As soon as the tag results came out, my uncle gave it to me: A .50 cal T/C Hawken his dad (my PopPop) built from a kit in the 60s. PopPop passed away... has it been 3 years already? He gave all his guns (which was a staggering amount and variety) to my uncle Jeff, who then passed this one and several others on to me and my siblings. "Use this for your black powder cow tag," he said.
Jeff hunted with me the first day of season, but then he had to return to work. The next four days I wandered the sloping, grassy hillsides alone. A couple years ago it burned, leaving only skeletons of juniper trees and pockets of wet aspens. The grasses had returned with vigour, however.
Except, that is, where the elk had trampled out dusty highways leading down to water. One evening, I stretched out on the ground near one of these routes, drowsily making plans for the morning hunt. The elk were here, but generally they did not come out until dark. In the dusk you could hear them singing and vaguely see their dark shadows crossing the mountain sides.
Just as I was reluctantly resolving to make a significant hike to a high wallow at 3:30 the next morning, I noticed some movement high on the mountain. Binoculars showed that, sure enough, a small herd of elk were making their way down. Three cows, as many calves, and a mature 6 point bull were trotting down the path.
Although they were only moving at a leisurely trot, these animals covered ground quickly. Effortlessly, they looped over one hill, into the valley, and then to the top of the next hill. At the top of each little hill, the lead cow stopped and surveyed the way ahead. And there I crouched, at the top of the last hill above the water.
Closer and closer they came, covering remarkable distance with awe-inspiring speed and ease. For a breathless moment, they disappeared into the small draw between me and the next higher hill. Then, suddenly they reemerged. True to the path, only 25 yards away, the lead cow advanced to the top and stopped.
Silently I drew a steadying breath, and made a little prayer. Somehow, I don't remember when, I had already brought the rifle to full cock. It was now at my shoulder, and I steadied the sights on the lead cow. She took one more step forward, fully exposing her buckskin side.
I hardly heard the shot or felt the kick, but the light breeze blew the acrid smoke quickly into my nostrils and then away. And I could see... a perfect shot. She sidestepped slightly, then ran down the hillside, and in a mere second or two I heard her fall.
For a surreal moment, the hunter and the elk stood motionless, not believing or understanding what just happened. The bull blinked and stretched his nose to try to detect the source of the commotion. But the wind was at his back, and he could sense nothing. A calf bleated. Finally, another cow saw that the responsibility to lead now fell to her. With a shrill bleat, she summoned the remaining herd to her, and lead them away, back up and over the hill.
I listened, but heard nothing. I fumbled one load, spilling powder on the ground, before my shaking fingers managed to reload. I marveled at how this could even be done in the midst of a battle.
Creeping over the rocky edge, I looked toward where my ears told me she fell. And indeed, there she was, not 30 yards from where she had stood at the top. The reload was unnecessary. Such a large animal, capable of effortlessly covering immense county, was stopped so quickly!
Approaching the cow, I said a little prayer of thanks for the animal, and for PopPop's rifle, and wished he was there in person to see it. My very first big game animal, felled with a rifle he skillfully assembled long before I was born.
Although I packed her out myself, I was not alone and I did not struggle with the burden.
Jeff hunted with me the first day of season, but then he had to return to work. The next four days I wandered the sloping, grassy hillsides alone. A couple years ago it burned, leaving only skeletons of juniper trees and pockets of wet aspens. The grasses had returned with vigour, however.
Except, that is, where the elk had trampled out dusty highways leading down to water. One evening, I stretched out on the ground near one of these routes, drowsily making plans for the morning hunt. The elk were here, but generally they did not come out until dark. In the dusk you could hear them singing and vaguely see their dark shadows crossing the mountain sides.
Just as I was reluctantly resolving to make a significant hike to a high wallow at 3:30 the next morning, I noticed some movement high on the mountain. Binoculars showed that, sure enough, a small herd of elk were making their way down. Three cows, as many calves, and a mature 6 point bull were trotting down the path.
Although they were only moving at a leisurely trot, these animals covered ground quickly. Effortlessly, they looped over one hill, into the valley, and then to the top of the next hill. At the top of each little hill, the lead cow stopped and surveyed the way ahead. And there I crouched, at the top of the last hill above the water.
Closer and closer they came, covering remarkable distance with awe-inspiring speed and ease. For a breathless moment, they disappeared into the small draw between me and the next higher hill. Then, suddenly they reemerged. True to the path, only 25 yards away, the lead cow advanced to the top and stopped.
Silently I drew a steadying breath, and made a little prayer. Somehow, I don't remember when, I had already brought the rifle to full cock. It was now at my shoulder, and I steadied the sights on the lead cow. She took one more step forward, fully exposing her buckskin side.
I hardly heard the shot or felt the kick, but the light breeze blew the acrid smoke quickly into my nostrils and then away. And I could see... a perfect shot. She sidestepped slightly, then ran down the hillside, and in a mere second or two I heard her fall.
For a surreal moment, the hunter and the elk stood motionless, not believing or understanding what just happened. The bull blinked and stretched his nose to try to detect the source of the commotion. But the wind was at his back, and he could sense nothing. A calf bleated. Finally, another cow saw that the responsibility to lead now fell to her. With a shrill bleat, she summoned the remaining herd to her, and lead them away, back up and over the hill.
I listened, but heard nothing. I fumbled one load, spilling powder on the ground, before my shaking fingers managed to reload. I marveled at how this could even be done in the midst of a battle.
Creeping over the rocky edge, I looked toward where my ears told me she fell. And indeed, there she was, not 30 yards from where she had stood at the top. The reload was unnecessary. Such a large animal, capable of effortlessly covering immense county, was stopped so quickly!
Approaching the cow, I said a little prayer of thanks for the animal, and for PopPop's rifle, and wished he was there in person to see it. My very first big game animal, felled with a rifle he skillfully assembled long before I was born.
Although I packed her out myself, I was not alone and I did not struggle with the burden.
