HIGH ALTITUDE ELK HUNTING

from the desk of Steve Deibler

It is 8:00 pm, Tuesday, October 7^th, 1997, and the months of planning are over. David Simmons and I loaded the Ford Expedition and car-top carrier and headed west, leaving our families behind an unknown outcome lay before us. With visions of bugling elk, busting bears, wide-racked mule deer and trophy-book pronghorns, we drove non-stop for the next 24 hours. Showing little interest in states like Tennessee, Kentucky, Illinois, Missouri, and Kansas, we set our sights on Colorado.

We are packed tighter than a can of sardines as we carry enough supplies to remain self-sufficient for a week in the wilderness. Our destination is Craig, Colorado, the northwestern corner of the state. Craig is the hub of Moffat County, two-thirds of which is publicly owned.

The only stop we make, other than food and gas, is when we reach the continental divide at Benthound Pass at 11,315 feet. Shivering in the snow to take pictures, we immediately trade our t-shirts for sweatshirts. The hot and humid we left in Georgia has been replaced by spitting snow and high altitude.

We thump into Craig, Colorado late Wednesday night and meet our hunting buddies at the Holiday Inn. This will be our last night of creature comforts. For the next week we will be roughing it with three friends from California.

Ray Curto, a San Jose city building inspector, and the only veteran elk hunter, is our trip coordinator and leader. I had hunted with Ray before in Quebec, Wyoming and Georgia. I would call him one of my closest friends even though three thousand miles usually separate us. Don Gowdy is a dentist who I hunted with in Wyoming. Steve Bustillos is a police officer and a long time friend of Ray. David Simmons, who came with me from Georgia is a long time hunting friend of mine.

After meeting with the outfitter (Screw-up Outfitters) and quickly sizing them up, as I’m sure they did us, we quickly determined that our style of do-it-yourself hunting was in direct conflict with their “shoot from the cab window” philosophy. We decided to regulate our outfitters to a “need to know only” basis. We could use them to show us the land boundaries (which they did not know) and to help us retrieve our elk, once successful (expecting them to bring horses).

The next two days we spent setting up camp, scouting, obtaining licenses, food, and additional supplies. Our camp consisted of a 10’ x 20’ canopy with two tents situated at each end. The cooking and dining area was sandwiched between the tents. It was an excellent set-up, as would be proved on opening day when a snowstorm blew in.

Scouting prior to the season opener revealed an abundance of elk sign including fresh tracks, rubs, trails, wallows, and dung, but no elk. Ray was the only veteran elk hunter with a spike and a cow to his name. Elk hunting is far from a sure bet.

Opening morning started early on Saturday, October 11^th. By 4:00 AM, we were up and gathering our gear. Anywhere you hunt, the weather can be the biggest factor to success, and this morning wasn’t looking good. The wind was howling anywhere from 30 to 50 mph. I packed a backpack with ample supplies. Actually more than ample, as I found it difficult to hike up and down the mountainsides above 8,000 feet, especially when I decided to carry back a 5 x 5 elk head I found. You quickly learn how out of shape you become in city life, wheezing up hills, burning legs and lungs, stopping to rest every ten feet or so.

The first morning revealed lots of elk sign and the sighting of my first elk; I glimpsed a cow about 400 yards away on a far hillside. The light, tan rump of the cow seemed quite obvious and out of place among the spruce and aspens. I decided to try and stalk the cow, hoping a bull might be nearby. The difficult going became dangerous when high winds started sending mature shallow rooted aspens crashing down around me. The wind was so strong that when I topped a hill carrying my packframe loaded with elk antlers, the only way to keep from being blown over was to bend forward in the wind.

After the first morning of hunting, we had sighted several elk, but were unsuccessful in killing a legal bull. Bull elk in this area of Colorado must have at least four points on one antler or a six-inch browtine. These trophy regulations and high concentration of elk in this area are two reasons Ray chose this area for us to hunt.

The .300 Weatherby magnum I shouldered was a Christmas present from my parents. The 4.5 x 14 Leopold scope was an early birthday present from my wife, Cecilia. The gun sling was a gift from my brother. I held a picture of my daughter Emily in my pocket. I felt a piece of my entire family was with me on this trip.

