Spirits of the Forest

The bull appears to be staring straight through me.

I can smell his muskiness, and I’m thinking that he must be able to smell me too. He continues to walk toward me as if he is going to greet me and introduce me to his herd. He’s bigger than I ever imagined and walks with such supreme confidence, as if he were royalty. And yet, he seems distracted. I imagine that the cows nearby occupy his thoughts, their scent nearly driving him mad with lust. 

Suddenly I realize I’m holding my breath, standing more still and alert than I ever dreamed I could, only 50 yards from the beast that has haunted my sleep for months. It dawns on me then, since this is not the elk I’m meant to shoot, that hunting is a much more complicated and profound experience than I’d ever thought. I turn and look at my guide who seems nearly as excited as I am by our encounter with this spirit of the high country.

Would you believe me if I told you I was a pescetarian (ate fish but no meat) for nearly eight years? It was sort of my protest against the way we inhumanely raise and commercially mass-produce our meat that’s so conveniently and prettily packaged for our consumption. I have since learned, however, that I was healthier and happier eating meat, and now I’m a recovering pescetarian, though I’ve been called worse. 

So here I am, decked out in camo from head to toe, creeping through the woods on my first day of the hunt, and wondering, “What in the world have I gotten into?” I mean, how did I arrive at this particular moment in life, my heart racing, my big-boy camo pants practically falling off, totally out of my element? There is only one person to blame for all this and that’s my stepfather.  

Chuck Wechsler has been my stepfather for 24 years and he’s been “Papa” to my son for almost 14 of them. Throughout that time, I’d mostly ignored his adventures for Sporting Classics, showing very little interest in his hunts, though oftentimes enjoying the spoils. Particularly venison.

A year or so ago I mentioned my love for elk meat to Chuck, and he quickly responded, “Then why not come hunt with me?” Without really thinking I said okay, assuming that I would just go along for the ride. 

Chuck doesn’t know this, but the primary reason I wanted to go hunting with him was to let him know how profoundly grateful I am to have him as a stepfather. I thought, what better way to demonstrate my love and affection for him than to share in one of his favorite passions. But I had incorrectly assumed that I would only be taking pictures and NOT carrying the gun.

Chuck arranged our hunt at the Lodge and Ranch at Chama, a spectacular patch of paradise high in the San Juan mountains of northern New Mexico. It was October and the high country was showcasing her most impressive fall colors and delicious blue skies. 

I had been to Chama a few years earlier, though not to hunt. It had been such a grand and luxurious experience that my son Ryan informed me afterwards, “That’s the kind of hotel we should always stay in.” 

Yeah, wishful thinking, kiddo. 

But now I was here as a hunter, carrying my rifle and gear and butterflies in my stomach as soon as I stepped into the grand lodge. I was immediately greeted by Frank Simms, president and general manager of the ranch, and by Mike Altizer, a lifelong hunter and writer who would give me the self-confidence I needed for my first-ever hunt, regardless of the outcome. I was well armed.

First on my agenda that afternoon was to head over to the range for one final check of my rifle. And what a rifle! Erik Eike, owner of Kilimanjaro Rifles, had provided me with a beautiful .30-06 Artemis, a bolt-action rifle custom-designed for women hunters. I had been judiciously shooting the rifle for weeks and it had lost none of its pinpoint accuracy.

Later that evening we gathered by a roaring fire in the lodge’s massive and sumptuously appointed great room. There, I began to meet and greet other women who had accompanied their mates. But none of them had come to hunt, and I began to realize just what a unique position I was in – the only woman here who would actually be hunting. I felt left out of the women’s circle and strangely connected to the other hunters.

Before dinner, all of the hunters – myself and 16 men – gathered in the conference room to discuss logistics and ground rules with the guide staff. Although I did receive a few questioning glances, I immediately felt respected and welcomed . . . like I belonged . . . like I was a part of something truly special.

At this point I must confess that one of the primary subject areas in my doctoral program was feminist theory. Wait: Please don’t throw the magazine across the room. I think this is interesting background information about this unlikely hunter and author of an article in a prominent outdoor magazine. 

Ironically, and possibly to the chagrin of some feminists, being at the table with accomplished male hunters was one of the most empowering experiences in my life. These men saw me not as a woman, but as another hunter, someone they assumed must enjoy and appreciate the experience as they do. Their support and approval was palpable, and as we shared our different backgrounds and experiences, I knew they had accepted me. How cool was that?

