shivering in a light weight fleece jacket to sweat soaking my polyester long johns. Whose crazy idea was this anyway? Each exhausted step brings that odd mixture of fear and excitement. I should back down. It is not worth it. I could die up here and no one could find me. On hands and knees under timber dead fall and over the next progress is painfully slow until I look back through the latest clearing and sees the tiny camp I left an hour ago. Little figures are finally leaving camp drifting through the fog making their way towards favored wild trails. Ahead, sky breaks over the ridge with the promise of easier travel. The rhythms are familiar; weapon in hand, straps tugging at shoulders, heavy frosted breathing, and eyes straining for hints of movement. Seems like yesterday when my life was at stake in terrain not so very different than this. The Central Highlands of Vietnam were just as steep and more treacherous. Mentally, emotionally, I flip back and forth from jungle paths to present wooded trails. I love these forested mountains, all the beauty without the danger. Clouds speed past pushed by a black ominous horizon, a mountain storm is brewing and I will be caught. Opening day of elk season is often crazy hot and dry but not this year. I feel the urge to move just as my quarry must. This is a mid October weather pattern not late August. High country makes its own rules. There will be a meeting and for once I have the advantage of scent, terrain and visibility. The ridgeline is filled with tracks, dung, and scraped saplings. Horizontal snow driven by gusting winds reduces vision to yards. Intermittent pauses, allow for occasional glimpses into protected mountain meadows far below the crest. Resting by a boulder overlooking a distant bowl shaped lake I rest, glass, and munch on much needed energy snacks. Far below two cow elk move into a small grassy patch surrounded by craggy rocks, a perfect ambush spot if I can make my way into range. Down a slope of loose rocks and gravel I move with as much speed and caution as I can muster. My feet fall out from under

me and in a mad grasp cling to the sole sage bush within reach. I stop my fall with minimal noise but know my shoulder has suffered an injury that will require attention once back in civilization. For now the urgency of the chase takes precedence over physical pain. Nine oclock is the agreed upon check in by two way radio. Pat, this is Rog, you read me. I read you over. I just got a good hit on a spike. Come help me track him, over. I am on my way, but first I have two cows in front of me, will try for one on my way down to you, over. Rodger that, see you in six zero minutes, over. I have gone years with out a shot and now to have elk out front and one hit seem strange. These woods offer abundance and poverty. Steadily I close the distance on the two unsuspecting animals. The blustering wind whips snow flakes and sleet hiding all sound and smell. I move closer to the vague tan patches that ghost from tree to bush to tree. Finally, the shot is made, the cow dies hard and meat is on the ground ready to be processed. Snow turns to rain as the morning ages. Rog, this is Pat, you read me. I have meat on the ground what is happening to you? The rain has washed the trail and lost all trace of my animal. I will keep doing circles but it is not looking good, over. Not being much of a butcher and feeling quite puny next to the large animal I begin the slow methodical work of gutting and boning the cow elk. The wind and snow has subsided and shafts of brief sunlight be-speckle the forest floor. I find myself smiling, grinning at my good fortune, almost giddy. This is my fourth bow killed elk in thirty years of hunting them, three small bulls and now a cow. An Alaska pipe line caribou, eight mule deer, half dozen grouse and a rabbit round out my grand archery harvest over five decades. Gutting and skinning elk takes time. Butchering a large animal every couple years is not sufficient for true skill to develop. The lightweight, camouflaged skinning knife with collapsible bone saw proves inadequate and difficult to locate once it is placed on the ground. Moving the animal into a reasonable position so the guts do not taint the meat seems all but impossible for one man on the steep side hill where the cow finally collapsed.

