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I just returned from a trip to Colorado where I finally got to go elk
hunting. It was an experience. We had some luck and got some meat in the
freezer. There was a lot about the trip that was unexpected, or just
plain shocking to my system.
My son, Hank, 16, got his first black bear. That was something I'll never
forget. He drew a youth muzzleloader bear and a youth muzzleloader elk
tag, I was armed with a muzzleloader cow elk tag and my husband, Ralph,
had an archery either sex elk license.
It took a fairly arduous trek up the side of a mountain just to reach the
general area. Now, if you haven't been to the Rocky Mountains, let me tell
you something. They have no air up there. It is thin, there is no humidity
and the land is like being caught on a stairstepper machine where you
can't get off. For those of us used to the Louisiana air and who have
practically developed gills to breathe here and think a 2 percent grade is
a climb, the contrast is sudden, absolute and completely unforgiving.
I've been to Colorado before and haven't had much trouble with breathing
or getting around. Hunting shouldn't be much different, right? Wrong! The
view of the mountains from within the constraints of a seat belt are
breathtaking. Climbing that mountain takes your breath away, literally. I
was not prepared for the ruggedness that faced me. I felt like one of
those cartoons where the big guy reaches out and puts his hand on the
forehead of the little guy. The little guy runs and flails and never gets
anywhere. I was that little guy. Lots of work to only get a few feet
forward. When people tell you to get in shape before a mountain hunt, they
are only trying to save your life.
Loaded down with gun, cap, possibles bag and fanny pack, Hank and I
branched off from Ralph, who would be in search of his own game nearby. I
went with Hank on this hunt because having an extra muzzleloader would
have been handy should a bear decide we looked less threatening as a meal
and decided to charge us.
Bear are dangerous and unpredictable, especially should a proud mommy take
offense at us admiring one of her precious little ones.
So off we go. We find the valley Ralph told us about and settled in on the
log. Hank and I were sitting on opposite ends of a fallen aspen tree on a
warm afternoon on opening day, Sept. 8. The sun was shining and a slight
breeze was blowing up from an aspen valley. We were sitting near a water
ditch, which is basically an irrigation ditch that weaves around the sides
of mountains. The area is not exactly remote, but not exactly easy to get
to either. We knew the area was a good one for bear, having heard
sightings of them from other hunters and from my husband's past
experiences hunting in the area.
We'd just about given up hope of seeing any game when, suddenly, a big,
black, fierce looking bear came out of the woods. It looked like it was
the size of a small elephant to me with shiny black fur and all I could
imagine was foot long teeth and claws to match, much like the tiger on Ice
Age. Of course, it was an average bear, but never having come into such
close contact with one in such a remote place, it really looked menacing.
It started to creep across valley through the aspens, weaving in and out
and behind brush and among the aspens and spruce trees.
Hank realized it was out of range which forced us to go on the stalk. Now,
I imagine we, especially me, looked a lot like Elmer Fudd when he is
"hunting wabbits" but that is fine. It's not the finesse that matters,
it's the timing. We eased around a large spruce tree and came out just in
time to see the bear as it crossed the halfway point of the valley. It was
angling toward us, moving from left to right as we were.
My heart was in my throat and for some reason the air got thicker and
easier to breathe or else I just forgot to breathe altogether. This is
where the thrill of the chase takes over. The forest fades away into
nothingness. It doesn't matter if the birds are chirping, a thunderstorm
is raging or you're standing on a fire ant hill. The world blurs away to
nothing but you and the game you're after. Every instinct is fine honed,
every safety rule ever known to man comes roaring through your brain in a
nanosecond and the adrenaline rushes through your veins like water over
Niagra Falls. It is you, the game, the firearm and the desire for a clean
kill.
I fell back behind Hank. This was his show. I'm simply the backup. He
slips into position, but with nothing to serve as a brace, he's forced to
take the shot freehanded. The bear is now around 50 yards and is just
milling around.
The time is now. He aims, shoots and as the smoke floats away on the
wind, he is already reaching for powder and bullet. We both realize at
about the same time that the bear isn't down, but it isn't charging
either. It is looking around and standing its ground.
"Don't take your eyes off that bear," I say, so Hank thrusts his gun into
my hands for me to reload. We decide to keep my gun handy and loaded in
case of emergency. He keeps a keen eye on the bear while I reload. BANG!,
then the clearing of smoke. Still, the shiny black bear isn't down and
again I reload. For some reason, back at home when we were sighting in
these babies I had all kinds of trouble ramrodding the bullet down, but
here, in the heat of the moment, I would have sworn it was coated with
axle grease.
Another load, but this time we have to creep a little further for a better
shot. Then ready! Aim! Fire! Time is still. The air is still. My heartbeat
is still. It is by instinct that we function- aim, shoot, reload. Watch
the bear.
On the fourth shot, the mighty bear fell like it had been hit like a Mack
truck head on. In our excitement we both stood there and time stood still.
This is what it is all about. The basic elements of family, nature and
what God has provided.
We watched as that mighty bear moved no more. Then we both erupted in
shouts and I slapped him on back congratulating him on his trophy. During
this time two things happened. One, we effectively scared any
self-respecting game clean out of the county with our enthusiasm and two,
Ralph appeared out the woods in time to share in the celebration. There
was plenty more backslapping and congratulating before we made our way to
check out the kill.
Cautiously Ralph led the way, followed by Hank and of course, with me
dragging up the rear, which was where I found myself much of the trip.
After making sure the bear was indeed down and wouldn't be getting back
up, I dragged my ever-present camera from my pocket and began taking
photos. Hank had made a clean shot to the bear's skull that effectively
dropped the boar bear in his tracks.
Then, the obvious happens. The heart rate slows, the birds chirp again and
the forest comes back into focus. Especially the part that shows us the
climb we must make to get the bear back up to the water ditch. Of course
it lay below the level of the water ditch and not above. Next into focus
is the time. It was around 6:30 p.m., would be dark soon and we had a
long, long way to go to get the bear out. Groaning, we face the task of
getting the bear back to camp. A quick cell call to friends results in
some much needed assistance and two hours later we're back in camp
cleaning the bear and packing the meat for home.
Such is the way of hunting. It is a physically, emotionally and mentally
demanding undertaking.
You can go from peaceful to electrically charged in the span of a
heartbeat when the elusive game appears. It changes from feeling like you
can take on the world to the world is laughing at your predicament in that
same heartbeat. Still, there is nothing else like hunting. Nothing that
delivers the multitude or range of skills and emotions.
Sharing this hunt with my son and husband was one of the best experiences
of my life. I have photos and come next summer we should have a nice bear
rug on the floor to remind me of the hunt, but the movie-reel memories
that play through my mind are the best. The second by second replaying,
complete with sensations of sun and wind and the smell of the mountain
air, is what I'll take with me forever.
For Hank, it was his hour of glory. For Ralph and me, it was an experience
we wouldn't have traded for anything.
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