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The Vengeful Lion: My 2021 Cougar Encounter

Cougars Abound

The deer herd in my Southern Utah hunting area is on the decline thanks to a long-running drought, in conjunction with an ever-increasing human presence. Locating any remaining bucks means relying on an array of trail cameras placed along known deer routes across the mountain range. Every year we capture one or two photos of cougars prowling around, but last season was different. Over the course of a single month we captured cougar pictures on all four cameras.

A cougar-clawed tree.

Of course you’ll find cougars wherever deer are concentrated, but in recent years we’ve been seeing more and more cougar sign including deer kills, paw prints, clawed-up trees, and of course trail-cam photos.

My theory is that when deer numbers decrease rapidly, cougars (commonly referred to as mountain lions) are forced to roam over more territory in search of their most common prey, the mule deer. This, of course, increases the odds of running into a big cat while hunting. To make matters worse, when deer numbers are down, hungry cougars will actually consider humans as prey, although attacks are quite rare.

Cougar on trail camera in 2021.

In three decades of deer hunting I’ve only seen a handful of cougars. About half were seen at night by headlights on remote dirt roads, the other half up and prowling during daylight hours. It wasn’t until the 2021 deer season that I actually came face-to-face with a lion in the woods and was even forced to defend myself.

The Cougar Attack

It all began halfway through last season’s bowhunt. It was just another hot afternoon as Esther and I trudged up a dusty trail leading to a pine ridge where we like to hunt. Esther was excited to show me some trail-cam photos of a decent 3-pointer from earlier in the week. Sweating and puffing from the steep hike, we settled down on a log and began scrolling through the photos.

We’d only been there a minute or two when a series of blood-curdling screams and a loud scuffling sounds broke the silence about 50 yards into the heavy timber. At first I thought it was another hunter-jackass messing with us. However, the screams grew louder and morphed into what sounded like a sheep in distress…or at least something very non-human. Esther and I sat frozen, staring blankly at the timber. Seconds later everything was silent.

At that point it I figured it must have been a cougar attack and said to Esther, “I think a deer just got whacked by a cougar….” Of course I’d never actually heard a cougar attack on a deer, but what else could it be? Sasquatch, maybe?

As a self-proclaimed naturalist I was overcome by curiosity and stood up, saying, “Hey, let’s go take a look.”

“I’m not going over there!” was Esther’s immediate reply.

“Just stay behind me. If it’s a lion he’ll just run off.”

Everyone knows that big cats out West are naturally afraid of people and take every precaution to avoid humans. This is reinforced by the fact that humans are the cougar’s only natural predator. But I can’t fault Esther for being nervous. Only two years previous she had a very unnerving encounter with a lion on another trail. In the gray hours of morning she came around a bend at the exact same time a cougar was coming from the opposite direction. The cougar didn’t run away, but instead crouched low and stared at Esther from only fifteen yards away. Following the standard cougar-avoidance protocol, Esther yelled and waved her arms to scare it off. When that didn’t work she loaded an arrow and drew her bow. When he still didn’t budge she released the arrow which skipped off the dirt right next to the cat. Instead of running away, he just turned and walked casually into the woods.

Cougar on camera: 2019. Maybe the same one that stalked Esther…

A dangerous cat is a danger indeed. Due to their explosive short-burst speed, there is no physical way to outrun a cougar. They can grow to roughly the same size and weight (and color) as an adult human; a full-grown male lion can weigh more than two-hundred pounds. Cougars prefer ambush-style hunting: crouching in wait and then pouncing on his victim. He uses his powerful arms to pull down his prey, and then kills quickly by sinking his fangs into the back of the neck and severing the spine. Other tactics include crushing the windpipe and suffocating his victim. Either way it’s a quick and silent death. Your best chance at surviving a cougar attack is to fight back. If at all possible, go for the eyes. Cats are very careful to avoid personal injury and will back off if you threaten bodily harm.

Typical cougar kill (note claw marks).

Now back to our story.

Cautiously we tiptoed into the timber in the direction of the scuffle. Coming around a clump of stunted pines we found a yearling doe lying flat on the ground, gargling and gasping with its eyes rolled back in its head. Claw marks were raked horizontally across her hind quarters. The cougar had obviously heard us coming and ran off before we arrived.

