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Opening day of the 2008 modern firearm elk season in Washington State was unseasonably warm. I had shed some layers and was down to my t-shirt as I hiked into an area I had scouted throughout the summer. I had dreamed of the big-bodied Roosevelt bulls I had seen over a summer. I had made several trips into the area to study the herds and I was confident in my chosen area. In the morning gloom of the pending sunrise, the increasing light revealed a pumpkin patch of blaze orange-clad hunters that had the same confidence in this piece of real estate that I had, which sucked. Being 25 at the time with a matching lack of patience and corresponding bad attitude about the situation, I decided to head back to camp.
My dad was with me on the trip, more as company than anything. At this point in his 60s, he had killed his fair share of game and was more excited for us just to hang out. He didn't mind going back to camp because it meant breakfast and dad loves to eat. He made bacon, eggs, and toast (much more effort than I'd ever expend while cooking for myself on a hunt) and we pondered our next move.
We decided to head down into the timbered creek bottom hoping to ambush elk as they were pushed from the clearcuts by the pumpkins we had encountered in out "honey hole". My dad suggested we walk down some reclaimed roads that paralleled down a hillside toward a drainage that eventually would meet the the Cowlitz river. The idea was that the elk would get pushed into the timber by the other hunters.
These roads were part of a pattern of grown-over clear cuts with trees that had reached nearly thirty feet in height. Underneath the canopy, was an abundance of green leafy plants and very little brush or low branches. Though it was completely wooded, It was easy to see a hundred yards or more toward the more brushy creek bottom.
We hiked up a gated road and found fresh tracks leading into the old clearcut. My dad told me to take this trail and he would walk further in and we would set up downhill and wait for elk to be pushed out way. The walking was quiet and easy. My gaze was low under the branches. I walked several yards to the side of the elk tracks to keep my scent off the trail. I became more excited as I found several fresh piles of droppings.
While I should have been paying more attention to what was going on around me, I continued down the hill, blissfully unaware as I gazed at poop like it was some sort of precious metal or gem stones. The wind shifted slightly and I got a whiff of musty wild animal. I froze. As my eyes raised from the ground, I saw several sets of dark legs followed by tan bodies. I had stumbled into a small herd!
The rifle I was carrying was a Winchester Model 70 Classic. A new version of the controlled-round-feed design that Winchester notoriously abandoned in 1964 to save a few bucks. It was chambered in 30-06, loaded with four gleaming brass cases full of a stiff charge of Hodgdon's 4350, topped with 180gr Nosler Partitions.
Not one to have a chambered round while hiking, I slowly eased the bolt back and picked up the first cartridge. The bolt on this rifle was smoother than any I had ever seen, sounding like it was on rollers. The gentle shoulders of the 30-06 case gave no resistance to the action and the bolt slid home and locked. I silently flipped up the scope caps set the safety to the mid-point, making the rifle safe but allowing me to manipulate the bolt or quickly disengage to fire.
I scanned for heads with antlers (conveniently hidden by the lowest tree branches). I became careless with my footing and stepped on a dry branch that snapped so loud that elk split in several directions through the timber at the sound.
I saw a lone bull run toward a clear lane in the trees that was eight feet wide, giving me one chance if it were to have the required three points to be legal. The rifle came up like a fine shotgun and I pushed the safety forward on instinct. The crosshairs settled into the lane as I prayed for antlers. My prayers were answered as his head emerged into the lane revealing at least double eye-guards and a fork, meeting the 3-point minimum. The bull crossed into the lane to my waiting crosshairs. I saw his front shoulder and pulled the trigger, sending a Nosler through his ribs immediately behind his front quarter through both lungs.
The bull hit the ground hard with a "thump". I cycled the action of the Winchester smartly, sending the spent case at least ten feet to my right and totally removing any chance of a jam (a virtue of controlled-round-feed actions).
I knew the bullet had gone where I had intended and knew the elk was hit fatally. However, I wasn't surprised to see him try to get up. Elk are tough and its never a bad idea to shoot until they are down for good. I sent one more Partition into his neck for good measure.
I walked up on him with a rifle at the ready, just in case. Truthfully, I wasn't quite sure what I had killed. I knew he was an elk and had enough points to meet the minimum. To me, thats all that mattered. Hunting public land during modern firearm season in Washington is not for the picky. He was an even raghorn 5x5 that sadly, may have grown to be a special bull with a symmetrical rack.