I am particularly careful not to trip, fall, or inadvertently jab myself with cutting tools. It is two long miles downhill to camp and my friends have promised me more than once that they are willing to haul me out of this country only if I am boned and quartered. Despite these challenges the field dressed animal finally emerges. Rog, copy me? Lets meet at the lake and make plans. About noon time we three old guys meet, eat our sandwiches and discuss the prospects of moving ourselves and three hundred pounds of boned meat two miles down steep mountain trails on sixty plus year old backs, not a pretty prospect. Lets take two days. We can split the hams and hang them in the trees for the night until we come back tomorrow morning for what we can not get tonight. Yeah, I agree. Its cool enough. There should not be any spoilage and all the bear sign seems several days old. The plan is hatched and finalized as we labor up the steep hillside to finish the boning. Initially the GPS coordinates leading to the kill site seem wrong and I begin to suffer verbal harassment bordering on abuse. Its gotta be here. This is the right area. All this is beginning to look the same. I hope I did not mark the wrong spot. Finally the flagging tape is spotted and the elk carcass discovered. I sigh with relief, my reputation saved. Hours pass as the meat is deboned and carefully placed in meat bags. No human blood is shed, a small miracle given bifocals and six helping hands. One of the meat saws shatters into useless bits. When all is done six very heavy bags remain laden with prime elk steaks, roasts and stew meats. Each man tentatively lifts the bags to ensure they are of equal weight. We still have something to prove so want no unfair advantage. It will be a long trek tonight and once again tomorrow. Yes, must weigh about sixty to seventy pounds each, dont you think? We got a bunch of meat here, somewhere between three fifty and four hundred pounds. Lets hang these extra bags, load up and get back to camp before dark catches us. We have been in excellent shape in past lives and look to be fairly fit in the present but the down hill grind and heavy packs quickly take an unexpected toll. Whining is not tolerated nor even considered, especially with this gathering but mumbled groans, pale faces, and

facial wincing become noticeable along with the all too frequent stops. Unspoken but plainly revealed is the thought: We must be crazy! Why in the world are three men, well past their prime, acting like pack horses, backs ache, knees creak, hips complain, shoulders numb? Our bodies will do the labor but will the effort be worth the cost? How many trips to the physical therapists, surgeon, masseuse, or even psychologist will it require to undo the damages being done? We know this is not a free trip, but no one complains. We are men. Exhausted, camp finally greets. We know the four mile trek awaits us tomorrow and have no energy even to cook a hot meal, quiet, resolve, and murmuring. Who in their right mind would kill an elk two miles into the wilderness with no pack animals? Not exactly an accusation, just an exhausted statement of fact with no answer. I quickly change the subject to politics. We do it all again the next day with larger consequences. Dennis, with diabetes, has developed a small open sore on his right big toe. He limps and is in obvious discomfort. Given his training and tough it out approach to life he minimizes his pain. Our meat bags crowd the meat pole; with extra support it stays upright. There has got to be four hundred pounds of meat up there, maybe more. We feel accomplishment and pride each time strangers pass and stare. Too often we have been the longing ones. Rog and Dennis make half hearted hunting attempts the third day but we are done, spent with no reserves. In the not so recent past we could go again and again, just not now, no more, not again. We have loved our brief interlude from life but unspoken is a finality of experience. We will probably not hunt again, in this fashion, in this group. We are no longer built for these travails. With less bravado than when we arrived our gear is packed and stowed ready for the journey to our respective homes. Our goodbyes are brief, emotionless but heart felt. A way of life is ending but never forgotten, genuine camaraderie is priceless. The next day my bride and I deliver the meat for final processing and packaging. Just out of curiosity, how much total meat did we bring in? It certainly feels like three to four hundred pounds and took three of us two days and six total trips to pack it out of the woods.

The young, muscular, employee smirks with mild distain. Well, lets weigh them right now. Looks like one hundred sixty five pounds of meat. How old did you say you and your friends are? A week later my wife and I have returned from a hastily arranged Alaska cruise. Since hunting season is over much earlier than anticipated Ive had to find a new tradition to fill the month of September. Once home, I seek months of physical therapy for my shoulder. Dennis is threatened with the loss of his right foot since the sore and infection is not easily contained in his diabetic body. He spends weeks in his local Veterans Administration hospital. Ultimately he retires early from his second career as a tool and die maker. Rog is sore but unscathed given periodic assistance from a masseuse. It may be time to enjoy our passion in another fashion.