I thought I didn’t like a hoody, the kind of sweatshirt that has a built-in hood, but one I was awarded by a friend has become a staunch, longstanding companion. I found I not only liked it, I loved it. Possibly, because I had earned it.
We had chased up mountains four mornings in a row, trying to blitz through the earliest daylight to get higher than elk that were heading higher still. We had chased across valleys four afternoons in a row, getting ourselves positioned in concert with the changing breeze, then moving swiftly to intercept elk coming back down to feed. We had covered 34 miles in the span of eight hunts, walking from 3:30 to 10:30 by morning, then from 2:30 until hours past dark every afternoon. I thought I was set to make it all pay off, until I didn’t.
In the summer of 2009, I received an invitation to an elk hunt in the fall for the following year, which then lay 14 months ahead, so I commenced getting ready right away. Preparation is a big part of how I enjoy any trip. In a way, the sensation feels a lot like a version of memories — a collection of prospective events and outcomes connected to an experience yet to be had.
In this case, it included getting myself physically fit to hustle at altitude, the better to take advantage of the trip’s full opportunity. When you train at an altitude of 320 feet and you hit the ground hunting at 7,500 feet, you’ll notice it, but being prepared means your body can spring through the challenge and go. I responded quickly. On the first morning, I hit my first altitude wheeze 50 yards from the truck. Two mornings later, I felt like Superman.
The person inviting me on the trip was Justin Flaherty, a Tupelo native who was senior manager of a big cattle and guest ranch operation on the Colorado/Wyoming line. We had worked together for a while in Mississippi before he headed West. He had come to be one of my best friends in the world, even before he gave me an elk hunt, so I certainly didn’t want to pay him back in disappointment for that.
The place I was going was completely wide open and wild. It was private land that did allow for a limited public draw, but issued landowner tags and followed a system Colorado called Ranching for Wildlife. Among other things, it allowed elk hunters to proceed with centerfire rifles beginning each September 1. It was as good an opportunity as a fair chase hunt could possibly be.
I’ve found one element of a hunt that includes plenty discomfort and challenge to be the enduring intensity of the memories. Events make a deeper, more thorough impression on my mind when the whole meal is eaten raw.
On the hunt’s fourth afternoon, we’d made a lengthy, tactical hike to a water hole at the foot of a mountain of bugles. Gradually, as the hours slipped by and the light turned gray, we could hear the bulls and cows trickling down but, as the last 15 minutes of shooting light arrived, the time came for us to do what guide Dave Clements called “a big boy hike.” I thought we had been hiking hard and moving fast before. We had not. But we did now. Field producer Steven Bush, Clements and I strode out then bearing dead uphill, covering maybe a half mile of ground while gaining a quarter mile of altitude. A mature bull with several cows was in a small valley fold to one side of the footpath. We bailed off in there and played a hurried round of wind direction and shooting alleys for what felt like forever, before he eventually winded us and skedaddled. We popped back up onto the footpath and dashed another couple hundred yards uphill where, in what would be the last few minutes of light, we spotted another mature bull, this one lazing around a waterhole 150 yards away.
This was where opportunity and preparation were set to intersect. I got on the rifle and on the sticks. And just could not get still. Not anywhere close enough to still. I couldn’t hold steady, which made me shake more, and the more I shook the more I couldn’t get steady. Worst, my brain had evidently punched the clock somewhere in the past hundred yards or so as well.
Could I have crawled forward and braced against a tree? Probably. Could I have stood completely up, put a tree between me and the bull, eased up to that tree and braced against it any way I needed to? Even sat down on the elk’s side of it and forced myself to be still? Most likely. What I most wanted to do was lay down prone and brace against the ground, but nothing about that fit my situation. So, having offered one option that wouldn’t go, my brain decided to bother itself about it no more and sat back to watch what would unfold. Eventually, I rushed a squeeze during a shaking fit and missed the elk by the length of an elk.
I recall every nuance and sensation of that moment. I saw the smoke from the .300 Win Mag blow away. I saw the elk I’d been trying to aim at give its Secretariat impression and depart in a high gallop. I remember the feel of grit between my thinly-gloved fingers and the sound of the wind rolling over the great divide. The air tasted like mountains and fall leaves. It tasted like effort and exaltation, and the sad, fleeting departure of hope. It was disappointment on a granite-bouldered hillside, near where the aspens trees grow, and there was no joy in Mudville.
I get over things pretty quickly, but just then I was disappointed for a lot more than missing an elk. Number one, I had dragged Steven Bush all over northwestern Colorado and wound up with an absolute bust. His time and talent were valuable, and his skill as a hunter commanded any fellow hunter’s utmost respect. I had wasted his efforts, and Dave Clements’ as well. I had lost confidence that I could lock in and make a shot at need, a year’s preparation, half an industry’s products — in hindsight, I probably did put a little too much pressure on myself to make a shot.
I met the crew for breakfast the next morning and got myself under control. Clements helped us find a hunting setup for that evening likely to contain a shooting scenario I was confident I could perform. We committed to that plan and I was able to collect a very nice bull 24 hours after enjoying the meltdown of all meltdowns. That bull is its own story, and every part of each day afield is its own story. An outdoor life is a bustling experience overflowing with stories.
The next morning, as we were loading trucks in the dark to go to the airport, Justin brought me a hoody with another congratulations on the elk, and I brought both back with me coming home. One cold morning a couple months later, I came back inside from starting my wife’s car to warm. I took the hoody out of a drawer, pulled it over my head and decided I’d give it a try. I’ve pulled it on at every cold and casual opportunity ever since. Turns out, I liked how it feels after all.
Kevin Tate is a freelance writer. Email [email protected].
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