Serious Hunter

… under reconstruction … for now see  … on-deer-hunting

 

From before …

 

… A TOUGH HUNT (Rocky Mountain Bighorn Sheep Hunt, DIY, Idaho) … here

Bachelor Canyon … here

…

 

A TOUGH HUNT

So, who was this man I was to spend the next week with? He sounded nice enough over the phone, and via email, but now I would finally meet him. He had beaten me to my parents’ cabin, our meeting place, and my first sighting of him was from behind. I gulped slightly, seeing the burly figure in front of me … but as I came to the deck and our eyes met, I knew it was going to be good.

So began a dream hunt for Rocky Mountain Bighorn Sheep. We finished socializing and headed out, for, even from McCall, we had a four hour drive to the Frank Church Wilderness.

At the Mule Hill trailhead we donned our packs. I had spent a full day packing and repacking, so everything fit, and nothing packed could be spared. But Jeff Choules, my partner, hadn’t had that luxury, and instead had loaded all of his stuff into the back of his truck, which was now being loaded into his backpack (yes, at the trail head). When he was done we donned our gear and headed toward the trail. The only problem was that Jeff could hardly move. His pack weighed close to a hundred pounds. So we spent the precious remaining daylight while he unpacked (hopefully) expendable stuff. Finally we headed out in the last hours of light.

We descended into Indian Creek on a nice trail. Though there was not much left of it, the evening was beautiful. We sensed elk, perhaps close, and maybe wolf. At the bottom of the hill, and at dark, we camped along the main Creek.

The next morning, as we broke camp, some mule deer came by. We grabbed video cameras, getting footage.

We broke camp and followed the trail down the main creek, which, nearly two-thirds the distance from mouth to head, was relatively small. At each bend in the trail we were working out of alpine and into more “sheepie” terrain, theoretically. Spruce and greenery gave way to fir and rock. As the terrain opened up we spent more time looking. We camped the second night at Kwiskwis Hot Springs and we looked around.

Monday morning we split up to look and glass; there were tracks around the Hot Springs – definitely deer and maybe sheep. I was told the sheep liked the minerals of the springs. Sheep coming to the springs would be too easy, but we’d look anyway. I climbed north; Jeff looked south. I looked into the Kwiskwis drainage, which was brutally rugged; Jeff looked at the north facing slopes of the main creek. Some deer came to the springs; we got them on video.

No sheep.

 

By now several things were happening. First, we weren’t seeing sheep, or convincing sign. Second, our heavy packs were wearing us out. But third, regardless, I had this feeling that tomorrow, Tuesday, would be the day. And on my lips the song, “Give me Jesus.”

I spied some terrain some four miles east that looked good, past Tomahawk Creek. It looked good on the map – and, though I couldn’t really see it, as it was around the bend – I really wanted to try. We decided to do it. It would be our turnaround condition. If nothing, we would backpack out and re-think our hunt.

We stripped way down. No tent, minimal food – we would penetrate east and see. We went past Tomahawk Creek, and broke off north, and UP. At dark we got on a point of sorts, and looked a bit, then crawled in our sleeping bags under the stars.

During the night a blazing full moon came out – giving the appearance we were camped in the middle of a full-lit football stadium. But, alas, as far as civilization was concerned, the farthest thing from it.

Morning came early, clear, and crisp. The alpenglow first hit Big Baldy, a staggeringly massive peak rising six thousand feet above the river and creek below. As we got out of our sleeping bags I had this feeling we should keep a low profile; we were on a point, and visible. I half ignored it, but also half paid attention.

Jeff went west to glass, and I went east. It looked good. After an hour or so we joined up. Still nothing. There was some terrain I still wanted to look at. Plus, I wanted to be able to look under where we had spent the night. I told Jeff to give me until 10:30…if nothing, we’d go out.

I picked a contouring route that would take me to a place where I could look back at the terrain below and out of sight from where we had camped, and to the ‘last’ canyon I wanted to check.

My contour worked well for a while, but then I hit a rock outcropping. To detour above the outcrop would take me up into timber and out of good viewing; to go low would sacrifice precious elevation, but looked better, so I started down.

