Hunting the Valley of the Gods

There is a certain understanding that comes from a perfect moment: a time when both hunter and animal understand what is truly happening. Regardless of the moment’s perfect simplicity, as I knelt beside the lush alpine meadow, arrow slowly creeping back on my rest, with a lone bull only yards away, I couldn’t help but think of the effort it took to reach that point.

Full moon nights meant the sweet September sound of rut-crazed elk echoed through the meadows and timber. Love struck bulls divided cows, fought one another and dug wallows, all within several hundred yards of our drop camp. This was elk hunting heaven.

Opening day of Washington’s archery elk season found a member of our camp, Rick Owen, knee-deep in elk, as he loosed a perfect shot at 36 yards on his first archery harvest. The shot sealed both the fate of the 6x6 bull and the memory for Rick, as he watched the 300-class bull collapse after only 40 yards. High-fiving, heavy packs and burning legs marked the occasion, as load-after-sweet-load of venison found its way to hang on the meat pole in camp.

Thirteen days of hunting the high country had produced a lifetime of adventure and close calls. Bulls continued their nighttime activity, screaming bugles with one another, but turning off the instant the sun hit the horizon. Seventy-five miles and more than half a dozen bulls worked within range, had tailored a foolproof technique of cow calling into dark, north-facing slopes used for bedding.

One great aspect to spending the entirety of elk season in the field is the chance to pattern particular bulls and two in the area had my full attention.

One bull dubbed “Glunk,” due to his inability to fire off a true bugle, worked his small harem of cows across a familiar drainage like clockwork. His 7x7, 350” frame, made him unmistakable, with 10-inch tines sticking strait out off each of his sword points; he truly was the master of the high country.

He exuded dominance as he stood in the meadow a mere 37 yards from my position, having just demolished several small trees and creating a new hot tub sized wallow, his actions rang louder than his bugle: he was the boss. With no shot opportunity, I was forced to watch as his head, adorned with massive, chocolate colored antlers, looked back and forth for the “cow” that had lured him into the open. Unable to find his female friend, Glunk turned back, walking slowly into the timber, destroying one more sapling as if to prove a point and becoming a campfire legend for the remainder of the trip.

Glunk was not the only object of my affection, as he shared what quickly became known as “the Valley of the Gods,” with another impressive 6x6 bull.

The bull had a system: spend the majority of the day high in the timber, wallowing and shadowing Glunk’s harem for cows coming into cycle, then dropping down to feed in the moon-drenched basins. Formulating a plan to intercept the bull, I found myself directly in his path on the evening of the thirteenth day.

My long, estrus cow calls echoed deep into the timber, quickly being returned by a crisp bugle from several hundred yards distant. The next set of calls were once again interrupted, as the unseen bull closed the distance on a run, crashing through the downed timber and blueberry bushes.

Adjusting my position, I carefully ranged objects along his expected route, making mental notes and visualizing his approach in an attempt to stay calm. No sooner had I finished ranging did he appear a mere 65 yards ahead, closing the distance to the basin opening and my ambush.

Sixty-five, 51, 41, 35 yards; the bull kept coming, entering the opening with reckless abandon not typical of a mature bull. Advancing head-on toward where I knelt motionless, I watched his legs, afraid to look him in the eye or to see the massive rack as he turned broadside at 10 yards.

Quartering slightly, the bull glanced side-to-side in search of the cow that lured in into the opening, turning his head to the right for a moment I took the opportunity to slowly reach full-draw. Anchoring in, my top pin glowing bright behind his shoulder, the bull turned and looked at me, his posture immediately showing a moment of realization, as my arrow released.

Crossing the opening on a full-run, the bull ran headlong into a small tree and expired within sight, having only traveled 90 yards in about 15 seconds.

I lay down in the grass, looking upward. My breath filling the crystal clear September sky as the last of shooting light faded away, I was filled with an appreciation for the time spent with friends, miles of hiking, hours of calling and days of dreaming for this exact moment.

The start of one amazing adventure

“There’s a buck!” Uncle Scott said, “ I think it’s a shooter!”

What happened next was a mad scramble for bows, releases and rangefinders, as our once well-organized gear became strewn about the ground.

The buck walked a mere 20 yards away from the outskirts of camp, watching us with an amused look on his face, his perfectly symmetrical 2x2 rack sticking out like a billboard saying ‘better luck next year!’

Having been in camp only 15 minutes, we all found this little guy pretty amusing and dubbed him “Leroy,” as he sauntered to the shade of a Sitka spruce only 20 yards from camp. The amused look on his face never left as he bedded and commenced watching us gathering our gear that had been thrown haphazardly around.

This was the start of our 2011 wilderness hunt.

Fresh off the excitement of having a “camp deer” and wanting to get a feel for the area, I quickly unpacked the rest of my gear and dawned my camo. Pete was the first to comment: so you’re going on a Jameson walk? It should be noted that a ‘Jameson walk’ has become synonymous over the years as either being filled with a. close encounters, or b. a successful harvest of an animal. Just the mere utterance means that something odd may happen.

This ran through my head as I eased my bow back down from full-draw. I had been working through the clearings near camp in hope that a mule deer or bear would take full advantage of the full moon phase and head for the open meadows. With the light fading quickly I progressed into the final clearing near camp.

