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    Glad you got the beast in the end

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      ttt

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        *sigh* After reading through these (the gar story is still favorite so far) I really really want to go hunting. It's rather amusing though that a rifle story about a hunt just doesn't read as well as a bow hunt.

        Richard

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          I was just rereading some of these stories.

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            Bump

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              This hasn't been at the top for while.

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                Quebec Caribou
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                It had slipped up on me slowly, just a little at a time to the point I didn’t see it coming until it had me in a strangle hold. Maybe it was the constant rain. Maybe it was the long trip. Maybe the hassles with security at the airports and customs that had weakened my resolve but for the first time I sat in my ground blind and was sure I was not going to be successful. Sure I have been on several hunts that I didn’t harvest an animal, you except that as part of the plan when you decide to leave the guns at home but normally I have the enthusiasm of a sixteen year old on prom night and never loose faith until they tell me the hunt is over and I have to leave.

                We had missed the main heard by about a week and every thing I had ever read about hunting Caribou told be we were in for a long week. After thirty hours in various ground blinds without a sighting I was inclined to agree.
                The thrill of the float plane trip was a distant memory and I was close to a full blown pity party.
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                It had been raining great torrents of rain all morning and when it finally let up the clouds were hanging in the timber creating a medieval atmosphere that only added to my despair as I could only seen forty or fifty yards into the open meadow. The trees on the far side hung in a mist and were little more than dark shadows.
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                When I first caught movement through the fog, I was not sure whether it was real or my tired eyes playing tricks on me. The day before after setting twelve hours I started seeing Caribou in every bush. My heart jumped into my throat when a quick look through my binoculars picked up horns moving my way through the high grass and fog.

                Sliding down into the hole that was serving as the base for my newly constructed ground blind, I quickly slipped my bow for its perch and knocked an arrow. There was four bulls slowly feeding my way and they were on a trail that would take them within fifteen yards of the blind.
                The wind was cutting across the trail but I felt sure that before they crossed my scent trail I would already have made the shot.


                The lead bull was a dandy with good mass a single shovel and decent tops but the one I wanted was second in line his antlers sweeping higher and a little wider. I went from way too excited to deadly calm by the time the bulls quit feeding and lined out for the river.



                All my focus was on the second bull and I did not even cut my eyes over as the first on passed not ten steps away from me. My targeted bull was three steps away from clearing the brush when the hair stood up on the back of my neck and from the corner of my eye I picked up the first bull hitting my scent trail. He stopped and turned his head to stare straight at me at point blank range.

                I do not remember making a concuss decision to take the first bull. I was at this point on full auto pilot. I suppose I had choices when you think about it. I could wait and hope the bull turned back to the trail as I was well hidden in the hole. I could have maybe waited in hopes the second bull would have moved up behind the first offering me a shot But alas I was not in charge. The predator in my soul was in full control and in an instant there was nothing in the world but a little tuff of dark hair tight behind the bulls shoulder. I paused for a second at full draw feeling the muscles bunch in my back and watched as the arrow sliced threw the short distance between us. There was a solid thud as the Zephyer broad head slammed into the Caribou burying into his side up to the bright yellow feathers.

                Only a hunter can under stand the shot of adrenalin that hit me, when after making three hops into the river my bull crashed head first into the water. I set on the bank of the river trembling my whole nervous system was shot as I looked at one of the most beautiful animals I could ever hope to harvest. As I sat there trying to compose myself the sun broke through the clouds and I sat for a long time admiring this unique country the water so clear and blue you could drink straight from the stream. We all dream of distant lands and trophy animals for me for that one moment in time it all came true.

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                  [ATTACH]872693[/ATTACH]

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                    Great story Buff.

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                      Earned that one for sure. We've all been there on hunts. Way to hang in a stay ready.

                      Sent from my SM-J710MN using Tapatalk

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                        Great story, felt like I was there. Keep em coming!

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                          Back to the top for the newcomers.

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                            I love this thread

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                              I was needing a fix so I pulled up this thread so I could reread some of the stories.

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                                I hope y'all don't mind a young guy posting one up. If you're on TG you may remember this one...

                                My Broken Heart Montana Bull

                                Elk. The word compels my mind to visit snow dusted saddles amidst high peaks. Smoke tinged sunrises dance through the early September memories, remnants of a ferocious, fiery summer. Always, bugles ring out, ghostly and haunting across the canyons of the Rockies. In those reminiscing daydreams it is a crisp 40 degrees on a fine dawn. Far down the canyon curling smoke might rise from a chimney. And as a buddy and I climb avalanche chutes to reach a hidden bowl, we might stumble on the last traces of summer raspberries.Such are the memories that call for me to come back. I live in Texas now, but the yearning to go home grows stronger by the year. The things I remember are usually the iconic times. The perfect moments stand out against the backdrop of time, and I always imagine the next hunt will be full of such things.

                                Reality however, is often far from what we desire. It was 2013. I’d spent six years of chasing elk across the national forests of Montana, and I had nothing to show for it on that fateful September morning. Our last couple seasons had been downright depressing. The morning was warmer than I’d have liked, and once again, as we made our way onto an aspen littered bench, there had been no bugles to chase.

                                The first sign that our luck might be changing was in the form of a cow elk. She came in fast, and my hunting partner got pinned behind a pine tree at 10 yards. He tried to draw and sidestep, and she blew out, but it was something! That elk, materializing out of nowhere, snapped us out of despondency and back into predator mode. Wind, the everpresent foe of the archer, was beginning to swirl and we decided to play our ace in the hole. A quick smoky fire to mask our scent was enough to give us confidence, and we trekked up the ridge, ready to check another timbered bench.



