THE PERFECT ENDING
Ross Seyfried, for Hunting Annual 5/1/01
The occasional bugle echoed across the big meadow and while the elk were only shadows, dawn was not far away. We moved along the edge of the timber and tested the wind as we climbed up to a place where I was sure the herd, with its several big bulls, would cross. But today they chose a different route, taking the low road and holding almost 300 yards between the lady, her little .270 and the long ivory-tipped antlers. But the day was not lost yet. Unless the breeze changed, we could follow them to their bedding ground on the benches below the cliffs.
We moved across the open meadow as the last elk disappeared into the upper edges of the canyon. Now it was a game of tiptoe, vision and chance. If we could see them first, if some tell-tale eddy did not tell them we were behind them, if the bulls would stop on our side of the cows . . . if it all came together Lisa would be looking at her dream bull very soon. All of these things happened and while it was not simple, three good six points were only 150 yards away. We could only see pieces and parts of them through the open timber, and ancient, wise old cows threatened every moment. But, with just a little patience we would have a shot. Over the next few moments, while I tried to make out the details of their headgear, I could feel and hear the crashing. It was her heart pounding. Beside me was, “the right stuff.”
It is easy for a guide to become jaded, even disgusted. This hunt was some 35 years into my guiding career. Along the way, whether we had pursued the humble dove or the mighty cape buffalo, people were the great variable. The game, large and small was always honest and honorable. The bush folk would always flee if they could and would, if left without option, stand and fight. Whatever their size, shape, continent, or color the game was always predictable. Predictable, that is, to be perfectly honest and true to the natural world. People on the other hand were on occasions, not so noble. I have had the good luck to see the spectrum of the human race, for when out hunting they can rarely disguise their true character. The low-life, with their non-caring, kill-at-will attitudes, often complete with resumes for award winning and computerized statistics as moral standards, leave one with a stomach that is sickly green. The great middle ground is filled with folks who love to hunt, respect the game and who make the profession very worthwhile. And then there are the grand exceptions, the really rare ones who offset anything that the rest might do to one’s consciousness. They are the ones who elevate hunting to what it should be, to a spiritual level, to a first-hand encounter with what we really are.
This hunt began many months before. It was her first on the mountain after the bulls. I had the privilege, through the eyes of her husband, to see some very fine details. As the events evolved, I realized that I had taken on a tremendous responsibility. I had become responsible for one of the most important things in her life. Many of these little details, in retrospect, are almost funny. A few, like the first installment are poignant and almost sad. This was the day she turned from her mailbox with tears in her eyes. The letter surely spoke of a death in the family. Instead it was only a rejection slip, saying that she had been unsuccessful in the license drawing. Fortunately this was not the real one, only a preference-point application that was supposed to be negative. For a few moments though, it seemed to her as the worst possible news.
Then, later in the summer there was the phone call to Paris, where she was vacationing with her sister. Now we all know that a two ladies, on the loose in gay Paris, armed with a good credit card are approaching Nirvana . . . but she seemed sad. She told him that she was no longer cut out to be a city girl. When he asked if she would rather be in Oregon, on the mountain, she replied simply, “don’t talk about that, you will make me cry.”
But at long last those fine late October days were upon us. The tamaracks were golden yellow, frost touched the ridges and the palomino sided brutes still echoed an occasional bugle across their realm. Once again, Lisa’s husband was a little worried about her. At 2:00 AM, he looked over at her and she, “looked like a doe in the headlights.” No there was nothing really wrong, she was just thinking about the bulls. I also spent some sleepless hours. It has been a long time since I had worried this much about a hunt, a long time since one had been this important. Somehow, I had to make this one just right.
All three bulls were six-points, all of them were in good range, but I could find fault with every one. It was only the first morning and patience was a virtue, no matter how badly I wanted to see her take the successful shot, I had to wait until everything was perfect. We slipped away from them, leaving them to a quiet day on a sunny south slope.
The big ridge above is known as bull ridge. The name did not happen without reason. They, the big boys, who quickly lose interest in the turmoil of family life, are always there. They have it all: plenty of visibility, good grass, treacherous winds and extremely dense stands of baby fir that would easily hide bright yellow school busses. I knew the down side as we climbed. While every time we hunted bull ridge we found elk and almost always good bulls, we had never been able to take one. No matter where they were, two steps made them invisible. They could roll off the ridge in three different directions and never be seen and they had nothing better to do than lie there, chewing their cuds; listening, testing the breeze and watching. But as we climbed I knew that there was a chance, just a tiny chance, that if I did everything perfectly, bull ridge might produce the perfect ending.
