Elk Hunt

Twenty-twenty brought plenty of challenges and unfortunately some cancellations of long-anticipated adventures. I had been anticipating a spring archery black bear hunt in Saskatchewan followed by an archery mountain lion hunt in British Columbia at the end of the year. Despite the pandemic and everything that accompanied it, I cannot complain about the outcome of my hunting season.

Against the odds with only one point, I got lucky and scored an elk permit in a coveted Montana breaks unit. That was a sore subject with my boyfriend for a while since he and his party had applied for this permit for several years and were denied again and didn’t even draw a general tag. For a while I was worried I may be making the trip solo. Fortunately, Nevin eventually softened up and agreed to accompany me on my elk hunt adventure (with dual roles as unofficial “guide” and “pack mule”).

We were able to get away and make one scouting trip out over the summer and I was pleased to see plenty of elk. It felt promising and gave me high hopes. I was going to kill my first elk this year, I could sense it. September couldn’t come soon enough.

When September finally rolled around, we headed west again and arrived to hunt the second week of the season. The first several days were quiet and elk were few and far between, which was slightly discouraging, although any hunter knows that anything can happen in a short amount of time.

The first week of the hunt was spent glassing with little hiking, generally an average of a few miles each day. One evening I somehow managed to spot just the bleached-white whale tail tips of a young 5x5 bull poking up from a patch of juniper. I was quickly running out of daylight at this point, but I attempted a quick stalk. I made my way down the hill from our glassing perch and through the draw, then up the side of the opposite hill to the south, two ridges east of the bedded bull. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I had kicked up two coyotes on my trek uphill, which ran directly toward the bull and startled him to his feet.

When I reached the top of the hill, my heart sank as I watched the young bull running along the ridge line directly away from me. I was in partial shock, knowing I had all factors in my favor and I couldn’t possibly have spooked him. Nevin watched the whole scenario through the binoculars, and I later learned that my stalk had been blown by the unseen varmints.

The following day was eventful, beginning early when we glassed two large bulls crest the hill, heading downward into the draw in front of us. We watched the two majestic bulls make their way into a thick patch of cedar and bed down. We had a visual of one bull in the cedar patch through the binos but could not confirm the location of the other. After approximately four hours of watching the lethargic bulls, I decided to try and make a move.

Nevin stayed behind on the hilltop as I started to make my way down the hill to cross the draw, then backtrack, rethink my plan two or three times, and proceed to begin the stalk again. By the time I had crossed the draw and made it to the opposite hilltop, I noticed Nevin trying to signal me with hand gestures I could not make out nor understand through the binoculars. I backtracked again, this time just to the bottom of the draw, and attempted to get a better visual of him. Unsure of whether he was trying to signal a ‘shrug’ or arm gestures resembling antlers, or which direction he was pointing, I wandered through the bottom of the draw to the east.

My heart was pounding as I expected to come face to face with one of the bulls at any moment.

After realizing that I should have stayed on top of the hill rather than trekking through the bottom, I climbed the hill again and continued east. The bulls did not appear to have remained in their original bedding location, so I began glassing the backside of the hill I was now sitting on, which was not visible from my original location where I began that morning.

I carefully continued my hike east, ever vigilant, making my way from one small patch of cover to another, crunching on dry sweet clover with every step. I felt I had to be getting close, so I continued as cautiously as possible, taking one step with each gust of wind to try and conceal my movement and the sound of my steps. I ventured from one clump of sagebrush to another, to a cedar tree, then to another cedar, when I decided to backtrack for a closer look at the draw below me.

With every gust I took a step through the tall, dry grass. I had made my way halfway from one cedar back to the previous cedar when I glanced up and saw the afternoon sun reflecting off the tines of a respectable bull, bedded directly across the draw from me.

I froze; I was now caught out in the open and without a game plan. One step at a time, I crawled under the nearest tree, putting me about 70 yards from the bull. I quickly realized this had been a mistake, as the ground all around me was littered with pinecones. I managed a couple steps, creeping a few yards closer to the bull, but I was still nearly twice the distance of my preferred shot range. Plus, the bull was bedded in thick juniper. My only hope was to continue to close the distance and wait for the bull to move, hopefully toward the south into the only opening around him that would present me with a window for a shot opportunity.