Quickly I spotted what looked like sheep beds below me. I had heard and read about them, but heretofore not seen any myself, so I was rather curious. I decided to descend to them, and once in their midst, was somewhat in marvel. I then looked further downhill and there stood, about 80 yards away, a beautiful ram, broadside, looking at me. I brought up my optics. He looked legal, but maybe only barely so, so I didn’t shoot. It wasn’t worth even the question.

He looked at me, then forwards, then back. Something else had his attention – I supposed it to be other rams. He then stepped out of sight. I was trying to get somewhat ready.

A moment or so later, he, or another sheep, bolted out into the open, beyond and to the right, moving at incredible speed, over horrible terrain. About 150 yards away at first, he ran (or `flew’) a hundred yards west and down… with a large cougar in pursuit!  But while the cat took off at a run, the ram way outdid him. In a moment, they both disappeared in the terrain, and then the ram, or another, appeared, much farther away, alone, running down and east.

I radioed Jeff that I was into sheep.

A nice ram appeared about…hmmm…five hundred yards below me. But he was hard to pick up in the shadows and quickly disappeared around a ridge. Wow, nothing happens for a long time – then a lot of stuff happens at once.

I radioed Jeff to bring water. I watched. Several deer came up the canyon the sheep and cougar went into (though the sheep were likely long gone). I would move east and look, and then wait for Jeff before the last big canyon, where I supposed the big ram went.

Getting over to a place below the crest of the big ridge, I moved through beautiful sheep terrain, which I hardly noticed, as I was thinking of catching up with that ram. We were in sheep Shangri-La. Jeff joined up – pointing out numerous sheep beds. I let Jeff rest, and then we climbed up over.

On the ridge we picked a big bush. Jeff would face and look high. I went to the other side of the bush and looked low. Immediately I spotted a ram below and across from us bedded in a talus slope, right in the middle. I went back around and showed Jeff. We watched. He looked like a nice ram. He was watching below, and not up towards us. Jeff cautioned that we should wait and watch, as he may be with others – maybe something even bigger.

He was a fine ram, and I started getting a bit anxious. Situations like this don’t last forever. I collected some stuff to use for a rest …and as I was getting ready the ram got up and started moving towards some rocks and timber – he would soon be out of sight and it would all be over if I tarried.

Jeff neglected (somehow in the excitement) to bring both rangefinder and spotting scope. Well, the spotting scope we could live without, but I wanted range. I estimated 300 yards, Jeff 400. But the bullet I was shooting drops a lot in that hundred-yard difference. Ughhh. The ram was climbing up and away from us, giving me a shot that I could afford to be off on, in my estimation of range. I put the crosshairs below the base of his head and fired.

I expected the first shot to miss, but at least be a ‘marker’ – I quickly asked Jeff where the bullet hit, since I didn’t see it. He didn’t answer. But then I realized I hit the sheep; the ram stopped at the shot, and started shaking. Then it turned and ran downhill. In an amazing second shot that I don’t know if I could ever repeat, I hit him the front end, stopping him. He was down. I had my ram. I shouted with excitement. It was Tuesday. I knew it would be Tuesday.

 

It was obvious that we would have to carry the ram down, and not back to where we spent the night, so I would head to the ram and start to dress it, while Jeff would go back and get our stuff and meet me back at the kill.

I made it over to my ram and was immediately stunned at the size of the creature. I guess I assumed a ram was the size of a nice mule deer buck. This animal was amazing – it was more the size of a modest elk. It was August 31, and warm. I didn’t have a camera, but I did have a knife, so I immediately went to work getting hide off and meat cooled.

Eventually, Jeff joined me. He had our stuff, and was now also taking video. He ranged my shot, 319 yards. We got still picks. As dusk came upon us we were ready to move. The trail was straight below us, a half mile or so, a rugged half mile.

We got to the trail at dark. We stashed the animal in a ravine, and headed up trail. By moonlight we made it back to the hot springs, 2 am. We slept.

While on the mountainside with my sheep, I sat-phoned my dad. It was obvious we were not going back up the Indian Creek trail with the animal – we would have to carry it down to the Indian Creek airstrip, some nine miles east. I asked my dad to find out what our options for extraction were, and that I would call him back the next day.

