Words to the Wise

Ushering in elk season.

Every Montana hunter has his own words of wisdom—especially when it comes to elk hunting. Some say that to harvest an elk every year only requires two things: a half-decent spot and half-decent hunting skills. Southwest Montana legend, Randy Newberg, has his own philosophies, claiming there’s no such thing as a good elk hunter; only good elk spots. Among my hunting buddies, though, our proverb is: “If you can’t find the elk, hike uphill.”

So, where else could they be but on top of the mountain, right? This time, however, our death march felt particularly futile.

That’s how Tom and I found ourselves above treeline in mid October, bows in hand, trudging through blowing snow and thick fog. We hadn’t seen a single elk in the low-elevation sagebrush, we hadn’t crossed a single track hiking through the timber, and we hadn’t picked up a single whiff slogging through meadows. So, where else could they be but on top of the mountain, right? This time, however, our death march felt particularly futile.

“Alright, what the hell are we doing?” asked Tom, with more than an inkling of frustration in his voice.

“Let’s just go a little further, we’ll get a view up top.”

“Hmph,” he replied, which I’ve learned to accept as a begrudging, “Okay.”

The rollover turned out to be a false summit, which bled into another false summit, and then finally a small rise with a view into—nothing but fog. We bundled into puffy jackets and windbreakers, nestled into crevices in the rock, and downshifted a few gears into our favorite part of hunting: nap time.

“Can you walk a little freakin’ quieter!” Tom snapped, bringing me back to Earth, and the task at hand. There were elk to kill.

When we awoke, the light was starting to fade and the fog was lifting. We pulled out binoculars and scanned between fog pockets for signs of life.

“Elk,” Tom declared, in his tone of voice that gets me as excited as a dog responding to the word walk. “I’ve got one.”

He walked me in, and sure enough, a raghorn bull was feeding on an open slope with a few cows in tow, and even more appearing as the ghost-like mist continued to shift between dead whitebark pines. It was go-time. As we began a stalk through the seemingly enchanted forest, I couldn’t help but think about another old adage: “He who says he can, and he who says he can’t, are both usually right.” So it is with hunting, too, I decided. If you believe in your maxim, perhaps you can manifest it to be tru—

“Can you walk a little freakin’ quieter!” Tom snapped, bringing me back to Earth, and the task at hand. There were elk to kill.