king' s outdoor world - Index

king' s outdoor world - Hunting Illustrated April/May 2008 - Index

your dad talk you into trying to fi nd
something bigger - if you see a good
one, you just shoot it. And get home
quick.” Or something very close to
it. She pretty much made me swear a
blood oath - she knows my dad hunts
hard and extreme. I’ll bet that if there
was a reality TV show on hunting my
dad would kick a....uh, he would kick
butt! I’m his biggest fan! This hunt
wasn’t only exciting to me, but to
my thirteen-year old brother whose
birthday happened to fall on opening
morning. Tyson was turning thirteen
on the day of the hunt. He informed
me in no uncertain terms that all he
wanted for his birthday present was
for me to get a big ol’ elk! (He told
me this after he had unwrapped the
jersey of Payton Manning that my
sister and I had gotten him.) Clever
little son of a gun. My dad was just as
excited, if not more so, than me and
Tyson - probably because he actually
understood just how coveted and hard
to draw this tag was! I’m blissfully
ignorant of all those types of details.
Luck was with me this year, I only
had three preference points and I got
the tag! Wahoo!
We listened to the radio as
my dad’s trusty old truck wound its
way up the mountain. I usually sleep
when my dad is driving, but today I
was wide awake. I must be growing
up! We got there pretty quick and
not even a minute after Tyson and I
noiselessly climbed out of the truck
and expertly closed the door without
slamming it, we heard our fi rst
elk bugle. It was glorious! There
is something magical and almost
prehistoric about that sound! It gives
me goose bumps all over my body.
I love it. There was another bugle
and another and another. They were
everywhere! I could see the smile on
my dad’s face despite the lack of light
and Tyson squeezed my hand. Dad
had already given me the pep talk of,
“Even if we don’t get anything, even
if we don’t see anything - we’re going
to have a great time.” Whatever Dad!
I think that’s what everyone tells
themselves, but thanks for trying to
make it easier!
As we started off, I felt pretty
good. I had been worried before about
keeping up with my dad because he
hikes me to the ground. My legs usually
feel like bloody stumps of jello by the
time he’s even winded. I hadn’t really
been exercising in preparation like I had
planned, but I fi gured my adrenaline
and anticipation would make up for my
lack of training and endurance. I kept
a keen ear out for “red fl ag” words and
phrases that I had learned in the past
while hunting with my dad. Things like,
“Let’s walk up over that hill and glass the
other side.” This actually meant, “Let’s
hike up that entire mountain and the next
one behind it in under fi fteen minutes.”
Another one of my favorites is, “I’ll take
a quick peek down that draw and if I see
anything I’ll come get you.” Translation:
“You’re slowing me down and I’m going
to miss my shot.” Yet another golden
one, “It might be a little bit chilly, but
you’ll warm up soon and you can always
wear my jacket.” This one means,
“There will be times when it
will be below freezing
and your lungs might
actually bleed and you
could lose a couple
of toes.” But, let me
remind you, I am one
of the most pampered
hunters ever! I don’t
carry anything but my
weapon - all my water and
extra clothes, GPS, food and
snacks, binoculars, scopes, hot chocolate,
camera and anything else you could ever
need is carried by my dad, although he
gives a little to my brother to carry. Not
that I mind - I love the perks!
We walk a little way and let the
sound of the elk rush over us. I can feel
my heart race and my feet feel lighter
than normal. We picked out a couple of
the bugles and started to follow them.
Up the “hills” and down, across the draws
and “cricks,” through the trees and brush.
The bugles get louder and then softer -
taunting us, tricking us, to pay no
attention to the screaming, burning pain
of our thighs as we climb the terrain and
take our thirty-second rests to calm our
breathing. Suddenly, there is a very steep
hill of shale and dirt right in our path.
We can hear the elk on the other side
bugling - beckoning. My dad takes
my gun to free up my hands and I
start up the hill. I can hear Tyson
trooping along behind me. Just when
I have almost reached the top, my feet
slip out from under me with no
warning. I didn’t even have time to
be startled. I started to fl y down the
hill at an alarmingly faster rate than it
took me to get up. I caught a glimpse
of Tyson’s face as I started to pass
him. He made a heroic attempt to
stop me, but he’s only thirteen for
crying out loud and somehow ended
up just jumping on my back and
riding down the hill with me as a
buffer. Right before we went off the
embankment towards the dammed up
crick below where there was a goodsized
pool of water, I hooked my leg
around a little baby “quakie” tree and
stopped our descent. My dad, his
hands full of my gun and his pack and
everything else, breathed a sigh of
relief when we stopped. He
patiently waited for Tyson
and I to control our
silent giggle fest and
get our footing again.
When we fi nally
made it up the other
April/May 45