It’s not my story, but since I was stuck at home working my butt off and getting progressively lonelier by the day, I’m going to tell it anyway.

Junior and his dad go deer hunting in Colorado every year. They stay at a friend’s place and usually each bring home a nice buck. Last year, Junior went on an elk hunt with the friend and his son-in-law. He got hooked, even though it wasn’t his elk. The friend promised that it was his turn next year, so when they went out, he bought an elk tag along with his deer tag.

The season opened on a Saturday, so on Friday they walked deep into public land, bringing a pack horse but otherwise roughing it. They ate backpacking food, slept on rocky beds, and sat and watched for elk all day long. The herd of 300 or so that usually hangs out there wasn’t on time this year; they saw about seven or eight, not a one a legal bull. The next day they hiked in a little farther to try to find some animals, but still were alone out there. Since the herd obviously hadn’t moved in yet, there wasn’t much point in continuing to beat themselves up, so they came out on Sunday. He was clearly disappointed when he called me, but ready to get on with a little deer hunting, although the big deer were scarce too.

But the friend is stubborn and wasn’t going to let Junior go home without at least trying one more time. They moved out to a different area and spent a lot of time glassing the hills across from them. Finally, Junior saw a flash of what looked like rump, and when they pinned down what it was, it was obviously a nice legal bull, trotting along the hillside across from them. He laid the rifle down and took a shot. The bull didn’t even react, and the moisture in the soil meant that they couldn’t see where the shot had actually gone. Junior knew he’d missed, but didn’t know how he’d missed; high, low, or what. A couple more of those and they dragged out the range finder. What he’d thought was a 300 yard shot turned out to be a 465 yard shot, so that explained the miss. He laid the rifle over a rest, took good aim just above the beast’s back, and let him have it.

This time, it was clearly hit, but he pumped another bullet into him just to be sure. The bull folded his legs and dropped right there, and was dead by the time they got to him, with two perfect lung shots.

By then it was getting dark and starting to snow. It took them a couple of hours to field dress and remove the cape and horns from a horse-sized animal, on a slope in the dark. There was no way two men were going to pack out four hundred pounds of meat, so they made sure the offal was far away from it and left it to get the next day. Junior hoisted the head and horns, a good hundred pounds, up onto his back and they made the trek back out.

 

 

  

I got a very excited call late that night from a cold, wet, exhausted man. I hadn’t known he was going out for elk again, but somehow it didn’t surprise me. I had a feeling that he’d get a good one, and he sure did that. This was a mature six-point bull, a once-in-a-lifetime trophy for us.

 

 

 They went back the next morning with a pack horse to get the meat. It was perfectly fine out in the snow all night; Junior split it with the friend and brought the rest home to me. They rolled home with two four-point bucks and that elk rack in the back of the truck and a freezer full of meat. 

 

 

   

We’re going to be on a heavy rotation of wild game for the next year, with two hunters in our family alone. In fact, as they were packaging some of the deer for freezing on Saturday, I slipped in and took a couple of pounds, added a pound or two of elk, and made a fantastic stew. This venison doesn’t have a whiff of that gamey flavor that’s sort of put me off it in previous years. I don’t know if it’s the Colorado deers’ diet or the way they process it after the kill, but either way, I like it very much.