The
long ride out of this Wyoming wilderness is a lot less painful when
the mules are carrying four impressive bulls and the biggest is yours.
"How
far is he?" my hunting partner Greg Sesselmann whispered with a
hint of nervousness quivering in his tone. Our guide and outfitter,
Tim Doud of Bliss Creek Outfitters, also had that "hurry up"
glare as I dialed up the distance of the bull elk using my laser rangefinder.
"208 yards," I blurted with digital information flashing before
my eye. "Are you comfortable shooting that far with your muzzleloader?"
Tim questioned.
Greg
didn't respond, but I could see his mind twisting as the now-or-never
decision took hold. It's times like these when your mind sorts through
technical information like bullet drop or decreasing foot pounds of
energy surprisingly easily, all while charged with adrenaline, nature's
answer to high-octane fuel. Greg's internal computer was clicking and
about to spit out an answer. He'd done the math before the hunt, but
pulling off the shot wasn't an "on-paper" equation. We soon
knew his decision as the muzzleloader barrel relaxed. Seconds later,
the bull completed his decision-making process by disappearing into
the pines from where he'd appeared.
ther
than disappointment, we all looked at each other with relief spreading
across our faces. Two hundred yards is a handful for a muzzleloader,
even the modern in-line Knights we carried. Throw in a super-sized dose
of adrenaline and Greg knew it would be better to wait for a closer
opportunity. The Wyoming darkness began to engulf us, making our decision
to hike back to the horses an even easier choice.
Our
hunt started three days earlier at a remote trailhead in the Shoshone
National Forest of northwestern Wyoming. This area neighbors Yellowstone
National Park and includes some of the wildest and most vertical country
in the lower 48.
Greg
and I would be hunting with Tim and his partner Doris Roesch high in
the Washakie Wilderness Area. Base camp was ten horseback hours from
the truck on a constricted, boulder-strewn path that few sane backpackers
consider.
The
Washakie Wilderness takes its name from Chief Washakie, one of the most
notable members of the Shoshone Tribe. It's a vast mountainous country
of eroded volcanic flows that have long since been chiseled and carved
by wind, water and glaciers into dizzying cliffs, spiraling pinnacles
and gorges deep enough to hide a cruise ship. Little horizontal country
exists in the region.
Resting
between Cody and Dubois, the Washakie encompasses 704,000 acres of raw
land, untouched by humans. It's a place where you can still drink from
a stream and bump into a grizzly in the process. Besides bear, both
the black and grizzled variety, the area is home to Shiras moose, bighorn
sheep, mule deer and mountain lions along with an assortment of God's
little creatures. It's simply the way America used to be.
The
possibility of a grizzly encounter became all too real as Doris began
handing out pepper spray canisters at the trailhead. A serious look
spread across her face while she explained how to use the spray and
their camp policy of always carrying a canister when wandering through
camp. We took the information to heart while staring at the ominous
peaks in the distance.
Needle
Mountain is the highest point in this wilderness and it towered more
than 12,000 feet above us as we passed beneath its shadow. Tim didn't
think we'd be hunting that high, but he assured us we'd top 10,000 feet
nearly every day. Three more hunters joined the group and as I looked
at them, it suddenly dawned on me, I was probably the youngest. Several
neared retirement age. If Tim thought the older gentlemen were up to
the challenge, I should have no problem handling the challenge, even
with the possibility of a grizzly encounter.
Six
hours later my rump was telling another tale and we were barely halfway
through the horseback ride to base camp. My sore rump was somewhat embarrassing
since I had rattled on to the others about owning two saddle horses.
Sure I ride them regularly, but regularly means once or twice a week,
not eleven hours straight. Besides the burning in my thighs and butt,
we had to cope with the narrow, no passing zone trails. Much of the
ride involved vertical views with the South Fork of the Shoshone valley
winding more than 1,000 feet below. Experienced mountain horses are
worth their weight in grain, and I worried more about falling out of
the saddle than Mr. Ed stumbling off the trail.
