by Jay Cassell
With the bull still over a hundred yards away, the lead cow was already behind me, bearing down on my scent line with the determination of an impending train wreck. One alarm bark from her and the hunt would be over, and I suddenly saw all those hours of restraint flicker like a candle in the wind. Cow-calling was pointless; I was surrounded by naturals squealing their heads off. But if I could convince the herd bull that an intruder had worked his way into his harem of cows . . .
Although bugling is widely regarded as the essence of the archery elk hunting experience, I don’t bugle a lot any more. Calling always involves an exchange of information, and when elk are heavily hunted, that exchange may well work to the hunter’s disadvantage. Furthermore, in my own ornery way I’ve come to regard the elk bugle as one of the most overused (and frankly abused) tools in the field. I guess I’ve just seen too many novices bugling from the back of four-wheelers, which makes the whole process loose its charm.
But there are still times to bugle, and this was one of them. I licked my diaphragm call into my mouth and gave the evening air my best. At the sound of the challenge, the herd bull went berserk. I came to full draw as he closed on a dead run, and when he hesitated at five yards, my recurve sent an arrow crashing into the sweet spot right behind his shoulder.
Sometimes patience and planning have their rewards.
Darkness had fallen by the time I finally walked up to the dead bull, and my elation was tempered by the demands of field-dressing the huge animal by myself while struggling with a flashlight and trying to avoid cutting off one of my own fingers deep in the elk’s body cavity.
I didn’t really appreciate just how big the antlers were until my wife Lori, my friend Tim Conrads, and I returned early the next morning and I ran my hands over them in the daylight. The bases were massive, the brow tines sweeping. The crowns were adorned with a scattering of extra points, adding up to nine total on one side and seven on the other. The main beams were black with pine pitch, but the tip of each point was polished to a perfect, ivory white. I’ve looked over a lot of elk in my time, but I finally realized that I had just killed one of the most striking bulls I’ve ever seen.
News of this kind travels fast in a small town, especially a small town full of bowhunters. By the time the quarters were hanging safely at the meat locker, friends were arriving at the house to take a look at the antlers. Fresh from school, young Joe Stalmaster was one of the first.
Suddenly, I realized that I might have inadvertently diminished the impact of his own earlier accomplishment. I am not a competitive hunter and neither are any of my friends. No one in our company keeps score. But it was still hard to believe that Joe wasn’t feeling some sense of deflation as he studied those massive antlers.
Then I realized that something had been bothering me all night. The fact was that I had killed my bull from a stationary ambush, from which a large measure of the elk hunting experience had been missing: the lung-burning pace of the chase up the mountain, the fluid geometry of eyes, noses, and wind during the course of a long stalk. There wasn’t anything wrong with the way I had killed the bull. I had interpreted the sign accurately, made a good critical decision, and shot well when the opportunity came. Even so, the kill suffered from what I would have to call the absence of perfection. Joe’s hunt had been pure; mine was the trout taken on a Wooly Bugger instead of a dry fly, the jump-shot mallards rather than the limit taken over decoys. There was just no way around it.
Reading Ted Kerasote’s excellent book Bloodties, it was hard for me to avoid the impression that Kerasote was taking all of this a bit too far in his own discussion of elk hunting.
Lighten up, I wanted to say: hunting is a natural, instinctive activity, and we don’t have to anguish over its conduct quite that much. Now, perhaps I was doing the same thing. I have been drawing finer and finer lines throughout my own years in the field, beginning with the decision to hunt only with the bow, and extending to the commitment to limit myself to traditional archery tackle. Just how finely do these lines really need to be drawn?
“It’s a beautiful bull,” Joe finally said, interrupting my reverie. “And it’s sure a lot bigger than mine.” The smile on his face denied all possibility of envy.
“It’s bigger,” I agreed. “But yours was better.”
And then I told him why.
Reprinted with permission of the author. To order his books, go to www.donthomasbooks.com.
