Following an exciting scouting trip in late August, my two partners and I returned to the mountains of Colorado in the second week of September to bag our elk.

Author: Frank Ross

What a difference a week makes in the mountains.

As the cards were dealt, we had to fold our hand in the heat without so much as a glimpse of an elk. It had been so hot that we were hunting in T-shirts, and I had even contemplated taking it off and painting my body with camouflage grease paint. Unfortunately, or fortunately - depending upon your view- I didn't have that much paint.

After four days of walking up and down mountain after mountain, we reluctantly accepted our induction into the 82% club. That's an ill-fated organization that is peopled by archers that fail to fill their tag. Although many highly qualified archers hunt elk in Colorado each year, in 1999 the average success rate statewide was 18%. We had given the hunt all we had, and come up short. With a new degree of humble in hand, we hung our hats on the heat as the demon that foiled our plans.

The following day we returned to work, exhausted and very disappointed. If only the weather had cooperated!

Two days later, the prediction for the weekend was for morning temps in the high 20's and snow. What a difference a few days make in the mountains. After discussing the situation and being encouraged by several of my "elk authority" buddies, I put in a last minute vacation request and hurriedly loaded everything back into my truck for one last try. "With the drop in temperatures, they'll be bugling their heads off," one buddy advised.

My bow-buddy, Derek, couldn't swing the deal, so I decided to go without him. After a short Thursday night, my 14-year-old son, Andrew, and I hit the road in a drizzling rain that turned to snow 30 miles east of the Wyoming border. As we got closer to Cheyenne, the snow started coming down harder. While this change in the weather was potentially an aphrodisiac for adjusting a bull's amorous attitude, it proved to be quite sloppy for setting up camp. After a grueling five-hour drive, we pitched our tent in rain mixed with sleet and snow and set out for ground that we now knew far too well.

During a lull before the storm, Ross scans the ridges with a pair of compact binoculars.

With limited time that afternoon, our plan was to push to the peak and see if we could hear a bull bugle, in hopes of locating a herd. Failing any immediate success, we planned to return the following morning for a deeper probe into the area where Derek had jumped elk on the final days of our last effort. Enthusiasm was running high, and by now our legs and lungs had hardened to the climb that we had made a least a dozen times.

On our route to the top, we stopped every 100 yards and blew soulful cow calls that only served to agitate squirrels, that hurled insults as we pushed through their territory. As fog and snow-laced drizzle closed in tighter, we capped off the afternoon without even the faintest of bugles.

The following morning we rose with renewed resolve to find those elusive elk. Three hours later, we had hiked so far back into the forest that we could hear a rancher's porch dog barking. We had pushed to the end of public land, and the absence of bugling elk was becoming a sensitive subject with Andrew.

As we sat down above a wallow for a "Hail Mary" attempt at the elk's end zone, I could see it was time for one of life's lessons. Little did I know that an even greater lesson was in store for both of us.

Everywhere we looked there were trees that been thrashed by elk antlers. I broke out a snack and a small dose of fatherly philosophy. With an abbreviated introduction of giving the hunt 110%, I explained to him that we had paid for the privilege of hunting, not a guaranteed kill. His response, "Yea, but we haven't even seen one since our scouting trip a month ago." That seemed like the appropriate moment to play my cliche card. "Yes, Son; that's why they call it hunting." He rolled his eyes in typical teenage fashion, but I could tell that the concept was sinking home.

Throughout the morning the weather had been slowly deteriorating, and now the clouds were hanging just above our heads, and sleet was pelting our raingear. As we rose to resume our hunt, the sleet changed to snow. While I realized the value of a good topo map, I grew up in the flatlands of Florida where all you needed to know was where the dry land lay between swamps. I had a topo map of our zone, but only referred to it occasionally, confident in the mental map that I scribed diligently as we walked into the woods.

After skirting dozens of deadfalls and working up and down several ridgelines, we had a disagreement about which direction of travel we should be taking. Problem was, the fog obscured any points of reference, and the sky was an even shade of dark gray. The sun was blocked sufficiently enough that we couldn't use it for reference. We couldn't even see the tree tops over our heads, let alone the peaks of mountains necessary for triangulation. In conditions like these, the number one rule is don't panic. The number two rule is never be without a compass, and rule number three is never doubt your compass.

