Rhett had a big fencing project to complete on one of the Colorado ranches the second weekend but he joined me toward the end of the third week. A couple of my buddies arrived too, not to hunt, but just to hang out. The first day Rhett was back in camp I hunted the west side of the ranch and he the east side in the morning. He returned to camp around mid day excitedly relating great stories of several bunches of elk, two big bulls screaming at one another, and a number of perplexing wind and geographical obstacles to their pursuit. I, on the other hand, had also heard bugles. At daybreak I had glassed the yellow rumps of cows and calves and the ponderous sway of a heavy set of antlers retreating from the large open meadow we called seven pin meadow, and disappearing into the confines of Wherenberg canyon.

The meadow and the ridge above it, Seven Pin Ridge, had been named years ago when Rhett had refused the shot at the monstrous bull. I was sure that these elk would return in the evening. They hadn’t a clue that I had crept in behind them and put together the logistics of their dawn and dusk travels.

I convinced Rhett to accompany me that evening. If the wind was right, we would post in the stand he and I had built together at the edge of a rock ledge. It was concealed by the first tier of trees at the corner of the meadow. This edge of the sage and grass tumbled down a rocky hillside to the ponds on long knife draw.

That evening he took one position and I another about ten feet apart. We had completely different lines of sight. The wind howled in the rock fissures. It seemed that finally we just might get some snow. It was at least fifteen minutes after the sinking sun had disappeared obscured by rolling clouds. There were just a few minutes of shooting light left. Both of us were shivering from the wind. Then I heard a cow mew somewhere out there in the darkening landscape. I was certain Rhett had not heard the soft cow talk in the cacophony of air playing around the rocks. I eased out of position and tapped him on his heel and he retreated backwards, still prone, “elk are coming,” I whispered and then we heard the bugle seemingly right in front of us. There was just enough trees and dark that the shapes now visible about one hundred yards out couldn’t quite be deciphered without the rifle scopes. I said “creep around the edge of those rocks. See if you can sneak through those trees.” Without a word he understood and began his stalk. He was below my rocks now. I could clearly see the elk coming in though I couldn’t see Rhett. Then the bull’s bugle again, so close I jumped.  “The damn thing is right in front of us,” my mind registered. And then I heard the thunder of Rhett’s .325 mag and I waited. Elk were fleeing into the darkness now too thick to shoot. I was certain Rhett had killed his first big bull. By the sounds the bull, Rhett and I had owned a space no bigger than a one hundred foot triangle. A few minutes later he silently re-appeared out of the gloom. Even in the dark I could tell he was crestfallen. “Dad, I missed. I can’t believe it. He was thirty feet away.” There was a note of incredulity and disappointment in his voice. I shared both with him. “Let’s go make sure,” I said.

Knowing full well the flashlight would deter these elk from visiting this meadow again, we carefully combed the ground and reenacted the scene to make absolutely certain no injury had come to the animal. As I played my light and wondered what exactly had gone wrong, the beam happened upon a big thick branch of a gnarled old bristlecone pine. It was severed from the main trunk, lying in shattered wood fragments on the ground. Upon closer inspection, the groove of a bullet was clearly evident in the break. I motioned to Rhett. He looked at the branch, swore not so softly and then we both laughed. No great big bull, but the animal was unharmed and a hunt we will always remember was indelibly stamped on the continuing chronicles of father, son and Wapiti.

Photo by Reid L. Rosenthal Copyright 2008