Blindsided

It had been a chain of thrills.

First, the answer of one bull from the top of the darkening ridge, screaming, rolling into a chorus of chuckles, earnest and deep. Then a second, 200 yards right, angry and urgent. And yet another, in the canyon below, maybe a half-mile west, a guttural growl that stood the hair on your head. The Man of the Mountain, you had to believe.

All to a single, solicitous cow call. For we had climbed silently up the off side of the mountain, slipping to the toe of the long ridge, where the afternoon before we had worked a respectable six-by, to close and coming, until he veered, leery . . . passing us by 80 yards out at last light, on down to the great meadow below. Running, we had tried to close the distance, fire him up again, but darkness got to him first.

One more close encounter, of the several we’d already had, then five days into the hunt. We had been into elk, good bulls, all the way.

Now, as dusk was falling once more, on the sixth and last afternoon, prospects were boiling anew, as all three bulls bellowed again to the call. They seemed alone, without cows. The golden gate. What, all the week, we had waited for . . .

The one above, on the cap of the ridge, closest and coming. Closing. Closing . . . until now you could hear the throaty gurgle at the end of his bugle, that was his trademark. Putting my heart in my throat . . . as Adam Sande fell back, chirping and mewing, and I hurried to gain the thin cover of a blowdown ten yards ahead.

I could see him now, at 70 yards, still in the shadow of the timber. Mad, milling and screaming, beseeching the recalcitrant cow to get the hell on up the hill as he demanded. For he’d rather not step into the open grassy meadow, broken by juniper and pine, that lay between us.

But Adam kept pleading, promising him she would make it worth the trip. Now, madder yet, he was thrashing the brush, beating a pine sapling to pulp. Gradually, he was coming undone. But dusk was too. It needed to be now . . . the words no more than quietly on my tongue, when he started, breaking the protection of the dark timber and coming. Coming, and I got the bow up and back, settling into my anchor.

Though at 50 yards, he drew another line in the sand, standing face-on. A big, heavy five-by. I was debating with myself, hard, in the slamming window of a sparse few seconds. With the German Kinetics broadhead, it would have been an ethical shot at 30 paces. But just too risky, I decided, at 50. 

I held my draw, waiting for him to turn, while he stared, interminably – and I could not blink, could not move. Waiting for him to offer the broadside shot. But weakening, unable to hold much longer.

Then, as abruptly as thunder claps, he whirled in his tracks, trotting back into the edge of the timber. Allowing me no option. The relief of the let-down sublime, nonetheless, the searing ache in my back and arms lapsing to a wonderful reprieve. 

Behind me still, Adam worked on, masterful on the call. Begging . . . don’t leave . . . please stay . . . come to me.

It was touch-and-go, the bull milling again, timber edge. The ridge growing dusky. Night advancing. Emboldened by the falling light, here he came again. Fifty-five yards. Fifty. This time he would come. The bow was back. He would walk right by me. I was totally concentrated. There was nothing else in the world.

But suddenly, Adam was rushing up, urgently calling my name . . . the bull halting, fading back yet again to the edge of the timber. Adam still desperately calling my name, closing to my shoulder. 

My senses were reeling. “What? 

What had happened? What had I done wrong!

Ruggs Ranch: an epic 86,000-acre holding in northcentral Oregon, at the southern make of the Blue Mountains. By Oregon DNR attestations, harboring one of the largest elk herds in the Beaver State. The historic, old Oregon Trail not distantly north, the endless, undulating throw of the northern Great Plains. The lore and legends of the Old West: Indians and cowboys, the astounding strength and perseverance of the folks who suffered the trip.

So that you thought about that at night, lying on your back in your sleeping bag and listening to a bull elk scream on the neighboring hillside. And to another, roaring in retort from the north end of the meadow, only a few hundred yards from where you lay. How good it was . . . to be wild and west.   

We were seven, not magnificent, but determined. Of seven different backgrounds and ambitions – but one in common – to take up the challenge with stick and string, and take a good bull elk with the bow: Dr. Aaron Moorhouse, his son Preston  – the trip a high school graduation present from his Dad – to them both; John Aundre, soldier of fortune and traditionalist, with his recurve and self-built shafts; Dan Estey, dock builder, his first go at elk; the Brothers Buehner, Ken and Kyle, intrepid and keen, and me.

All at awe of the land, glad of the gathering, and welded to the mission. 

Dave Ford, Rugg’s Ranch manager, Adam Sande, Mike Murray and Nick King were on hand to provide the ground knowledge, the savvy to get us into elk, and keep us there until something good happened. 

It was early September, and we were foraging from a well-tended tent camp on one large section of the ranch, strategically located to place us dead center of the main herd movement. So that it was a short jaunt by UV or truck each morning or afternoon to where we would hunt. It was situated by a vast, green pasture at the foot of many adjoining ridges, where often at twilight we would see elk filtering down into the back pockets of the field. The country was large and lovely, friendly, as elk terrain goes – taxing, but not brutal. Timbered slopes and little tawny parks.

