First of all, I want to thank everyone on this website that aided in my adventure! I know my husband and father got a ton of great hints and tips from you all. This was definitely a team effort and I appreciate it. I apologize for not getting this story typed up earlier. I had to start with an outline and brainstorming, before typing the draft (I am a 5th grade teacher and planning is my sickness!).
To purchase the Hancock permit, or not… that was the question. After a few scouting trips, much research, and the thought of hiking my “out-of-shape-asthmatic-rear” straight up the side of a mountain, we decided the Hancock permit would be the way to go. Not to mention the nickname my father and husband came up with for an area they hiked into, “Ass-Burn Pass.”
Opening weekend came and went. We stayed down low in the flats, close to the river, saw a couple nice bulls (5x5 and 6x6), but couldn’t get a shot. These bulls were professional “road dashers!” Across the road and into the reprod so fast that all I remember seeing is a blur of antlers. At the end of the day on Sunday, I went back to the hotel where my mother was watching my 9-month old son. As hard as we had hunted, I looked into my son’s eyes and had a sinking feeling in my stomach. I felt like a failure. I wanted nothing more than to provide for my son, and I was feeling miserable that I didn’t accomplish that.
My father and I weren’t able to get back into the woods until Thursday. Skipping school is so much more rewarding as an adult! When we pulled up to the gate, there was an older man submitting his paperwork (Hancock visitors card). He was pushing 80 years old, walked with a shuffle, and had a very distinct hunch to his back. We drove in to a road we nicknamed, “Ratchet Rd,” and waited until it was light enough to see. Poking down the road slowly, we were both on pins and needles in anticipation. With my head on a swivel, I happened to see the rear end of an elk disappear as it bounded across the road nearly 400 yards in front of us (into the reprod, OF COURSE). I bailed out of the truck, thinking there would be more elk to follow, shoved two bullets into my .270 short mag, just in time to look up and see a bull standing at the edge of the road. I quickly began to pull up, right as he jumped into the reprod. I sprinted down the road and leapt into the brush in an attempt to find an opening. Nothing….. CRASH! SNAP! I knew they were less than 20ft from me, and I couldn’t see a darn thing. I backed out of the brush and headed back to the truck, dad by my side. He started laughing under his breathe as I kicked a rock in disappointment.
“What is so funny!?”
He chuckled a little bit more before saying, “You would have missed him anyways.”
“Excuse me?”
“Take a good look at your gun…. Your scope covers are still flipped down!”
“Wow.”
We both laughed the rest of the way back to the truck in light of a frustrating situation that could have possibly been MUCH more frustrating
. Needless to say, I flipped up my scope covers right at that moment.
On our way out of that road, we ran into the old-timer, again. He was hunting on a special permit for a buck deer. He mentioned hearing a small heard of elk mewing back and forth in the timber about ½ mile from where we were. He didn’t think there were any big bulls in the group, but thought there might still be a spike if he remembered correctly from his scouting trips. We thanked him, and continued toward the location where he heard the elk.
I was feeling very motivated to bring home an elk for my family. I started thinking about my grandfather, who would have been with us on this hunt, but passed away a few months prior. I was also thinking about the lessons my other grandfather, on my dad’s side, had passed down to my dad, and then on to me…. “Don’t pass up an elk on the first day, that you would shoot on the last.” My mind was immediately made up. I was going to shoot that spike if I saw him. (I’m not going to lie. It was difficult for me to think about the monster bulls that I know were in the area, see the pictures of bulls that have been taken from that unit in previous years, and then swallow my pride.) It was like my dad had been inside my thoughts. We looked at each other and were instantly on the same page.
“Here we go,” he said with a confident smirk.
My heart began to hop around in my chest like a crazed rabbit as we approached the isolated patch of timber. Again, our heads were on swivels. Each second that passed became more intense, knowing the great possibility that the elk were within an arm’s length. The 100 yard straight stretch was eerily silent.
