by Lane Palmer
“Hey Hollywood, I’ll give you $20 if you can catch that chicken.” “I’ll put another $30 on top of Isaiah’s if you get them both.” “Who do they belong to?” “Man it doesn’t matter. If they get in the door they’re going to come out as nuggets anyways. Look at that fryer and heat lamp buffet. Just go grab one.” “Yeah, but they have cameras.” “Dude, what are they going to say? ‘Terrible Texan seen in Mora stealing two chickens. Suspect was wearing a Cousin Eddie camo hat and Oakley Pit Vipers. Considered armed and dangerous.’ You’re good man, just go grab a chicken.”
Here we are, in the parking lot of an Allsup’s in New Mexico, amongst the snow-covered mountain peaks that outline the Mora valley, the towering conifers you see on the covers of Christmas calendars, the crystal clear rivers of a trout angler’s dreams, the deep fried delicacies that await us inside (I recommend the fried pizza), and our greatest joy at the moment are two chickens. I don’t know where they came from, and I still don’t know why they crossed the road, but sure enough, there are two big hens staring a hole through the doorway of a heat lamp purgatory and a chimichanga heaven. Chalk it up to delirium from the overnight drive, or the lack of oxygen at this altitude, but we’re already having a ball. Our chauffeur into the parking lot of God’s gift to westerners, Isaiah, is the kind of guide you hope for when booking a hunt, and I can tell right now, elk or no elk, memories will be made. Syphoning off a slug of Big Red before putting the 55 gallon Styrofoam drum in the cup holder, Isaiah fires up the Four Runner. “Let’s go find some elk.”
Earlier in the day, we passed our first test. On a hillside range, covered in sun bleached grass and ankle-deep snow, we all proved proficient with our rifles, showing that we could hit the target at 200 yards. We may not be competent at life, but hey, at least we can shoot. Dirk, Dusty and Matt (aka Hollywood and/or Pilgrim depending on attire and the guide’s mood) are all sporting 7mm mags, and pretty nice ones at that. Dirk and Dusty each brought a box of the Hornandy Outfitter 150 grain soft points, while Matt has a blue plastic case full of 185 grain custom bullets that came with the custom rifle he’s chosen for this adventure. A rifle which could very easily be the star of Playgun Magazine, but will age better than most centerfolds of other publications. Me? I’ve brought along my most prized possession. A 1958 Remington Model 721 bolt action 30.06 with a Weaver 4x scope. Not adjustable, just a straight 4x scope. If I don’t have a bow in my hand, and the weather allows for it, this is the rifle I always carry. It’s often adhered to me by a darkened leather sling, which is almost maroon now. Its stock dons the marks of oil and sweat due to untold hours in my hands while stalking various game for a number of miles of which I wish I knew the total. When I squeeze the trigger, I know what it’s going to do, and where it’s going to hit. We both have more scars than we used to. It’s an extension of my arms and my soul, and the last time it was carried in the mountains, my great grandparents, specifically my great grandmother, used it to hunt elk.
Intermittent country music is coming through the speakers as we head east out of town. Being somewhat of a Don Williams fan, I’m hoping we get better reception quickly. “You think Dusty and Dirk have seen anything yet?” Isaiah is pulling onto a beige gravel road as he fields my question. “I doubt it, although some turkey may be in there by now. There are a bunch of Merriams that like to hang around, and they usually beat the muleys out there. Then come the elk. The elk always wait to come out of the timber until right before dark.” As we left camp to scout earlier in the day, Dirk and Dusty were dropped off in a popup blind that rests perfectly on the downwind side of a rye and winter wheat food plot. It was carefully etched out of a mountain, nestled between oaks and conifers on one side, and a small river on the other. The mountain is sitting on the opposite side of the field, directly in front of them, demanding the hunter to appreciate its majesty. I envy their evening, knowing they sit in anticipation, with an entire postcard in front of them to gaze upon.
Pulling up to a mountain of our own, I look at the fading light, and then at my watch. It’s way too dark to only be 3:30 in the afternoon, but then again, I’m a flatlander. “Take your binoculars and look for anything moving. Don’t be in a hurry, just do your best to scour the mountain. We’re trying to find elk for you guys to hunt in the morning.” Isaiah had told us earlier that he’s never had a customer spot an elk before he does, and I desperately want to be the first client to change that. After several minutes though, I am not the winner. In fact, none of us are. We leave out the way we came in, rocketing across a beige two track road, in a race to form a gameplan before dark.
