|
 |
Opening day of the 2009 elk season was a day of firsts. The first time I was ever late out the door, the first time I was hunting alone on opening day, and the first time my elk season was over by 9:30 in the morning.
Although I am a woman, 55 years of age and a body full of scars and aches, my steps were full of spring, my heart full of passion and my eyes full of the beauty of the morning.
Nestled in the foothills southwest of Calgary, Alberta, is my brother Ron’s ranch. We had arranged for a couple of men friends that I could call on for help if I was lucky enough to get my cow elk.
The scouting over the previous days had revealed the bigger herds were elsewhere and with my brother up north working, those that usually came out for opening day did not think it was worth the effort. Nevertheless, I was looking forward to being alone and if no elk came by, I knew my day would be enjoyable all the same.
It had lightly snowed two days before but the snow had melted where it was exposed to the sun. The forecast was for 8 degrees Celsius so not wanting to be laden down with too much clothing, I waited until 8:30 before getting out the door. This way I could carry a light pack and use only my son’s winter camouflage poncho he had made during a required sewing class in school. While his classmates and teacher may have raised their eyebrows over this, the poncho had become my favourite article of clothing for big game hunting—woodland camouflage on one side and winter on the other.
All dressed and ready to leave, I picked up my .308 rifle, put my cow elk tag in my backpack and with care and caution, I quietly began my walk up to the top of the hill where I would spend my morning. Bear and cougars are common in the area and I was just as alert to their presence as I was to any elk. Once on top, I scanned the open meadow of the south-facing hill, and seeing nothing, I descended, hugging the tree line until I was three quarters of the way down to where two fallen trees had made a natural blind.
I initially settled myself where the large roots were, but while I had a great view of below and out the meadow at the bottom, I couldn’t quite see behind and uphill because the grass was still high and obstructed my view. I grabbed my backpack and gun and moved to where the narrower tops of the fallen trees would give me a better view both up and down hill. Just as I started to lie down, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and froze. Not more than 50 yards away, a cow elk had stepped into the meadow. She was exactly what I was hunting for and she was staring straight at me.
 |
| Jane is shown here with her brother Ron and his bull elk. Jane has no photo of her cow elk because, as she says, “It’s not something I normally do.” Fair enough! |
For the next five minutes, she would look away, I would move, she would look back, I would freeze, until I had lowered myself on my stomach and had her in my gun sights using the log as a rest. At this moment, she turned away from me and started to move slowly uphill, only showing me her front quarter ever so slightly. I kept my crosshairs on her and waited for a clear shot. Although alone, I kept hearing my brother‘s words in my ear. “Shoot, Janie, shoot!” Not convinced I had a clean kill shot, I knew I had to wait for her to give me her full side. As she moved further away, stopping every five or six steps, I realized this might by my only chance all day. I couldn’t understand why she was alone, but I was grateful to see her and could only wait for the shot that would be right for me.
She reached the top of the hill and was now 200 yards away. A few more steps and she would be out of sight. At least 15 minutes had passed and my thoughts had been racing with all that my brother had taught me. Where would I put my crosshairs if she turned? What was the distance? I’m shooting uphill, is there a rule for that? All this was going to be moot if I didn’t have a shot, yet I was pleased with my patience and the fact I had been able to be still and had not spooked her into a run.
Then she turned. I had her full broadside in my sights. I placed my crosshairs above her withers and squeezed the trigger. She jolted and stumbled, turned to her left and went over the top of the hill. My heart raced as fast as my thoughts. I hit her. I didn’t hit her, but scared her. I hit her. I didn’t. I sat up, took a couple of deep breaths and proceeded to wait. After 25 minutes, I gathered my backpack and gun and moved towards the east tree line where there was still snow along the edges.
My first thought was to walk the tree line that curved around the bottom of the knoll I shot her on to see if there was a blood trail before I went up top. As I moved along, I came upon her hoof prints where she had come out of the trees, but no prints or blood going back into them. The west side of the knoll was covered in tall sampling poplars and would be the most logical place for her to go down in, yet I kept following the tree line around and came back to the top of the knoll from behind. I searched the grasses for blood where she had been but could not find any. As I looked back towards the blind, a young bull came running out not 10 feet from where I had been. Nervously, he ran a few steps to the east, then a few back to the west, then chose wisely to run into the trees eastward.
I knew in my heart that I had hit her. I went back to the blind and lay down where I had been and visualized the shot over again. Once more I got up, but this time I walked the edges of the poplars until I was back up top again. Searching carefully I moved closer to the poplars and there I found my first blood spot. I followed it to where she had gone into them. I knew then, she had gone down in their midst. I took out my cell, called our friend Joe who was only five minutes away and told him to come. I marked the entry point with tape and waited. It was 9:30 a.m.
Once Joe arrived, we followed the blood trail into the grove and found her. My bullet had entered just before her right shoulder and exited through her left lung. She had turned slightly towards me when she gave me her broadside. From her molars, we guessed her age to be three years and her weight to be 450 lbs.
We used Joe’s winch to move her out of the poplars where we could begin our work. Just as we had her clear of the poplars, I looked up and another neighbour, Gord, was walking towards us. He had been hunting on the ridge west of me and had watched my hunt. As well as helping out, he also told me there had been another older cow there but she had stayed by the tree line.
Yes, it was a day of firsts for me and full of many blessings. Although I have hunted sporadically over the years, my brother taught me well. I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful late October day to hunt alone. The kindness and help from fellow hunters and neighbours only enriched the experience. But most of all, the freezer would hold organic meat from a young cow that would grace our table for the coming year. ■
For previous Reader Stories click here.
|
|
|
|
