SODA SPRINGS, Idaho – There’s no hesitating in bowhunting.
Especially when you’re on the ground without a blind, and an elk is feeding 30 yards away, oblivious to your presence. Shoot now or forever hold your whining.
But I didn’t release my arrow, and so now I just keep chewing on second-guessed advice I’ve fed myself the past month.
Chris White scans the forest while still-hunting for elk in Idaho.
Seconds after that cow elk stopped snatching orange-rusted leaves off the mountain-maple tree, it turned head-on and stopped. Its eyes locked onto my crouched form as I held my bow at full draw, my single-pin sight centered on her brisket.
I no longer had a choice. The elk’s two small steps had taken her from broadside to head-on, not only providing a smaller target, but also placing a screen of brush and branches between us.
The cow and I faced off for 15 seconds, and then it dashed downhill about 20 yards while sounding the alarm. Her barks echoed through the mountaintop forest, and seemingly vibrated through my core. At the same time, the hillside below her erupted in breaking brush and branches as a small herd heeded her warnings and bulldozed away from danger.
I relaxed my right arm and shoulder, and let down from full draw.
Patrick Durkin’s elk camp is about an hour hike and climb from the area’s best elk hangouts.
OK. Now comes my excuses for not shooting while I briefly held the advantage. First, my bowhunt in Idaho’s Targhee-Caribou National Forest had begun just seconds before. In fact, I hadn’t even donned my camouflage pullover because I was still cooling off from the hour-long ascent from camp.
I was standing by the same tree where I usually stop to rest in dawn’s gray light, and nocked an arrow “just in case.” As I leaned down to prop my bow against the Ponderosa pine, I heard what sounded like a leafy branch being tugged and shaken nearby. I assumed it was a red squirrel jumping from one tree to the next, but looked to confirm the common sound.
Nope. That’s no squirrel. Two chocolate-colored ears poked above the bouncing branch as an elk yanked off mouthfuls of leaves. I pulled my bow to full draw when the elk turned broadside to browse a new branch.
But I didn’t squeeze the trigger on my string-release. I now saw the elk’s head clearly, and it carried no antlers. Did I want to shoot a cow the first minute of a two-week bowhunt? My expensive nonresident license entitled me to shoot any elk I chose, and I preferred to shoot a bull, especially this early in the hunt.
But what if this proves to be my only chance at an elk during the trip? That’s a strong possibility, given the rugged terrain, thick cover, elk’s wariness and a bow’s limited range.
Yeah, I can live with passing the opportunity, but still I didn’t relax my draw. I continued holding as the cow stripped leaves. Maybe I was hoping for the perfect bowhunting shot, the quartering-away angle. Maybe that would be too tempting to pass.
But who knows why I continued holding, hesitating. Maybe I wanted the cow to make the decision for me, which it did when turning and spotting me, frozen in indecision. After it finally stopped barking about 100 yards away, I put down my bow, slipped out of my daypack, and dressed for the day ahead.
The two weeks passed and I went home with my elk tag unused. Five other times I snapped my release onto the bowstring, but never again returned to full draw.
Two days after passing on the cow, I was watching a tiny meadow in a ridgeline saddle, which we call “The Slot.” It’s a 90-minute hike and climb from camp, but worth the effort. Judging by the cover, terrain and game trails, you’d think any elk walking the ridgeline must pass through The Slot, but somehow they don’t.
The author noticed his shadow on this aspen while still-hunting for elk.
At 10 a.m. on Sept. 8, a bull’s bugle sounded from up the ridgeline about 200 yards away. Minutes later it bugled again about 100 yards away. I lifted my bow, snapped my release beneath the nock, and positioned my feet into shooting position.
Leaves and branches crunched under-hoof as the bull marched toward The Slot. About 50 yards away, just out of view below the ridgeline, the bull bugled once more, sounding more like a roar than its previous bugles.
With my heart pounding and left knee quivering, I twisted slightly, anticipating the bull walking into the clearing 30 yards away. I would draw as soon as I heard it walking. But I never did. The next sound was its bugle about 100 yards away. It had taken a downhill bypass as it continued down the ridge.
Five days later, while teaming with my friend Chris White for his first day in camp, we still-hunted into the path of two bulls and a cow elk. We were within 35 yards of them at one point, but thick brush prevented a shot.
And so it goes. Two other encounters with mature bulls ended quickly when they caught my scent, one from 70 yards and one at 100 yards. A third ended when a young bull and I nearly collided head-on as I still-hunted the ridgeline above the slot. I saw him first and nearly got my release snapped on, but then he likely caught the movement and disappeared before I could even start drawing.
Do I now regret passing that cow on Day 1? No. Not really.
But then again …
Chris White cools off while watching rain clouds lift off an Idaho mountainside.