I asked, trying to get a little better idea of who Isaiah is, “What do you do besides guide hunts?” “A little bit of everything, but mostly I raise goats, and sell their offspring to those wanting to show them. I also run quite a few cattle, and haul them for others, but most of my time is spent with goats. I even run a bit of a lawn service with them. Folks here in town will call me when their yard gets too tall, and I’ll come by with a portable hotwire fence and a water trough, and let my lawnmowers chew up their yard for about a week.” Hoping to get a good recipe from a pro, I prod him further on the subject of goats. “Su gusto cabrito?” “Heck no man. Goat meat is gross. I only like it one way, and that’s if I cook it in the ground.” “What?! What do you mean you don’t like goat? Goat is delicious. How can you not like goat? Now lamb, lamb meat is straight trash, but c’mon, young goat is as good as a fine brisket if cooked right.” “Naw, it’s gross. I don’t like goat. I like meat and potatoes.” “Well friend, you’re in luck. Goat is made out of meat.” I feel at this point, we’re both starting to appreciate each other’s talents in the field of smartassery.
Though we drive back and forth from mountain to open field, all appearing to be absolute elk havens, we have gone all afternoon without seeing a single target specimen. Isaiah doesn’t say much about it, though his mind is working. Entering back into camp, a very handsome mule deer buck is tending his harem of doe within shooting distance of the cabin. This is not a bad way to be welcomed home every evening.
“Text Dirk or Dusty and ask them if they’re being serious. I just looked at my phone and it says they both got a cow down in the food plot.” Hoping they aren’t joking this one time, as they’re not really known for their jokes, I text Dusty, and he confirms the good news, which I then relay to Isaiah’s waiting ear. This changes everything. “Alright, y’all follow me in the Four Runner. When you get to the river, put ‘er in four-wheel drive, and don’t let off the gas coming up the hill. I’m going to need some help getting these animals loaded.” Walking over to a Cummins flatbed, Isaiah awakens the Meat Wagon. A bellow of black smoke rolls out, as the infamously powerful 5.9 liter engine protests the subfreezing temps with an angry shudder and growl, coming to life to serve it’s one purpose on this earth. The truck has a reinforced steel bed, atop of which rests a steel reinforced wench. That coiled up steel cable will be of great use to us in the very near future.
Easing up the two track like two guys who have never driven up a mountain in the snow, we finally make it to the scene where everyone has been waiting on us. Dirk and Dusty are still showing a great bit of emotion on their faces, as they excitedly spew the details of their story to Isaiah. A story they will undoubtedly tell again many, many times over the years. I’ll tell it as Dirk told it to me:
When y’all dropped us off, we both made it to the blind, and were doing everything we could to stay warm. At first, it wasn’t that bad, as we both had a slice of sunlight going across our chests, each of us dozing off for a bit after we got comfortable and settled in. I saw Dusty had dozed off, so I was going to just let him do his thing. Well, it wasn’t long until I was nodding off too. When we woke up, it had gotten cold, and it had gotten there fast. That sun went away pretty quickly behind that mountain.About that time Bubba, I don’t know how many turkeys came in, but they were everywhere. First it was just a bunch of hens and jakes, and they kinda milled around. Then the big boys came out. They were all nice, but some of these dudes had beards that were dragging the ground. Huge birds. Next came the mule deer. They were just passing through, and stayed in that thicket over there as they walked down the hill towards camp.
When we saw the elk, they were coming off the mountain in front of us. Most of the herd stayed together, but one big cow came in off to the side of the group, hanging to the right. I decided that’s the one I was going to take if I could. She continued to ease off to our right, as the rest of the herd was feeding directly towards us. I told Dusty we could count to three and each shoot, but he said his weren’t turning broadside, and it was getting dark fast. Dusty told me to go ahead and shoot when I got the right shot. About the time my cow started to get broad side, Dusty said he thought he would be able to shoot, as he now had a cow peeling off from the group.