Instinctively I loaded an arrow while Esther suggested what I was thinking anyway: “Maybe we should put it out of its misery.” But I decided to wait since, strangely, there was no blood present. About twenty seconds later, the deer’s eyes rolled back into place. She suddenly swung her head up, looked around, then sprang to her feet and bounded away as if nothing happened.

At that point we slowly backed out and into the open. On the way out I joked, “Looks like I saved a deer’s life. She better send us a thank you card in the mail.”

Cougar on trail camera in 2020.

Esther was planning to hunt this area in the evening, but after the nerve-wracking experience she decided to follow me into a different area instead. On the way I joked that the cougar might be plotting revenge for having his dinner plans ruined. In retrospect I was only half-joking, because that’s exactly what the cougar did! Before splitting up for the evening, I suggested she sit with her back to a tree and keep an eye behind her. But the evening was uneventful and at dark we walked back to the truck together.

A Vengeful Cougar?

Twenty-four hours later I found myself once again huffing and puffing up the mountain alone, this time about a mile away. I was thoroughly focused on deer; the cougar encounter already ancient history in my mind.  After all, what were the odds of running into the same cat, even if he was now desperately hungry and maybe even seeking revenge?

Big cougar tom wearing tracking collar in 2021.

I arrived at one of my favorite areas and immediately spotted two forest grouse pecking around. Realizing that any meat was better than no meat, I stalked toward the bigger bird. He got nervous, however, and flew into the low branches of a nearby tree. Moving closer for a shot, I settled my pin on the little target and released. POOF! The grouse fell to the ground in a shower of clipped feathers. Excitedly I trotted over to collect my bird, but to my dismay he was gone; apparently just a grazing shot. From there I walked in ever-widening circles around the trees scanning for the bird.

A moment later I spotted a grouse walking across a flat towards some nearby cliffs. I followed the bird, but when I got closer he busted from the cliff edge and soared into the wilderness 1000 feet below. Realizing it must have been the other bird, I turned back to look for the one I’d shot at.

But when I turned around my heart stopped. Sitting in the shadows, half-hidden behind a deadfall tree and exactly where I’d been standing just a minute earlier, was a big cougar staring right at me. Only his head and muscular shoulders were visible above the log, his eyes locked on mine. It didn’t seem real at first, and all I could do was stare back as my mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation. Was it real or someone playing a trick on me? Now what?

Adult cougar close-up. (Photo courtesy of Utah DWR, by Lynn Chamberlain)

Defend Yourself!

The hackles on my neck suddenly stood on end as I realized the gravity of the situation. First off, I was standing in the wide open with sheer cliffs at my back. Second, the cougar wasn’t budging and likely contemplating his next move. Finally, in all likelihood he was the same cougar from the previous night, now hungry and vengeful. At any moment I expected the great cat to explode across the flat in a tawny blur and rip me to shreds.

Without another thought I quickly and smoothly grasped an arrow from my quiver and loaded it onto my bow without looking down. Then, in one fluid motion I drew my bow while calculating the distance to the cougar. My sight pins scrolled across his face. Looks about thirty yards…

A second later my arrow whizzed into the shadows and found its mark with a loud CRACK!

The cougar disappeared into a flurry of dust and debris, its tail whipping wildly above the log. Instantly I pulled another arrow, this time fumbling to load it with my shaking hand. The scuffling suddenly stopped. Was he dead?

Nope.

The cat sprang up on another log situated perpendicular to the one he’d been sitting behind. Without looking back he casually walked the length of the log in the opposite direction, then hopped to the ground and meandered into the trees as if nothing happened.

I waited until the cat was well out of sight and then walked over to where he’d been sitting. There was no blood or arrow at first, just a few tuffs of tan fur mixed with pine needles and branches. A short distance later the blood trail started, dark red and drizzled steadily along the log and off into the woods.

For the moment I had no intention of following the cat, and instead spent some time looking for my arrow, the whole time wondering where I’d hit him. It was clearly a good hit, but there was no evidence that the arrow passed through, nor did he carry it off. The only possibility was the arrow hit him high on the head, a glancing, slashing blow that knocked him temporarily senseless, and then skipped into the woods.

Another cougar kill from 2021.

At last I cautiously followed the blood trail into the woods. It was my responsibility, after all, to follow-up on a wounded animal. The easy-to-follow drizzle trail continued for about 300 yards and then stopped abruptly as the forest grew thick with minimal visibility. At that point, and with darkness falling fast, I decided that following an injured, man-stalking cat into the thick stuff was a bad idea and backed out.