In the Heat of the Rut
GREG RODRIGUEZ
“Greg, I had a cancellation on one of my moose hunts and I would really like you to come.” The voice on the phone was that of Shane Black, co-owner of B.C. Safaris. “The rut should be going strong that week and I’m pretty sure you’ll take a nice bull.”
I’d always wanted to hunt moose, so I started looking for flights on the internet before I hung up the phone. But I had no idea of the adventure that lay in store. A mere two months after that phone call I was experiencing the odd sensation of my first-ever floatplane landing as the Beaver touched down on the surface of a lake near Black’s moose camp in far northern British Columbia.
On our first day, after verifying that my rifle had survived the flight intact, I paddled off in a canoe with Jason Strout, one of Shane’s guides, to see if we could get lucky while the rest of the crew finished packing for the next day’s ride to spike camp. We paddled for about an hour to the end of a long, narrow lake that had been carved by glaciers eons ago. The icy water was smooth as glass. As we paddled along, enjoying the scenery, I felt my body begin to take on the pace of my majestic surroundings. Our strokes began to take on a smooth, comfortable rhythm, and, in seemingly no time at all, had carried us to the end of the lake where we climbed a hill to get a view of the surrounding area.
The short climb through the buck brush proved to be far more difficult than it looked. The brush grabbed at me like the tentacles of a thousand octopi, which made each step a major undertaking. When we reached the top, we took a few minutes to catch our breath before Jason started cow-calling. It didn’t take long to figure out that that Shane’s prediction was correct: the rut was in full swing. Five minutes into the first calling sequence, we saw a young bull emerge from the brush in front of us. It slowly circled to our downwind side, looking for love. I was so focused on snapping photos of the young bull that I almost didn’t hear Jason’s whispered warning.
Another bull was working his way behind us. This one was coming quickly, grunting and breaking branches along the way to warn off the younger bull. It grunted again, sounding as if it were right on top of us, but the brush was so thick it would be in our laps before we saw it. We wouldn’t have the luxury of passing up the shot at that point, so Jason grabbed our stuff and hissed, “Run!”
We slipped and skidded down the hill, looking up just in time to see a huge bull barreling in, snapping branches and foaming at the mouth. The moose skidded to a stop when it saw us and disappeared as quickly as it came, but the image of that ornery old Bullwinkle charging through the trees is one I will not soon forget.
We tried calling unsuccessfully from one more location before paddling back towards camp. Halfway back, we saw yet another bull on the bank. This one was rubbing its wide, heavy antlers on a poplar, snapping branches, and grunting deeply. There must have been a cow nearby, but we didn’t look—we were too busy trying to decide if we should take this fine bull on the first day or refuse this obvious gift from Diana and hold out for something bigger. Ever the optimist, I elected to pass.
The old bull kept its head down while it worked over a small bush with its antlers, so I asked Jason to grunt to get the moose to look up so I could snap a photo. But when Jason grunted, the bull charged us with a speed and determination that belied its oafish appearance. I dropped my camera in the boat and reached for my rifle while Jason paddled furiously backward. Luckily, Jason’s strokes, combined with the massive wake of the bull’s charge, carried us far enough away from the bank that the bull stopped short, apparently
content to have driven us away. It was an awe-inspiring encounter that further served to remind me just how dangerous rutting moose can be.
Lucky Camp
For the next morning’s ride to our spike camp, I was assigned a sure-footed little buckskin mare named Banjo. We saw several groups of moose on the way in, one of which was led by an ancient bull. It was massive, but its magnificent paddles carried only remnants of the points it had surely worn in seasons past. I had won the coin toss at base camp, so the decision was mine. I thought long and hard before offering the opportunity to Nick Kemp and Rick Brown, the other two hunters with us. I am sure the sight of that big bull’s antlers moving through the brush gave them pause, but they decided to wait until we reached fly camp, too. It was a tough decision. Only time would tell if it was the right one.