We agreed to count to three, each of us shooting after “three”. So, Dusty starts counting, and he knows I’m going to shoot whether he can or not. On cue, we both fire. It was so close that I didn’t know if we both shot or not. I’m working the bolt to get a fresh round in, and I see my cow start to fall, trying to dig ‘er way up a dry creek bank, eventually burying herself on the other side. Then, I look over and see Dusty’s elk thrashing on the ground, cartwheeling itself in the snow. I then realized we had both shot; we had both gotten our first elk, Bubba.
Amidst hugs and high fives, “Congratulations!” and “I love you brothers” are issued under the steam of our breath. It is uncomfortably cold, but the spirits are oh so high. Confirming the impressiveness of the moment, I hit the Roberts boys with a volley of my own. “Do you realize counting to three and shooting almost never works out? It usually only works for one of the shooters. Y’all freaking hammered some giants though. Heck, last time I did the ol 1-2-3, Oswald watched me miss a sow at 60yds. That’s not a time I was glad to have an audience. I got cocky. Do you realize elk hunts are incredibly well known for being unsuccessful? Think about it. Y’all just sat down for two hours, and both filled your tag at the same time, father and son, on the very first evening! There’s a very good chance you will never meet another person who can say they did that. That’s once in a lifetime stuff. Man, I’m happy for y’all. You did it man! You just shot your first elk!”
I went to bed earlier than I wanted to. I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to sit by the fire and hear the story over and over again, interrupted only by memories from the past, ones that had already calloused the ears of our friends as we sat around similar fires. I couldn’t though. I had driven through the night on our way up here and watched dawn break through the front windshield as we entered the Land of Enchantment. The deadly sleeping serum of incredibly cold Bud Light mixed with a homemade meal has finally struck me. I fell asleep somewhere between envisioning my shot placement and praying.
I felt better at 4:00am than I deserved, and by the sound of it, Matt was fairly spry himself. No lie, I got up without hitting the snooze. The cold floor was pushing me to get dressed faster than usual, and the air had me thankful I laid my clothes in sequential order of how I plan to layer. Fumbling in the dark,
I may pee myself by the time I get everything on, but at least I won’t freeze to death. Matt and I met in the living room, where he was getting the fire stoked and loading his backpack. Isaiah should be here at any moment. Satisfied with our final checklist, we walked outside to see what four degrees Fahrenheit feels like, leaving Dirk and Dusty sleeping like only two already successful hunters can sleep.
Pulling into a driveway under a very light snow, we stop and grab Mike, who will also be helping us in our pursuit of happiness this morning. We met him the night before, as he was called into camp to help with the skinning and quartering duties. He adds a fun dimension to our group, and I’m glad he’s with us. He offers a few jabs to start off everyone’s day, as any good guide will do. Leaving his property, Matt and I are both quiet, but alert. We’re listening in on the gameplan being discussed between Mike and Isaiah, soaking up hard earned knowledge from two men who, thankfully, seemed very passionate on the subject of elk hunting.
Slowly nudging our way towards our target area, it’s glaringly obvious we need to adjust and adapt to some unforeseen circumstances. Far be it for the weather man to be wrong, but nonetheless, a very dense, and very prominent frozen fog has settled. It’s as thick as smoked bologna, and I bet it sticks around for a while. The snowfall has also increased, which for a couple of flatlanders from Texas is fun to see, although it won’t make our guide’s jobs any easier. There’s supposed to be a lot of glassing and spotting involved with taking an elk, but I don’t how that’ll be at all possible. The low clouds have completely suffocated any chance the sun will be showing itself.
We enter the property, and gingerly exit the truck. Backpacks are slung over shoulders, rifles are loaded and car doors are not so much shut, as they are slowly pressed into their locking positions by camo clad shoulders. I’m going with Mike, and Hollywood will be alongside Isaiah. They will be covering the timber that makes up the primary boundary of where we’ll be hunting, while we will be traversing a two-track road that runs right up the guts, and ends at a large field. The elk have been seen grazing in the fields, and both teams have hopes to catch them before they ooze back into the woods to bed down.