I was shooting 180 grain Weatherby factory ammo. The summer practice made me confident out to 400 yards. 2.4 inches high at 200 yards, zeroed at 300 yards, eight inches low at 400 yards. The Bushnell rangefinder (another early birthday gift from Cecilia) I carried hopefully would take the guesswork out of distance judging in strange country.

This area of Colorado is a mixture of rugged mountains, rolling hills, open plains and plateaus, and we might be hunting all of this. The first afternoon was spent hunting. The Danforth Hills run between Craig and Meeker, Colorado. This time there was no heavy backpack; the gun was heavy enough.

The afternoon brought less wind, but changing weather. The feel of snow was in the air. Hunting hard revealed cow elk, and by late afternoon, the snow started falling. Hunting was accomplished by compass reading because visibility was reduced to 50 feet. By late afternoon, we met back at camp, tired and dejected, no elk!

With only four days left in the five-day season, there was no time for sitting around. With only an hour left in the day, David and I started up an old roadbed in driving snow.

Less than fifteen minutes out, we heard the unmistakable whistle of a bugling bull. We both looked at each other in excitement. Bugling bulls in Mid-October? All the how-to articles in hunting magazines said bugling and rutting behavior ended after the September archery season. Wow!

We estimated the bull to be 300 yards up the creek valley. Mistake one: a bugling bull sounds closer than he really is. We slowly crept along in the ever-approaching darkness. As the light faded, and we peered into our third consecutive side valley, several hundred yards farther than we expected, we finally spotted elk. They were bedded in timber a hundred yards up the side valley.

We came up with a simple plan of climbing the side of the hill above the elk, and once we were above them, pick out the bull and shoot. The simple plan proved difficult as we wheezed our way up the hill, stopping every few feet to gasp for air. We were poorly acclimated to the 8000 foot altitude. Mother nature doesn’t make hills like this in Georgia.

As we climbed, we shedded excess clothes and gear. When we got into position on the side of the hill, I decided to let David have the first crack at a bull. Actually, I think a coin-flip determined this. He took the lead as we crawled along a game trail. All of our delays had lead to darkness. Once in position, only 50 yards above the elk, they were simply dark shadowy forms in the valley. We slowly crawled back and with renewed excitement, raced back to camp telling stories of bugling bulls and bedded elk.

We set forth planning our day two elk ambush. With slogans of “life is good” and “wonder what the city people are eating” we finished off the antelope chili Cecilia had sent and went to bed. It was a sleepless night. I’m uncertain whether it was sleepless because of sub-freezing temperatures, hard frozen ground I was sleeping on, or the constant bugle that played through my mind.

By 4:00 AM, we were awake and heading up the valley. Daybreak found us wheezing and crawling along the same hillside. David was vowing to stop smoking; I was vowing to lose weight. We peered into the small timbered valley, the elk were gone. Did they smell us? Hear us? See us the night before? Lesson two: elk move.

We eased into the valley and picked up tracks in the fresh snow. The tracks headed up the valley and over a hill into the next valley. We took off, hot on their trail. After two hours of trailing without spotting elk, David’s back was hurting him severely. Leaning against trees and prescription painkillers weren’t helping. David headed back to camp.

I was determined! There was no way I was heading back. I picked up the elk tracks and took off in hot pursuit. With my gun over my shoulder, compass in my left hand, and a topo map in the other, I tracked elk like a beagle on a rabbit. I trailed elk through the snow, up and down valleys, across logjams, beaver ponds and creeks.

After two hours, and running out of map, I learned lesson three: you can’t catch a herd of moving elk. I headed back, backtracking my footprints before the weather worsened and snow covered my way. By midday, I was back in camp.

Five dejected elk hunters sat around eating sandwiches, trying to decide what to do next. We were 1-1/2 days into our elk season and no elk. We decided to change areas and move north approximately forty miles to an area fifteen miles north of Craig. We had been hunting in Danforth Hills (oil fields) twenty-five miles south of Craig along the Yampa River. Now we were driving north in the open country around Fortification Rocks and Fortification Creek. We would be hunting ten miles west of Routt National Forest in a mixture of private leaseholds and Bureau of Land Management public land.

