Coming up dry in the Gospel Hump

It had been a long time since my last elk hunt, 23 years at least, and I wasn’t sure I had another one in me.

Back in the late 1980s and early ’90s, elk hunting was all about spending time with my brother in Montana. We didn’t grow up with a hunting tradition in our family, so I was in my late 20s when we finally got started. Self-taught, and a bit comical at times, we eventually got the hang of it and began taking elk on a regular basis.

Then careers and kids took over. I moved away from Montana, my brother left shortly afterward, and the years went passing by.

Truth be told, I’d forgotten what elk tasted like.

So I was pleased and flattered when my wife’s father called last summer, inviting me on a guided elk hunt in the wonderfully-named Gospel Hump Wilderness. For those of you scoring at home, the area is north of the Salmon River, east of Riggins, Idaho.

In addition to my father-in-law, the hunting party included my wife’s two brothers and a cousin. All of those guys are more experienced hunters than I am, but they all grew up in Connecticut. As a life-long Westerner, I figured things would even out in the end.

As it turned out, we wound up dead even.

A road ‘as rough as guts’

My in-laws were driving up from the airport in Boise, so a couple of weeks ago, I drove from my home in Pullman to the outfitter’s camp near the end of rough, rocky road. Perched at an elevation of 7,400 feet, the camp was a no-frills collection of wall tents, cooking equipment, and an outhouse in the trees. Behind the last tent, horses and mules milled about in a temporary corral, munching hay.

The outfitter, a grizzled specimen with one leg as twisted as a tree root, introduced me to my guide. The guide, Jake Cameron, was 26 years younger than me. He’d grown up only 20 miles away, and he looked as lean as a coyote.

In addition to me, Jake would be guiding my brother-in-law Spence – a master hunter who retired last year as a full colonel in the U.S. Army. Like Jake, Spence is a very capable guy in the backcountry.

“This could be a tough week,” I thought. “Don’t let anybody down.”

I’d never been on a guided hunt before, so I kept a close eye on how my in-laws handled themselves that first night. After dinner, we stood around a roaring fire, listening to the outfitter and his guides tell stories from years gone by. Tales of bone-snapping accidents involving pack mules, of angry bull elk, and of rattled hunters.

Tales of life, and death. Some were probably true, others less so.

There also were some bluntly stated exclamations of hatred for wolves, which have been steadily recolonizing the area.

The stories eventually petered out and we tottered off to bed, there to be serenaded by snoring tent mates and the heavy, hollow thuds of horses’ hooves shuffling in the night.

Moments of doubt

Opening day of the general gun season got started in the dark. Even in September, it was cold at that elevation, so we dressed quickly and headed for the cook tent. The outfitter’s wife had a mountainous breakfast waiting, simple fare which we thundered down before making our way to the corral.

“So far, so good,” I thought. “I can do this.”

Hunters were paired with horses, and the entire party hit the trail under the light of a nearly full moon.

Riding through the cold, dark forest, we were completely removed from the whirl of modern civilization. The warm bulk of my horse was a comfort beneath me, moving sure-footed and steady. When we paused, steam rose from her flanks.

The eastern sky was streaked with dawn when our guide gestured for Spence and me to veer off the trail. Our goal was to descend a finger ridge, down, down, down into the Wind River drainage.

There was no trail and the ridge, wide and gently sloping at first, soon narrowed and steepened. Downed trees were everywhere, forcing the horses to carefully pick their way over and through the tangle.

Sitting atop a horse with the ground plunging away beneath us, I discovered my comfort zone was significantly smaller than I’d originally estimated. The downed timber and loose rocks weren’t helping, and the prospect of cartwheeling down the hill – atop a horse, no less – loomed as an unsettling possibility.

This was no trail ride at summer camp. It was especially intimidating for a guy who rides horses maybe once or twice a decade. My fears began to mount and it was time to master them – or crumble.

“Keep it together,” I remember thinking. “Don’t be the weak link.”

The long walk

We scrubbed off a lot of elevation on horseback, but the ridge eventually steepened to the point where we had to dismount and tie up the horses. After marking their location with a GPS unit, we continued to descend on foot.

We didn’t see any elk that day, but that was almost beside the point. We were deep in the embrace of nature, where there were no fences, no “KEEP OUT” signs, and no signs of human influence.

It was spectacular country, accented with endless shades of green. There was a piercingly blue sky overhead, dark stands of timber on the north slopes, and cold, clear streams in the canyon bottoms. Brilliant red huckleberry bushes streaked the hillsides like ragged tongues of flame.

Left alone, we lost ourselves in the stealthy business of pursuing wild game. This is the sublime thrill of the hunt: abandoning one’s human ego to assume the thoughts of a twitchy, nose-to-the-wind prey animal.

We knelt over hoof prints, stooped to examine scat, and ran our fingers over fresh tree rubs. We listened for distant bugles, inspected wallows, and tested the wind with our own, feeble noses.

As a guy who’s perilously close to 60, I felt the toll of scrambling through thick brush, around deadfall, over rocks, and through streams. My rifle was heavy in my hands, and my pack never seemed to get lighter – no matter how much food I ate, or water I drank.

It was a great way to spend a day, and I wasn’t complaining.

“Yeah,” I thought to myself, “I can still do this.”

When day is done

After 9 or 10 hours afoot, we returned to the horses and began the long ride back to camp. After a full day of walking, riding a horse up a rough, steep hillside is one of life’s simple pleasures.

Conditions were dry and the hills were parched, so the horses kicked up thick clouds of dust. Golden, late-afternoon sun filtered through the dust, illuminating the silhouettes of horses and riders.

It was a timeless Western scene that hasn’t changed much over the years. The equipment has gotten better, but it still boils down to hunters and horses, rifles and boots.

The shadows grew longer, and day slipped into night. The temperature began to fall. Off to the east, a perfectly full moon rose over the Sheep Creek drainage. It was a smoky red color, thanks to several fires burning in the area.

It was nearing 10 p.m. when we finally rode into camp, the last group to return. Nobody had seen any elk.

The same pattern repeated itself, day after day, for the rest of the hunt.

In fairness, we did hear one bull bugling as he made his way up a creek bottom. Later that day we kicked up two or three elk – probably cows – that fled their beds moments ahead of us.

Other than that, nothing. The scarcity of wapiti may have been due to a family of wolves denned in our outfitter’s territory and the elk, understandably, were wary.

In five full days of hunting, only my father-in-law fired a shot. To the outfitter’s great delight, he killed an adult female wolf.

Just like it was in Montana, there are years when elk tags get notched – and there are years when they don’t. That hasn’t changed.

I’ve changed though – older and creakier – but I’m still in the hunt.