“This is weird man. I’m not used to having someone carry my shooting sticks.” Mike is already at work for me, which I am incredibly thankful for, but it’s still weird. Walking through the frosted conifers, there is no noise, other than the wind rattling the frozen pine needles. After what I guess to be a mile or so, I can see hints of an open field right beyond the timber line. Is this it? Is now my time? The wind is perfect, although it is responsible for the lovely new layer of ice in my beard. My beard doesn’t need anymore help turning gray, but it doesn’t appear that I have much say so in the matter.
We enter the field, and aside from a beautiful, albeit harsh landscape in front of us, there are no elk. I’m not disappointed. How could I be? It’s one hour into the first morning of our hunt, and so far, I feel like I’ve been strolling through the cover of a Christmas card. We ease our way back to the Four Runner, noting that we haven’t heard any shots from Matt’s gun.
We haven’t been back at the truck for more than two minutes. “Isaiah just texted me saying they have a herd of elk that’s 80-100 strong right in front of them, but that they’re all across the fence on the neighbor’s land. He and Matt are going to stay put, but we need to walk down towards the dry pond in hopes that we can cut them off when they come back through.” My heartrate spiked a bit, as I’d never actually seen a wild elk in person, and now might be the time. Have I seen a few standing behind the high-fenced ranches of Texas? Sure. But my view has never been unobstructed, and they certainly weren’t in numbers of 80 to 100.
Another mile walk yields another empty field, although this time we can smell them. They smell like cattle. Mud, glands, urine and just plain living in the wild. It’s odd to me that the smell can be so pungent, but we don’t see a single animal. “How the heck do you hide a whole damn herd of horses?” I’m not complaining, how could I complain? I’m hunting on the snow-covered Guadalupe mountains, just happy to be alive, and it’s all happening on a weekday. Seriously though, how the hell do you hide a herd of 80 to 100 horse sized animals?
Matt and Isaiah are waiting for us when we reach the Four Runner. It doesn’t take a forensic expert to see that Matt has had his first sightings of his target animal. He spoke excitedly while showing me the video he took from his rock outcropping, as he and Isaiah helplessly watched the elk graze just beyond the property lines. Sure enough, his video shows an enormous number of cows, with a few nice bulls and a spike mixed in. Hollywood’s energy is contagious. He has never taken a whitetail, although he’s tried quite a few times, but now he has that familiar fire in his eyes. That fire which is only sparked when the predator sees his sought after prey. That primitive calling deep inside, which connects us to our ancestors that felt the same guttural burn eons before us.
I’ll bet we didn’t drive 200 yards, and I’ll be most thoroughly damned if the whole herd doesn’t go crashing right in front of us. I’m talking twenty to thirty paces off the front bumper, literally a thundering stampede of meat and excitement. “GET YOUR GUNS! GET YOUR GUNS AND FOLLOW ME!” Isaiah flings the door open like a whiskey drunk Ike Clanton would’ve done to a bad poker hand in a Tombstone bar scene, and without a word, takes off running.
I’m pretty sure I’m smiling. My lungs are inflamed from heavily breathing in the frozen air, and at 10,000ft of altitude, it doesn’t matter that I typically jog a few miles each day back home. I’m keeping up, but I’m having to earn it. I’m pretty sure I’m smiling though. This is it. I try to keep myself ready at all times, and finally, I’m getting put to the test. This is it. I’m dodging low branches, I’m twisting my feet to fit between the spaces of well hidden rocks, I’m trying to watch for elk and trying not to fall. Up hills, down hills, across flats and through the woods we go. We’ve covered a half mile when Isaiah stops, and looks directly past me. “C’MON MAN, WE GOTTA GO!” In my haste, I had assumed Matt had gone with Mike, as he had to get his gun out of its case in the back of the car, while I had mine up front. Matt is in incredibly good shape, but he too is gasping and red-faced, as he closes the distance between us. We take off again, running and/or sliding straight down a rocky slope. We reach its bottom, and I can see legs and fur moving wildly to our front left. The thundering (and I do mean thundering!) herd is trying to reach the field below us before we do, and I’ll admit, they’re doing a fine job.