At camp central stood a comfortable, framed spur-lodge, housing ample provisions-at-will and a communal dinner table. An assemblage each evening we greatly enjoyed, a place to unlimber stories. To celebrate triumphs and confess defeats. To laugh, even though you might be dying inside.

It is ever that way with bowhunting – the matter of a few yards and an opportunity, or so often, not. A few inches over, a few inches under. A hopeful expectation one-third the length of a football field. Or less. Though not one of us there would have had it differently, because close does count, in tremble and thrills, whether you’re successful or not.

The rifle hunter hunts for the moment, knowing he can seize the distance. The bowhunter hunts for the distance, hoping he can seize the moment.

It came early in the game, for young Preston. A close-on shot the first afternoon, at a nice five-by-five. But his arrow flew wide, and he was hard pushed to say why. Fortune slams one door and opens another. The second afternoon, he killed a beautiful muley buck, an impressive forkhorn, all of his own. His first animal with the bow. Camp was happy that night.

At a waterhole on the third morning, John Aundre earned a chance on a bull, but an intervening branch jumped in the way, sending his arrow awry.

John had been there before. “In the end,” he said stoically, “you just have to say you missed.”

Meanwhile, the rest of us hunted hard and long for the chance. It was evident we were on the early side of the rut. The bulls were bugling, but not yet hot, edgy and reluctant. Anxiously, in union, we waited for the first cow to come in. For the bulls to run crazy. It can happen overnight, almost.

The elk were still bunched, however, the bulls not breaking off, their response to the call to nervously gather up their cows and get them the hell to the next mountain. So we chased, and chased, hoping to find the random, eager bull. The stroke of luck opportunity. Grand thing was, we were constantly in elk, good elk, and everyone was seeing and working bulls. Waiting for the tide of the rut to swing. Looking for the moment.

But they kept running, and once, frustrated, I charged the herd. There was a 340s bull in its midst, and I tried for the right lead, dashing to place myself between him and his cows. Almost . . . but not quite. The thing of a few yards again. Though it was a whale of a bunch of fun. Adam, meanwhile, left behind, was wondering how he would explain a lost client.

As a team, we tried mass cavalry maneuvers, flanks, blocks and end plays, hoping that someone would be positioned to intercept the egress, and get a shot. It had worked for Dave before, but not as efficiently, this time. The elk were acting curiously.

“I’ve never seen them like this,” Dave said. “Most of the time we can engineer a shot.” So mainly we broke off with our guides, by individual style and preference, diligently continuing the pursuit, attempting stealth and call strategies when the odds seemed favorable.

While we practiced every day noon, at 60 yards, making sure the bows were right. A neat bit of fun, always, in elk camp. The flat, fast, venomous speed of the compounds. The long, graceful arc of John’s recurve. 

On the third afternoon Ken and Kyle got into a pocket of nice bulls near The Hole, a bowl in dark timber, working them hard, but same deal. Could not get them to break off and come in, nor quite close the distance for a chance. Doc Morehouse and Preston were greatly enjoying the hunt together, in bulls too, but suffering the same fate. And, on the fourth morning, Adam and I sneaked to within 60 yards of two bulls locked in battle at the edge of the timber, where, for an exciting window of 30 seconds, it appeared I would be able to work in close enough for a shot. But they broke and parted, lingering and fidgeting to the call, then fading away, never stepping outside the cover.

Though supper each evening almost made up for the aggravation. “Cookie,” alias Cory Allen, was piling it on, laying out remarkable three- and four-course dinners, hot and hearty. Milk, coffee, hot tea to wash it down with. Salads, steaks, chicken, pastas and pies, but no fresh elk tenderloins, which he was pressing us for.

“What is it with you boys? Looks like seven of you could kill one elk, even by accident. Shoot a cow, I don’t care.”

And, Lord, we didn’t wanna make the cook mad. DelQue! . . . for he looked for all the world like the character from Jeremiah Johnson, the one buried to his neck in the sandpit “with a fine horse under him.” But there it was.

By the morning of the fifth day we knew we were in a fight. Nobody had scored. The heat of the rut seemed little closer. 

But what can you say?

It was a hunt. What better can you say, in fact, of a mission that had evolved to a quest? Of a challenge that demands your all, that reminds you of why you really came in the first place. We were in bulls. Everybody had a chance. They were there. They were just beating us.

I try to remember that it’s their life on the line. They’re trying with every wild instinct and learned behavior to survive. That’s what we love them for. We were being pushed to our limits, and isn’t that, for any bowhunter who’s worthy of the word, the supreme purpose for being there. The greater the test, the sweeter the triumph. If it doesn’t come, you gave your best. Fate bargained out the rest. Still, you won.