Chuck and I met up with my guide, Anthony Gonzales, early the next morning. “Antz” had been handpicked to guide me, and I could tell he was curious about what he’d gotten himself into. I couldn’t blame him in the least, being a city-living woman who had never even shot a squirrel, let alone a creature as big and noble as an elk. Quiet and handsome, Anthony would become the point person in my life for the next three days. His stalking and hunting abilities, along with his keen eyesight and knowledge of the terrain and the animals, were readily apparent.

My challenge was pretty basic: keep up with my guide, and listen and learn while we hunted.

I developed tunnel vision in the days to come, the noise of the outside world replaced by the strident bugling of the bulls and the quiet sound of our footsteps as we hiked through a stunning panorama of lofty conifers and golden aspen. Anthony taught me the art of walking softly yet quickly in the mountains. This was so different from the mindless tromping through the woods to which I was accustomed, and I became more and more aware of my surroundings and mindful of my every movement. These were Zen moments for a new hunter, as I found myself living each moment to its fullest.

As we headed out the first morning, I tried to quiet my mind but my racing heart betrayed my nervous excitement. We headed up to a secluded canyon deep inside the sprawling 36,000-acre ranch. Easing along a narrow trail, we were awestruck by the incredible symphony of bugles echoing all around us, yet we were unable to see a single elk in the dense forest. 

I soon realized that I was merely an intruder in this forest about which I knew so little. This land belonged to these elusive, stunning beasts who felt alarmed by the scent and sight of me. So began my lessons in humility.

All day I watched Anthony like a hawk, mimicking his movements and following his instructions to the letter. Chuck followed behind, camera in hand, happy and content to be a witness to my first hunt. 

Later on we moved down into the lower reaches of the ranch where we observed a number of bulls gliding through dense stands of oak brush. Whenever we spotted a likely bull, we’d set up the shooting sticks and I would put the crosshairs of my scope on the animal. I’d repeat this practice of “scoping elk,” though relieved that for now I didn’t have to pull the trigger.  

Two fears continued to gnaw at me: First, that I would not be able to shoot an elk if the opportunity arose, and second, if I did shoot, I might only wound the animal. But as the hunt shifted toward evening and I continued to work through my concerns, my confidence began to build and I became ever more comfortable. I had survived my first day; whew! 

That night we sat down to another luscious dinner in the comfort and warmth of the lodge. Although the meals were always remarkable, the camaraderie and fellowship among the hunters were even more unforgettable. Without pretense or bragging, they shared not only their success stories but their misadventures, those often-humorous incidents when everything went wrong.

I especially enjoyed my conversations with Jerry Wauford, nicknamed Peanut because of his small stature. He is a successful business and family man in Virginia, and like myself, new to hunting. He’d taken a huge bull and that evening we all toasted to his good fortune.

With our glasses raised, Peanut declared: “I’m not as good today as you think I am, and I will not be as bad tomorrow as you think I am.”

Wonderful! . . . another hefty serving of laughter and humility, and we were off to bed.

The next morning arrived after a fitful night’s sleep and dreams of guns and elk. Ahead for me were another ten hours of hunting and learning, along with a growing appreciation of the forest and its secretive inhabitants. On this day I would learn that I was no match for a cow elk, who demonstrated her uncanny ability to spot us from a far-off ridge and then tattle on us to the herd. 

Once again we covered a lot of country, both in the truck and on foot. I settled into a comfortable groove with Anthony and Chuck, trusting that the paths we forged through the canyons and forests would eventually lead to a great elk. Although we checked out several good bulls, some at surprisingly close range, we never found the right one. Anthony had something bigger and better in mind, and I trusted his judgment. 

As we hunted, I recognized that my senses had become heightened – that the sounds and colors and movements in the landscape were more pronounced and exhilarating. Hunting was so much more than I ever imagined; the experience expanded and stretched me like a rubber band, and I felt a divine presence guiding me on my journey in the woods and in my life. I grew up just a little bit more and inwardly bowed to the beauty that life provides – my step-father’s laughter, my guide’s stealthy movements, the scream of an eagle high overhead, the colorful grandeur of a New Mexico sunset. 

