There are many good Samaritan opportunities, but how do these deeds entwine bull elk with cutthroat trout?
I had been living on the floor for ten days. My surgeon said I would need back surgery to repair a torn disk unless I could somehow drag myself up and start walking again very soon. I kept visualizing better options as I laid back on the floor with my Labrador retriever. We were a team now; I would howl and she would softly howl along with me.
Winter had grudgingly turned to spring, and I had just drawn a coveted elk tag in northwestern Colorado, not far from my home in Grand Junction. I had taken the path of better options, and with spinal canal injections, was now walking several miles a day. A friend with a good back but bad luck with elk tags volunteered to be my packer. Only three tag holders would be allowed in the vast hunt area that was filled with superb elk habitat.
Elk season eve was finally upon us. The canvas wall tent was taut, the small sheepherder stove drawing nicely, water hauled, wood split and bulls were bugling in the backyard. We had met the other two tag holders but now they were many miles away. Elk dreams are made of such.
Then, inexplicably, a satellite phone rang and my packer friend had to leave. Another work emergency had struck. Poking at the fire later that night while watching the celestial hunter Orion timelessly pursue the Great Bear, I wondered how we happily survived all those years without phones in elk camp. However, one constant remained unchanged: The first rule of elk hunting is that elk hunting rarely abides by rules.
Opening day dawned clear and cold. The aspens were pure gold awash in a brilliant blue Rocky Mountain sky. And here I was so fortunate to be having this unique opportunity to hunt elk – on only their terms and mine.
Of course I had heard stories of this phenomena but never really experienced it firsthand. Like reading volumes of books about honey but never having tasted it.
Most bull elk rifle hunting that I’ve been around on public lands involved logistical chess matches of outflanking other camps, hunters, horses, trucks and ATVs, then trying to predict elk retreat plans and fallback maneuvers. More reminiscent of the great planning and map rooms of WWII than hunting. But for me, now there was only big country and elk – lots of them.
Opening week gave me some exciting hunting experiences, but my rifle barrel stayed clean. There was a small procession of bulls almost daily – spikes, raghorns, four-pointers and several decent fives. I passed some pleasant time with a truly massive six-by-seven mule deer bedded in rimrock. Maybe I’ll draw a deer tag here next year, I thought. I cow-talked in a better-than-decent bull, which hung up in heavy cover, then spooked when the wind shifted and he literally smelled a rat. No matter. I was grateful just being here and just being able to walk again. And what deceptively simple yet extraordinary gifts these are. The maelstrom of the office world was now fading as rapidly as my clarity was returning. As Ralph Waldo Emerson wisely observed, “In the woods we return to reason and faith.”
One late afternoon I took a stand on a high rocky ridge overlooking several tiny meadows interspersed with thick, north-facing stands of aspen and Douglas fir. To the west was the Green River and the ominous Gates of Lodore whose canyon doors opened dangerous challenges for the John Wesley Powell expedition of 1869 as well as many whitewater rafting adventures since that time.
My seat for the evening was a tiny nook tucked between large boulders. Shuffling my feet, I noticed a most unusual stone – an arrowhead. Though expertly fashioned, it was cracked through and probably rejected by its maker, ending up in the tiny pile of chips and flakes I’d just blundered through. In wonder, I turned the ancient chert point in my hand. Wedging the talisman under the boulder next to me, I imagined a Ute hunter or perhaps one of his Fremont predecessors sitting in this very spot patiently knapping hunting points while ever watchful for game and enemies alike.
My reverie was shattered with the bleating of an elk calf. Suddenly the meadow below was alive with feeding animals. A very good bull lingered back in the protective cover of the timber until dark, but I glimpsed enough of his rack to know he was the one I wanted.
In the moonless dark on the following morning, I was near the edge of the little meadows. The downhill thermals were still strong so I decided to approach from below. I set up under a clump of junipers, unfolded my shooting sticks and waited.
At first light the elk, including last night’s bull, began rumbling toward the timber, lined out like big brown boxcars of a freight train. Always uncomfortable with moving targets, I mouthed my diaphragm call and mewed. Two cows stopped in their tracks, but the bull and rest of the herd kept moving into the woods.
Aggressive calling can be risky on many public lands where the bulls often become bugle-shy. But these elk, I reasoned, were lightly pressured so bugling seemed to be the best strategy. Besides, trying to stalk a herd through this dry, tangled gauntlet of wind-downed timber was not a wise option.
Quickly moving into the forest edge, I loosed a deep, no-nonsense bugle followed by a series of gut-busting grunts. The bull answered. I called again and shut up. Minutes dragged by, then I saw him walking toward me. For a moment he stopped, and a shaft of sunlight illuminated a tiny window around his right shoulder and ribs. As my .30-06 crashed against the canyon walls, he ran out of the timber onto a sagebrush flat and collapsed.
