We Be Elk Hunters
(but not elk shooters)
David's Story 2006:
The Sunrise Silhouette
First posted October 31, 2006
Last updated November 8, 2006
Day Two
Day Two: Oct 10
The night was peaceful if interrupted by Red running to the bathroom all night. He tried to be quiet but my antennae were up: I wanted to be ready to help if a problem arose. I did not mind all the bathroom traffic: it proved that he was rehydrated. I also moved all my money and my wallet into the bed with me; after all, he was a stranger and I did not know what I was getting into.
Morning dawns, Red is up in a chair, waiting for me to wake up. He is wondering how he is going to manage his two boxes on the bus, and deciding what he needs to throw away. An entire life's belongings going from two apple boxes to one. He shows me some old photos he wants to keep. "Only thing I really need from that other box is my leather jacket." Tough to be alone and old.
We go out for breakfast, as the free breakfast in the hotel lobby does not look appealing: bagels or Cheerios. Snow has stopped, little accumulation despite how hard it was snowing last night. We eat at Rip Griffin's, great greasy Western breakfast. Red likes his pancakes. I see Bill Nation over at a table with some hunters, amble over and say my howdy's. He leans back and I see Charlie Jaure sitting there as well. Say howdy again, Sandy comes over and does likewise. They suggest taking the Baggs road due to road conditions.
We tool over to Tom's. As we pull out of the gas station onto the onramp, there is an old man hitchhiking with a sign. Sandy yells out "NO!" and we both laugh. No more charity cases, we need to move on. "NO!" becomes a signature word, and we each laugh each time either of us says it. At Tom's, we check out Ted's antlers, below. Nice size, strong forks, good mass. A right trophy. Pistol, to boot. Good going, Ted.
 |
 |
We then start looking for the police station. "Can't miss it, tall building on 5th." We later find it, single story building on 3rd. So much for Western accuracy. These guys could not track a Caterpillar bulldozer in a sandbox.
Once we find it, I posed with Red outside, Sandy takes the picture, and we head into the station. The dispatcher/receptionist/secretary has read our tale on the blotter, is nice. I tell them, "Be sure to take care of Red. He needs some minding after." Cop there, coffee cup in hand and beer belly beyond, says that they are busy. Right. Dispatcher understands, will look after him. We leave his one box there in the hallway, there is a bank across the street. We send him across the street to the bank to get money for the bus and bid Red goodbye.
Red Thornbury and DLN in front of the Rawlins police station, where we left him in the care of the police, to help him get to the bus station and Reno. He was a nice guy and really in need of friends and help.
That is the last I have seen or heard of Red to date. No phone, so I can't call him. No address, so I can't write. I did tell him I was going to charge him for all the hassle he gave us: one Christmas card, so we would know he was OK. He said he would write (right) and he volunteered to send some cowboy earrings to Sandy that he makes. Godspeed, Red, where ever you are. You touched us in passing, I hope we touched you, too.
Sandy and I head to the grocery store, load up with what we were supposed to get. I get gas, ask about the road to Baggs. The attendant says he has no idea. "Where's Baggs?" The lady in line knows, gives general directions. "Head west on 80, go 28 miles to Creston Junction (a town?), take that south to Baggs."
We head out. Creston Junction is an intersection and a locked utility building, not a town. We then head south on a nice paved road. Sandy sleeps as I drive. We get to Baggs, get gas, ask directions to County Road 503.
"Never heard of it."
One gent suggests a way, but it is so far off the mark I know he is wrong. Stop at police station, they don't know, but are nice enough to pull their detailed road map off the wall and photocopy the relevant section. I see the road, it is not out of Baggs, but Dixon. The bottom edge of Bill's map just says "to Baggs", so this Dixon stuff is new. We drive to Dixon, it is an eyeblink sort of town, drive through town and back. No 503, no real roads going north, just alleyways and mud. Stop at a bar, one of the few buildings, just down a side street (Cottonwood Street) that turns to gravel, dirt, and mud just past the bar. I ask a barfly there, working on breakfast in a glass.
"No, never heard of it. Of course, I'm not from here."
Of course. How the Sam Hill should I know you are not from here? I resist kicking him in the shins. Another barfly suggests that the city government offices are across the street, ask there. Right, at least they will be from Dixon. I walk across, the "city government" is having lunch, both of them. I ask, they say they have not heard of 503, but you can get to Rawlins if you go down this side street and keep going 50 miles. That sounds right, we drive 100 yards and as the mud deepens, a sign reads "Carbon County 503". The "city government" is right on 503 and they don't even know it!
We drive. Nice country, but the road is very muddy. Some snow but mostly mud. I am driving about 20, gripping the wheel tightly, trying to predict the deep areas and slide areas by the depth and direction of the prior tracks. Still go into three episodes of four-wheel slides, one that scared both Sandy and I, as we were heading off the road and into a culvert. Salvation, Sandy credits my driving, I credit dumb luck. We keep driving, and about 7 miles later I begin to recognize the territory. Very windy (this is Wyoming, right?) and there is frozen water on the sagebrush where the wind is strongest. I learn the term "pogonip", which Sandy tells me is an Indian word (later I Google it and find that it is Shoshone) for frozen fog. We pass the Brown's Hill Road turnoff and I am getting excited that we are past the bad mud and into familiar territory. A bit further, I recognize some of Charlie's land. Just then, Craig calls me on my walkie talkie. Perfect timing. "Park on the road, we will pick you up. Mud is so deep, you will never make it." Bill picks us up and we roll into camp.