Situated in a stand of trees with scenic vistas and a beautiful creek, our pretty little camp just felt lucky. We all pitched in and finished setting it up just as the last rays of the sun faded beyond the distant peaks.
We sat around a little wood stove trying to stay warm and discussing strategy with our guides. We were excited about our prospects, but the long ride had taken its toll, and the conversations soon faded as we dozed off, one by one, despite the fact that it was so cold in our tent that we could see our breath as it rose towards the ceiling.
The camp was abuzz the next morning as we scurried about, saddling horses and preparing gear. We had a quick planning session to make sure everyone knew where to go and then mounted up for the ride to our assigned hunting area. Just twenty minutes from camp, we saw four cow moose. Shane felt there had to be a bull around them, so we decided to set up on a nearby hill to glass and call.
We tied our horses and did our best to sneak up the hill, fighting the brush every step of the way. The cows knew we were there but they didn’t seem threatened by our presence. We took a few minutes to settle in and then the waiting began. Shane would call for a few minutes, then we would glass for a while, then he would call again. The hunting was much slower paced than I expected, but there were now three different groups of cows nearby, so Shane was determined to stay put.
“Trust me,” he said. “We’ll shoot a bull here today.”
Two hours after we set up, we heard several shots in the distance. Soon, Shane’s radio beeped and we heard the good news—Rick had taken a nice moose. We radioed our congratulations. Thirty minutes later, four more shots rang out from the opposite end of the valley, and shortly afterward, the radio confirmed that Nick had scored on a record book bull. After all the excitement, Shane and I decided to break for lunch since he figured the moose would likely bed down in the middle of the day. Our time would come.
Jason radioed again while we were eating lunch and asked if we could help them find Rick’s moose—they were having trouble locating it in the six-foot-high buck brush where it had dropped. We returned to the horses, saddled up, and rode in their direction but they found Rick’s moose before we reached them. Since we were close, we joined them anyway to congratulate the hunter and admire the moose. We found Rick ecstatic with his big bull and his 260-yard shot, which he made from 15 feet up a swaying poplar.
We helped them quarter Rick’s bull, and when we finished, it was prime time. We got back on our horses and headed back the way we’d come, stopping near our morning vantage point. Again we fought the buck brush to gain a peak near where we’d been that morning, then settled in to call for the last, golden hour of the day.
Jason joined us, calling with his megaphone-style call from the hilltop. We hoped the louder call would reach the bull that Shane felt sure was hiding in the distant timber. Shane and I glassed while Jason called, and it wasn’t long before Shane hissed, “There’s a huge bull coming out of the tree line at the end of the valley.”
We weren’t sure if it was just a coincidence or if the bull was really responding to the call. Daylight was fading fast, so everything had to work out perfectly for us to get a crack at that bull. The moose was coming towards the call, but not quickly enough. It wouldn’t make it to our position before dark, so Shane and I decided to run to the next hill in an effort to intercept it. We donned our packs and raced down the hill, leaving Jason in place to keep the moose’s attention focused away from us.
The next hill was taller and steeper than the one we had just descended, and the buck brush was thicker. I climbed as fast as possible, fighting the buck brush every step of the way. My legs and lungs were burning when I reached the top, but Shane told me to stay low and hurry. I knew the moose was close, and there was no way I just made that climb for nothing, so I took a deep breath and ran the last fifty meters, crouching as low as possible.
When I plopped down behind a tree at the top, I could see antlers snaking their way through the brush.
The bull was ambling towards us, moving steadily but not rushing, its attention focused on the distant hill where Jason was calling. I could track the bull’s movements by its antlers, which towered over the brush and shone brightly in the setting sun. Our plan appeared to be working, but the moose was still too far away to shoot.
I kept looking ahead, trying to predict the bull’s line of travel and hoping it would find a clearing, but there were only a few small openings. That’s when I noticed the small creek that ran perpendicular to the hill. As long as the moose didn’t climb the ridge opposite me, it would have to cross that creek somewhere, so I rested my .375 H&H in the crotch of a tree, trained the scope in the direction of the creek, and hoped for the best.
