Chasing the Bull

It's well past dark when we finally make the second creek crossing and drop our packs. The halfway mark offers a brief solace. But we still have the big climb – two miles and nearly 2,000 feet of icy elevation before we gain the saddle, then a relatively flat final mile back to the truck.

Sitting in silence we down chalky energy bars and nurse the last of our dwindling water. Lost in thought. Recalling what's recently behind and daunted by what lies directly ahead. I tug off my cap, wipe my forehead, and shiver as a biting wind rips down the draw, chilling sweaty base-layers that cling to my body like wet wallpaper.

We'd begun this adventure some sixty-odd hours before in the dim preamble of a Michigan morning. Me and my two sons, Kyle and Blake. A journey back to the rugged public-land mountains of Colorado for second-season elk. Where two years before, not far from this spot, we endured a freak blizzard with single-digit temps and, after a challenging hunt, Blake harvested his bull.

Kyle, my oldest, spent his college years in Montana where each fall we would arrange a hunting or fishing trip to chase our shared passions. The day after his high school graduation, drawn by the irresistible pull of the West himself, Blake loaded his pickup and drove to Bozeman to move in with his brother and two roommates.

That November I joined them for a mule-deer hunt where we spent Thanksgiving boning fresh venison and feasting on leftover gas-station pizza. Then Blake packed up and followed me home to start his career as a commercial electrician.

After college Kyle took a job that brought him back to Michigan. So, for the last couple years, in the middle of our whitetail season, the boys and I would head "out west" for a DIY hunting trip – it had become an annual tradition of sorts – our sacred time together in the mountains.

This year we had applied as a group in three different states, but despite the points that'd been gradually accumulating, we failed to draw any of them. That had left only one viable option for our fall getaway: Colorado's over-the-counter second rifle. A busy season marked by mercurial weather and wary animals. A hunt I honestly didn't know if I was up for given our last experience. But time had scabbed over some of the old wounds, and smoothed most of the bumpy spots from recollection, leaving only the best memories behind.

With both boys already counting elk on their hunting resumes but that box still unchecked on mine, they decided to forego tags of their own and make this trip together about one singular mission: get Dad a bull. It was never explicitly stated but collectively understood that, now past the half century mark, the clock was ticking on my ability to undertake these high-elevation, do-it-yourself, public-land hunts, at least without being a hindrance. We needed to make this one count.

Reluctantly we heft the ponderous packs back over tired shoulders, cinch them down, and begin the uphill climb. Head down, one foot in front of the other. It begins as a gradual grade, winding up through plump evergreens and mature aspens. The minty scent of pine needles mixes with the pungent, sweet aroma of damp, decaying leaves.

Kyle takes the lead, his headlamp bobbing out ahead, and Blake follows close behind me, making sure I don't fall too far off pace. Even in this easier section I have to rest every two hundred yards or so. My body leaden in the thin air; heavy under the weight of the burdensome load and the accumulation of years – both had added up faster than I was willing to admit.

By the time we reached our pre-scouted site – via a slow, sinuous drive through jolting logging roads and rutted two tracks – we'd been at it for nearly 27 hours straight. We set basecamp just as a dull pink was starting to tickle the eastern horizon, lit the woodstove, then tucked in for a few hours.

The plan for day one had been to spend as much time glassing as possible. We'd begun closer to camp where we could overlook several drainages but, after a slow session, moved on to other locales we had scouted. Spots where we could drive within a mile or so of high glassing knobs, hike in, and look the country over. By early afternoon we'd made it to what appeared to be our most promising perch and started to pick the wrinkled draws and benches apart.

Less than an hour in I'd spotted our first elk in a distant series of high meadows. Eight, then twelve, then fifteen. They kept filing over the top, out of the dark timber. In all we ended up counting more than forty.

Using our mapping tool we'd placed this herd about six or seven miles off. They had appeared content and unharried, likely to feed, then bed down in the same general area and repeat the process the next evening. The question was how to get to them. While we continued to glass, a route that would start us at a relatively close trailhead was formulated. From the truck it would be a flat hike to the steep two-mile descent. Once down, we’d follow a creek along the valley bottom before making the final climb to the meadows.

On paper it had seemed pretty straightforward – six miles in and six miles out. It was all unfolding according to plan. We would fix dinner back at basecamp, sack out for a good night's sleep, and then be up early with all the provisions for a day hunt. We'd hike in and set up overlooking the meadow with plenty of time before the herd fed out.

Further up now the pitch has grown much steeper and we're into the deep snow. Here windblown switchbacks slicked with ice mark the route. Despite the white under my feet, it's damn dark – my vision confined to the narrow reaches of the headlamp's yellow beam. Overhead the moon glows just beyond the reach of the ridge-top, which looms dark and seems still impossibly high above.

Optimistic, we'd been up before sunrise to go after the elk, making the bumpy drive to the trailhead before donning packs. We covered the first mile in quick order, then began our descent, following the barely discernible indentations of ice-glazed switchbacks that zigged and zagged across the steep, snowy ridge. About a third of the way down we slid into a small clearing to glass the still-distant meadows and catch our breath before continuing down. Slowly. Carefully. Eventually making our way out of the snow and into the aspens.