                                It’s funny. With all the time and words in the world, and the most spellbound audience in the history of man, I wouldn’t be able to explain the crashing shock of that first bugle; slamming out of the trees when we crested the ridge. The adrenaline, the panic, the excitement, they all blend together like some dangerous cocktail of uppers. In the ensuing slow motion race through the timber, desperately trying to glimpse elk before they busted us, I almost stepped on a grouse. Holy #$%!! Talk about a heart attack! It’s a feathery 1.5 pound ball of fury, blasting off like an F14 off the flight deck, and all you can think is “I’m going to die”!

                                Well I didn’t die, obviously, and we soon got into a tangle of doghair pine, and started seeing elk. My heart was racing, and I didn’t know it, but it would stay that way for a while. Quick as a blink, I had 6 young bulls within 20 yards, four of which were spikes (off limits) and no shots past 10. That timber was THICK! Bugles started ringing out all across the bench, and it sounded like there were 15-20 bulls within a couple hundred yards. The raghorns vanished as a particularly strong bugle caromed past me from behind. A quick whispered chat, a change of plans, and we scuttled towards the bugle, stopping in the trees on the edge of a gorgeous meadow. There is a magical lighting to be found in mountain meadows. It’s spellbinding. Until you see the elk slipping into range, anyways!

                                When I hit the edge of the timber, it was just in time to freeze as a large cow came walking through the aspens, heading directly towards my buddy, which would bring her broadside just past me. I glanced to my left, and saw a shooting lane if I slid forward. Next I glanced back at her, waited till her head was behind a tree, and... slid forward, obviously! I had a spare cow tag and I would be happy to use it. On she came, like a scene from the perfect dream hunt. She even went so far as to stop, broadside, right in my shooting lane. I canted the bow over, to avoid hitting the ground (I was kneeling at this point), and slowly drew the arrow back and snuggled into my anchor point. The shot looked perfect, and I watched the fletching fly right where I was looking; right where the elk had been before ducking the string. I could only watch in horror as the big snuffer slammed into her elbow with a resounding crack. The arrow was almost parallel to the body by the time of impact, and the broad head snapped off at the insert.

                                She wheeled around and trotted out to 60 or 70 yards, and just stood there looking back at me. I was praying to see a sign of sickness, wobbling, anything to indicate it was more than a busted off arrow in the ball joint. Sadly, she seemed to be perfectly all right as she stood there staring us down. The next four or five minutes, I spent just watching her. Later we would confirm that she was not badly wounded, and she never showed any sign of being affected by the arrow. Meanwhile, the bugling bull was getting closer and closer. As I watched the cow stand there, more elk began materializing in the meadow. I suddenly saw ivory colored tips on what seemed to be a five point bull. Another cow moved in to 40 yards, and I was waiting to see what would happen next. The 5x5 was about 60 yards out and coming in cautiously when movement caught my eye.

                                The next few minutes will be forever etched in my memory. The movement which distracted me was a massive six point bull walking in from my right at about 25 yards. Now I had trouble. Instead of one pair of eyes to contend with I had 3 or 4. I decided (very hurriedly mind you) that the cow and bull at 60 yards were not an issue. So I focused on finding a moment when the closer cow and the bull would look away at the same time. Divine intervention happened so rapidly I was left nearly immobilized. The cow decided to shy away from the big bull, and in the process removed herself from view. Meanwhile, the big bull stopped walking. He blinked once, licked his chops to free some grass from his teeth, and turned to look straight away from me. I had two tags, and the second arrow was already on the string. I found myself at full draw once again, this time with a sapling blocking my shot at the heart and lungs.

                                Well a measly aspen wasn't gonna stop me. I leaned backwards, reverse canting the bow and focused on the spot I needed to hit. I had a 6 inch window between the sapling and the ball joint in the shoulder. This shot needed to hit the crease, and perfectly to boot. Suddenly, the arrow was away. It was a magical moment, that arrow flight. I remember watching the fletching spin in slow motion. And then my heart broke when it slammed into the bull. The arrow fell out of the shoulder at impact, and I knew I had hit big, heavy bone. As the bull wheeled to run his back legs were buckling and my heartbreak turned to confusion. He couldn’t in fact run, but staggered 30 yards and stopped on wobbly legs. He teetered and tottered. And I stared in disbelief as the massive body crumpled and crashed to the ground. There was no mistaking the result! The bull was dead, and I had officially taken my first big game animal with a bow!



                                It is a peculiarity of hunters, that we demand the minutia of the kill when another is successful, and I assume you readers are no different. I would be remiss if it were left out that I did in fact hit heavy bone, on the offside shoulder. The arrow broke as the bull turned to run, and left me imagining I’d busted off two broadheads in elbow joints in a single morning. We did our due diligence in following up on the cow I’d hit, as I mentioned earlier. Then we did our best to cleanly skin, quarter, then bone out the bull. And this is a modern hunting tale, in that I was able to call my dad, right from the kill site and demand his assistance. Packing and photo reinforcements met us at the trailhead after the first load of meat.

                                The rest of the story is not much to tell. I’ll leave it to you to fill in the gaps that make such hunts meaningful to you. There are sights and sounds and memories which don’t tell well, but give the story depth in your memory. It’s the joy of being the teller, not hearer of a story, to know the secret things. It’s why we hunt. It’s why our imaginations stir. It is, in short, God’s blessing to the hunter.

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