Wednesday we packed up everything and headed down the trail to my sheep. Jeff left behind his camp chair, left by someone else earlier. Once at the sheep, we spent some time caping it further, until a nasty storm broke loose. The storm was good, in that it brought cooler weather, but would make for miserable camping. During the afternoon I called my dad. He had arranged for McCall Aviation to come in and scoop us up Thursday evening at the Indian Creek airfield. I told my dad, “you don’t understand the kind of terrain we are in …,” and that he needed to change it to Saturday morning, at the earliest.

We hurriedly stashed the meat again and headed down the trail for a place to camp.

The problem with the area we were in is that it is all so horribly steep. The only potential flat (camping) spots were potentially along the creek, but the creek was way below the trail. So we headed down trail – it looked like about four miles to the east the trail would hit the creek bottom, and so it did. We arrived at creek bottom at dark. Yes, we found some flat – but it was all flood plain. Gravel. Ughh. But we had a tent again. Amazingly I was able to get a fire going in the storm, but it wasn’t much enjoyed in driving rain, so we got inside the tent and retired. As we drifted off to sleep I hoped we wouldn’t get a flashflood.

The next morning it was clear and cool – good for meat. We climbed back up the four miles to our stash with empty packs, and got the sheep. We passed some new tools left by a trail crew. With the sheep now on our backs again, we returned to camp. We unloaded and stashed the sheep, broke camp, loaded camp on our backs, and headed to the strip, another five miles downstream.

By now the main creek was big, and we had to cross it. Jeff brought along a pair of tennis shoes, which we would take turns using, in an effort to keep our hiking boots dry. At one such crossing, while I was out of my boots and waiting for him to toss the shoes, he donned video camera and threw the shoes SHORT. Of course I had to scramble like a madman to rescue the shoes, barefoot, which he conveniently got on tape. It was planned. But the clip didn’t take … same with my Access Bar infomercial. Same with the ram kill … not on tape. But we did get a lot of other stuff on tape. So, by Thursday night, at dark, we advanced our camp to the Campground at the Indian Creek Airstrip.

Here now, for the first time in a week, were people. But these people were not like us. They were fresh from civilization, just off the plane, eating cheese and drinking wine, and we weren’t invited.

Friday we headed back up the trail, five more miles, to get the sheep where last stashed. Additional to trail crew tools, we came across mules, and eventually the crew itself. We chatted long with them – to delay the inevitable work ahead of us. But finally I said to Jeff we must be going. To our delight, however, they offered the use of one of their mules … wonderful! We took the mule, loaded our packs on its back, and headed up the trail, dropping a couple $20 bills where the crew would find them.

Nearing the stash Kojak (the mule) got spooky…but it was probably just from the smell of the meat. It was so sweet to have a mule do the last haul. We just walked while Kojak carried the load. At the last stream crossing Jeff jumped on the mule with the sheep, and in a splashing frenzy, and last hurrah, left me to cross the old fashion way. We arrived at our camp at sundown. Friday evening.

The trail crew guys told us to go ahead and use the mule all the way into the Campground, and just bring it back to their camp, about a mile away, when done. Fantastic.

Jeff volunteered to take the mule back to their camp. When darkness came and Jeff had not returned, I got worried, not for his safety, but that he was into some great feast at the trail crew camp, and that I wasn’t a part of it. Then he arrived with the news: we were invited to dinner. They had asked Jeff what we had planned for dinner and he confessed “MREs”. Perhaps for a moment Jeff thought otherwise, but true companionship won out and he figured he better come get me. It was wonderful.

… As twilight gave way to stars, we dined on beef steak, green beans, salad with dressing, fruit juices, and cookies for dessert. Their proximity to the airfield and use of mules afforded no limit to luxury. We chose from cases of various drinks. Around the fire we talked of good mules, and bad. As the night progressed and the logs were pushed deeper into the oversize fire, and while vodka flowed freely among some, stories of good mules and bad ones several times repeated, but we laughed and agreed anyway. After the third failed attempt at leaving, we broke away and walked back to our camp by flashlight. We had a plane to catch the next morning.