The bull you didn’t get, the grand man of the mountain – who beat you fairly – will bugle again in the meadow. You’ll lay in your sleeping bag, listening, trembling with his presence, knowing you’re a better man. Knowing there’ll be another day. 

A wildfire posing imminent threat forced John Aundre away. We were six now, on the mat, but not down for the count. Whatever happens, you never quit, keep working for the chance. In the waning hours, we dug in, with all we had.

Until it came down, for me, in the twilight of the final day, where this story began. Facing a heavy five-by, coming, in the deep, gathering dusk. Trying to steady my breathing, get my heart down out of my throat. The Mathews Heli-m back, anchored in, I was counting his steps, until the shot could be sure. Talking myself through . . . “settle in, thumb behind the neck, kisser button . . . find the peep . . . pick a spot . . . squ-e-e-ze.”

But then Adam was rushing up, breathlessly calling my name. The bull stopped, faded back. “What! . . . what?”

“You didn’t see that big six-by!” Adam gasped.

“No,” I said incredulously. “I was glued to this one.”

“Which one?” Adam said desperately.

“The one still standing right there,” I said, pointing above to the timberline. The bull had stopped, was staring back.

Adam exhaled deeply, sank. “There was a huge, heavy six-by. He came right to me. Just the other side of your blowdown. You could have killed him easily. It was a thirty-yard shot.

“I could have almost touched him.”

I was overwhelmed, sick to my stomach. Weak and shaky. There had been nothing else in the world, only the five-by, coming. I had wholly forgotten the other two bulls. 

Blindsided! By the big six. Didn’t know he was in the universe. If only I’d been on the other side of the blowdown. Maybe, I would have seen him, had the shot. A few yards, a few feet, a few inches. Always, and ever, the measure of a bowhunter’s misfortune.

Now it was done. Could never be undone.

“I couldn’t see you from where I was,” Adam said, “I didn’t know this one was coming too. I was waiting for the shot, for you to signal the hit on the one I thought we were both watching. This huge six.

“After he was by, I came running to see what happened. To get you, see if we can follow him up, get him in again.”

Adam Sande is a fine young man, conscientious, canny, cool and meticulous in the hunt.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

There’s a prelude to calamity in the John Wayne film, Big Jake, that goes like this: “Your fault, my fault, nobody’s fault . . . it don’t matter. I’m gonna  . . .”

It was nobody’s fault. It had just happened.

Night fell, my spirits with it. Walking off that Ruggs Ranch mountainside in the dark, thinking about that bull, was one of the loneliest journeys of my life.

One-by-one we had fallen, taken our leave. Ken, Kyle, Doc, Preston, John and me. We’d done our best.

But then there was Dan.

Dan Estey was a quiet man. Genial and pleasant, unassuming. Always kinda in the background. Just hunting along with Nick, with the flow, relishing every fascinating minute. There’s no love like first love in an elk camp. When the rest of us departed, Dan decided to give it one more day.

Perhaps, in lieu of a swashbuckler, Lady Luck had been waiting for a romantic. Perhaps, unknowing, in the 11^th hour of that last-ditch afternoon, he and Nick lay the gilded glove at her feet. For the first time in the week she smiled.

“It was late, nearing dusk, all but over,” Dan told me later. “But we decided to take one last go at the Frog Pond.

“As we got nearer, we could hear them. Then we could see the cows, on the off hillside, above the pond. At a hundred-fifty yards. The herd bull, milling and screaming among them, and a satellite, on the fringes.

“But it was so late. Nick was for putting them to bed, coming back at first light. But every time we had done that, they would move during the night.

“So we hit the dirt, crawling on our stomachs, in the rocks. I still feel those rocks. Closing. Trying to get ourselves in position for a shot. Have them pass by.

“Finally, we made it there, and a cow saw us, then another. But the rut had broken; they paid no attention, the big bull was chasing and pushing the cows . . . milling around . . .

“Now he was coming, coming by. We were still on our stomachs, then I was halfway up – splayed on my knees – trying to steady my bow . . . Oh, my God!

“But the bull paid absolutely no attention to me. He was at fifteen feet! Screaming. So close I could see the crazed glaze in his eyes.”

Nick held his breath, after all that had gone south that week, scared to death Dan was going to miss him, even then. But Dan did what he had to do. Got the bow back, hit him well, the arrow taking both lungs, lodging in the off shoulder. 

“He didn’t know he was hit, didn’t go thirty yards.

“We watched him fall.”

The Frog Pond was a secluded waterhole, in a saucer-like depression surrounded by timbered ridges and scattered rocky out-crops. In an area that elk perennially favored. Several of us, including myself, had hunted it one time or another during the week.

But it’s often not who hunts it, but when. So grandly intriguing, always . . . in a bow hunt contested so fiercely by so many . . . how, when and why – fate, fortune and timing finally consent to the final few feet and inches.

It all boils down to that single, golden moment, and Dan Estey had found it.