We’ve already slipped into September, and I know that I owe you all a story.
I didn’t spend Labor Day weekend on the water, chasing grouse in neighboring Montana, grilling fresh dove poppers, or hunkered in a goose blind. Instead, I attended a good friend’s wedding, so sue me.
Understandably, the build-up to hunting season to this point has been relatively anticlimactic. I spent one morning in a goose blind, hung some deer stands and trail cameras, and have two measly doves to my name. I’d say I’m ashamed, but it’s been dreadfully warm anyways and as you know, this coming weekend’s sharp-tailed grouse opener is the true source of my daydreams.
In the meantime, I’m going to retell a little story from two years ago. It’s not from North Dakota, and I’m not even the main character, but it’s a trip and an experience so filled with emotion and wildness that its impact still sneaks its way into my veins now and again, especially this time of year.
September 7, 2019: I’m casting for native bull trout on the south fork of the Salmon River in Idaho. It’s my birthday, and I’m content with the lack of cellular service eliminating the distraction of celebratory messages and calls. I’m also sore, exhausted, and wouldn’t mind some birthday cake and a beer, but the fresh air and seventh tortilla cheese roll-up of the week will suffice.
Tomorrow is also my first anniversary with my husband and among the many reasons I married him is that he supported my decision to go on this backcountry archery elk hunt with one of my brothers and miss celebrating both occasions together. I’m encouraged that a belated dinner of elk tenderloin on the grill will make up for it.
August 18, 2019: I’m on the phone with my brother in tears. I went to purchase my over-the-counter archery elk tag and they’re sold out. We didn’t fully do our homework and realize these tags go on sale for residents and nonresidents earlier in the month and they’re growing in popularity. My summer spent training, practicing and mentally preparing was for naught. I hear the empathy in his voice as he offers to spend one of his two weeks off bow hunting mule deer with me in North Dakota instead, but as much as it sucks, I know he prepared for and earned this elk hunting trip more than me.
September 1, 2019: I’m setting up a self-timer on the camera, my brother is pulling arrows he just shot at 50 yards out of the heart of the deer on the cube-shaped target. Theoretically, we’re ready. We snap a “before” photo together and begin our 3.5-mile descent into the valley.
September 4, 2019: “You still want to go elk hunting today?” my brother asks from his sleeping bag at 4 a.m. He’s asked this question each morning, offering to pivot at any time to fishing or blue grouse hunting for the week I was joining him. Forty percent out of hope of seeing an elk today and 60% out of stubbornness, I reply with a sleepy yes.
As we follow the creek west in the dark, my feet already hurting, I begin to regret my decision, but we’re immediately interrupted by a piercing bugle. The first of the hunt. Here’s the thing, I would do this entire trip over again just to hear a bugle like that, in the wild, on public land.
Unfortunately, we would play cat and mouse with the bull for 20 minutes, but never catch a glimpse. Despite our best abilities to sprint while bushwhacking uphill in the affectionately named “Deadfall City,” he caught a whiff and beat us.
The mountainside fell silent, again.
September 5, 2019: It is now 4 a.m. and I’ve been awake since yesterday at 4 a.m. At this point, I’m practically dragging the last bag of meat down the hill away from the carcass. Just minutes ago, I sat down on the same bag out of pure exhaustion, mistaking it for a rock.
At around 4 p.m. yesterday, we sighted our first elk of the trip. We watched through binoculars as several cows and bulls crossed an opening on the opposite side of the valley. By the time we busted our way down the mountain and crossed two streams it was only a guess where they had gone, so we decided it best to continue our evening as planned, and then make our way to the bottom of the valley earlier than usual to let out a few calls and see if we couldn’t relocate the herd closer to dark.
Hours later, we did just that with no response. My brother suggested we just sit at the bottom of one of the chutes the elk were headed toward. Discouraged and exhausted, I chose the closer of the two and had just made it into a ridiculously comfortable position lying on the ground when I heard the unmistakable sound of several large mammals making their way through the timber toward us.
My brother slowly removed his pack, and quickly ranged a few landmarks before nocking an arrow. As the sounds grew closer, I watched the top of an aspen sapling thrash as if in hurricane-force winds. I turned to ask my brother if he could see a bull thrashing it and he quietly but sternly said, “DON’T MOVE.”
So, for the rest of this story, I remained on the ground facing my brother as I heard elk mingle within 50 yards and watched it all unfold through my brother’s eyes. The bull managed to break the sapling before finally heading closer. He made it to another closer group of aspens and was about to step into a 30-yard opening when my brother drew. However, with a grunt and some rustling, the bull suddenly charged towards his cows. I watched my brother recalculate, breath in and pull the trigger on his release.
The ensuing hours were some of the most physically and mentally challenging I’ve ever experienced and somehow the most rewarding. We tracked faint drops of blood, playing guess and check on suspecting trails until finding this amazing animal around midnight. I helped to position limbs and bag meat while he removed the muscle from the front and hind quarters, back strap, tenderloin, neck and brisket. In all, we had seven bags of meat totaling about 300 pounds.
September 6, 2019: We made our final trip up the mountain in a cool breeze we could have used yesterday. This is the first time the entire trip I’ve been comfortable in a long-sleeved shirt. For me this is the third time heading up, fourth for my brother. Yesterday we packed the meat to the chest freezer and generator by the truck in five loads, 14 miles for me and 21 miles for him. He proudly adorns the crown and antlers on his pack today and I set up the camera for an “after” picture.
Certainly, a lot has happened since the “before” one.
We scarf down the celebratory candy bars he packed with no thoughts of calorie counting and regretfully head toward civilization for some fishing licenses and a shower. We’re speechless for most of the drive, attempting to process the last few days.
We fall asleep easily that night after filling up on mac and cheese and listening to the Salmon River gush beside us.
Much like a marathon, I’d be lying if I said moments of this trip weren’t miserable, but some moments were the type of incredible that cannot be found elsewhere.
I know that North Dakota may never offer me or you an elk hunt because the odds of drawing are slim. But I can promise you that North Dakota does offer the ability to lose yourself (and cellular service) in wild places, surrounded by amazing animals. It affords you the ability to procure sustainable meat and experience the intense physical and emotional burdens that accompany sourcing it, and the opportunity to build the type of relationships that an outdoor lifestyle creates, sustains and prolongs.