As I had expected, the bull heard me as a pinecone crunched beneath my boot. He then rose and trotted swiftly up and over the hill away from me. A failed stalk and a major let down, but still an incredible experience. And of course, an adrenaline rush.

With hope for this area dwindling as the week wore on, we decided to relocate our semi-mobile camp. We decided on an area a couple-hours’ drive from our original campsite, where our excitement was re-ignited when we arrived to screaming bulls all around. We arrived at the new location with just enough daylight left for one attempt. We didn’t even bother setting up camp before heading out in search of game.

Just several hundred yards from where we parked, we set up and attempted to lure one of the screaming bulls toward us. I stood dead-still, release hooked in the D-loop, waiting to draw back on one of the bulls I knew would soon emerge from the trees.

When none of the bulls seemed interested in Nevin’s seductive cow calls, we moved again, just another few hundred yards away. Nevin began cow calling again, then threw out a few bugles. Suddenly and without warning, like a ghost, a bull appeared through a break in the distant trees. It was a satellite bull, heading our way to check us out.

I watched for what seemed like an hour as the bull slowly made his way across a grassy opening directly toward us. With only a couple of trees for cover, I watched and waited, worried that I wouldn’t have an opportunity to even draw my bow if the bull approached within range.

Finally, at roughly 55 yards out, the bull dipped his head and I drew back. Plenty early, but I was afraid it would be my only chance. The bull continued to make his way toward the trees one slow step at a time. His beeline movement began to angle away, seemingly wary as there were no other elk in sight. At nearly 35 yards and with a slight quartering shot, I let my arrow fly.

I heard the “thwack” and watched the bull spin and run away in retreat, his hooves thundering over his original path. I watched Nevin spring from his hiding spot just 9 yards away to my left and throw the binoculars to his face as we watched the bull disappear out of sight.

I had a long, sleepless night ahead of me when we made the realization that my bull had crossed onto private land. Fortunately, we were able to reach the landowner by phone and explain the situation. With darkness quickly setting in, we were forced to abort the search for the night to resume in the morning.

That was the longest night of my life, lying awake on my cot beneath the stars. All night was spent replaying the entire scene in my mind, second-guessing my shot placement, doubting the blood trail, and imagining everything that could lead to the wounding and loss of my bull. Then, the sun finally rose. The local landowner had requested to be present when we entered his property to resume our search, so I was forced to wait a couple extra grueling hours, but understandably so. To my surprise, we had been granted permission to continue our search.

The recovery mission was on again shortly after the landowner arrived, rolling up the nearby road in his ranch truck. We followed the blood trail again, a double trail thanks to my arrow penetrating through the opposite side of the bull upon exit. We had nearly reached the boundary of our search as there were dozens of elk feeding peacefully in the bottom. I don’t even recall breathing as we took the few final steps of the search, when I heard a whisper from Nevin, who was about two steps ahead of me.

“Courtney, what’s that?”

I glanced to the right to lay eyes on my bull in his final resting place, lying in a deep cut amongst some lush vegetation in the bottom of a washout. I was awestruck as I approached and held the antler and admired the details of the bull’s face.

My first archery elk harvest was now under my belt. Now, it was time for the real work. To my surprise, the landowner went above and beyond in the recovery efforts. I had prayed all night simply for permission to recover my bull on his land, yet he assisted in the retrieval and volunteered his truck to aid in the loading and delivery of my bull back to our campsite. From there, it was on to the local processor. 

I ended my 2020 hunting season with my elk being my only harvest, yet I was completely satisfied with my hunting season. I am incredibly thankful for the time and effort Nevin put in to help make this happen, and I am tremendously thankful for the help of the landowner in our unique situation.

My hunting season ended in the best way imaginable, with a full freezer and restored faith in humanity.

ReelCamoGirl ProStaff,

Courtney Jenner