In the End

Interestingly, I returned to the site in the morning and found an entirely new blood trail. This blood was from a deer, however, its dug-in tracks intermingled with that of a cougar who’d apparently taken it down very near the same location as my encounter. Was it the same cat? We’ll never know.

Although I continued to hunt the same general area for the next couple weeks I never saw the cougar again, nor did I expect to. He learned a valuable lesson that day: To associate people with danger. Still, I’m looking forward to next season. If we meet again he should be easily identifiable; perhaps I’ll name him “scar.”

Edge of perfection: My First Elk

Utah’s High Uinta Mountains

Edge of perfection: My First Bull Elk

After nearly two hours of coaxing the massive bull elk in, exchanging bugles and blowing cow calls, he’s finally within bow range. But as I raise my bow ever so slightly, he catches my movement and whirls away. The charade is up. I’m busted; but I don’t care. Just to be part of such an exciting experience up here in the High Uinta Mountains has been worth it. Desperately, I blast another cow call. The bull stops and looks back in my direction. It’s not over yet…

It all started a year ago when my brother, Brent, and I hunted this area for a week with hardly a response from the nearly nonexistent elk. On the last day of that hunt I jumped over to the next drainage where I found myself literally surrounded by elk. Unfortunately, it got dark before I could get a shot. But it gave us hope for next year—actually, it gave Brent hope. As for me, I realized long ago that the only way to avoid a disappointing elk hunt was to stay home.

For fifteen years I felt detached from the prospect of actually shooting a bull. In the years that deer came easily, elk remained ghosts in the woods that I hardly ever saw. A great chasm had grown between me and the majestic elk. Seeing their caricatures in magazines, artwork, and free mailing labels never connected with me.

Just getting away from work and my relentless projects was nearly impossible this year. As the hunt drew near, I worked seventeen hours a day just so I could get away for five days. On Monday morning I finally managed to escape the cold, steely claws of responsibility, and literally ran out the door to my awaiting 4×4.

Three hours later, I was standing on the side of the worst dirt road I ever saw, watching my rear tire deflate in front of me. Suddenly a truck came ambling over the hill; lo and behold, it was brother Brent. He climbed out of his truck wearing an ear-to-ear grin that only a successful elk hunter could wear. While loading my tire with Fix-a-Flat, Brent recounted the exciting details of his hunt and how he was able to call his bull in for a fifty-five yard shot.

At that moment, any rivalry we had about “who’s the better hunter?” was gone. I was just glad somebody finally nailed down a branch-antlered elk after twenty years of hard hunting. I was honestly very proud of him, however, as I prepped my pack to head into the hills, I turned and said half-jokingly, “Well, I’ll just have to find a bigger one!” He replied, “Do it!”

Three and a half miles up the mountain I’ve located two bright yellow tents hidden in the trees: my new home for the week. It appears no one’s home, but I let out a little “locater bugle” just in case. My other brother, Russell, suddenly jumps out of his tent with bow in hand, and I laugh. He’s seen so much action up to this point, that he’s sure a bull has just wandered into camp.

Elk Camp, 2009
Elk Camp, 2009

We have about two hours of good light, so after catching me up on all his recent elk encounters, we head off to a nearby meadow. The evening falls quickly, and as expected we get no response from our calling. I sleep well that night with nary a vision of antlers dancing in my head.

5 a.m. comes way too soon, but I’m ready. Bowhunting is what I practice year-round for—it’s what I live for. We head out in the dark up a steep and rocky trail leading to a large meadow a mile away. This is where we’ll begin our first “set-up.” Our typical set-up goes something like this: Russ and I sit down about 50 yards apart and begin a series of cow-mew calls to imitate a herd of elk. After a minute, one of us lets out a series of estrus (cow in heat) calls followed by a lone bugle. Then we wait for a response. We repeat this process every five minutes for up to forty-five minutes. Then, as is usually the case, we look at each other in disappointment and try again somewhere else. This set-up is no different.

Farther up the mountain, we do our second set-up and again, there’s no response. Now this is the elk hunting I’m used to, and I’m thinking this trip will be just like all the rest…whoo-hoo! Most years, I’m cold and shivering half-way through the first routine, but this morning is surprisingly warm, even at 9000 feet. This will likely force the elk to bed down early and probably hurt our odds. Again, I prepare for disappointment.

