The day started out with a 2-mile hike from camp farther into the basin to where the elk hung in the trees from the night before. We lowered the frozen quarters and loaded them into the two sleds and snaked our way out of the timber and turned down the main drainage. After a brief stop at camp on our way by for a hardy brunch we picked up the reins of the sleds and proceeded to do more plowing than sliding through the deep, powdery snow. As a result, the four miles down to the trailhead took much longer and burned more calories than usual. It was a few hours after dark when we finally made it to the rigs and secured the 300+ pounds of elk parts into the back of one of the trucks.

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After the heat started to emerge through the firewall and we felt the tension ease a bit, the reality started to sink in that the day was far from over. Too far to town, and likely not even passable with all the drifted snow, our only option was to get back to the wall tent and wood stove where our third hunting partner, Les awaited with a fire burning. It was 7:45 PM and I announced to Andrew K. that we would be shoving off at 8:00. This was Andrew’s first trip into late November elk camp in the Rockies, and I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was half acknowledging the reality and half desperately searching for creative alternatives to the punishing slog ahead.

We inhaled as much food as we could in those precious few minutes and before we knew it the clock struck 8:00. I turned the engine off, looked at Andrew and nodded. We knew what we needed to do; procrastination was not an option. We grabbed the ropes of our empty sleds and pointed our compasses toward camp. After a three-hour trance-like push through the darkness we spotted the dim glow of the tent, which provided a deep sense of relief like it has done on many occasions in the past. We stoked the fire, ate leftover dinner, and Andrew played a little music on his camp guitar in a sort of celebration before getting some well-deserved sleep.

A few days earlier we were waiting out a snowstorm in the tent. Les had gone down to the trailhead the day before and discovered that everyone was pulling stakes and leaving. They had such a big snow two years ago that several hunters got trapped at the trailhead and had to pool resources to hire heavy equipment to plow them out – and they weren’t going through that again. When he returned to camp, we discussed our options and considered leaving the non-essentials and getting out while we could. But it was late in the day, the forecasted storm was approaching, and we decided to ride it out…

When the storm broke the next day, we headed out to hunt. Even if the snow and weather seemed like the enemy at the moment, it was a beautiful afternoon with sunbreaks on a fresh blanket with signs of recent elk activity. Maybe the silver lining was the fact that we were the only three humans hunting this 30+ square mile basin and the elk were less pressured than normal.

Since we didn’t know how many days we would need to dig our way out of the trailhead we decided to hunt fast and pursue the first opportunity that presented. So Andrew and I climbed up a ridge in the direction of some big bulls I had spotted the day before to have a look around. On our way up I spotted some raghorns on the other side of the valley at about our same elevation. A quick look at the angle of the sun and my gut told me we had enough time to sneak over there before sunset, as long as the wind cooperated.

We gave up our elevation, pushing, nearly swimming through waist-high drifts off the back of a ridge into timber, making haste as the afternoon drew long. This is where a home-court-advantage pays off as I knew from hunting these mountains over the years what the route options were to approach the elk. We were able to find some old horse trails that made our ascent easier and when my intuition whispered that we were getting close I crept out of the thick timber into broken timber and over the crest of the ridge, speed reading the environment with each slow step in the quiet snow for signs of elk.

There was one, behind a tree feeding. And another doing the same. Maybe 40-50 yards out. I sunk down in the snow against a dead pine, studying my options for a clear shot. The closer and bigger of the bulls stayed behind a tree, feeding while another stepped into the clearing with a look of hesitation. I could tell that he had seen or winded me and was uneasy. As he started to walk away, still visible in a narrow view corridor, all I had was a neck shot, which is not the best shot but often when the nerves are steady and mind is clear, anything is possible.

I had a good rest against the dead pine, about two seconds to make a choice before he sauntered around the corner and out of sight, and decades of mountain experience intuiting yes. He tipped over in his tracks, and I sat there for a minute taking it all in. The other bulls slowly congregated and moved out, and we closed the 100 yards to assess the work that lay ahead of us. After field dressing, we dragged the bull, with considerable effort, down the steep slope into the timber until the contour lines spread out enough that we could drag no longer. There is where we did our work in the single-digits starry night and hung the meat in a tree before coaxing our weary bodies back down the moonlit drainage to camp.