Then, as with almost all successful elk hunts, the work began. It had been roughly two in the afternoon when Infired the first shot. The field dressing, quartering, and packing out the meat went until midnight. Sleeping on the ground never felt so good.
My dad was with me on the trip, more as company than anything. At this point in his 60s, he had killed his fair share of game and was more excited for us just to hang out. He didn't mind going back to camp because it meant breakfast and dad loves to eat. He made bacon, eggs, and toast (much more effort than I'd ever expend while cooking for myself on a hunt) and we pondered our next move.
We decided to head down into the timbered creek bottom hoping to ambush elk as they were pushed from the clearcuts by the pumpkins we had encountered in out "honey hole". My dad suggested we walk down some reclaimed roads that paralleled down a hillside toward a drainage that eventually would meet the the Cowlitz river. The idea was that the elk would get pushed into the timber by the other hunters.
These roads were part of a pattern of grown-over clear cuts with trees that had reached nearly thirty feet in height. Underneath the canopy, was an abundance of green leafy plants and very little brush or low branches. Though it was completely wooded, It was easy to see a hundred yards or more toward the more brushy creek bottom.
We hiked up a gated road and found fresh tracks leading into the old clearcut. My dad told me to take this trail and he would walk further in and we would set up downhill and wait for elk to be pushed out way. The walking was quiet and easy. My gaze was low under the branches. I walked several yards to the side of the elk tracks to keep my scent off the trail. I became more excited as I found several fresh piles of droppings.
While I should have been paying more attention to what was going on around me, I continued down the hill, blissfully unaware as I gazed at poop like it was some sort of precious metal or gem stones. The wind shifted slightly and I got a whiff of musty wild animal. I froze. As my eyes raised from the ground, I saw several sets of dark legs followed by tan bodies. I had stumbled into a small herd!
The rifle I was carrying was a Winchester Model 70 Classic. A new version of the controlled-round-feed design that Winchester notoriously abandoned in 1964 to save a few bucks. It was chambered in 30-06, loaded with four gleaming brass cases full of a stiff charge of Hodgdon's 4350, topped with 180gr Nosler Partitions.
Not one to have a chambered round while hiking, I slowly eased the bolt back and picked up the first cartridge. The bolt on this rifle was smoother than any I had ever seen, sounding like it was on rollers. The gentle shoulders of the 30-06 case gave no resistance to the action and the bolt slid home and locked. I silently flipped up the scope caps set the safety to the mid-point, making the rifle safe but allowing me to manipulate the bolt or quickly disengage to fire.
I scanned for heads with antlers (conveniently hidden by the lowest tree branches). I became careless with my footing and stepped on a dry branch that snapped so loud that elk split in several directions through the timber at the sound.
I saw a lone bull run toward a clear lane in the trees that was eight feet wide, giving me one chance if it were to have the required three points to be legal. The rifle came up like a fine shotgun and I pushed the safety forward on instinct. The crosshairs settled into the lane as I prayed for antlers. My prayers were answered as his head emerged into the lane revealing at least double eye-guards and a fork, meeting the 3-point minimum. The bull crossed into the lane to my waiting crosshairs. I saw his front shoulder and pulled the trigger, sending a Nosler through his ribs immediately behind his front quarter through both lungs.
The bull hit the ground hard with a "thump". I cycled the action of the Winchester smartly, sending the spent case at least ten feet to my right and totally removing any chance of a jam (a virtue of controlled-round-feed actions).
I knew the bullet had gone where I had intended and knew the elk was hit fatally. However, I wasn't surprised to see him try to get up. Elk are tough and its never a bad idea to shoot until they are down for good. I sent one more Partition into his neck for good measure.
I walked up on him with a rifle at the ready, just in case. Truthfully, I wasn't quite sure what I had killed. I knew he was an elk and had enough points to meet the minimum. To me, thats all that mattered. Hunting public land during modern firearm season in Washington is not for the picky. He was an even raghorn 5x5 that sadly, may have grown to be a special bull with a symmetrical rack.
Then, as with almost all successful elk hunts, the work began. It had been roughly two in the afternoon when Infired the first shot. The field dressing, quartering, and packing out the meat went until midnight. Sleeping on the ground never felt so good.
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