It is a tiring, stressful way to hunt. There is only one chance, to see them before they: see, smell or hear us. An hour spent, moving 100 yards, is not to much. Eyes, it is about eyes. There will be no broadside elk to see, at best there will be a tiny patch of yellow rump. We moved up gradually and the tracks became more fresh. The rich bunch grass framed the long, 50-yard wide strip of pine. There! Through the tiny crack between the stems was yellow, out of place yellow. We settled to the ground and I searched with 10-power. The first bull was standing, facing mostly away and he was interesting. The second was about 20 steps to the right of the first, bedded, looking straight in our direction. He also carried weight and six on each side. Neither of them offered a vital target. We had just started a gentle move to our right, when the third bull materialized. He would have blown the hat off the whole project had we moved another step. Like his brother he was watching downwind, that next step would have given his eyes a clear lane to our movement. We settled down and watched again. Like the earlier encounter, there were the faults. One with a broken brow time, another that was young, perhaps only three years old and I could not get a full view of all of the pieces of the third bull. They did not panic, they did not see or smell us, but in the ancient way of elk they began to know and quietly slipped away. It was time for lunch and a rest of eyes and minds. She again looked like a doe in the headlights and her smile must have been painful. She did not speak often, usually she only looked and smiled. In the last five hours we had been in reasonable range of six good bulls and the question of why we did not shoot did not occur. Somehow she knew her bull was still on the mountain. Somehow on her first hunt she knew things, important things that many can never know.
After a sandwich and apple along with a very quiet, relaxing hour, I was ready to try again. Above was the heaviest young fir, above were the places where they always won, above the big old bachelors lived. It is a constant battle between the urge to see the next few feet and the most important task of seeing perfectly the ground within view. While each step reveals only a few inches straight ahead, it may expose hundreds of square feet on the left and right. One big bump, one mistake that really spooked a bull, could easily clear out the next mile and might lose the one we were after.
My degenerate nose still works a little and it was beginning to pick up the fresh taint of old bulls. They were not far. The pace dropped from a creep to a near standstill. It is difficult to define every fir needle in the forest. We worked through the best thickets and to my almost relief, we did not see nor alarm any elk. Beyond was, by comparison, open timber. I had searched and moved three times and was lifting my right foot to move again, when the stick caught my eye. It was only a dead limb, but something made me focus my binoculars on it. Sometimes fate is a handy thing; this was a big bull, a very big bull, but only the tops of his right antler were visible. Had we been able to see his chest, there would have been gunfire. He stood just over the “horizon” on our ridge. There was nothing to do but watch the antler and study, searching for a plan or opening that would let us see his vitals. As I watched he moved his head and his left side came into view. The fifth and sixth points were broken off flush with his main beam. There was the secret sigh of relief. I doubt the break would have mattered to Lisa, but it mattered to me. A plan to crawl past him was just taking shape when I saw the other “stick.” Just 15 feet to the left of the first was a second big bull and this time I could see both tops. They were there in all of their glory.
This bull was just a bit higher, but still on the opposite side of the ridge. With a half-step left we could see all of his headgear and the tips of his ears. He was clearly intent on our position, he was beginning to “know” and he was only 40 yards away. One small Christmas-tree fir was our only real cover and it was also an obstacle that ruled out any hope of a shot. The elk could not see us, so we could move. Three steps would let us touch the little tree. As we reached it he also took a step forward. Now his whole head and a bit of his neck were above the ridge . . . at least for my 6′ 2″ self. My very much shorter huntress was at a disadvantage.
For better worse, it seemed a time for action. I grasped she shoulders and physically shoved her into the very center of the little fir tree. This gave her just a little elevation and a rest on a one-inch thick limb. But this, the only really useful limb, was too high for her to be able to bring the rifle to bear on the target. We were running on borrowed time and certainly borrowed luck. The bull would bolt any second and worst of all I was having a real internal battle. Should I ask her to try this very difficult shot?
I lowered my eye to scope level and hauled the limb down. There! It was time to ask a very large question, I whispered in her ear, “do you think you can hit him dead center, just under the chin?” She nodded affirmative and I held my breath. When the rifle barked one of two things would happen. The bull would whirl and run, or he would instantly disappear. He did the later. Now I could succumb to my momentary panic. A neck hit can go very wrong. It can flatten them and they can quickly recover and dash away. I grabbed the rifle and ran 20 yards, nearly taking a nose dive in the process, but the worry was for not. He was flat out on his side. Somehow, in spite of every bit of long-legged speed I could deliver, my huntress arrived at the same time. I gave her the rifle and she planted insurance between his shoulder blades, just to be sure.
I have seen many things happen at these moments of success, but nothing like this. There were no shouts of glee, no slapped shoulders, no jumping up and down in triumph; silence, only very wide-eyed silence. She did not move her feet, but she was hyper-ventilating badly. Only something very serious would cause me to intrude on that silence, but I had to ask if she was okay. She nodded and stared and then walked forward very slowly. She did not touch him; she only looked in wonder and then sat very quietly a few feet away. Some long time later she moved closer and stroked his side and then his forehead. At last she spoke, “he is very beautiful” and the silence returned. Perhaps an hour passed, I do not know how long she, we, stared at the bull. He was very beautiful.
At the end of their stay we had to leave at 3:00 AM to catch the airplane. Her husband and I were carrying bags when I heard the old rollers on the barn door and saw the lights come on. She was gone for quite a while. When she returned she said very simply, “please send him quickly, he is beautiful, I will miss him.” It was, by any measure, the perfect ending.