Mosher's Blog

 

By Melissa Yeisley

Special to Sports Paper

   Bringing my dream of Montana elk hunting to reality took a very long time. The seed of such a grand adventure was planted when my brothers, Brant and Zac Palmer, returned from Montana from their first season of guiding hunts. I loved hearing the stories they came home with. They were full of the ruggedness of the country, the brutality of the weather, and the sheer excitement of the hunt. I longed for just such an experience.

   Brant and I discussed the possibility of hunting opening week for bull elk. The rut begins in late September, and bull elk go absolutely crazy when they think another bull is in the area, possibly taking their cows.

    Brant shared stories of elk running to the sound of the bugle, crashing through the brush, and knocking over stumps. They come in hot and heavy, ready to fight off another bull.

  My two children were to start attending school full time this year, so I made the decision to pursue the dream. Dad (George Palmer), Mike (my husband), and I applied for elk tags. It took months to find out. I checked the draw status weekly and when dad and I were approved. I couldn’t believe it.

   I was going hunting!

   I arrived at Brant’s house in Kalispell, Mont., three days before the opening of backcountry elk season on Sept. 15. Four of us would be staying in the wilderness for the hunt – Brant, his friend Malachi Apsey, dad, and me.

   The next morning, we found ourselves on a breathtaking six-mile journey on horseback into the Bob Marshall Wilderness. From a trailhead in the timber, we immediately broke out above the trees into high mountain meadows. It was absolutely spectacular.

   The trail started on a side hill across the face of a tall peak. It was breathtaking, but made me nervous. My eyes lowered to the bottom of the slope, some 2500 vertical feet below. I developed a strong trust in Sassy, the paint I was riding. It is necessary in such steep terrain. I thought, “To fall here is deadly.”

    Sassy and I got through the tough spots together. My brother’s horses and mules got our gear and us to a suitable base camp for hunting on foot.

   We set up camp in a small clearing below the ridge crest with water nearby. Brant and Malachi started a fire, and we cooked dinner. We shared stories around the fire of other hunts and the commercial crabbing that they had done together.

   Brant got up to secure our food at the bear wire. “I see eyes,” he said. I didn’t hear anything. But I wasn’t at ease with eyes this close to camp. Brant walked closer, and dad and Malachi moved in his direction to see for themselves. I was alone by the small fire that didn’t seem to be a very good deterrent against animals.

   “It’s a mule deer,” Brant said. “It’s a buck,” I hear. The deer spooked, and I heard hooves on rocks close to where I was sitting. It veered away, running right below me.

    “Deer are better in camp than bears,” I thought.

   Our goal for the next day was to explore the area and look for elk. Brant wanted to work our way around the mountain to enter the valley below Swan Peak. He was sure it was loaded with elk. I was still in my tent after daybreak.

   “Melis, are you gonna sleep all day?” Brant said. “Guess what we just saw?”

   “Well, you know what I hope it is . . . elk,” I replied.

    “We just saw 60 head of elk . . . bulls, cows, calves,” Brant said.

   We hiked to the top of the ridge, and the guys bugled to the valley below. We heard an answering bugle in no time, and spotted the elk in the meadow.

   The area was outside of the wilderness where we were allowed to hunt.  We could see well-worn game trails running from the valley to the saddle that represented the wilderness boundary line.  We wanted to get to that saddle and scout the valley below.

   We slowly made our way around the mountain. Our first glimpse of the valley was breathtaking. A pair of beautiful sapphire lakes nestled below in the basin. From the lakes, a meadow rose up to thick brush and eventually large timber. The valley was a steep bowl shape, with waterfalls that flowed from top to bottom thousands of vertical feet. I could hear the waterfalls, even though they were very far away. The steepness of the country was incredible.

   We sat and watched the valley with binoculars. Within five minutes, we heard an elk bugle from below. It was so exciting. We were finding elk everywhere. We didn’t want to bugle back and disturb them before opening day.

   The next morning was the season opener. We followed game trails among the cliffs to cross the mountain face. It was so severe in places, I found myself at a crawl grabbing small trees or rocks as I climbed.

   Eventually, we came to the highest saddle on the mountain. The sunlight was just hitting the mountaintops. Malachi and I worked our way lower until we sat at the top of the cliffs overlooking the saddle. He told me to stay there while he went below to bugle (elk don’t bugle from cliff tops he said).