Approaching the downed bull, words from my orthopedic surgeon (he himself an avid elk hunter) came drifting back to me: “Don’t even think of packing an elk quarter or you’ll be living on the floor again – or much worse. Before even light work, be sure to stretch your lower back thoroughly!”
Often an uncooperative patient, I nevertheless lay down by the elk, raised my legs, then methodically went through my repertoire of stretches.
After my partner left, I had contacted two outfitters in the area about packing an elk. They indicated they could help, if it didn’t conflict with their guiding schedules. Also, two other friends said they would help, depending on the day I called. Worries started to creep in while I field-dressed the bull. Maybe I should just bone out this elk. Surely I could make lots of lightweight trips.
While mulling over my options, I was surprised to see two hunters walking toward me, the first I’d seen in at least a week. I recognized them immediately as one of the other tag-holders and his friend. Graciously they reintroduced themselves as I’d forgotten their names.
Will and Mike said they had been glassing some elk from a trail off in the distance when they heard my shot. They were curious and set up their spotting scope in my direction.
“We saw a man’s legs and boots sticking up from an elk’s back and thought it might be worth checking out,” Mike said, grinning at me.
“Actually it’s a form of elk yoga . . . they call it the downward-facing bull pose,” I said, smiling.
It may have been my imagination, but for a fleeting second they seemed to exchange nervous glances. Then I explained my back situation.
“Oh, we could pack it to your truck,” said Mike. “It’s only about a mile and pretty easy terrain at that. We’re used to packing moose out of swamps back home in Minnesota . . . this isn’t any problem at all.”
Standing next to Mike and Will, I felt like a misplaced hobbit from Lord of the Rings. These guys towered over me and seemed capable of carrying an elk whole, and with me riding on top. I told them I was planning to hire a packer, but even as I said it, I worried about the elk being out in the sun and heat for very long.
“No need for that,” Will said. “We already have our bull, and we’re actually looking for an excuse to stay in the mountains a little longer. We can start back to Minnesota tomorrow.”
I realized that I was now glimpsing some of the very best of a hunter’s heart.
Back at my truck, we did the intriguing dance of a man wanting to pay another man who clearly does not want to be paid.
“Look, it’s worth more than this, maybe you could give this money to one of your kids,” I offered.
This struck a chord in Will. “We can’t take your money, and we really were happy to help. When the opportunity arises, just help someone else – that’s all we want.”
Then Will told me about his daughter. “She’s 18 and just started her freshman year at Mesa State College in Grand Junction. Who knows . . . maybe you’ll see her car broke down sometime and you could help. The point is, to continue the cycle of giving.”
And so in the solitude of the Colorado back country a pact was consummated and honored with an elk blood handshake.
One year after my elk hunt, I was on a high country lake fly fishing for cutthroat trout with my young daughter. We were savoring one of the last Indian summer afternoons before the snows came. The cutthroats were finicky, but with a freshening breeze and clouds to hide my sloppy presentation, they became quite cooperative to a forgotten old Carey Special wet.
The shadows were lengthening and the wind had turned cold by the time I approached the trailhead. My daughter was still collecting aspen leaves somewhere behind me. In the small turnout where my truck was parked, a young woman, possibly 19 or 20 years old, wearing a most forlorn expression was standing by a compact car.
As I approached my truck, she frantically dove into her car.
With my long beard and messy fishing clothes, perhaps I frightened her. But after seeing both my daughter and me in better light and noticing we were armed only with fly rods, she reconsidered. Stepping from her car, she introduced herself and asked if I could help with a flat tire. She explained that she had spent the afternoon hiking, and upon returning, noticed the flat and discovered she had no spare.
Fishing out an air pump and a can of Fix-a-Flat from the quagmire of my truck, I repaired the tire. As I worked, I noticed a Mesa State College sticker on her car’s back window. I asked how long she’d been at Mesa State. She said that she started classes one year ago – right after she moved to Colorado from Minnesota.
It was as if I were hit in the face with ice water. Suddenly, the memory of last year’s pact with the other hunters became crystal clear.
“Is your father’s name Will?” I asked.
“No, my Dad is Harry.” Then she added, “Why do you ask?”
“Well, for a moment you reminded me of someone I know who has a daughter about your age. The funny thing is – he’s from Minnesota also.”
“That’s really strange . . . So, can I pay you for your help?” she asked.
“No need for that. But maybe you could help someone else – when you have the chance. Do you want us to follow you back to town, just in case?”
“Sure, that would be great,” she said with a tinge of relief in her voice.
We followed her slowly off the mountain then eventually lost her in traffic. We never saw her again.
Simple coincidence or synchronicity? An ancient Native American saying holds that this world has countless interconnected hands. And during certain quiet times, especially at an elk meadow or a cutthroat lake, I reflect that we are all more closely connected than we may ever realize.