Nearing the bottom we could hear the faint trickle of the nearly frozen creek. Up the other side we followed the water's edge farther into the drainage in a warming sun, before crossing once more where the valley began to open.

It was approaching mid-day before we dropped the packs again. The meadows were close. Reachable. Just over a mile off. But we needed the wind to settle and the thermals to switch.

An hour later we'd begun our climb. Dozens of crisscrossing tracks littered the old snow, and the heavy musk of elk hung on the breeze. Slowly we'd crept up the hillside. Watching, gauging the wind, then cautiously moving again. Eventually we'd made our way to the timber just below the closest meadow. But the wind had shifted – different than it had been in the valley – pulling up and to the right. Not ideal for how we'd planned to set up.

We decided to continue pushing through the timber then thread up just inside the wood-line on the right of the farthest meadow, very close to where the elk had fed out the previous afternoon. Much tighter than I would have preferred, but it was the best we could do given the conditions.

And then the waiting game had begun. Spread out and tucked among the trees, we scanned the narrow openings while the wind pressed hard into our faces. An hour, then two, then three passed with no activity. The sun was nearing the top of the western ridges, and the in-between light of dusk was settling softly on the landscape. It was nearly two hours later than they'd fed out the evening before, and I'd started to lose hope.

Concerned about the fast-fading daylight and our six-mile hike out, I slid beside Kyle to talk it over. Mid-sentence he had frozen as a cow and calf appeared over the top less than 100 yards away. I'd been caught completely off guard, my rifle propped uselessly back in my hide. And then we spotted the bull, feeding up from the bottom. My pulse quickened and I silently cursed myself for making the most basic of all hunting blunders.

Where snow has covered the switchbacks I do my best to follow Kyle's boot prints, occasionally catching glimpses of his light weaving up above. Kick stepping into the snow to gain my footing, I push myself slowly up. Over and over. As many steps as I can, then a rest while I gulp air in ragged fits. Sweat coats my skin and the relentless wind tears at my face, waters my eyes, and numbs my hands. I'm exhausted – the aches and ailments of a worn-out body stack up like unpaid parking tickets stashed away and forgotten in a glove box.

"We've got to be getting close," Blake encourages.

I'd gingerly eased over to my gun, inch by inch, the cow and calf directly in front, and focused in my direction. From my vantage I couldn't see the bull – he was to my left, slightly downhill, blocked by trees. But the cow had gotten spooked. I could sense it in her twitching ears, feel it in her rigid posture, and see it in her searching brown eyes. Maybe it had been the wind, or maybe she'd caught a tiny glimpse of movement. Motionless, I held my breath and waited. Then without a sound, as quickly as she had appeared, she turned and trotted back into the dark timber.

I shouldered the rifle and clicked off the safety, anticipating the bull would follow her route. An instant later a thick, blond shoulder filled my crosshairs. He was on the move and quartering away, not taking the same route as the cow, instead choosing a more direct uphill path. My finger hesitated just outside the cold metal of the trigger guard as I'd tracked him through the scope. He paused briefly on the skyline, looking back one last time, before finally disappearing over the top.

Even though I'd known our chance was blown, we'd faithfully waited until the close of shooting light, then solemnly gathered up our gear to begin the long hike out. Empty handed. The boys couldn't understand why I had passed the shot, and, in the moment, I didn’t have an answer to offer. Instead, we eased back down to the trail paralleling the creek and turned west into the last of the setting sun. The only sounds, my breathing and the faint crunch of boots on frozen ground.

We're nearly to the top now, but I've lost Kyle's tracks in the drifting snow. Up above, a hundred yards or so, I can see his headlamp, not moving. That must be the saddle, we're close. I take a tired step and slip on the icy sidehill, landing in a heap. Physically I've hit the wall and grown sloppy – my body seemingly no longer under my command. I want to lay here, throw on all my clothes and sleep; make the rest of the climb tomorrow. I'm fighting uninvited thoughts that creep into my subconscious: "Maybe I'm finally too damn old for this. Maybe this will be the last time" Blake is by my side now and helps me to my feet. I brush off the snow and the doubt that was clouding my mind, and together we make the final push to the top, and back to the truck.

At camp I'm shivering in my sleeping bag, the cold and exhaustion leaving my body in fits. I hear the soothing pop and crackle of the woodstove as I replay each moment of the long day, questioning my choices. With the bull in the crosshairs there was an instant of hesitation, an intentional decision not to squeeze the trigger.

I try out some of my responses:"It wasn't a perfect shot and it was late and we were deep in the backcountry without any of our camping gear, besides, it wasn't really the one I was after." And while those versions hold small, slightly distorted nuggets of the truth, deep down, I know the honest answer is that I'm just not ready to be done with the hunt.

The shivering stops. I close my eyes, content, knowing that tomorrow the chase begins again.