Our second day of hunting was complete, and everything had changed. No longer was I concerned about taking a shot; instead I was worried that I might not have the opportunity. I could sense this same anxiety in Chuck and as our third morning rolled around, I was feeling somewhat apprehensive about what the day would bring. Anthony, however, was the embodiment of patience and resolve, and I soon caught his enthusiasm. 

That morning we had an exciting encounter with a five-by-five bull and his harem as they grazed through a high meadow. Anthony and I chuckled together as we watched the bull curl his lips and then bellow loudly, his belly moving rapidly up and down with great force. The cows seemed to ignore him, though he never let them stray too far from his side. 

We stayed with the herd until it disappeared into the side of the mountain and then the sun came up and kissed us awake and we began to move on. From afar, we glassed another herd and followed them into a deep canyon where they were swallowed up by the forest.

As time passed and the sun climbed high above the mountains, I once again started to lose hope that we would find a good bull. I was about ready to give up for the morning when Anthony parked the truck near the very top of Bear Canyon. 

We started easing down a woodland trail where we heard several ringing bugles – music to my ears and a signal that we were moving in the right direction. I spotted one of the bulls about 150 yards away and Anthony started chirping to him with his cow call. The bull responded immediately, slipping down the slope and then circling the end of the canyon to get the cow’s scent. 

Anthony turned and motioned for me to chamber a round as he set up the shooting sticks. After that, everything became a slow-motion moment in time and space. Like a first kiss or watching the launch of the space shuttle, the intensity of the situation left me breathless.

I felt awkward as I stood alongside the rocky hillside, trying to place my rifle on the sticks as they teetered back and forth. With my rifle loaded, I balanced myself as best I could and squinted through the riflescope, waiting for the bull to reappear.  

Intent on finding the cow elk he thought he heard, the bull plunged through the trees, grunting loudly and occasionally stopping to send out a piercing bugle. I kept staring through the scope and though I could easily hear him, I could not see him in the dense undergrowth.

Anthony had instructed me to point the rifle toward a meadow about 50 yards away, and within minutes the bull made his miraculous appearance in that very spot. He was magnificent – a true mountain monarch crowned with long, ivory-tipped antlers.

The bull strutted slowly into the clearing and then stopped, broadside, giving me a perfect shot. As my trembling hands gripped the rifle, Anthony whispered, “You can take the shot” – words I both yearned to hear and feared at the same time. 

I steadied the rifle, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger. At the shot the bull reared up like a wild stallion, turned and then somersaulted end over end down a gravelly slope where somehow he regained his footing and began running down the mountain.  

The next few moments are still a little fuzzy in my memory, as I was nearly drunk on my own adrenaline. Unaware that my bullet had passed completely through the bull’s lungs, I chased after him in my oversized fatigues, fearing he was only wounded and that he might somehow get away. 

I slid to a stop and fired again, just as the bull stumbled and fell, piling up at the very edge of the steep canyon. 

Kneeling beside the majestic animal, I took a few moments of silence to honor his life. After that, I turned around to receive congratulatory hugs and praise from Anthony and Chuck, and a short time later from Mike and Frank who had raced up the mountain to share in our jubilation and picture-taking. 

Words never do justice to the profundity of such a moment, and so we just smiled and nodded and hugged some more.

The next day I would grieve for the life of this noble and majestic creature, mindful of a quote I’d read by Grayson Chesser: “I think a hunter, more than most people, realizes how fragile a hold all living creatures have on life.”  

Epilogue: Tonight, I am pensive and serious, yet those feelings of joy and gratitude spread into every bone in my body, and I feel like an actor who has won the academy award. It is time to make my speech. I step up to the microphone, basking in the warmth of my success: 

“I am overwhelmed by this honor and blessed to have been part of such an extraordinary experience and to have had the privilege to hunt this great animal. I’d like to thank my stepfather for his love and support; my guide “Antz” for his courage in agreeing to be my guide and for teaching me about stalking and hunting. To Frank Simms, for his steadfast belief in my ability to be a successful hunter, and to Mike Altizer who provided valuable encouragement for both my hunting and writing. Mostly, I would like to thank the spirits of the forest that sacrificed one of their own, allowing me to share in their land and way of life. I am humbled and changed forever.”