Sunday, November 7 Second Day of Elk Season

     Alarm at 7:01.  Not much sleep, but I had meat still on the carcass, between hair and guts.
     I lit the lantern for warmth but it quickly ran out of gas- now I had to get up!  I replaced the canister, and while I was dressing I scraped open the knife slice on my thumb knuckle.  I put some Neosporin on it (the stuff was pretty solid and inflexible in the cold), and a Band-Aid.  This one's gonna be bothersome.  I put the bandage kit with gear to carry to the mountain.
     I listened to the 7:30 weather report and through the static got the idea there'd be some showers today and maybe tonight.  There was light ice on the tent fly.
     I inspected the map, and made a GPS waypoint of where I thought I ought to hit the gully, from where I'd park the car.
     While getting ready I discovered that I hadn't removed the tongue from my daypack.  Being insulated by the clothing there, it wasn't as cold as it should have been.  I tossed it into a cooler.
     I warmed leftover coffee.  And being busy, I let it boil over.
     Propped the rack up against the far side of a tree near camp, with only skull touching dirt, and hoped that the mice would be satisfied to eat on the ground floor.
     Left at 8:20.  Passed three deer driving down Horse Canyon, the only ones I ever saw in there.  And had four antlerless elk run across the foothill road, likely returning from a night eating out in Spring Valley.
     I reached my destination stretch of road, backed into a little hole in the forest, with nose just off the edge of the road, and so doing I knocked off one of the stepside supports (I'd lost the stepside itself in McMaughn).
     Got out my big backpack, removed the auxiliary pocket and extra-strap bag as being unneeded weight.  Loaded it with more deer bags, the survival buttpack -with the ammo pouch left on, in case ammo might come in handy, though I'd emptied my pockets of spares-, my waterproof pants and coat, stocking cap, and a gallon bag holding the 4Sevens flashlight (just in case), my lunch baggies, a garbage bag to protect my pack from blood, and the Neosporin/Band-Aids.  I left behind the now-dull Buck stockman's of Dad's, and pocketed both of my regular stockman's knives; I had, as well, the 110 still with the buttpack.  The pack, a Gregory Shasta internal frame, has a water bottle pouch on each side, so my coffee bottle rode my right hip.
     I began the hike up:

And, visible from the bottom, a number of ravens were flying around up the hill:

     I met the gully somewhat near my waypoint (it wasn't a critical mark), and walked up it, still marveling at my good luck in terrain.  Also marveling at how well I'd chosen my path the night before in the dark, carrying those wide antlers.  On this trip up, I didn't need to be as picky; was walking through tighter spaces.
     I stepped across a downed claim post, one of several I'd come upon on my hikes.  Oddly, they were all just lying on the ground.
     1.25-1.5 hours later, and tired, I reached my elk, shooing off three magpies as I arrived.
     Bird damage on the exposed parts of the carcass notwithstanding, everything, to my relief, was OK: bagged meat unmolested, rifle yet in the tree.

The birds had pecked out some gut near the hind joint, and they'd removed and set to the side quite a few pellets:

     The rude rubes also pooped a few times, themselves, on the hair.
     To work.  I took off the front quarter, discovering the bullet hole at its front, put it on the plastic sheet, and proceeded to bone it.  Amazed at the size of the arm bone!  Put meat in new deer bag.  Stripped off the backstrap, put it in another bag.  The meat was not cold, but it wasn't hot, either, and I noticed no odor.  I got away with it, maybe.
     I cut off some neck meat and some worthwile patches from the brisket and over the ribcage and belly-side, added them to the bag.  Cut my way in behind the ribs and pulled out both tenderloins, placing them in a separate gallon Ziploc.  Definitely some warmth left in them.  And I sliced along the rib bones and bagged up rib strips:

     It's at this point that I explored the inside for shot damage, as mentioned in another response.  I found the heart to be soft and squishy, not a firm muscle like a deer's.
     I decided to not bone out the other quarters-- after the hike up for each, I'd need a rest period anyway.  Might as well do the boning then.  Might as well take some pics now, too:

I think we're looking at some drag clearing, here.

     I tucked my extra deer bags and the plastic under the tree, packed my pack with the meat I'd removed today, recovered my rifle, and began the return trip somewhen around 1:15.  The pack was heavy (75 pounds, it turned out) and each step was both an effort and a danger.  Leg muscles were straining to make every movement, up or down.  I'd rest every several steps, and I found that, when I'd start to make my first move after, I was holding my breath just like when preparing to lift a heavy box.
     When I reached the gully I removed the backstrap bag and tied it up in a tree.  That made a (15#) difference!  And, the rest of the way would not be nearly as steep as dropping down from the pocket.
     Continued down, recognizing how easy it would be to turn an ankle.  Came close to it a few times.  And that's why I wanted the 'extra weight' of my survival buttpack along- it might be needed now more than during hunting days.
     After I left the gully I got a little off course, but that route got me to the road somewhat sooner.  I left my load by the road (no antlers- who cares about theft!), walked the 200 yards to the Bronco, my unloaded legs felt springy and my posture was off, and I drove back.  I had my scale handy, weighed the pack- 'only' 60 pounds all up.  I'm getting old.  (I carried a 105# pack, level, in Montana less than ten years ago.)
     I was down to 1/8 of a tank of gas, decided to bypass camp and head straight to Ely.
     Another reason, one I'd had an afternoon to mull over, was to try for some help recovering all that meat!  The snow had held off so far, but that wouldn't last.  I could tell that I could do no more than one pack-out per day, perhaps not without a break, and that what remained on the hill represented three to five more trips.  I was tired; I was afraid of falls or sprains; my shoulders ached from antlers and straps; add the effort and danger of snow and cold to the mix-- I wanted help.  I didn't like needing it, wanted to accomplish a real do-it-yourselfer, but facts is facts.  And one of the reasons I took this elk, less than a Booner, was that the pack was short, straight, and all downhill.  Plan A) see if the rancher might help, as he suggested, or connect me with an outfitter; Plan B) find a packer in town; and Plan C) call Craig.  Really.
     So I headed across Spring Valley to its main dirt road, passing these guys on the way:

(Wild horses.  Lots & lots of them out there.)