We’re sprinting at this point, and we reach the bottom just as elk start to leak out of the timber. “If you see one get clear of the others, shoot. There they are. Shoot!” I shoulder my rifle, the herd being 120-150 yards in front of us, moving left to right. “Take the one in the front!” I aim at her, but I don’t feel confident shooting with no rest. Frantically, I slip into auto mode and dive next to a small evergreen, its trunk not two inches in diameter. Gripping the small tree like it’s my wife on our wedding night, the safety is slipped off. There are elk everywhere in front of me. Cows, calves and bulls continue to pour out of their safe haven. From left to right they continue to flow into the iced over dead grass. An incredibly nasty looking 180 grain Remington Core Lokt soft point bullet is setting on go. Focus Lane, focus. I’ve got the razor thin cross posts of my Weaver scope on the huge cow that’s at the front of the herd. I’m about to put one through her brachial plexus when two smaller elk run in front of her. “Don’t panic damnit, just focus,” thinking to myself. The herd slows down to assess the danger around them, and begins to part into two groups. By some terrible fate, a cow is left in the gap between the two groups. That’s the one. I put my head down, and can see that more elk are making their way into the leftmost edge of my scope, and are about to walk in front of her. Make it count. I put the crosshairs where I want to hit, and fire.
Matt was running up when I pulled the trigger, and now I’m trying desperately to help him find the right shot. The herd has gone insane since the shot, confused by both the report of the rifle, and the feeling of fear, which has no doubt been amplified by the herd mentality. With no clear opportunity presenting itself, we again take off running. Through heavy breathing, Isaiah asks me about my shot. “Low. I felt like it was low. I didn’t see her wince when she got hit, but she was starting to limp as she ran downhill with the rest of ‘em.”
I ran with Matt and Isaiah a couple hundred more yards, sprinting through the valley that just seconds ago was full of wild animals, and up a steep hill on the other side. A third man running in the group wouldn’t help their odds of success, so I peeled off to go look for blood. The last thing I saw was Isaiah running across a wide open flat, with Matt following closely behind, snow coming off their boots at they ran. “Father, bless them with an elk,” I thought.
Turning around to descend back down the way I came, I saw my animal. I was genuinely surprised, as I had that disgusting feeling I had only wounded her, and there’s truly nothing worse in the world of hunting. Bliss replaces guilt, as I ease my way towards what I’ve always dreamed about. It’s a very private feeling approaching something so beautiful that will no longer exist outside of stories and memories. It’s incredibly real. It’s sad. It’s rewarding, but dark. I have provided, but I have also taken. Sure that she’s passed from this life to the next, I hit my knees beside her, and I give thanks to the Almighty.
Rising to my feet, I take stock of all that’s around me. One heck of a cardio workout and an adrenaline dump has my senses incredibly heightened right now. I can see every snowflake and every stalk of frozen grass. I’m sweating and I’m very thirsty. I have a huge beast laying down in front of me, and am texting Dirk and Dusty what just happened, when Matt shoots. I didn’t hear the bullet hit, but he just shot. I truly hope that I’m wrong, but I don’t think that I am. There was no familiar clap before the boom; the clap being the bullet coming to an unbelievably abrupt halt when hitting its target. Not this time though. Just a long, hollow echo from the bullet going on and doing whatever cursed bullets do. A few tense moments drag along, and the thought of how unhappy he’s going to be from missing his chance is all that’s on my mind. Waiting on them to come back, I text my mom.
After one hell of a jog, and I do mean one hell of a jog, I just killed my first elk. It’s pretty cool to think that the last time that trigger was pulled on an animal like this, it was done so by Sissie some 60 plus years ago.Thwwwaaacckk. BOOOOOMM!! My head is jerked up from my phone. That was a hit! Not only am I excited, but I’m also becoming very aware that a stampede is heading my way. The shot was well off to my left, but I can see and hear the animals running right at me now. Looking around for cover, I just sit back down between the hooves, peering over the ribs of the downed cow. They cover half the distance between me and them, and thankfully (I can’t emphasize that word enough) veer away and start following the natural flow of the valley, running straight away. I can hear the struggling death bellows of a hit animal. Again, I send a text to our group, as I know I’ve got Dirk and Dusty on their heels at this point.
Matt just shot again! I heard the bullet hit this time. I’ll let you know what happens.