Seeing
the others in agony and watching Greg shove a stocking hat down his
pants to pad his rear added a dose of comic relief, but it didn't ease
the pain. But hours later, the bellow of a bull elk in the black meadow
near base camp completely erased the pain and my spirits spiked as camp
lights appeared through the pines. After being introduced to our wall
tent hotel room, Greg and I unpacked and sorted gear, hoping for a chance
at the bull advertising in the meadow.
Both
Greg and I had chosen muzzleloaders for our two on one hunt, though
I thought we'd have to arm wrestle for dibs on the first shot. Hearing
Greg's tales of elkless hunts canceled the arm wrestling match and I
graciously offered him first chance since I've had several back-to-back
freezer filling years for elk. Besides, he was bigger than I was.
Even
with the exhausting ride behind us, we lay awake that evening, fueled
by the adventure ahead. Swapping backgrounds, I listened in interest
to Greg's life story of success. This hunt was not just an outing for
him. He was field-testing products and we'd all help by wearing his
products.
A
decade ago, Greg and a partner created Scent-Lok, the garment technology
that uses an activated layer of carbon to absorb and trap a hunter's
scent. I knew that much before the hunt; I just didn't realize he was
classified as a rocket scientist when I teamed up with him.
Actually,
Greg's expertise lies in the aerospace carbon filtration field. That's
close enough to a rocket scientist for me. Scent molecules, receptors
and the importance of coconut shells for top grade carbon have me a
whole new appreciation for the power of science in hunting.
The
next morning we rested the horses and our rears, opting for a daypack
hunt near camp. The bellowing elk from the previous evening gave us
the slip before shooting light as we still hunted and bugled our way
along the meadow. Midday temperatures hovered near 70 degrees and Tim
eased us into an active wallowing area for our lunch stop.
Before
settling down Tim managed to get a nearby bull to bugle, delaying our
sandwich rendezvous. But after several more attempts to coax the bull
into a showdown, it was obvious the heat had the same lulling effect
of him as it did on us. After the sandwich, we snoozed in the sun before
an evening ambush.
After
our siesta, Tim pointed us in the direction of camp via an elk highway
that ended at the meadow where we heard the morning bugler. Setting
up on the meadow's edge, we waited patiently and just before dark our
quarry signaled his intentions.
"Did
you hear that bull? It's the same one we heard riding into camp last
night," Tim exclaimed. Of course we had heard the bull, but we
all agreed his location was too far with light fading fast. Just then,
a bull above us declared his presence. We didn't speak, but riveted
our attention to a trail poking from the timber ahead. The bull spoke
on and off during our wait, but it was apparent that sufficient fed
held the herd in the timber and Tim called off the wait at the end of
shooting light. Three days later our story hadn't changed. In fact,
our elk sightings went up daily, but close encounters were as scarce
as bona fide extra terrestrials. Other hunters weren't having quite
as much trouble with their hunts. Two of the three had already tagged
good Wyoming six-point bulls so camp success was creeping toward 50
percent.
After
the close encounter in the story's opening and with only two days left
in the hunt, Greg graciously gave me the chance to bat. Fortunately,
another hunter had filled on yet another good six-point bull, freeing
up a guide to take Greg. Tim and I would finish the remainder of the
hunt.
Our
second to the last morning began like the others with a two-hour ride
through a pitch-black forest. The 1,000-foot vertical cliffs weren't
a concern, but the possibility of bumping into one of the grizzlies
that kept leaving their footprints on the trail did cross my groggy
mind. How would the horses react? Maybe I should worry about the gorge
below?
"Did
you hear that? He's in a small meadow several hundred yards parallel
to us on the mountain," Tim whispered as we tied horses in the
darkness. A layer of hoarfrost blanketed the hillside and it looked
like the heat wave may have been replaced by Wyoming's traditional October
weather.
Dawn's
arrival helped guide us as we crept closer to the meadow, but when shooting
light arrived, our bull had departed. We did manage to call him within
a hundred yards, but I couldn't see anything but legs and a brief glimpse
of antlers before he shied away with the herd.
The
afternoon didn't treat us any better. Right before sunset, a solid 300-class
six point pushed a harem of cows through a meadow below us. Tim and
I pretended to be marathoners, but the herd beat us to the ambush point
and did a David Copperfield disappearing act on an adjoining hillside.