   I heard Malachi bugle, and then an answering bugle followed. I decided to move closer. I got up and made my way down the hill. I saw Malachi running towards me.

   “There’s a big elk,” he said. “Quick.”

   I reached the edge of the last set of cliffs. Malachi bugled and the returning bugle was farther away now. We knew that the big bull had moved off with his cows.

   Suddenly, we saw a spike running up the hill below us. Soon, we saw three in the group. One of them was legal with brow tines. It was so exciting to see them. I watched their behavior in amazement as Malachi bugled and made cow calls. They moved very close to us just under the cliffs.

   The big bull was still bugling back, but he was not moving closer. We discussed the possibility of going after the big bull, but decided to abandon it because the spikes below us would spook and alert other elk. It wasn’t worth the risk.

   Suddenly, Malachi spotted a larger elk moving in. He used landmarks to pinpoint its position. I saw it. Using my binoculars, I made out five points. In my opinion, this was a great first bull for me.

   He was about 700 yards away, and moving slowly toward us. He remained silent. There was no bugling. Malachi explained he was a satellite male with no cows of his own. The bull is hoping to get some action with the females up here (which is us, of course).

   The bull continued to move closer. I watched him patiently, waiting for him to get in range. Malachi was about 15 feet down on my lower right, hidden in the cliffs. He continued to cow call off and on. The bull kept coming.

   Just then, I looked up.  Brant was making his way down. He had been hiking with dad, and just made it to the cliffs. I was so excited. I motioned him over and said, “Big elk coming in.”

    Brant and I had been talking about this moment for years, and I wanted him to be there when I was successful.

    Brant sat down next to me. He got out his shooting sticks. The bull was about 400 yards downhill. Brant set the sticks up, but I thought they were too high for me. I told him I would just use my knees to brace for shooting. It was more comfortable since I was right on the edge of the cliff.

    Brant said, ”Shoot him.”

   I hesitated because I wanted him closer.

   Malachi said, “Let him come in,” and kept calling him.

   Brant decided he should “back me up.” So, he set the shooting sticks up for himself with the 300 ultra mag. I thought it was a good idea because the hillside was so steep that if I didn’t make a “killing shot” we may not be able to find him in this terrain.

   I was ready. The bull went behind a row of trees, and I anticipated his movement.

   Brant said, “He’s 250 yards (away).”

   I was sighted in for 200 yards, and was confident. I looked at the bull through the scope, cross hairs on the vitals. I took a deep breath preparing to shoot, and BANG!

   My ear was ringing.

    I saw the bull go down; my eyes open wide in shock.

   “I didn’t mean to shoot,” Brant exclaimed in frustration.

    Brant had him in his sights just in case, and barely felt the trigger. The realization of this hit us like a ton of bricks. It was really Brant’s elk to tag now.

   A moment of silent communication passed between us. My brother had been guiding people for years, but had never shot an elk of his own. I could not take that away from him. He was very upset, and had a few choice words to say.

   I felt only happiness.

   “It is down . . . a clean kill,” I said. “So great. We are successful.”

   We started to work our way down to the bull. I followed Malachi on a game trail that wound around the north side of the hill and down to the steep meadow. A few hills more and we reached the elk.

   It was a great shot, however accidental. It went right through the vitals, and he dropped like a stone. He was a 4 x 5 bull, not a trophy by any means, but great table fare.

    Brant was still upset with himself. We joked about the situation:

   “I invite you out, and (then) shoot your elk right out from under you,” he said in disgust. “This gun needs a name . . . Trigger Job. Brant arrives once we’ve called in an elk, and pushed his sister out of the way.”

   We were practically rolling on the ground laughing.

   I took pictures of Brant with the elk. It was an amazing experience to see that bull called in, and I will never forget it. The surprising outcome took nothing away from how I felt watching bull elk come in to a call.

   It was time to face the task of hauling meat back to camp. Malachi and Brant loaded the hindquarters (de-boned) into their packs.

   It was a brutal climb back up. We attempted to cross the mountain face through a shale slide instead of hiking completely around. It was absolutely exposed. It was all I could do to control my fear and cross it. The steep shale slope with cliffs below was most intimidating. One misstep and a fall of 3000 feet or more would follow. I was slow and meticulous with every step.