I’m being whistled at, as Isaiah hits me with a “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly” tune. I respond with a bobwhite quail whistle. He’s trying to locate me. We each whistle again, this time his is louder. As they walk into the clearing, Matt has his hands in the air. Studies show that people don’t throw their hands in the air to celebrate a miss. “Dude, please tell me you got ‘er!” I’ll tell the story as Matt told me:
Man, when we left you, I’d like to know how much further we ran chasing them. Of course, my Apple Watch died sometime this morning, so I have no clue how far we went. We finally caught up to the herd, getting within 100-120yds of them, and what do I do? I (insert colorful, but appropriate bad word here) miss! After all that, I missed. I shot way high, and I saw a tree branch explode over the elk’s back. I was so pissed, and I know Isaiah was too. What’s worse is, I never put anymore rounds in my gun yesterday after we left the range, and I realized that I only had one shot left.
(I didn’t know until this point in Matt’s story, that Mike had spoke with Isaiah on the low ammo problem, and was himself doing quite a bit of sprinting to catch up with them, in the instance that they might need to fire a third or fourth time.) So what do we do? We take off running again, following this damn herd further down the mountain. We blow a cow call at them, and a majority of them actually stop, but this time they’re more like 180-200yds out. Isaiah gets on his knees, and I use the top of his shoulder as a rest. We’re both panting like crazy, making a steady shot almost impossible, but that’s all I had. I just focused the best I could, and fired. Both of us thought I missed again, but we had to wait on Mike to get there with more ammo. I felt so terrible, knowing that Isaiah was going to chase this herd all day until he got me an animal. Neither one of us wanted to give up, but we didn’t want to keep running either. About that time, we start hearing a lot of high-pitched snorts and wheezes, so I figured I must’ve made a better shot than we thought. We let a few minutes go by after the noises stop, and start to gently ease our way where we think she might have fallen. When we get to where we thought I shot, we slowly split up, keeping our heads down as we fan out in search for blood. It was a tense few moments, because although we were trying to find some sign of hope, we also knew the elk were getting further away, making a third shot even more difficult, if I did miss. As I went off further towards where I last heard that sound coming from, I saw a huge splotch of red on the ground. With all the frozen dead grass, it really stuck out. I called over to Isaiah, and then we set off in the direction the trail took us. We probably walked another twenty to thirty yards, and there she was up ahead, laying under one of those evergreens.
At this point, I’m giving Matt a pretty good run for his money in the smile department. He has spent a considerable amount of time over the last few years, waiting patiently in both deer stands and brush blinds, always remaining positive, but constantly going home empty handed. He gained the invaluable knowledge and patience that comes with fruitless hunts, but still, it’s hard to keep a spark from being extinguished if it is never given fuel. The excitement is in his eyes now though. He has harvested his first animal. He has provided for his family, and he has a new pathway connecting himself with some instinctual calling that runs through a man, as it has always done. What’s more, he had to earn it. This wasn’t sitting around in a stale deer stand, fighting off the late night decisions while watching a barrel of corn. No, this was a real hunt, with real risks and very real rewards. Tangible rewards. The moment belongs to God, and the day belongs to Matt.
Entranced by an onslaught of stars, and hypnotized by flames, we stood shoulder to shoulder in silence, smoke weaving its way between us. I’d like to know how many times each of us has enjoyed the rolling loop of fresh memories in our mind. We will get caught daydreaming about the day’s events in the future, whether it be in a boring work meeting, or trying to stay interested in the 9:30 service at church, we will go back to the events of today. The flicker of an ear behind brush, the thunder of countless hooves, the herd presenting itself, the outstretched leg, the quartering away, the finality of the shot.
My curse in life is the relentless pursuit of perfection, and I’m deathly afraid to fail. I’m an incredibly optimistic being, but overwhelmingly critical. It has to be bigger, better, stronger and faster. It has to be; I can’t help it. Admittedly, it’s hard for me to just enjoy the moment, ever. Thinking through the day’s events, I’m searching for anything that could be improved upon, and unlike the hunt, I come up empty handed. I thought I knew how I wanted this trip to go, how each situation would be perfect, should I have been given the duties of deciding the ways of the world. What I hoped for was pale in comparison to what I was given. I was blessed beyond what I deserved, and for one rare moment, for one incredibly sparse little moment in my short time on this earth, I simply just enjoyed perfection.
