September

I pulled to a stop at my usual parking spot at the trailhead. It was getting late and no matter how fast I walked I would arrive at camp in the dark. It was a cool evening as I opened the truck door and stretched my legs after a long drive. Fresh afternoon rain dampened the soil beneath my boots. The fresh smell of wet pine and aspen hit me like a cold splash of water. As I pulled the backpack on I let out a sigh. It felt heavier now than it did when I tested out the weight at home just two hours prior. No matter, I was back in my favorite place in this world. A place far removed from my cube, traffic, friendly neighborhood competitions and the concrete jungle of suburban America. I was back in a place where things are simple. Things are black and white. Where mother nature is in charge. It was good to be back. I hadn’t had time to scout this whole year. It didn’t matter. I knew this place and I knew the elk would be here too. All that mattered was time. My two weeks here would pass quickly so I intended to absorb as much of the experience as I could. For it will be another long fifty weeks before I could return next year. If I remained healthy and able, that is. Time is something we all chase. We never have enough, even if we buy time.

It happens every year. July comes around and it’s hot outside. Summer goes so quickly it seems. But fall can’t arrive fast enough. In July something inside me wakes up and the idea of elk hunting in the fall comes alive. By time August rolls around I’m a complete mess. I can’t concentrate. My senses become more alive. Even the squeaky door sounds like an elk mewing. The pace of topics pick up on the old bow hunting forum. You can sense a change in the air. The season is changing very slowly as August blends quietly into September.

I feel fresh and young again as I approach the wilderness sign already a mile from the truck. I stop to take a gulp of water. I can take a drink every 15 minutes and it still isn’t enough. My legs churn and my back pulls to manage the heavy pack. Uphill I go for another hour through deep, dark timber. It has been rainy each afternoon. My steps are quiet in the black soil of the hiking trail. The sun is down and alpenglow lights up the aspen grove as I approach. I enjoy this part of the walk very much. I recall the route in my sleep days before I arrive. Along the lake, through the willows, across two small creeks, past the gentle bend and slow moving water as the creek meets the lake, through the dark timber, fresh smell of golden aspens and spruce. Upwards I climb following the creek all the way up. A brief opening reveals my nemesis. That steep mountain in front of me standing tall. It’s a fortress for the elk I’m after. They live up there, just out of reach but always in view early in the morning and as the sun goes down. I lift my binoculars to my anxious eyes. Will I see elk up there? Remembering back to one late summer evening long ago when I glassed the top to see silhouettes of huge velvet antlers bobbing up and down as the bulls grazed along without knowing I was watching them from the valley floor. Reminded of how the elk work the area and navigate the steep slope as they graze up and over the mountain and into their bedding areas. This year would be different. I won’t concede to the mountain again. This year I will hunt on top of that mountain. Where the elk live. They won’t expect to see a human up there so I will have to be extra careful. I approach the flat part of the trail. I’m not far away from my destination now. I reach for my headlamp and turn it on. I reach into my pocket to check for extra batteries. Don’t want to make that mistake again. This place can get so dark at night. Thoughts of previous years cross my mind. Over there is where my Dad and I camped one year. It rained so much that year we had to leave early. But that first evening we were into elk. A herd bull. He was on his descent into the valley with his cows as I dropped over a small hill and begged him to come closer with my cow calls. Oh we were close. His bugles lit up the forest and shook the ground. He was the heaviest bull we’d ever seen. Must have weighed 1,000 pounds. But that was a long time ago. When we were younger and had the energy to hunt way back in here. That bull’s long gone now. Alone I cross the bridge above where the two creeks merge into one. Up the steep switchbacks, pause at the waterfall roaring somewhere in the blackness in front of me. I can feel the coolness of the creek and the moisture in the air. Up and into the valley, past the open meadow where a moose usually hangs out. The trail is gentle again. A little further and I veer off the trail, through the trees to camp. Off comes the pack and out comes a new bottle of water. I drink all of it without stopping. Sweating in the twenty degree night. I reach in the pack for dry clothes. Out comes the bugle to test the elk in the area. I cross the creek far enough away from camp and the trail to make my bugle more believable. A short, high pitched sound echoes against the steep slopes. An answer from mid-mountain assures me tomorrow will be fun. Then another further up the valley. Life is good. My announcement starts the night’s activities for the elk. They continue bugling now without me. Back at camp I set up the tent, hang the bow on a nearby tree limb. Boots in the tent to stay warm and dry, hat on, gloves on, two pair of socks and my warm clothes comfort me as I slide deep into the sleeping bag. Alarm set for 4am. Thoughts of all the previous trips up here cross my mind. One year in a big wall tent with friends. One year alone wrapped in a small tarp in the snow. Another year with my Dad. Oh, how the years fly by. And this year I’m alone. The sounds of distant bugles distract me. Tomorrow will come early. It’s good to be back in the wilderness listening to the sounds of elk. Such effort goes into these trips. Time away from my family bothers me. Why do I do this? The bull answers that question with a bugle that fills the cool night air and shakes the ground within 100 yards somewhere outside the thin walls of my tent. I look in his direction and wonder what he looks like. Sounds big. I can’t wait for my family to join me. When the kids are old enough I tell myself. Then I can share this with them. Tomorrow it will be just me and that elk outside my tent. Squaring off for another season of catch me if you can. I tell my tired body to sleep against the will of my racing mind. It’s so hard to sleep the night before opening day. I eventually calm down and drift off to sleep to the sounds of bugles and the creek. This year’s going to be different I tell myself.