Entering the opening I noticed the gray hind end of a deer not 20 yards to my left, half-obscured by berry plants. Quickly nocking an arrow I peered through the brush, looking for the signs of a shooter buck but all my binoculars showed was the perfect 2x2 rack of good old Leroy.

Another flash of gray caught my eye, as a deer fed away from the meadow to my right. Adjusting my Leupold binoculars once more I focused on another buck. He was a small-framed 3x3 with a small sliver of velvet hanging down on one side of his rack. My rangefinder flashed 34 yards, as he quartered away from me, his head lodged in the foliage.

Coming to draw, I settled my glowing sight pins behind the bucks shoulder blade. It was at this point a strange thing happened: I second-guessed myself. Easing my bow back down, still undetected, I thought of the 15 days of hunting yet to come and the realization that I had only been in the backcountry for a mere 5 hours and was about to release an arrow.

“Never pass up a buck on the first day that you would be happy to harvest on the last day,” was what Uncle Scott had told me not two hours before. ‘He’s right’ I thought to myself, as I eased my bow back, once again settling my pins on the buck, easing into my shot sequence.

In a flash my broadhead tipped arrow was in flight, contacting the exact point I had aimed for, connecting with a “CRACK!” The buck immediately sprinted for cover, lunging several times and crashing to the ground a mere 30 yards from the point of contact.

An incredible sense of relief rushed over me, as I replayed what had just transpired, pleased with the fact I had made a clean, ethical shot and would be able to fill my freezer with some amazing venison.

As we hung the buck in camp Uncle Scott, Pete, Rick and I joked about being in camp only five hours and having a 3x3 Mule deer down, and how it was sure to be the start of one amazing adventure. Little did we know what the very next day had in store…

Breaking the archery mold

In the ever-changing world of archery, whether your focus is toward tournament archery, hunting or you just love the 'release' of shooting your bow, it can be easy to find yourself becoming comfortable with a routine.

Since taking up the sport of archery I have found myself suffering from the stagnate feeling of routine. This became painful evident when friends started referring to my opening day hunting plans as "going back to your good ole' stomping grounds." This signaled to me that I need to break from away from the mold, so when my good friend and hunting partner Pete Joers offered the chance to join him on an epic drop-camp wilderness hunt I jumped at the opportunity.

It is a common for hunting stories to involve months of preparation, training and the days to crawl by as the much-anticipated trip nears. This story is no different as running, backpacking, and gear-refining took on an nearly manic approach.

I was not the only one affected by the upcoming event. Pete took this adventure as an opportunity to revitalize his life, shedding over 30 pounds and diving into the wilderness every chance he got. Connecting with each other between our off season excursions and comparing notes on gear while going over and over stories of the past season became commonplace, further fueling the fire.

I would like to present my hunting adventure as the days passed, giving a blow-by-blow account of what transpired as well as telling the road that led to such an amazing start to the 2011 archery season.

Like most hunters I prefer to know the area that I will be spending my time--in this case 15 days--wandering around. This entails bonsai scouting trips throughout the month of August as the late snow finally receded from my areas. This also meant that trips would serve a double purpose: scouting and bear hunting!

Snow has a strange effect on bear. This is attributed to the high country berries either taking up to a month longer to ripen or, as the National Forest ranger stated, not growing at all. This seemed to be a reoccurring theme throughout the state as my three-day weekends turned into a frustrating search for a bear.

Areas that, historically, held up to six bear on one hillside, at one time, were suddenly devoid of life. The lack of bear made my choice to scout my elk area that much easier to stomach, as I trudged up the trail in the hot summer sun. Accessing elk country has never been so crowded, I surmised, as I passed several groups along my route. It was in between swatting trophy-sized mosquitos, wiping sweat from my brow and dodging horseback riders that things started to get interesting.

I had just completely ate shit on my mountain bike--making sure to strategically land face-first to avoid buggering up my bow on my pack--and decided it was in my best interest to proceed from here on foot. Not a quarter mile from the scene of the crash did I come face-to-face with a black bear who was equally surprised to see me.

Rounding a bend in the trial, I had been admiring a rock formation that was dissected by the trail when I glance into a chest high mountain blueberry patch and noticed a 200-pound bear staring right at me. The bears surprise was evident as I--in plain view--proceeded to drop my pack, unhook my bow, strap on my release and open a pocket to get out my rangefinder. These are all points that I have stressed to others in the past: always have your gear on while hunting! So of course one of the few times I disregard my own rules it come back to bite me--not literally.

Ranging the bear at 28 yards but having no shot due to the hard quartering-to angle, we continued our stare down, that is until a man with two horses rounded the bend immediately to my right, sending the bear into a frenzy in the opposite direction.

The gentleman must have seen my adrenaline-riddled look when he asked, "have you seen anything yet?" I smiled and told him about what had just transpired and he apologized over and over which I still don't understand because, hey, crap happens and it was awesome anyways! So it was back on the trail in search of the next random adventure. This time my bow was in hand and my release securely attached.

The rest of my scouting trip was not quite as eventful and can be summarized like this:

*82 (number counted, there were more) mosquito bites

*only minor lacerations and bruises from my bike crash, no damage to my bow either, thank goodness

*1 more bear within 30 yards. It was only about 60 pounds, which got my blood pumping wondering where momma bear might be!

*20 miles covered with 4,000 feet of elevation gain

*No elk spotted or heard

*One mule deer

*One amazing night of camping under a true wilderness sky.

Oh, did I mention the mosquitos? EVERYWHERE!