Dream vs. Reality: Shed Hunting
Does the vision match the experience?
Scouring the mountains for discarded antlers may seem silly, compared to mountain biking slickrock in the Utah desert or paddling raging spring rivers. But this increasingly popular pastime comes with its own set of rewards: rambling the rapidly-greening mountains after months of snow; spending time with one’s huntin’ buddies, long before fall rolls around; and the anticipation & exhilaration of a treasure hunt in the forest. Given all that, what’s not to love? Sounds fantastic, right? Let’s find out.
Dream
After a winter scouting trip, you’ve identified a remote basin holding a pile of trophy bull elk. But getting to them looks hellacious: it requires side-hilling through steep cliff bands for several miles, hiking over a mountain, and dropping 2,500 vertical feet into a creek bottom. “Let’s snowmobile over the top,” your buddy suggests—a brilliant idea. A few weeks later, you’re sitting on top of the mountain with a spotting scope, having barely lifted a muscle except to twist the throttle and open your cooler to snag a smoked-salmon-croissant sandwich for lunch. Immediately, you start picking out antlers through the scope. Let your eyes do the walking, as they say. Within minutes you’ve identified at least a dozen elk antlers on the ground, and one of them looks huge. Six-point at least, maybe even seven. You and your buddy map out a route to scoop ’em all up, and drop into the drainage. Right away, there they are: big, brown antlers, all over the ground, looking as if an entire herd of bulls suddenly agreed to an antler-disarmament treaty. Already, your pack is heavy. Too heavy, perhaps, to take everything. You start leaving smaller, “unworthy” antlers hanging in trees or sitting on logs as consolation prizes to anyone else who might venture in after you. Eventually, you make it to that trophy antler, and it’s even bigger than you thought, leading you to conclude that the former owner must have been the Ron Jeremy of last year’s rut. It’s got broad, sweeping tines and a main beam you can barely get both hands around. Seconds later, almost tearing up like Lindsey Lohan in The Parent Trap, you find the rack’s match tucked away in the brush just a few feet away. You camp in the creek bottom that night, passing the whiskey bottle and telling stories until the wee hours. “Next year, let’s do an even bigger trip,” your buddy says. “I’ve got some places that could be even better.” Without a doubt, shed hunting is way more fun than your usual, humdrum bike trip to Moab.
Reality
After weeks of planning, you’ve narrowed in on an idyllic drainage in a remote mountain range. Getting there is no joke: it requires a long drive, then a long approach side-hilling through steep cliff bands for several miles. Then it’s up and over a mountain, and finally dropping 2,500 vertical feet into a creek bottom—the exact type of terrain that made Lewis & Clark think Thomas Jefferson made a mistake with the whole Louisiana Purchase thing. “No way anyone else comes in here,” your buddy wheezes through labored breath as you peer into antler Shangri-La. The two-day slog was punishing, but his hopeful words revive your spirit. You pull out the spotting scope to get a lay of the land before dropping in. A long, close scan reveals… nothing. Not a single antler. Maybe they’re tucked in the timber? Only one way to find out. Down you go, and up the other side. Not far off the ridge, you finally spot your first track. Only problem is, it’s a boot track. Gridding down, you cross more and more boot prints, leading to a a recently-used fire ring in a patch of flattened grass that smells oddly of smoked salmon—right where you were planning to camp. “They couldn’t have found ’em all,” your buddy says. The next two days are spent scouring the drainage, only to find piles of elk droppings and a handful of old, decrepit antlers propped up against trunks and hanging from low branches, looking like nature’s version of those ceramic knickknacks on the back wall of a thrift store: consolation prizes from the previous party. No doubt about it: the elk were in here thick, but someone else got here first. Morale couldn’t be lower as you begin the long trek out, empty-handed and contending with a swarm of horse flies. Cresting the mountain, you run into another pair of dudes, sitting on snowmobiles. They must’ve come in over the top, you realize. “We picked up some huge ones—full sets!—in here last week,” they say. “Just came back to see if we missed anything.” It’s been decided: next spring, you’re mountain biking in Moab.
