You’re more likely to see Elvis than elk

Elk have countless ways to make a fool out of a hunter.

Most sportsmen out this week for the early muzzleloader season know what I mean.

Elk have ears sharper than Sr. Leona Mary, the no-nonsense nun at my childhood grade school who could hear – before reacting swiftly and decisively – the mere folding of a spit wad anywhere in her classroom.

Elk have eyes that zero in on movement with the precision of radar. They can vanish with the slightest puff of breeze that air-mails a hint of human scent in the direction of their noses.

A 500-pound bull elk with a 4-foot-wide rack can sneak noiselessly through a seemingly impenetrable tangle of brush and downfall to get downwind and detect the most careful hunter.

On the rare occasion that a bull elk exposes a body that’s bigger than a subcompact car, the brute will hide its antlers behind a single cedar bow to prevent a hunter for determining whether it’s legal to shoot.

Once the hunting seasons start, elk retreat and live comfortably underground in deep, dark caves with entrances hidden by huge boulders they can open and close with the tap of a hoof.

At least that’s the way it seems to me.

Add to this the conspiracy elk forge with the natural elements and you have a nearly foolproof recipe for eating beef instead of elk meat.

The seasons opened last weekend without the benefit of a hard frost to help forest plants shed many of their leaves. Picture a curtain of green, yellow and orange that can hide a boxcar-size elk at 20 yards.

All that vegetation has teamed with untimely precipitation to grab every drop of rain and every snowflake before they could hit the ground. A hunter could walk through the wading pool fountains at Riverfront Park and not get as thoroughly wet to the bone as he did waking through the woods earlier this week.

Should a hunter overcome all of these adversities, he has about a 50-50 chance that his muzzleloader – with the Washington-legal exposed ignition system – will fire under these conditions.

Elk hunters take all of this in stride. The challenge is what drives us into hostile territory in pursuit of elk every year.

No hunter needs to hang his head at being goose-egged by an elk or the elements. The odds are stacked. We are the underdogs.

But here I am, stopping into the office for a few minutes, head bowed, to write this column after kicking my own butt on the opening weekend.

The basic thing every elk hunter must do is be prepared, and I was not.

I got drenched the opening day, but I was able to narrow down where elk were hiding and get mostly dry at camp that night.

Sunday, I closed in. I had them pegged high in a pass near the top of a mountain.

Squalls and soaking vegetation were pushing the limits of my high-tech synthetic clothing to keep me comfortable, but I was doing OK until the temperature plummeted and the blizzard began.

I retreated into the dark timber and tried to wait out the afternoon storm, but after two hours, the mountain still in virtual white-out of nearly horizontal sleet, I had to bail before the water sloshing inside Gore-Tex-lined boots turned to ice.

I don’t know how the water got into my waterproof gaiters and boots, but the Gore-Tex was clearly preventing the puddles from squishing out.

The weather was more tolerable after an hour of scrambling down to lower elevations. Just a drizzle.

My heart sank at 5:45 p.m. when the skies cleared with an hour and 20 minutes left to hunt.

Deer that had been missing in action for days suddenly were coming out in the open to feeding.

I couldn’t help but think that the elk I had abandoned more than an hour higher up the mountain were probably doing the same thing, exposing themselves to the stand I had scoped out along their well-worn and well-scatted trails to the ridgeline feeding area.

I had packed along the headlamp, fire-starter and extra food. I was ready for the after-dark hike out, but I wasn’t able to go the distance in just sitting still.

I’m back in town briefly to get the felt-lined boots with rubberized bottoms and high waterproofed leather uppers – the boots I stupidly left at home this year because I haven’t needed them in the five years that I’ve been hunting the early muzzleloader season.

I’ve relearned the hard lesson that you can’t expect to tag an elk if you’re not equipped to hang out in the hard country where they are hiding.

So I’m off again. I may not come back with an elk this week, but I’m not going to pass up a second shot at holding my head high.