Welcome to my third installment in a series of stories about my adventures with my friend, Tom, during an elk hunt in the Gros Ventre Mountains of Wyoming. If you haven’t read the first two, I highly recommend starting at the beginning, here. I believe you’ll enjoy the experience more with a little bit of background.
Now, if you’re up to speed, I don’t have to tell you that our adventures thus far had been somewhat less than enjoyable. On the plus side, we’d been fortunate enough to be rescued from the situations we’d got ourselves into and still had a day left to hunt. We’d be camping one more night and heading home the following morning.
An added bonus was that we’d been pointed in the direction of where we’d likely find the elk at this stage of the migration, by some kind people who had good reason to know. Our attitudes were positive while we made our way to the general area they’d indicated.
Thanks to the fresh snow, the trip there took some time. When we found a spot to “make our last stand”, dusk was approaching quickly. To put it in a nutshell, we found ourselves parked near a stand of trees with a good view of the migration trail, and about an hour left in the last day we had to hunt.
I was in the driver’s seat, with my rifle in the back seat. Tom’s gun was propped against his leg, with the muzzle on the floorboard next to his feet. Both had full magazines, but empty chambers. Tom had removed the liners from his pac boots and they were under the heater vent on his side to dry out. I’d noticed that my hands were coated with black from handling the tires while trying to get unstuck. I always carried a can of lanolin hand cleaner and I was working a third application of it into the cracks.
If you’re thinking that sounds like a great time for something to happen, you’re right. In fact, the same thing occurred to me. I actually said, while still focused on the hand cleaning, “Y’know, if they’re going to show up, now would be the perfect time”.
Sure enough, I’d just finished that statement, when Tom grabbed my shoulder. I turned to look and he was pointing to a spot straight ahead of us, with his eyes wide and his jaw dropped. I followed his gaze. On the side of a ridge, a small group of elk were traveling downward toward the snow covered valley floor. It was a neat and orderly descent, in single file, and they’d cross in front of us from left to right.
Tom shoved his feet into the boot liners and I wiped my hands quickly on the rag I had ready in my lap, after initially smearing the door handle with goo. We both flew out of the vehicle and grabbed our rifles, unsuccessfully trying to keep things quiet. I moved to my left to get clear of the truck. Tom’s view was obstructed from the passenger side, so he stumbled around the back and took a spot about ten feet to my left.
We both chambered a round, took a knee and took aim. Neither of us took the time to check the distance scales on our scopes. “Best guess” would have to do if we were going to get off a shot. I whispered that I’d take the lead bull, and my voice was enough to bring the line to a halt. I aimed high, judging strictly from the small size of the target in my scope.
As soon as they stopped, we squeezed the triggers. It didn’t take long for the line to start moving again, and it wasn’t moving slowly. We strained to see that our targets were running unhindered, and followed them in the scopes until they disappeared. Both of us had missed, and missed cleanly. There wouldn’t be time for a second shot.
While we took a minute to consider the sequence of events, I checked the range scale on my scope, which showed almost 600 yards. That was certainly far enough for a 165-grain slug to drop considerably, and probably not a shot either of us would normally have taken. We’d let the frustration of the past few days cloud our judgment for a few seconds.
If either of us had successfully brought one down, we’d have had to deal with covering the ground to the animal on foot, field dressing it, and hauling it back to the truck. Not only that, but it would be dark by the time we got to it, and it was already very cold. I didn’t even want to think about what would have transpired if, God forbid, we’d wounded an animal.
Tom was, of course, having the same thoughts, and as we drove slowly back to camp, we agreed that missing was absolutely the best outcome. So, while we’d both be going home without an elk, again, we’d take it as a win and a valuable lesson learned. We were, after all, successful hunters, having fed our families well with many deer and antelope hunts in the past.
There would be more hunts. This one was over, and we’d have plenty of interesting stories to tell. Time to enjoy the last fire, a good camp dinner, and get some rest before the trip home in the morning. Considering the events of the past few days, we’d be happy to head back with all of our parts intact.
This wasn’t our last trip to the Gros Ventre Mountains, but it was the final adventure of this trip, and not a single day had been boring. Our next elk hunting trip would include one more friend, and a moose hunt on the side. It also included an adventure of a completely different kind, unrelated to the hunt, but no less memorable. I hope you’ll watch for it.
Ed. Note: be sure to check out both Part 1 and Part 2 of Dana Crandell’s “Gros Ventre Adventures” series while you’re here!