A sign along Highway 13 states that the rim rocks along Fortification Creek hold a huge concentration of rattlesnakes. Great, now there was something else to think about as we crawled through the waist-high sagebrush.

The open country was a huge contrast to the thick aspen and spruce forests we had been hunting. The game plan here was to get high and glass for elk and mule deer. After working up an old roadbed and dropping off Ray, Steve and Don, David and I headed for the highest point in the road. We stopped in our tracks as we rounded the corner: Elk!

We hit the ground. There was a herd of approximately twenty elk in the next valley. The rangefinder said 650 yards. The elk were clearly on the next leasehold: off limits! The elk mesmerized us as we crawled up the hill and flattened out on the hilltop. There were two legal bulls in the herd. The biggest bull was in the middle of a large herd of cows.

The second bull was trailing the herd by 100 yards, waiting for an opportunity to steal the cows. We watched in awe as the huge bull repeatedly chased the spike bull away from his cows. An intermingling of muledeer covered the valley and hillside.

If the herd would only come our way another 400 yards and cross the fence, we might get our elk. After an hour of being buffeted by high winds and freezing temperatures on the unprotected hilltop, body parts became numb. First the fingers, then toes, hands, feet, nose and legs. Sometimes the shivering became uncontrollable. Evening brought out dozens and dozens of muledeer all around us. Finally in the fading light, when we expected the bulls to bed with the rest of the cows, the unexpected happened. The cow elk stood up and started grazing towards us. The bulls followed. The elk were grazing right towards us.

We each set our sights on a bull; would we get a double? What are the odds? 500 yards, 450 yards, 400 yards, then three quick shots, followed by two more. The elk turned tail and ran, topping the ridge and out of sight. It’s hard to believe that such a large animal can move so fast. We stood up and looked at each other, open-mouthed, stunned! What happened? Who shot? What did they kill? Were they shooting at the same elk herd? Their story had better be good because we were pissed!

In the fading light, we walked back down the road towards Don. When we got there, we heard stories of giant muledeer, quick shots, missed bucks, a stepped-on rattlesnake and the like. Bottom line, Day Two had ended unsuccessfully. The campfire that night was a mixture of emotion, lots of game sighted, but no success. This was a long way to come to screw up.

Day Three, Monday, October 13^th, saw us hunting up north again. The morning brought long-range sightings of elk, muledeer and antelope. Steve tagged a good Forkhorn ending our game drought. By midday, Ray headed back to camp with Steve to help hang his deer. David, Don and I decided to spread out across the hilltops again in hopes of sighting more elk like the night before. Don really wanted another chance at that huge mulie, but chances like that usually only come once.

As I sat on my own little hilltop, passed the time glassing, relaxing and thinking of my family. I watched as two does and fawns approached me. The doe gracefully jumped the three strand wire fence and browsed on sage as the fawns attempted to follow. They ran back and forth trying everything to get across. After one of the does called out in an impatient bleat, the fawns finally jumped the fence.

The long driving, early mornings, unusually hard exercising and now sitting, were making me drowsy. Closing my eyes, sleep would come easily. All at once, I heard a shot, then another and another.

I stood up, searching for the source. Far off in the distance to the east, at the base of a snow-covered mountain, I saw an incredible sight! My eyes almost popped out: the mountainside was brown and moving! There was an elk herd numbering in the hundreds running to the west, out of the mountains, onto the plains. The same plains I was hunting on!

I looked across the next hilltop several hundred yards south. I could see David, but could he see the elk? The way the elk were moving, they might cross the southern corner of the property we were hunting. I had to tell Don.

I stumbled down the hill looking for Don. He wasn’t there! Then I saw his orange beanie slowly moving south. He must have seen the elk too. At this point, I figured “every man for himself”! I took off huffing and puffing on a dead run. I had to run at least a mile to get ahead of the herd. I doubted I could do it, but it was worth a try. This might be my last chance in this lifetime to kill an elk. I ripped the bottom out of my pants jumping the second barbwire fence. I tripped twice over huge shed muledeer antlers. What are the chances of that?