   I was so exhausted when we reached camp. We ate, and went to bed. I slept like the dead until I heard the telltale sound of drops of water hitting the tent.

   Rain.

   It was funny. I thought of Brant and a fellow guide’s song, “sleep-in rain.”

  They sing that song to bring rain to hunting camp because their clients never want to get up early and hunt. I figured we would also sleep in.

   I woke up after the sunrise. Malachi left early for home. With a quick, “Stay dry, Melissa,” he was on his way. This meant my brother and I must return to the site of the hunt.

   Brant came over to my tent a little later.

   “We need to go get that meat,” he says.

   “This is going to be a tough day,” I thought.

   The driving rain and wind continued. I was careful to wear the proper clothing to keep myself warm even when wet.

   It took us an hour to reach the elk meat. We were standing at the top of the meadow.  Brant looked through his binoculars at the gut pile. I just stood there, waiting.

   “It looks untouched,” he said.

   I felt no fear until I realized he meant untouched by a grizzly bear. He told me that if a grizzly lays claim to it, we are in danger being anywhere near it.

   I was relieved he was confident, but I never let my guard down. I was constantly looking around.

   “OK, if a bear comes,” I thought, “I will grab my gun.”

   It helps me to have a plan. But I wanted to leave as soon as possible.

   I carried a front quarter and back-strap. The weight of the pack became part of me as I focused so intently on my steps. We took only short breaks because of the wind and rain.

   “People are too soft nowadays,” Brant said. “They get their food at the store, ha ha. We are badasses.”

   “Not many people can do this.” I said, “I knew this would be hard, and I didn’t say no, right? I am a badass.”

    We laughed throughout the difficult experience.

    When we reached camp, there was not one piece of dry clothing on me. I got into my tent and stripped. I put on fresh dry clothes, and lied on my sleeping bag.

   It was one of the most physically demanding things I’ve ever done. I was so proud the two of us got the rest of the elk meat. What an accomplishment.

   The weather the next two days was poor. We were socked in with heavy rain and wind.

   Brant hiked out, returned with the mules, and packed the elk meat out.

   With zero visibility, we were unable to hunt. We spent the time in camp.

   Brant and my youngest brother Zac arrived in camp the next day. We hoped for a break in the weather, and planned to hunt in the morning.

    We woke early and left camp in the dark. Wolves were howling in the distance. We reached the upper saddle, and slowly worked our way down to the cliffs we had hunted from before. Brant bugled. There was dead silence.  The elk had moved down. All the freezing rain and wind caused them to seek the thick timber below.

   We sat on the cliffs for some time. It was clear, and the wind roared past us. We glassed the hillsides and meadows with our binoculars.  Suddenly, Brant spotted a mule deer lying in the shadows on the face of the mountain across from us.

   Dad and I had elk tags only, but my brothers also had mule deer tags.

   “I’m going to go get that deer,” Zac said.

    We remained on the cliffs as Zac made his way down the mountain, over the small hills within the saddle, and up the edge of the mountain face. We watched him climb slowly between boulders until he positioned himself across the rocky face above the deer. He motioned to us, and Brant pointed toward the deer’s position.

   “We didn’t really work out our signals,” Brant laughed.

    Believing that the deer had run away, Zac crossed the rocky slope in under two minutes.

   “He’s moving too fast,” I exclaimed.

    “The deer is still there,” my dad assured.

   Zac reached the top of the meadow. We watched as the deer stood, and began cautiously walking just below him. We watched him kneel down.

    The shot rang through the valley. The mule deer was down. Zac’s hands went up in success, and our hands flew up too.

   It was so amazing to witness my brother’s successful hunt.

   Brant and Zac butchered the deer, and we divided the meat into our packs to bring to camp.

    Brant would not give up on finding an elk for me. We worked our way lower into the valley and bugled. We had five elk bugling back, but it was impossible to reach them in the extreme terrain.

   Our hunt was over. It was time to pack up camp, and return to my family in Washington.   

   The spirituality I found in those Montana mountains enriched my sense of self. The harshness of the weather and severity of the landscape tested me both mentally and physically.  It pushed me to control my feelings of fear.

   “I can do it,” I told myself

   Elk hunting gave me some of the most amazing and most challenging days in the woods.  To share this adventure with my father and brothers was a true gift.

   I am eager to return for another attempt in the hunt for my first elk.