By disappointment, I’m purely talking about my yearly lack of elk steaks and back-straps that a lowly artist needs in order to survive the winter. Don’t get me wrong, every minute spent traipsing through Utah’s gorgeous backcountry is savored. It’s what keeps me coming back each year, even after eating “tag soup.” I love the smell of the woods, the truly fresh air, and especially the quietness. I love sitting beneath the lodge pole pines that reach forever upward towards the clear skies, bald peaks, and fast moving clouds. There are pinkish rocks and boulders strewn everywhere, which provide a quiet foothold on an otherwise crunchy, pine-needled forest floor.

I love watching all the wildlife too: the moose, the deer, the odd high-altitude birds with their strange songs, and even the annoying squirrels and chipmunks that jump from branch, barking at us for invading their territory. They’re all here with the elk, living together in harmony. I soak it all in, becoming happily alienated from the contrived reality back in the city.

A little while later we’ve arrived at Chuckles Point. It’s a high mountain point named by Brent who once got a great response from a bull he affectionately named Chuckles because of its distinctive bugle that ended with a series of chuckle-laughs, as if to mock his efforts.

Russell at Chuckles Point.
Russell at Chuckles Point.

There’s fresh elk sign here, so we get set up again. This time, halfway through the routine we get a clear return bugle. Game on! Suddenly I remember what I’m doing up here. Russ and I alter our routine with a series of cow calls to draw him in. The wise old bull is interested, but hangs up and refuses to come closer. Each return bugle becomes quieter, indicating that he’s moving farther away. If we cows aren’t coming to him, he’s not coming to us. Eventually, the bull is gone.

It doesn’t help that each time we set up, the wind changes—swirling one way, then the other. As luck would have it, the wind continues to shift like this all day. Later, when the wind has driven Russ completely nuts, I tell him, “Who cares [how we set up], the wind is just gonna change anyway…” But being a newbie to the elk hunting arts, he still has hope, which I find amusing.

Our next three set-ups are uneventful as we manage only an occasional, far-off call back. It’s 3:30 p.m. now; it’s hot and we’re exhausted. It’s nap time. My dusty day pack makes for a fine pillow; the thick pine-needled ground makes for a soft bed. At this elevation dreams are strange:

A giant bull appears at twenty yards, but as I draw back for an easy shot, I notice an old woman riding atop the beast like a horse. She’s okay with me shooting though, and moves her leg so I don’t hit her…

The sun is dropping and shadows are getting long; it’s wakeup time. Russ and I make our way to Rub City, so-named for the abundance of trees rubbed and thrashed by mighty elk antlers over the years. When the elk are in this drainage, this is their bedroom; it’s where they live and rest during the day.

To begin our routine, I split off from Russ and head uphill. Thirty yards uphill, I am surprised by an explosion of animals as a group of bedded elk jump to their feet and go crashing through the timber. I make an immediate cow call which stops one large cow at forty yards. She stands there staring back, but then the wind swirls. Just as Russ catches up, the cow lets out a strange alarm bark and trots  away. It’s exciting to actually see elk, but at the same time I’m disappointed that we busted them. Well, that’s elk hunting. This has actually been the most exciting elk day ever; we actually saw and heard elk, which is truly special.

High mountain stream.
High mountain stream.

It’s around 6 p.m. now, and we have time for maybe one or two set-ups before dark. We finally arrive at our destination: the far eastern end of a large meadow we call Eight-Cow Meadow. It’s a secluded east-to-west meadow, very long and oval-shaped, widening to about 200 yards at the middle. Russ and I set up fifty yards apart at the edge of the tree line in hopes of drawing an elk across the meadow from the opposite wooded side.

Our call routine goes on and on and eventually my ears can no longer take the barrage of squeaks and squeals from the loud calls. I love quietness in the woods and this grand cacophony is the thing I hate most about elk hunting. Annoyed, I proceed to stuff wads of toilet paper into my ears.

So here I am sitting flat on my butt with my bow lying on the ground, and after forty-five minutes of calling, I’m looking back towards Russ and wondering when we can finally surrender to the empty woods. As I finish yet another routine bugle, suddenly BOOM, a big nasty bull screams at us from the left. In one fluid motion I hop to my knees, snatch up my bow, knock an arrow, and swing around to face the noise. He’s close and should erupt from the woods at any second. All senses are on high alert and my first thought is, the wind is bad, blowing steadily in the bull’s direction; he’ll surely blow out of here.