While running, I couldn’t see the elk. I was running for a distant spot in the valley beyond. All at once, thirty elk appeared on the hill in front of me. I hit the ground, huffing and puffing, lying in a maze of cactus, rangefinder in hand.

Two hundred yards, in range! Any bulls? There’s got to be one! I saw a spike, a cow, another spike and then, there he was! A legal bull, at least 4 x 4, good enough! Lying in a bed of cactus, gun up, I couldn’t get steady. I was too winded to get my crosshairs on the bull’s shoulder. They had seen me and bolted. Gone!

I blew that one. I did the only thing I could do; I got up and continued running for that distant valley. By now I had lost one glove, my scope covers and who knows what else. Two hundred yards more and I saw them, another band of elk on the next small hill, possibly thirty elk clustered together. I looked hard for a legal bull. Then I saw them, two legal bulls. Peering through the rangefinder, it read 245 yards. Within range, DEAD on! One legal bull was clear for a shot, but he was smaller. The biggest bull was in a crowd. Should I shoot the smaller legal bull or wait? If the herd goes over the hill the other way, all would be lost. I decided it would be the big bull or nothing.

Long seconds passed, feeling like minutes. The band of elk was nervous, milling around in all directions. The big bull bugled, and then bugled again. Finally they started moving towards me, heading in a single file to my left. They were moving fast, no time to waste, no time to move. I didn’t want to be seen again. I contorted my body into an awkward shape to the left. Hard for a left-handed shooter. Finally the bull was clear.

Bang! Recoil, didn’t feel it! The herd turned running back up the hill; the bull was lagging behind. Shoot quickly before he tops the hill and is gone! Bang! Bang! Bang! He goes down. As I stand, elation is replaced by a sudden light-headed feeling. Then I feel it, smell it, see it! Blood pouring freely down my face. The .300 Weatherby had bit me hard, maybe four times and I never even felt it. A Weatherby eye to be proud of. As dark shrouded in, I approached my elk for the first time. It was huge, a 5 x 5 with long ivory-tipped browtines. The rack was wide and heavy. I stood in awe at the majestic animal.

In the distance, I heard two more shots: David! That night was excited elation, elk stories and troublesome worries. David was standing on cloud nine. I was sluggish, brooding, thinking. My bull was lying dead just on the adjacent outfitters property and they weren’t happy. The next day was spent retrieving elk. What a job! Six people can barely drag an eight hundred pound elk downhill. After the trip to the game warden’s office in Craig, we finally had our elk free and clear. The celebration began!

Day Four was spent hanging, skinning, quartering and caping muledeer and elk. It was generous beyond words for Ray and Don to spend the day helping us instead of hunting. Especially when only one day remained in the five-day season. Ray and I talked long into the night about past hunts, our present hunt and hopefully more hunts to come. Sleep came easy and sound.

On Day Five, David and I, halfheartedly switched to hunting muledeer, while Ray and Don headed out for elk. Steve was laid up in camp with an injured leg. He had injured it before the hunt and the Colorado mountains were far from therapeutic. Day Five was uneventful, except for Don’s mountain lion sighting.

On Thursday morning the season was over. We started breaking camp, taking pictures, packing meat and loading the trucks. Although everything had fit in the truck on the way out, it wasn’t going in on the way home. Several hundred pounds of elk meat, muledeer meat and two elk heads had taken care of that. We looked like a band of gypsies as we left Colorado. Most non-essentials were roped on the outside of the truck. Of course, the elk heads were safely inside. Once home, grand stories, meat cutting, taxidermists and back to work.

Now, as I sit here several months later, drinking coffee, tanning elk hides and looking at the bugling bull mounted on the wall, the summer heat doesn’t deter my mind from drifting back to those October mountaintops in Colorado. I thumb through my Colorado Atlas looking for places to catch trout with my elk hair caddis I have tied. I feel our success was not due to our skill, but to the great elk hunting that presently exists in Colorado.

Maybe next year, I’ll be back!

For an incredible adventure in the mountains of Colorado or another remote location, join one of our group hunts by contacting Deibler Outdoors at (770) 377-5321 or visit us on the web at: http://www.deibleroutdoors.com