“Fifty yards into the timber, on my left,” dad said in a forced whisper. I whipped my head around in time to see a couple cows. Dad continued to drive slow past the section of timber so we didn’t spook them, turned around a little ways up the road, and we headed back. They were going to be on my side and I could feel my blood pressure rising. There they were again. The second I could see them, I bailed out and loaded my gun while trying to scan for a bull. I got a glimpse of an elk in the back of the herd (about 100 yards away) that looked like a spike; but, I wasn’t 100% sure there were horns on its head. Because it was still shy of 7:00 am, I needed to get closer before having the confidence to pull the trigger. With 12 eyes on me, I stepped deeper into the timber.
“The one in the back is a bull!” dad yelled from the truck. I kept side stepping to get a clear view to be able to shot between all the trees. I locked eyes with the bull. I’m not sure which one of us was more bug eyed. I could tell he was thinking about bolting because he was concerned that the rest of his cows were beginning to move. He turned his head toward the cows in an attempt to follow…. I pulled up, free hand, and found him in my cross-hairs…..He lifted his front leg to take a step- BOOM! I lost sight of him immediately, behind the trees. Cows were flying around in a panic, every which direction. I was weaving and bobbing to try and get a glimpse of the bull with no luck. Within seconds, my dad was next to me and we made our way to the spot where we thought the bull was standing when I shot. The bull had been standing in his bed when I shot (what a rude awakening).
We started scouring the ground for fresh tracks and blood, when all of a sudden I hear, “AH-OOOOOO!” My heart jumped out of my chest and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. It was my dad hollering in celebration! The bull had gone no more than 20 yards and was lying, dead as can be, in a patch of ferns. I gave it a poke with the end of my barrel for good measure. It was a double lung shot, behind the front shoulder. My dad and I shared a giant bear hug and were smiling from ear to ear. The ferns were painted red. From what we could tell, based on the pattern of blood, he had back peddled and spun a circle just before falling.
Dad grabbed my hand and we knelt next to the bull. We thanked God that we were able to take the life of the elk, in order to continue living our own. We also shed a few tears as my dad mentioned both my grandfathers and how they would be so proud of the woman I have become. I wiped my tears and laid my head on my dad’s shoulder for a minute, before laughing a little under my breath.
I looked up at him and said, “How in the world are we going to get this thing out of here?”
“Slowly,” he laughed.
He got the bull gutted out quickly, with intermittent bouts of gagging, while I held a leg. We knew the next portion of the adventure would be the most physically difficult; so, we scouted out the path of least resistance to the road. We figured it was about 150 yards from the bull to the road, due to all the zig-zagging. We had a lengthy discussion about whether or not we needed to take it out in pieces, or could manage getting it out whole. Naturally, the 55 year old, 150 lb diabetic and the out of shape asthmatic, chose to pull the bull out WHOLE.
Each of us grabbed a spike, squatted down low and counted, “One, two, three!” We managed to move him a whole 3 ft. Heave-Ho quickly turned into heave-WHOA! as we took turns getting a view of the underside of branches. A little over an hour later, we had another problem to solve…How in the world to get the elk into the back of the truck!
We looked around the truck to find things to help us load the elk. Dad pulled out a rope and a ratchet strap. He wrapped the rope around the elk’s neck, hooked one end of the ratchet strap in the front corner of the truck bed, and slid the rope through the other end of the ratchet strap hook to turn it into a pulley. He got into the back of the truck and handed me the end of the rope to act like an anchor and hold the progress we made with each pull. We got to the point where the rear end of the bull was hanging over the tailgate and my hands were going numb. A dump truck driver stopped, jumped out of his truck, and helped my dad get the rest of the elk in the truck. What a life saver!
Finally, we were on our way out of the woods before 10:00 am. It was time to bask in the glory, reminisce, and replay the story over and over to each other. About 20 minutes into our relaxing ride home, the back spasms and cramps started to hit us like a Mack truck! But, hey, it’s not everyday you see a father and his daughter work together to pull a bull elk out of the woods in one piece.