In the wild, away from the influential bombardment and beaten paths showing us the way to a good life, endless possibilities and mountainous hurdles are daunting at first but soon set the stage for pure exploration and human wildness. The comfortable life can be a trap. Easier on our bodies and minds, it can rob us of our pure humanness. The beauty of backcountry hunting for me is in the experience of getting down to the naked essence of living on earth and the feeling of complete freedom. In a world where we can spend every waking moment flipping a switch and listening to someone else’s ideas on podcasts, audio books, sermons and the likes it is refreshing to follow my gut – letting go of the other voices. Deep in the mountains there is no doctrine telling me how to be, what to think, who to follow, what the meaning of life is. Out there the questions evaporate and I feel like I’m inseparably intertwined in the mystery, simply being, walking the earth in search of food – drawn in, welcomed in by some universal and familiar sense of equilibrium, giving me comfort and confidence in the present moment and in a framework for a way of life.

As we packed out camp a few days later, approaching a final open ridge before dropping into the timber something made me look up. I immediately locked eyes with a mature bull standing on the ridgeline, strong and resolute. I had a hunch he may have been one I was glassing up high across the valley a few days prior. With more time, and José Ortega y Gasset’s words echoing, I would have enjoyed engaging him in a hunt for I could tell he was a seasoned participant in the mysterious dance, and that I could have learned something from him and our interactions. I admired his strength and agility to survive so long in this environment as I took in this brief but unusually extended visit. And as he turned to head for the next valley, I could almost hear him say: “I’ll see you again, brother.”

- B.F.McGlenn

P.s. See link below for a video of this hunt.

As a result of this nuclear reaction nearly 100 million miles away, fibrous plant matter grows on our planet that we humans cannot break down and digest (grasses, shrubs, and such). But ruminants can, using their specialized digestion systems, turn cellulose into muscle.

Humans and our ancestors realized this and began hunting for food some two million years ago. We are descendants of those people, their hunting DNA honed for a hundred thousand generations and passed down to us. In modern times, if we have the opportunity to tap into this ancient wisdom it can awaken unknown parts of us.

And so it was, on the eve of the last day of the season and nearing the hunters full moon in the foothills of the Selkirk Mountains in Northeast Washington as the sun began to set – or rather the horizon of mountains and firs and golden larches spun up to block out its light – that I crept along a trail, calling on all my senses to keep track of the wind direction and faint noises and intuitive hunches and slight movements in the distant twilight.

At first, I saw a doe in a small clearing. And then a young buck that I’m quite certain I had been watching the last few years grow into an adult; the shape of their antlers sometimes offering a unique signature. And then a mature buck stepped out of the timber and in a fraction of an instant I was drawn deeper into the hunt. The overwhelming “yes” that I felt is a telltale sign that something feels right at the intuitive level – every cell in my body telling me that this could be the animal that feeds me and my family over the winter when the sun’s energy is too weak to grow lush vegetables in the wild.

Light was fading fast as snow began to drift down. My immediate reaction was to start moving closer to get a shot before dark set in, and then I caught myself and just reasoned for a few moments and considered options. Looking around for a place to lay prone or rest on a tree to steady a long, 300+ yd shot was not an option due to the brush that obstructed a clear line of sight. I had to get closer. I backtracked to a fork in the trail that approached the clearing while keeping sparce timber between me and the animals for some cover. When I ran out of timber for cover, I found a spot I thought might work. I slowly and quietly slid off my pack and used it as a partial support for my rifle as I lay on the ground – knees and elbows pressing into the wet soil. I peered past my scope, down the barrel to make sure the bullet would have an unobstructed path through the low brush, shifted a little to find an opening, and settled into the rifle.

At this point my primal focus, perhaps passed down over the generations of hunting, took over and helped calm my nerves. Practice and repetition made familiar my sight picture. When things felt right, no sooner and no later, a slight pressure on the trigger to burn the powder. Moments later I received a text message from Sarah who had hiked up into the area with Maya in her pack and then turned back as I approached the clearing so as not to make any unnecessary noise. “Was that your shot?” She inquired hopefully. “You can store the beans,” I replied. “We’ve got meat.”

Before the two and a half-hour drag out of the woods and down the mountain in the damp snowy darkness and log-strewn timber I field dressed the beautiful animal, giving thanks for its life, its energy. That energy would fuel our bodies, flowing from the sun through the land through the deer and through us. I held up the heart in a fleeting patch of moonlight and noticed the ephemeral steam dissipating through time and space and knew that the flow of energy would not stop at me.

It called me to reflect on the possibilities that lay before me to use my life energy. What will I do while my light burns bright, before turning into a red giant..?

Navigating the sage brushed side slope across the bowl should have been foreboding, especially considering what had transpired to get to this point. But I stepped off the edge of the ridge with an unusual lightness, my heart thumping, my legs pumping, and kept going, wondering when my granola from ten hours earlier was going to wear off.

