Hey Jed, what are you doing for the next four days?”
The call was from my brother who a long time ago nicknamed me Jed.
“I drew a late-season elk tag and I want you to come with me. Get in your car and I’ll meet you in Cody,” he instructed.
I looked over at my wife, Tracy, and told her what Bob had said.
“You got to go,” she said.
Tracy and I had just returned from marlin fishing in the Azores and I was all set to catch up on chores, correspondence and crossing off lists. But how could I turn down my younger brother. I immediately started to pack my gear.
“I got the ‘Marines’ loaded up,” Bob said in his text message. The Marines were his five best horses, which he uses when guiding hunters for mountain goats, bears, bighorn sheep, elk, moose and high-country mulies. Bob owns Barlow Outfitting and he’s one of Wyoming’s best guides – has been, for more than 30 years. His clients love him. He is politically incorrect.
As a kid, Bob would memorize Boone and Crockett record heads, scores and kill sites. He never forgets anything. As a dyslexic, he struggled in high school and hired his own tutor. Immediately after graduation he drove to Jackson, where for weeks he slept in the bed of his pickup. He mastered the outfitters’ exam and started guiding anglers on the Snake River and hunters for bear. He was still a teenager.
We met in Cody, drove to the trailhead and passed Buffalo Bill’s old ranch. We would ride up Buffalo Bill Trail, as my brother called it, where the famous Wild West showman once took the Prince of Monaco hunting in 1913.
The Marines – all big, beautiful mountain horses – quickly fell in and began their long march up the rocky trail, the going steep and slick. There was no room for error.
This is unbelievable, I thought. Just a few weeks ago I was hooked to a 750-pound blue marlin jumping out of the Atlantic and now I’m pursuing elk deep in the Wyoming wilderness with my brother, “the best hunter in the world.”
Arriving at camp in the dark, we unloaded and watered the horses. Then began the stories – Bob’s reminiscences of past hunts, both good and bad, hunters, fellow guides and outfitters. These stories are what his clients look forward to when they come back again and again to hunt with him.
Early the next morning we headed out to scout for elk. Bob rode Angus and I was on Champ, Bob’s favorite that he raised from a colt. The horse was so loyal that it never had to be tied up or hobbled at night.
We were heading up a creekbed when Bob grabbed his rifle and swung out of the saddle. A mule deer buck was slinking along just ahead of the horses. The rifle sang.
“He’s a pretty good mountain buck,” Bob said as he slid his rifle back into the scabbard.
I took a few photos, then we quartered the deer and packed him to camp. We were in grizzly country, so we were careful to hang the meat high and drag the carcass farther from camp. Rifle shots are dinner bells for grizzlies.
After finishing up a few chores and a brief rest, we made a quick ride downstream to look at some new country. We failed to see any elk, so we started our return just about sundown. As we neared camp, a big grizzly suddenly stood up, gave us a quick look and then pounded away. Bob and I stared at each other.
“That was a nice griz! The biggest I’ve ever seen.”
I had to agree.
The next morning we rode to a spot we’d found the evening before that was perfect for glassing an old game trail. Just when I started to pull out our lunch, Bob whispered, “Elk!”
In our binoculars we could see three bulls standing at the edge of the trail.
“Do you see the daggers on that one?” It was obvious he was the biggest, but the bull had us pegged and took a few steps into the trees.
“He has to come out,” Bob said he readied his rifle.
A moment later the big bull stepped into a small clearing. Bob’s shot rang true. We jumped on the horses and raced over to the trail. The bull was a beauty – an eight-by-eight on a heavy frame that curved like a fishtail. He had long dagger points, with one broken near the top.
Bob’s left-handed skill with a knife is amazing and in a short time the elk was quartered. Darkness was fast approaching and we knew grizzlies had heard the shot.
In the morning we broke camp and rode over to the bull. We were quite certain the bears would find him during the night, so we made our approach cautiously. Sure enough, the bears had devoured the gut-pile and started on the carcass. We worked fast getting the bull loaded up on the horses. Grizzlies give you plenty of work incentive.
It was a pleasure to photograph Bob on the ride out. The mountains screamed their beauty at us, but even lovelier was the huge set of antlers on the back of Bonnie, Bob’s packhorse.
“I wish mom and dad could meet us at the trailhead,” Bob said. “Let’s go to the Irma and get a big steak.”
We pulled into Cody with the Marines in tow. Word had already gotten out that “Bob Barlow killed a big one.”
The hunters emptied out from Irma Bar to see Bob’s bull. I stepped back and watched them admire his elk, ask him questions and laugh heartily whenever he said something funny. It was dark so I couldn’t quite see the face of the “greatest hunter in the world,“ but I knew he was enjoying every second.
Note: This article originally appeared in the 2013 Guns & Hunting issue of Sporting Classics magazine.