 

 

Bachelor Canyon

Antlerless Elk (Depredation) Hunt

© Jeff R. Filler

Moscow, Idaho 2006 and Pell City, Alabama 2024

Author Note:  This is a compilation of several hunts during a Special Controlled Elk Depredation Hunt in Northern Idaho, in 2006.  Depredation hunts are managed by the Idaho Fish and Game Department in coordination with landowners suffering crop damage due to wildlife activity, in this case elk.  Hunts are on limited properties.  Hunters are selected by lottery.  Landowners may also participate.  This hunt was conducted during Spring 2006.  Legal elk were `antlerless’, though both bull and cow elk are typically antlerless at this particular time of year.  The hunt was with hunting buddy friends Dave, and Vaughn, though at separate times with each.

 

… “there’s some property to the north, out at the end of a dead end road. There’s a bachelor who lives out there, in a single-wide.”

We found the road, and sure enough, at the end of the road, a single-wide.  With a knock on the door, we met the bachelor. We let him know what we were doing – we were looking for elk. He immediately let us know what he knew, and about how one of the guys … “saw the elk out in the grass field, shot, missed, (cussed) and left, adjusted zero on his gun – it got bumped or something – came back, … and shot the elk.  As he was gutting out the elk, a “f-g” deer ran by and he shot the deer, also.”  The way the bachelor told the story I think I started to fall in love with him, or at least the story, or perhaps the place.

We proceeded to the canyon, about a half mile beyond. We crossed bluegrass fields, and then plowed wheat. We found the leg of an elk, then two, and then a deer leg, about where the bachelor said the carnage took place. The elk legs were huge – must have been a “5 by 5 antlerless” …

The hills and the canyons of the Potlatch River country are amazing. Gently rolling hills, rich for dry land farming, bounded by steep, deep, and sometimes dark, foreboding canyons. Canyons that on one side might be relatively open with cheat grass, star thistle, and rocks … and on the other … dark cedar groves, or broken pines, or dense firs, and almost a constant undergrowth of all kinds of thorn bushes, and cliffs and rocks. And for elk and deer – heaven. The canyons and woods provide safe haven, while the fields provide all variety of `groceries’ – winter wheat and bluegrass in the winter, and as the year drags on – peas, lentils, garbanzos, to the frustration of farmers trying to make a living off the same. It was at the edge of such a canyon, and some times in, that we spent mornings and evenings of the next several weeks, looking for elk, and exploring.

Each trip we explored a little farther on top, or deeper down in, in what became called (by us) Bachelor Canyon. We chatted more with the bachelor, and saw so many deer that I had to ask IFG (Idaho Fish and Game Department) if there were any more depredation deer tags.  But there wasn’t much elk sign.  The elk had moved east, and were bunched up on some property we couldn’t hunt. So we explored. I knew at some point the elk would be back.

As the days and weeks passed we noted some great spots to hunt deer, and also noted a good turkey spot on the other side. Then, just at dusk, at the end of a hunt, I saw an elk. She was moving fast. We didn’t have much time. I headed south in what I thought might be a blocking movement. I told Dave to wait a minute, and follow. But he didn’t (follow). He motioned me back. He had spotted three more elk. Range – 650 yards – too far. Daylight was fleeing.  I decided to try and close the distance before they disappeared.  The elk were downwind, acting spooky.  A dozen or so had appeared, and then vanished, moving toward the canyon.

I led us along the knolls toward the part of the canyon the elk had perhaps re-entered … subconsciously hoping our scent would carry downwind and block their retreat into the main canyon. Right at dark, at the last knoll, it worked, they busted around to the south.

Elk hunting is amazing. One hunts for days and days – nothing. Then, without warning, there are too many to choose from. I had to pick an animal that did not have one lined up behind, should my bullet go through one and strike another … and in what seemed to take a mini-eternity … I picked an `antlerless’ in the running herd, shot, and clean missed. Dave made a cow call, and one turned around and stopped. I shot. The sound of a good impact came back, and the elk took off running … at the end of the herd. I expected her to fall at any instant.

But she didn’t.

We watched the herd travel over a half mile, over burned bluegrass and plowed fields. At a thousand yards plus, one elk broke off and headed slow to the north … toward the canyon. We assumed it was the one I “shot”, and expected her to expire. But she didn’t, and disappeared.