A minute later, everything is still quiet. Our eyes are transfixed on the thick woods. The bull has hung up and is silent, staring back at us and listening. We have to do something quick or he’ll leave. Russ blows a couple estrus calls, and I let out a small bull bugle. Since the bugle got him to respond in the first place—and since he sounds like a big bull—he’ll probably be happy to fight off a smaller bull for some cows. Another minute passes. Then suddenly, the same throaty bellow shatters the air; same distance, different direction. It sounds as if he’s circled around to the trees on the opposite side of the meadow. Russ scrambles over to me as we try to figure out exactly where the bugle came from. I’m certain that it came from the opposite side of the meadow, but Russ thinks it might be behind us…but he’s not sure.

We decide to sprint across the meadow to close some distance and try to draw him down from the trees above. Russ offers to do the calling while I sneak up into the steep woods to intercept the bull. Not gonna happen. As I go sneaking into the woods, we get the same bugle and chuckle, only now it’s coming from the side of the meadow we were just on! It occurs to me that the bull was actually behind us (as Russell previously thought) and his bugle was reflecting off of the wall of trees across the meadow (where we are now). In other words, we’re on the wrong side. Oh well, we’re here now, and in a millisecond my role changes from hunter to caller in hopes of drawing the bull back across the meadow towards Russell who’s waiting at the meadow’s edge.

I am completely energized, certain I can coax the bull in to the shooter. I run farther up into the dark woods and make more calls. I want to make the big bull think I’m a little bull running off with the cows. The bull keeps responding to my calls, but the farther I go up the mountain, the more distant his bugle sounds. He knows something isn’t right and isn’t coming any closer—smart bull.

I blow more calls, then grab a tree branch and begin smashing the limbs off a dead tree, attempting to mimic a frustrated bull tearing up a tree with his antlers. Next, I grab a bunch of large rocks and roll them down the hill to mimic hoof sounds. There’s no hesitation; this craziness is absolutely necessary to convince the bull that I’m a herd of elk. But all remains quiet, and I’m afraid he’s not buying it.

BOOM, anther bugle sounds, only now it’s coming from farther up the meadow. The bull has outsmarted us and is moving away, skirting just inside the tree line on the opposite side of the meadow. I run through the trees on my side, paralleling his movements and stopping occasionally to make cow calls. His response is becoming less frequent. I have no idea where Russ is at this point, so it’s every hunter for himself. Russ tells me later how he crossed back to the bull’s side of the meadow in attempt to close some distance.

At mid-meadow I’ve managed to mirror the bull’s movements according to his calls. The sun has dropped behind the mountain and darkness looms. My chances of ever seeing the bull are shrinking by the minute. Oh well, the excitement thus far is more than you could ask for. But it’s not over yet; I blow more calls, break more sticks, and roll more rocks. The next bugle is very loud and much closer. I can’t believe it; the bull has actually entered the meadow and is coming my way! Quickly I descend towards the meadow edge. Fifty yards from the meadow, another bugle erupts and I freeze. Through an opening I see a massive, tan elk body and dark antlers moving towards me. My eyes widen, my heart races. I don’t have to count tines. This is a wily old herd bull—a real monarch.

At the edge of the meadow there’s a giant pine tree that I can keep between me and the bull. When I get there, I crouch behind the massive trunk and mess of lower branches. From this vantage I can see not one, but two elk; the big noisy bugle-boy and a smaller elk (probably a cow) holed up on the opposite side of the meadow. The bull is walking back and forth in the middle of the meadow.

I hear Russell’s estrus cow call farther down-meadow and I’m relieved. It keeps the wary bull interested and distracts him from his even warier cow. The big bull turns and walks towards Russ, then changes his mind and walks back towards the cow. I take a yardage measurement: 114 yards away, twice the distance I need for a clean shot. To make things worse, the cow turns and trots back to the trees with the big bull following behind. He’s about to exit the meadow altogether and in ten minutes my sight pins go dark.