The bull’s pace never wavered, and soon it was at the creek. “How far?” I asked.
“Three hundred and sixty-eight yards,” Shane replied. “Can you make the shot?”
“Yes,” I replied as I lined the crosshairs up on the bull’s foreleg, accounted for the distance, and slowly squeezed the trigger. I felt good about the shot, and was surprised when it missed cleanly. I quickly worked the bolt, and as I did, I noticed that somehow the lever on my rear scope mount had come loose.
I quickly tightened the lever, held the same sight picture and squeezed off another shot. I was rewarded a second later with the sound of a solid hit. The moose stumbled out of the creek and I shot again, then once more as it turned away. That final 300-grain Trophy Bonded bullet dropped the moose, and just like that, we had done something that had never been done before in the history of B.C. Safaris—three hunters had taken three trophy moose in a single day.
I reached down to pick up my empty cases and caught sight of something else. The discarded peels of the orange I had eaten at lunch were on the ground right next to them. I remembered Shane’s words from earlier that morning—that if we were patient, we would take a bull from this spot.
Grinning, Shane pointed out that had I just stayed there, I would have saved myself the arduous fight through the brush and the hard work on Rick’s moose.
That night, we hunters sat by the fire—three friends who had been perfect strangers just seven days before—laughing, joking, and re-telling our hunting stories. We sat there until the last ember burned and the last tendril of smoke rose up toward the heavens and disappeared in the clear, cold air. Then we padded off to our bedrolls to dream of hunts past and hunts to come, and to relive that magical day when three hunters took three fantastic bulls in the heat of the rut.
Reprinted with permission of the author. To book a hunt through Greg Rodriguez’s hunting agency, go to www.mbogo.net.
PART IV
Small Game
Going After the Varying Hare in Vermont’s Snow Woods
NELSON BRYANT
It was cold, about six below zero. Deep in the woods, I was out of the wind, however, and comfortable even though standing still as I listened to the muffled baying of our beagle, Champ, who was plowing through the snow on the trail of a varying hare.
Champ was in the interior of a thick and extensive plantation of young spruces near Weston, on the northeastern edge of the Green Mountains. The plantation was too dense
for a hunter on snowshoes to enter, so I was stationed on its outskirts waiting for the hare, or snowshoe rabbit, to emerge. Some distance away, also on the outskirts, were my companions—Bart Jacob of Winhall, Vermont, the dog’s owner, and Niles Oesterle of Bennington, Vermont.
A vagrant gust of wind shot through the top of the tall spruce under which I waited, sending down a sparkling cascade of snow. The dog’s voice rose and fell, and I tried in vain to pinpoint its location. I was unable to do so because on a similarly cold day more than thirty years ago, in the Battle of the Bulge, a German artillery shell exploding close by had ruined the hearing in my right ear. Receiving impulses from only one ear, the brain’s computer cannot zero in on the direction of sound. So handicapped, I had no recourse but to remain where I was, hoping the rabbit would come my way.
I also knew that when there are several rabbits in a cover, some of the animals not being directly pursued by the beagle often move away from the sound of the chase, and sometimes in the course of a day’s hunt these so-called “strays” provide most of the action. A half-hour after the dog had jumped the first rabbit, one of my companions fired twice, and in the hour following I heard two more shots. During all this the dog kept baying, so it seemed clear that either the hares had been missed entirely or strays had been taken. Ten minutes after the last of these shots, however, the dog fell silent, and I heard Jacob calling to me to come over to where he was. I shouted back that it would be simpler for him to come to me, and soon he and Oesterle appeared carrying three rabbits, Champ on a leash.
“I don’t think Champ should hunt anymore,” Jacob said. “He’s got a sty on his eye, and he’s cut it open.”