I called home and said we had one hit, and would be a while. I figured we would either find the elk out in the field, or a blood trail leading into the canyon. We took up their trail in vanishing light …but nothing,

NOTHING!

We found their tracks; we found where three split off; we found fresh shed hair; we found weird stuff, seemingly unrelated to elk. But we didn’t find elk, or even any solid evidence one was even hit. After five hours in the fields, along the rim, and even dropping down into the canyon itself …nothing. And as we looked by flashlight and a sliver of a moon, about where the lone elk went into the canyon, a big, dark form came out of the canyon, and followed in the direction of the main herd…the lone elk? A big deer?

Darkness … we ended the search with intent that I would return in the morning.

I came back the next morning and I found where they came out of the canyon and where I had shot from; I found tracks, my spent shell castings; I found my hat (which I had lost); I found and followed their thousands of tracks for the thousand yards of their exit; I found where they entered the draw to the east…but not an elk. I had to face the possibility – maybe I missed that elk.

I guess I had to face the possibility that I’m not the good-shot I think I am. Indeed the only thing suggesting that I hit the elk was what `sounded’ like bullet hitting body. There was a lot of mud around – did we hear the bullet impact mud?

…

An old friend, Vaughn, called and wanted to get together for lunch. In an active hunting season I don’t believe in `going to lunch’ – I believe in `going hunting’, so I said I had an elk tag – let’s catch up while we look for elk. On the drive out we saw several groups of elk in an area that wasn’t open … a good sign … they were out and moving. I had re-zeroed my 30-06 rifle in the morning – just to be sure. So far during the hunt I was carrying my Ruger Mark II M77 Rifle with 260 Remington 140-grain slugs. This time I would shoot the 30-06, with 180 grain slugs … more firepower.

We parked at the bachelor’s. I took us around a hill to see if we could diminish the range to where I anticipated the elk would come out, if they decided to show. We saw the usual hundred or so deer.  With daylight beginning to flee, I told Vaughn that they would appear any minute.

Then I saw it … a sliver of the light yellow-tan rump patch of an elk moving up through the broken timber of a draw leading out of the main canyon. I moved forward, got prone, ranged. Now two elk had come up into the grass. Still over six hundred yards, … too far. Ugh!  I had to get closer.  I told Vaughn to `watch’. Shielded (hopefully) by trees, I decided to try and close the distance.

I got to the edge of the draw. Daylight was vanishing fast. I could not find them. Maybe they had seen me crossing the field. I quickly walked the rim of the draw, hoping I would see elk crossing this way or that. Nothing. Nothing up on the grass. With only five minutes left of legal daylight I decided to cross the ravine and get to the side where I first saw the elk.  One thing I have learned over the years is that you `at least have to try’.

I was somewhat noisy in my hurried entry into the timber on my side of the draw, and two-thirds of the way up the other side I got caught in a thorn bush.  I felt like I was captured by the tentacles of the villain in Spiderman 2, but not only were torso and limbs caught fast, any movement also tore fabric or flesh.  I have to break free, quickly, even if I make some noise!  Almost in a panic I tore free … spending too many precious seconds with the bush.

Just below the top of the ravine I stopped to catch my breath – something my dad taught me, `just in case’. So I waited just a bit, but only a bit, … as I was literally in the last minute of legal shooting.

I popped up out of the draw, and found myself broadside to a whole herd of elk, 75 yards, on the horizon, just coming out of the main canyon into the bluegrass.  Were these the elk I saw just earlier, or new ones? … Dunno.   I slipped and struggled to get prone with my gun barrel above the ground. I was basically still in the draw, except for head, gun, and parts of shoulders, and arms – which a few elk noticed, but assumed to be non-hostile. I picked a beautiful “antlerless” – looking right at me – and squeezed for a head shot. I figured all-or-nothing … and at the shot – indeed nothing. Either my gun was off (maybe), or I hadn’t caught my breath enough (probably) … it was a clean miss.

At the shot most of the elk somewhat bolted, except for one or two. Discarding the head-shot idea, I decided to get serious. Center mass. I picked an elk that was standing broadside to me, put the crosshairs square center behind the shoulder, and squeezed. A miss by ten inches in any direction would still kill an elk. At the shot the elk bolted, and, slightly crouched, followed the other elk over the knoll. Doubtful she knew it – but I knew – she was a `dead elk running’.