    Stopped at the Schellbourne Ranch near the mouth of McMaughn Canyon on the west side of the pass, found him preparing cattle for shipping and unable to help.  (I always got a funny vibe from him; not surprised no help.)
     Continued on to Schellbourne Station at the intersection with Hwy 93, only to find it closed.  Bummer- no coffee and no burger to break my fast since last night's dinner.  Emptied my gas can (which, I discovered had a broken gasket; hence the odor on bumpy roads.  And, of course, a proprietary gasket!) into my tank in the parking lot.  (What my tank was doing in the parking lot, I'll never know.  Yuk-yuk-yuk)  On, then to Ely, 45 minutes away.  I needed gas and I needed supplies for another week at camp, either packing meat or, if I found a packer, at least butchering.
     On the way, I noticed something flashing in my door's handhold- the sun bouncing off of a predator call voice!  I checked the call on the lanyard around my neck, found it empty.  Now how did the voice happen to land there?!  Considerate of it, though.
     It was Sunday and the afternoon was advancing; I planned my stops against possible closings.  First I went to the sporting goods store.  I bought eight canisters of propane, for my lantern especially, but also for my stove and the Mr. Heater Buddy if the weather turned wet and cold.  I asked the clerk, a teen-aged boy, if the store had a list of packers.  He said, "No, but call my mom."  Turns out his dad does that sort of thing (mom's the business manager).  So he wrote her number on my sales slip, I thanked him and left.
     To a grocery store (with the wierdest stoner one can imagine, as the only clerk!)  I bought Chef-Boyardee and chili, a can of soup, coffee, ginger ale, two gallons of water, a package of candy leftover and on sale from Halloween, a fruit pie, a newspaper, and six blocks of ice.  I dismantled half my car, pulling dry goods out of the big cooler and finding places in my cardboard boxes, and putting the ice in the coolers.
     Then to a gas station to fill both tank and can.  29 gallons; so if my tank really holds 32, perhaps I had 5 yet.  Maybe my gauge is lying to me on the full end, not the empty.  While at the station/liquor store I found something I'd been looking for for months- Arbor Mist Peach Chardonnay.  It's good in itself but makes for a great hard-day-at-camp refresher.  Here I filled my coffee cup and pack bottle, long since cold and low.
     Then to find a place to eat.  Not an easy chore.  I went back and forth from the north edge of town to the casino district without finding any joint or coffee-shop open or still in business.  But I'd seen a McDonald's billboard on the way in.  So then I took the southwest fork, the highway leading to Baker and Pioche, and found the new part of Ely; and the McDonald's.
     Pulled into the parking lot, turned on my phone, and called Dawn Brown's number.  I hung up quickly because I got some strange music and an unintelligible automated message.  Dialed again, got the same, which ended with wanting a number to call back.  I hung up again because mine was a long-distance number and I'd be in range for only a short while.  I needed a chance to think.  Dialed again, but this time someone answered.  What a relief!  She couldn't do it the next day, had to work.  But maybe hubby...  So I talked to Rick, but he couldn't Monday, either; but I was OK with that- how about Tuesday?  He could do that.  He wasn't familiar with the northern part of the Schells, so we arranged to meet at Schellbourne Station Tuesday at 9:00 am.  For charge, he said $200-250; figuring fuel was the important part.  Done.
     Then I noticed two voice-mail messages waiting for me.  Listened. Mom both times, letting me know she was doing OK without me, and was becoming a bit worried at not hearing from me.  She was my next call, anyway.  Spoke with her, everyone got reassured, and she squealed with joy for me for getting my elk.
     Then in to feed the hungry belly.  Read the local paper while munching down on two double-cheesburgers (on sale) with fries and coffee.
     To camp, errands done successfully.  I timed Schellbourne Station to camp, in prep for coming out to meet Rick- about an hour.  Saw one jackrabbit in the headlights.  Found two mice in the traps, and, finally, the pile of bodies gone.  I checked on the tossed head, found only that the eyes were missing- birds.  The antlers had fallen over but were unmolested; I returned them atop the hood of the Bronco.
     I removed the meat from the pack, which had occupied my passenger seat all evening, a little worried about its condition so.  I left it on top of the cooler lids, to get the night's chill.  And it should be chill- the weather report called for snow tonight and tomorrow.  Happily, it had held off for my pack and subsequent drive.
     I re-set the traps, soon had another volunteer.
     Ate the Hostess pie, started in on the Rye for my coctail.  Warmed coffee.
     Set my watch and alarm clock back for Daylight Savings Time, a day late!
     Rain began at 10:45, turned to snow soon enough.  Caught another mouse.
     Bed at 11:45, bone weary.