Colorado snow bull
I gazed into the night. I crawl into my down cocoon to avoid the snowy fury outside. At that point, I’d never seen so much snow as that. Truly a blanket, more than a foot thick, and everywhere. Every fallen aspen log, every spruce bow, now another piece of the winter wonderland. By morning I was shovelling it away and re-erecting my semi-collapsed wall tent home. Winter wanderings in the Southern Alps and Kaimanawas couldn’t compare to this madness. Crystals wafted in the air as I looked up at the blue sky. In a few hours, my fellow guides and our clients would be coming. The hunting season had so far proved a process. The warm dry days of archery season had been and gone. The snow would get the elk up on their feet, moving and feeding to keep warm, and this time, we’d be using rifles.
Our first morning of hunting was a bit of a bust-up, an area of willow marsh resting up an aspen draw that was previously holding a few bulls during archery season was now totally void of any animal sign. The aspect of fresh snow makes locating elk an easier process, before you can hunt them, you have to know they exist. Glassing for elk tracks is a good method. My client William and I returned to the ponies (and mule), meeting a few other opening-day hunters as we went. We arrived back and immediately made a fire to warm our frozen fingers. “what now then Jurgen?” asked William.
“I think we’ll head up into another area, there’s a lot of hunters down here in the lowlands, I've got a plan don’t worry.” I lied. Screw it I thought. The kiwi in me hated this, hated hunting, knowing that there was another orange-clad weekend warrior to my left and right hunting in the same area I was for my client. “We have horses, let's use them, let's go up to the tops.” Three hours later we broke out into the open tops of rolling willow brush country and immediately found elk prints. Leaving the ponies we marched up onto a good vantage point. Snow is incredible in North America, chipmunks, coyotes, foxes, bobcats, ground squirrels, mule deer. When there is snow on the ground you realise just how much life there is all around you. At 10,000m of elevation, any person who has not been adjusting to the altitude for four months has a hard time. Even William who was a previous gym owner and normally a really fit dude struggled. At last light I spied a mob of cows down in a pine crater on the edge of an alpine lake. Although more than a km away, amongst I could see the unmistakable rutting behaviour of a bull. Chasing his cows and thrashing willows. The bull's display had just got him in trouble. We knew where we were going the next day.
Icicles gathered on our faces. Dangling from horse whiskers and manes. My red headlamp burned through the dark blizzard. We were, route finding, carving through the snow to the top of a rocky vantage where we might relocate our target bull. The horses fumed, marching us upwards. Slipping in the rocks and deep snow drifts. At last, we arrived, with only 15 minutes to spare. I tied the horses and began glassing. It didn't take long to find the cows. They had worked their way up into an undulating basin of willows and scattered trees. It was only around mid-morning that the bull finally showed himself, bedded down in a patch of sun surrounded by some dozen cows and calves. Luckily for me William was a good shot, but we still needed to get closer, we stayed on the rocky knoll for many hours, fighting off heavy eyes as we flirted with making a stalk. The nature of their position was difficult, the wind was unpredictable and any shooting position we could use would have us sneaking into 100 yards of the bedded elk. To make matters worse, a bull moose had seemingly taken to standing guard. Placed precariously between us and our quarry like some great centurion. First, the cows started moving, one by one beating the snow with their hooves to free up any palatable vegetation. They weren't moving where we wanted them, it looked like they might decide to move off into another basin at any moment. Despite their numbers, they walked with a surprising purpose. It was now or never. We shoved our belongings in our packs and started jogging down the hill. Descending into the willows I kept my third eye on the bull moose as we went. We had closed the gap, but now we were in their zone, head-high willows and treelines, and no way to know for sure where they were. In an instant there they were. The cream love heart of a rump emerged from the scrub. I set Will up, waiting for the bull to show himself. He remained elusive. We waited 15 minutes. Then another 15 minutes. Panic was setting in. Had he sensed us and bolted? Leaving his cows? Surely not. A sun-illuminated tine emerged first, he had been there all along. Invisible in the evening shadows. “take him.” I muttered. William's rifle thundered through the mountains, rolling through the valleys and peaks. 12 cows mustered at the top of a distant ridge, then disappeared. In the action, I’d forgotten my ear protection. I had not witnessed a bull elk crumple nor seen the shudder of hide at the strike of a bullet. I saw a shock wave, a bright white light and a very loud unsuppressed gun. It was a tense atmosphere that followed as we wandered over there. Apprehensive about the result. It was with some relief that we found a dead bull, awaiting us in the willows.
Guiding is quite a peculiar beast. I was told by one of my experienced colleagues that in one season of guiding, you gain the experience of 10 hunting seasons. I'm inclined to agree. My clients were a pretty vast mix of people, from regular blue-collar lads who have saved their entire lives for the chance to hunt elk. To wealthy businessmen who've hunted in Europe, Africa, Asia and Alaska. With the same amount of money, I’d for sure do the same. But it is peculiar to be hunting with someone twice your age, who has taken multiple grizzly bears, yet cant make a fire in the bush. I’ve been hunting in the mountains alone since I was 15, and I grew up in the best country for that. In my last article, I talked about the differences between Colorado and New Zealand. For me, this trip was a bit eye-opening. I got to see hunting in a whole new perspective. It’s no secret that our hunting rights are threatened by the powers that be. Similarly, I’m also inclined to take a gander at our own ethics and purposes for hunting. I’m not sure that I like the pay to play, gear obsessed hunter. With the 8000 dollar rifle he can barely shoot. I’m certainly not bagging on the many friendly faces I met. Hunting is better than not hunting. Perhaps it is an older perspective. Coming from a country that’s still so unburdened with regulations, I still started out hunting with an old lee Enfield rifle, a Swannie and a sheathe knife. For me Hunting isn’t about trophy animals, hunting isn’t about the latest gear, and I think that any part of me that longed to tick off an eclectic mix of foreign game animals is probably gone. I’d rather experience the place and the people. The mule packing, the cowboys. The sunny aspen faces, oak brush draws and great willow plains. Mule deer, black bear, elk and moose. It makes no difference whether I pull the trigger or not. I’m up in the mountains, hunting elk from horseback in the wilds of Colorado.