Finally: the Happy Hunting Grounds! We be elk hunters!
I moved my gear into the tent Bill and I would share. I also got the gear that Bill brought for me, including a new cot. I set it up. It is a Cabela's cot, including a coat rack and an attachment with pockets that fits along the side.
It is very easy to set up and worked great. I did not use the pockets much but the coat rack is a great idea. It rubs a bit against the wall of the tent, since the walls are not vertical, but we just moved the cot a bit away from the wall and it functioned. Bill gives me keys to the Ranch.
After all the gear was unpacked, stowed, donned, put into the day pack, or put into the frame pack in the back of the Bronco, we are ready. It is probably around 3 or 4, cold but not too bad, barely windy, minimal to no snow on the ground but wet.
Bill and I head out to a new area, Five Buttes Draw. It is on the east margin of our hunting territory (Five Buttes Ranch, owned by Charlie Jaure), and the draw leads directly east, toward the Red Desert.
I am a bit clumsy getting going, with a new orange vest over my new camo shell, and then trying to don the daypack. It will take me three days to figure out a system. Bill goes to the north side of the canyon or draw, I go to the south. The draw is gorgeous, with lots of aspens for cover. I hike a few hundred yards and sit at the side of a serviceberry, glassing the near and far sides. I see a few deer feeding in the sage. I watch Bill cross over behind the Buttes, and the deer see him as well. I don't know whether or not he could see them, as they are a few hundred yards away and somewhat across a hill. It is a lesson in how alert the deer can be if you are on the same side of the canyon as they are. Bill disappears behind a bit of a hill and I hear a shot. A bit later Bill radios me with the terse comment "Keep hunting, we will come back later for it." He wants to minimize radio traffic and get on with hunting. See his version (hyperlink to be made once he posts his story.) I move further along my hillside, crossing a low barbwire fence and skirting an aspen grove. The leaves have been lost, so there is no color but I can see fairly far into the stand.
I sit here a while, then continue along the hillside. I am looking directly into the setting sun when I scan my hillside above the apens, so I can't see squat. I see deer feeding 800 yards down the canyon on the far side, they are too far yet to be scared by Bill. I move along a ravine and start to climb above another aspen pocket. There is a trail leading down through the stand (see above photo), so I decide to move closer to the far hillside. It is wet and slippery, I almost take a header, but finally get to the lower margin of the stand. I stay well back from the edge as I study the far hillside. I can see Bill moving along the ridgetop. Once he clears the top, the deer farther down scatter. I have a good view of a large area, so I stay hidden back in the edge of the aspens (Bill never saw me). It is almost dark, and I decide not to press forward, preferring to monitor the far side to see if anything shows.
I became aware, over the course of this trip, how each of our hunting styles differ. Craig, with his long legs, his tennis conditioning, and his restless temperment, likes to cover one heck of a lot of territory. This forces him to be out in the open and revealed to his prey, often standing taller than the cover that is around, but he has a greater chance to see bucks from a larger area. I have a different temperment and less physical conditioning. I also am not the wing shooter that Bill is. I may have come in second in the Rancho Hondo Shooting Competition, but note that all of those targets were not moving and that all of my deer to date have been standing still (OK) or asleep (preferred), and all the shots were under 300 yards. This dictates my hunting style. I prefer to stay hidden and not walk so much, so I often will find the best vantage point and sit for hours, maybe even the whole day, moving only a few hundred feet to get a different perspective or behind a ridge or grove. I like to sit against a serviceberry or sage, often lying down or hunkered over, because I think that concealment is important. Bill is somewhat in between. I have sat with him behind some sage at Box Canyon for a half day, never moving once. This day, in Five Buttes Draw, he was looking into new territory, so he wanted to see the lay of the land and so was moving but fairly evident to the game. Ted, because he is using his Casall, needs to be closer. I have usually seen him moving very slowly, covering ground. He cannot cover a large area with his weapon, so he covers it with his feet. (I am sure each of you will chime in with your own interpretations, and I can post them.) Each of these approaches has its strengths and weaknesses. My technique does not work well to learn the lay of the land or allow me to cover a lot of territory the way that Craig and Bill can. However, I think that I can see what moves in or out of a territory better. The strength of this is, as long as I am watching productive territory, I will see things and I have more of a chance at a still shot. If I am watching barren territory, I get a lot of nothing. All day long sort of nothing, but I can stand that, and enjoy just being in nature. No right way, each has advantages.
And this day showed the disadvanges. Bill said that just beyond my aspen grove as a 5 point elk and some deer, all on my side of the draw. Granted, one can always see the far side better than the close side, but possibly if I had not tried for such a level of concealment, I might have seen the elk and deer. I probably had a better view of the deer that Bill spooked; certainly, when I saw them, they were still.
Dark falls and I head back when there is just a bit of dusk to help guide me. I get to the car in pitch black, see Bill's flashlight far away. I drop my gear at the Bronco and move back to where Bill can see me, flashing my light to guide him in. He joins me, tells me he got a yearling antelope at close range, for the tender meat. We look for a road, can't find a direct one, finally take a longer route and drive right to the antelope. It is so small and light, we fling it in the back and head for camp.
Dinner, some campfire, and I head for bed, tired from a long, Red day.