After eavesdropping on a herd of elk earlier in the morning by staying hidden in the timber and glassing them through the snow-covered fir boughs – taking caution not to dislodge the snow above our heads sending it down the backs of our necks – Andrew and I set out to attempt a flank maneuver. The elk had headed up onto a timbered ridge and bedded down and we were going to see about stopping in for a visit. However, getting close proved challenging. I crept along a fence line toward the vigilant bunch, taking a slow step and then waiting and watching for a sign of orange or brown hair. By covering the ground painfully slowly (and it was painful as my toes were getting numb) I hoped to sneak across an opening without causing a stir. But when I was able to see elk through my binoculars I knew it was only a matter of time before they saw me. So I backed up in my steps, shuffling my feet backwards around sagebrush, following the path I had taken – slowly – and with my binoculars at my eyes for fear that raising and lowering them would attract too much attention. 

A much longer approach was necessary but it allowed me to get to the base of the ridge and the edge of the timber. Luckily the wind and the sun were in my favor. As I approached within 100 yards, I did everything I could to creep silently and motionlessly. I spent several hours approaching within 50 yards of them several times and had to back away because there was no clear shot through the trunks and branches. At times I would get close and then just sit and watch them, knowing that we were sharing the same patch of mountain and that they probably knew I was there. 

After the fifth or sixth attempt I found a path right along the rocky ridge top that appeared it might allow me to get to a place from which to shoot. As I snaked through the snow and rocks and around and under trees, I dropped my pack, and then my binoculars, in an attempt to be as small and quiet as possible. I finally got as close as I thought I could and while a few started to stir and stand up I fired a shot through what appeared to be a clear corridor at a cow. My .270 sounded like a cap gun going off and the elk thundered off the ridge and were gone. I expected to walk up and find an elk piled up but instead found only a broken limb about the size of my index finger in the fresh snow about 15 yards in front of where the elk stood. 

I gathered my stuff and was about to accept defeat but decided to follow the tracks to make sure I found no blood. After about 100 yards, I noticed a cow sitting in a clearing where the rest of the herd had run through. It looked as though she was injured and so I finished it with a swift shot to the neck. Apparently my earlier bullet deflected off the branch and hit her just behind the diaphragm in the gut. Not the cleanest of kills but it was meat.  

I figured the other two would have heard my shots and so I went to work. I gutted her to allow the meat to cool but still no sign of my partners. So I hiked the better part of a mile back to the truck, left a note, and moved it a little closer before heading back to the elk with a sled and my pack frame. Even though it was below freezing the clear skies allowed the sun to help warm anything that was standing in it.  However, it wasn’t long until the fiery ball dropped below the horizon and the chill really started to settle in. I worked as fast as I could, removing the four quarters with the hide on and boning out the carcass. And it wasn’t until well after dark that I looked up and spotted the welcome sight of one of my hunting partners coming to help me. I knew it was only a matter of time. To my surprise (as I had heard no other shots), Andrew had shot a whitetail buck earlier and they just finished dragging it back to the spot where the truck used to be.

Dad and I got the rest of the meat off the bones and loaded the pack and the sleds. By this time it was getting cold – cold enough that when I set my knife down for a minute it would freeze to my glove when I picked it up again. What little energy there was in the air was rapidly slipping away. And as we started up the hill with our 200+ pounds of cargo I turned back to look at the area where this life-and-death drama had just taken place. I caught the moonlight glistening off the frozen sagebrush and grass and the snow itself and at a point where I should have been dead tired, something strange happened. 

Suddenly I felt a rush of energy sweep into me as I noticed the beauty of the moonlit landscape and the nature of what had just transpired on it. Dimly lit trees and other features stood out clearly. I felt the accomplishment of connecting with and partaking in the ecosystem and realized I was completely at ease – as if this was what I was meant to do with my opposable thumbs and knowledge and use of tools. I felt myself getting lighter on my feet as I turned and climbed up the hill. I was drawing on some greater source of energy and could feel it flood into my body and down my legs. I stopped again to let the feeling sink in, not ever wanting to forget it. 

What if I could tap into this energy at other times by simply remembering this moment? It was not a completely foreign feeling as I had witnessed it before to lesser extents but always in similar situations in areas of nature that had not been disturbed in some time – as though the energy of the area had been accumulating over time, hundreds of years perhaps, and it hadn’t been stripped from the landscape in a feeble attempt to turn that energy into a commodity of some sort that was quickly used up and gone.  

Whatever it was, it was out there. And it made me aware of a source of energy that we have forgotten about – a source of energy that could potentially fill the greatest voids; even eliminate the need to strip it from our environment and the people around us. If energy is the fundamental building block of our universe it makes sense that the more we are connected to nature, the earth, in its most raw and undisturbed form, the more freely it will flow in our direction.  After all, we are part of the natural world and merely recent participants in a long and drawn out drama – might it be easier than we think to find our place and fit in?

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