I would not chase … but let the mortally wounded elk go, perhaps as little distance as possible, and expire. I found my way back to Vaughn. He had watched the whole ordeal from a half-mile afar. He asked me how I had missed. I said – “Oh, but I didn’t – I think I have an elk over there.” Vaughn said he didn’t see one fall. But he did say they got to the top the hill and milled around a bit, and then took off again. I didn’t say anything, but I suspected that they stopped when my animal expired, then they moved on.

We grabbed two packs from the rig, complete with flashlights, knives, gamebags, phone, and headed out into the increasing dark. We got to where I had shot and I broke out the flashlights. We headed up the knoll ten or so yards apart, to look for blood. We crossed the top of the knoll. In the diminished light, sixty yards ahead, I could see a downed elk. I called for Vaughn’s light – and got ready with my rifle, just in case.

What a beautiful creature, and what an occasion to thank God with loud shouts and praise.  I called home and reported we were standing over an elk, and would `be a while’.

I started to skin the elk and take off meat. We had a half-mile haul ahead of us. The elk must be getting ready to shed their winter coats, as I could pull clumps of hair off her, down to bare skin.

We looked over to the bachelor’s place – there was a flashlight “looking” this way and that – no doubt the bachelor – a bit worried about us, our rig still in his driveway, and so late – so we flashed lights back. I didn’t want the bachelor to worry.

In a minute Vaughn said he could hear a four-wheeler. I kept working – partly dismissing it. Then I heard it. He was coming our way. This would be SO good. I worked a bit more, but also realized a huge blessing was unfolding … It was the bachelor. He arrived, saw us with the elk, and said he’d go back and get his trailer – we’d load the elk on the trailer, and drive it back to his place … SO SO GOOD!

Vaughn and I tidied up our operation, collecting our stuff. I put my rifle on my (orange) pack so he wouldn’t drive up in the dark and run over it, but he did anyway, as Vaughn and I watched. Inwardly I just smiled…the tires on the four-wheeler were wide, the ground a bit soft – and I now had months before I would need it (my rifle) again. I had my elk – and plenty of months to fix my gun – if it even needs fixed. Definitely, I would (later) at least clean and check it.

We loaded up the elk and took it to over to his lighted driveway. The bachelor didn’t have anything else going on – so he held flashlight while I finished taking the meat off the animal -Vaughn helping with a pull of hide here and there and advisement on muscle groups. The bachelor talked on and on as we worked. Nearly every third word was a “d-mn” or a “f—k” … as he talked of past hunts, and events in the canyon … but despite colored language (or maybe even because of it), I somehow loved it.

I was a bit afraid to report that the elk still in his trailer had not been `gutted’. The way we handle game is to de-meat the frame, without ever even spilling the guts or opening the stomach cavity. I would need the bachelor to take us back to the canyon when finished. At the end I think the bachelor was a bit impressed with our method. In his flatbed trailer was a meatless elk. We had also not spilled a drop of guts, or other insides. We had clean meat, and only meat, for the take-home. I had even carefully taken the tenderloins (inside the stomach cavity). Done, the bachelor and I took the half-mile journey back over to the edge of the canyon, about where the elk first appeared, dragged her off the trailer and rolled her over the rim, and left her there as a `message’ to the other elk. It would work for a while (warning the elk not to venture into the fields). And the remains would feed the coyotes.

It was a wonderful evening. While we worked the cold wind stopped, and the approaching clouds retreated. When finished we shook hands with the bachelor and said good-bye, and then exchanged several more rounds of handshakes and farewells. He told us to come back in the fall.

As we got in my truck the cold wind resumed, and we headed out into the dark, toward civilization. I had fallen in love with the bachelor, and Bachelor Canyon.

Author Endnotes: Some time afterward I found the remains of what may well have been the elk that I shot at, and `missed’. Her remains were deeper into the canyon than we had looked. I hate losing a wounded animal. It does happen. I make sure it doesn’t happen often.

I shared my story with the Bachelor, and he with others. He had a relative who worked for the County. At one point there was talk of actually naming the canyon “Bachelor Canyon” … I don’t know if it ever materialized.