Surrounded by trees, which have been mauled by elk, Ross checks the map and compass heading.

One of the great aspects of Cabela's Turkey Vests is their versatility and an abundance of pockets. We had been using our vests to carry the myriad of accessories necessary for elk hunting. Numerous zippered pockets held calls, binoculars, snacks, water, rope, bone saw, first aid kit, knife, map, and compass. That morning when we got ready to leave camp, I decided that we should go into the woods prepared to pack out an animal. After all, a positive attitude is half the battle. Before we left camp, I had hurriedly transferred all of the contents of my turkey vest into my Alaskan frame backpack. Everything that is, except my compass.

Fortunately I had given Andrew a compass several years ago, and I always made sure he took it into the woods. Good advice if you use it! "Uh, Andrew, let me see your compass?"

Our situation provided an excellent opportunity to teach him the proper methods of using a map and compass, but with no points of reference we were going to need to do a little dead reckoning. I was confident that I knew where we were, and if all else failed, I knew we could walk directly south and reach the adjacent ranches without a problem. That would have made for a very long walk back to our truck, but it was an option that provided some peace of mind. In the past three hours, we had hiked and hunted our way across one mountain and made our way around two more. It was a long way back to camp, but without some resolute calculating, it could be a lot longer.

Fortunately, we were both wearing new GORE-TEX lined boots, and had several layers of clothing including Cabela's fantastic MTO50 raingear. While freezing to death was not an immediate concern, getting lost in the mountains in a snowstorm is never a good situation. Although I knew better, I was keenly aware that we were not equipped to survive a major catastrophe in severe cold for an extended period of time.

We oriented our map, took a compass heading and started to skirt the backside of the nearest mountain. In less than an hour we were back in familiar territory, but I couldn't help but think as we made our way down some very steep, slippery inclines that breaking a leg would not be a good thing at this particular time in my life.

The Cabela's Bruin boots that I was wearing made our hike far less stressful for me, as I negotiated slope after slippery slope. This was my first real test of these boots, since the past weekend had been so warm. I've always had a problem keeping my feet warm, and these boots certainly eliminated that problem. With 800 grams of Thinsulate Ultra, my toes were as warm as toast, even during long periods of sitting by wallows. More importantly, as we crossed the difficult terrain set before us, an unexpected Bruin benefit became very evident. Even in the mud and snow, their gnarly soles gripped the ground like a mountain goat. I had them laced up tightly, and the ankle support was excellent. Slowly, my fears of slipping and breaking a leg faded into the fog.

After negotiating our way back to the peak where we had started our morning's sojourn, we decided that discretion was indeed the better part of valor. The prediction for that evening was 5-8" of snow where we were. If there had been even a faint hint of elk in our area we would have stayed until that last moment of the season on Sunday night. Back at camp, although the skies were now less threatening, a quick check of the radio for a weather report produced a news story about Interstate-80 being closed west of Laramie. We had to go back through Rabbit Ears Pass and then through Laramie. It was definitely time to load out.

Snow clouds came in fast as we made a hasty retreat.

We threw our snow and mud covered tent into garbage bags, stowed our gear and hit the road. The further we drove, the worse conditions became. Going through the pass out of Laramie, we passed a 14-car/truck pile-up just before both west and eastbound lanes were closed. Traffic was backed up for over 10 miles westbound. All along the route, there were trucks jackknifed and cars stranded.

Suddenly, even though my white knuckles were tightly gripped around the steering wheel, being part of the 82% club, (and being alive) seemed like a relatively good thing. As we drove on, with windshield wipers slapping ice from side to side, numerous hunters pulling trailers with elk gear passed us as we sloshed our way toward Cheyenne. While Andrew slept on the seat beside me, I couldn't help but contemplate next year and changing our elk club membership.

The 18% club has a lot more fun and the initiation fee is the same!

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