Close again, but we couldn't seal the deal.
That
evening we gathered around the dim Coleman lantern and admired the bulls
now taking up space outside the tack tent. While retelling my story
to the group, Greg rode into camp elkless, toting along a story similar
to the one I had just finished. With three six-point bulls for five
hunters, Greg and I were severely beginning to threaten Tim's successful
track record of nearly 100 percent success for his rifle hunters.
"I've
put a lot into this hunt and I'm going to make an executive decision,"
I stated at dinner that evening.
Tim
looked at me as if the high altitude was effecting my brain, then took
a bite of elk loin.
"I'm
unpacking my .300 magnum and putting the muzzleloader aside. I like
the challenge of the muzzleloader, but I also like the taste of elk
meat in the middle of February," I said. "That bull today
was across the canyon and almost within reach of a 180-grain Nosler.
I think we should go back in there with long-range fire power and the
attitude he's going to be back," I said.
Tim
grinned, nodded and took another bite of elk loin. The plan was set.
The
sun hit our backs as we humped the last few hundred feet to our 10,300-foot
observation perch. Easing along a rocky hogback, Tim crouched as if
hit with a bad case of intestinal cramps, but his finger pointing to
the small meadow below told the real story.
"It's
a good bull and he's just wandering along the timber's edge," he
stated focusing through his binoculars. "If we hurry, we should
be able to catch him before he leaves the meadow."
Pivoting
around, I dogged him down the hillside like Velcro to wool. As we neared
the location, we softened our steps and eased with catlike stealth to
the meadow's edge.
"Let's
just set up here and wait. We can see most of the meadow and we have
several clear shooting lanes," Tim said.
I
couldn't have agreed more. Our suits protected us from wandering mountain
breezes and the location offered me a flat surface to lie prone, my
favorite shooting position. I unfolded my bipod with renewed confidence
Looking quickly around the meadow at my shooting distances, I preset
the scope and began scanning edges.
"There
he is... he's going to come through the opening on the left," Tim
prompted.
As
I swung my rifle toward the spot, the bull appeared, but in an opening
to the right of were I was aiming. A cow had been following the bull
and fooled us. In five steps the bull would be gone. Pivoting my rifle
to the other opening, I mentally confirmed a big bull in the sight picture
and depressed the trigger as he stepped toward the timber.
"You
got him! Wow, he's down. Get another shell ready just in case,"
Tim exclaimed.
The
bull dropped on the spot with broken shoulders and even though Tim wanted
me to be ready for a follow-up, we both knew he was dead. The size of
the rack was surprising - six long points graced each antler and it
was clear I would have bragging rights in camp if Greg's unlucky track
record kept true to form.
Even
the fear of grizzlies claiming my prize didn't wash away the adrenaline-charged
success. Still, we kept the rifle loaded and placed pepper spray canisters
around the carcass as we dismantled it for packing.
That
evening at camp I did earn bragging rights, but I didn't invoke them.
Greg had another unlucky day with several close encounters on a bull
that would have put mine to shame. I was just happy having a freezer
full of elk and a grand trophy.
The
pain associated with the long ride into the Washakie was easier to take
on the way out the next morning. It's amazing the painkiller qualities
a string of weighed down mules decorated with four impressive bulls
has on one's body, mind and soul.
If
you want to go
Tim
Doud has more than two decades of outfitting experience in Wyoming and
runs a guide school teaching others the skills of wilderness hunting.
Tim's camp has all the comforts to satisfy any tired hunter,
including mattress-lined bunks, heated wall tents, a heated shower tent
with hot water, and plenty of hearty, home-style cooking.
Tim can help you meet application requirements and deadlines for
the elk, moose, bighorn sheep and bear hunts. Contact him at: Bliss
Creek Outfitters, PO Box 2776, Cody, WY 82414; 307-527-6103;
bliss@wavecom.net
For
Wyoming elk license information, contact the Wyoming Game and Fish Department
at 307-777-4600; www gf.state.wy.us
BRAGGING RIGHTS