Pointing my elk calls toward the forest behind me, I start making desperate cow calls. The bull pauses, looks in my direction, then slowly turns and begins zigzagging towards me. He’s in no hurry and keeps stopping to look around. When he stops, I let out a call: estrus, bugle, mew, bugle, mew, estrus—whatever keeps him coming. This intense game of cat and mouse is working! Half-way across the meadow he lowers his head and tears at the ground with his giant rack, ripping up grass and mud and tossing it in the air. Frustrated and ready to fight, he keeps coming steadily to my calls. He’s almost within bow range now. Kneeling behind the big pine tree, I’m frozen like a statue with one crazy eyeball peeking through the branches.

After nearly two hours of calling I’m once again focused and calm. Closer and closer the bull comes, staring right through me. I can’t range him; I can’t even move. His head goes down and my rangefinder goes up. It reads 40 yards exactly. But as I raise my bow ever so slightly, he catches the movement, jumps, and whirls away. The charade is up; I’m busted! Desperately I blast another cow call from my Hoochie-Mama. He stops and looks back. Unsure of what I am, he veers left and starts quartering away quickly. It’s now or never. I figure he’ll probably see me draw my bow, but it’s my only chance. The sight pins scroll over his ribs, 20, 30, 40, 50; 50 yards is about right. Through a little twelve-inch opening in the branches, my arrow is off, streaking through the growing darkness.

Shot location.
Shot location.

THUMP. A strange sound rings out and the elk takes off trotting through the meadow. I didn’t see where my arrow went, but it sounded like a hit. Immediately, I blow a couple shaky estrus calls. The bull slows down and glances back at me occasionally as he continues away. Did I miss? About eighty yards into the meadow the bull suddenly jumps to his right like he’s losing balance, takes two more steps and just tips over. A weird cloud of surrealism washes over me. When I see that he’s not getting up, I burst from my cover and run into the meadow yelling, “HE’S DOWN! HE’S DOWN!”

Russ yells back from across the meadow, “WHAT?”

“HE’S DOWN! I GOT HIM!”

Russ appears running through the meadow towards me. “WHERE?” he shouts.

“Right there in the middle of the meadow; that’s him,” I say, pointing to a light colored pile sticking up out of the grass.

We exchange a very excited high-five and begin poring over a myriad of questions, trying to make sense of the last two hours. As we approach the mighty beast, I’m still in a daze. Russ begins counting tines, “Five-by-six,” he says. I have to reach out and touch one of the massive antlers to convince myself it’s real—but it doesn’t work. This situation, the intensity, the timing, the sheer lethality of a perfectly placed shot—the whole event is unquantifiable. There’s no way to ground my thoughts and feelings in an impossible situation that I don’t even trust. I give Russ my camera for documentary reasons, like when you see a UFO or Sasquatch. It’s not until I sit upon the bull’s massive body and feel its warmth in the cold night air that I feel a connection with reality again.

My first bull elk.
My first bull elk.

The arrow hit just behind the last rib, angled perfectly through the vitals, and lodged in the opposite front shoulder just under the hide. An absolutely perfectly placed arrow at fifty yards adds even greater mystery to a perfect hunt that still perplexes me today. Admittedly, I am a decent shot, but under that kind of pressure, not to mention shooting through tree branches and low light, maybe I was just lucky. To my credit, I think my year-long practice paid off. Too many botched shots on the previous year’s deer hunt caused me to obsess over shot placement all year long. And in the process of refining my skills, archery evolved from a fun hobby-sport to a way of life.

As we quartered the animal out by headlamp, I mentioned to Russ that this hunt had happened on a razor’s edge of perfection. It couldn’t have happened any other way; there were just too many variables. For example, a week-and-a-half earlier I had taken a perfect, fifty-yard broadside shot at a deer and missed wildly, only to learn that my new broadheads flew erratically outside of thirty yards. Thus, I replaced them right before this hunt. On that same hunt, I put a stalk on a small bull and was ready to take a forty yard shot when the wind changed and blew the herd out. Had the wind been different just a week earlier, none of this would have happened.

Special thanks are in order to the following people who made this hunt possible: Mom and Dad for packing the meat off the mountain, Brent for letting me use all his fancy camping gear, and Russell for all the extra elk calling, water filtering, meat hanging, and BS’ing. Unlike deer hunting, elk hunting is a great opportunity to spend quality time with family and friends in the great outdoors.

Mom and Dad packing the elk out.
Mom and Dad packing the elk out.