Sweet Redemption — Cutter Stabilizers

The sun’s rays begin to break through the trees, casting beams of golden light onto the forest floor. My father and I slowly walk along a trail meandering through the pines. Listening and looking into the vast forest as we advance, a flash of movement catches my eye in the distant trees. Reaching for dad’s shoulder as I open my bino harness, our feet freeze. Looking through the binoculars into the dense trees, I see her. A cow elk trots towards us. One by one they materialize, another cow, another cow, and a bull. I prepare my rangefinder and set my bow down, today is dad’s day.

Heading west from Denver, I grow weary. This year I would only have four days to chase elk due to my crazy work schedule and the recent explosion of Cutter Stabilizers. Exiting the city and pointing my truck towards the Colorado high country, the sun leads the way on the distant horizon. After arriving at my father’s house at 11:30pm, we caught up, talked and enjoyed each other’s company. We typically only see each other once or twice a year since his retirement move to a small rural town in western Colorado, so these September trips are a sacred tradition I always look forward to. 12:45am snuck up on us fast and we headed off to bed in preparation for the start of our elk hunt in the morning.

My father, John, is no stranger to elk country or elk hunting success. Having taken double digit elk with his bow, he knows how to get it done in September. One thing weighing on his mind however was the fact that he has not tasted that success in nine years. Be it the fact that he allowed me to shoot first, or a difficult hunting season, he was in a drought. I entered this hunt knowing that the goal was for him to end his streak, no matter the cost.

Heading out of town towards the mountains, we arrived at camp around 10am, got camp set up and I headed out while dad finished sorting out a few precarious issues we were having with the hot water heater in the camper. I knew that if I were to fill my tag, it needed to be early in the hunt, this was the perfect opportunity. As my feet hit the familiar trail headed towards an area we called the “elk hole” my pace slowed, my mind relaxed, and my body settled in to the decreased intensity demanded by the mountains. The animals have no curfew, no deadline, no schedule to adhere to except perhaps the sun rising and setting. I find solace in the serenity of the wild as I gradually find my place within it. Arriving at the last thick stand of timber separating myself from the elk hole, a small meadow surrounded by a heavily used elk bedding area, I examine the earth before cautiously placing my boot upon it. With each step synchronized with a gust of wind or a bird chirping, my progress is slow and silent. At the bottom edge of the elk hole, a down tree lies on it’s side, providing the perfect place to sit. Over the years I have sat here and observed game pass through the small meadow. A thick, bushy pine stands to my right and a tall spindly pine to my left providing the cover I need. Sitting calmly, peacefully, motionless, I am captivated by the silence of the midday wilderness. In the distance a sound echoes, piercing through the serenity, a bull’s bugle. My senses go on high alert, assessing, and formulating a plan. I bugle back, he responds with a bugle of his own, closer than the first. I follow up with a cow call and stand up to stomp my feet and break a few branches. One problem with my setup becomes glaringly apparent, the wind is swirling horribly. The meadow lies at the bottom of a small rise, perhaps twenty feet of elevation difference. This rise takes the prevailing west wind, sucks it down and sends it back up over the lip. The bull chuckles from just over the top, I come to full draw in anticipation. Then, just as my emotions skyrocket, they come careening back to earth and detonate into disappointment as I hear the bull thunder away through the thick timber. The wind had given me away. The rest of the afternoon proved uneventful as I sat and enjoyed the woods.

As daylight faded to twilight, I gathered my gear in preparation for the hike back to camp. The forest was mystically silent, so silent that my foot steps seemed to be deafening. Making my way along the trail, I hear the faint cracking of sticks in the wood line. I freeze to listen, a few moments and my ears pick up on the continued sounds of something moving towards me in the timber. A small corridor through the trees takes me into the thick wood line. I catch movement ahead, the gray light of the evening now prevailing over what sunlight remains. A cow elk passes through an opening at 29 yards, she stops to feed, her vitals covered by a tree. I take a step forward to attempt to get a shot, she quickly catches the movement, I freeze. My back foot is still up on it’s toes, my front foot wiggles to stabilize my body, fighting adrenaline and a narrow, awkward stance. I cannot seem to pull it together and my front leg wobbles uncontrollably. In my 18 years of bowhunting, no matter the animal in front of me, I ALWAYS get extremely excited. In this instance, a close encounter with a cow elk at last light resulted in my heart pounding, my knees shaking, and the cow elk trotting off without allowing a shot opportunity. Walking through the waining light, I return to earth, an enormous smile etched into my face. Two close encounters in the first seven hours of the hunt, I was one happy bowhunter.

After getting settled in at camp, catching up with dad, and going over the action from our first day on the mountain, we laid down to bed. After messing around with the hot water heater for a couple hours to no avail, my father went up the creek drainage behind camp and sat near a spring for the evening. His trail camera that had been there for a few weeks had caught elk there, but unfortunately that evening none showed up. Morning came quickly, the darkness still echoed over the wilderness and a billion stars shone their light onto us in the early hours.

Departing from camp as the sun began to turn the black night into a gray morning, we headed down the aspen trail. A supernatural feeling always overcomes me as we walk through the gray light of early morning surrounded by twelve foot tall aspens growing in unison on a vast mountainside. The trail is narrow, just wide enough for us to traverse through the wild, silently. Nearing a clear cut at the end of the trail, I reach forward for my father’s shoulder. A bull with two cows stand in the opening ahead, their golden tan fur appears dull and almost white in the early morning atmosphere. As they move up the hill, we advance to try and get a shot. I notice two more cows down the hill from us, leaving my bow on the ground behind me, I grab my range finder and prepare to give dad a yardage. One cow circles out in front of us headed uphill. She stops broadside, I range, 57. My father draws, settles and releases the arrow. Immediately I can tell something went wrong, his red lighted nock sails several feet to the left of the cow as she whirls and runs up the hill. Judging by the sound of the shot, his mechanical broadhead had opened in flight, creating a lopsided profile that forced the shot wide and low. The cow stood on the edge of the trees up the hill from us, I raced to grab my bow which was fifteen yards behind us at this point. Nocking an arrow I positioned my release as well as my rangefinder in my shooting hand, a trick I have practiced and grown confident in over the summer and earlier hunts. The cow never stopped walking and we eventually lost her in the trees. In the distance we hear the bull bugle, attempting to gather his two straggling cows. I bugles back with a small challenge. Immediately he answered from within the thick pines. We advanced, cow calling, bugling, and breaking branches to sound as if a bull had stolen his two cows. At one point, he chuckled from what sounded like forty to fifty yards ahead, but we never did see him. Nonetheless we continued in their direction until we came to a wall of pines with what appeared to be a meadow on the other side. Sticks cracked, we could hear grass being pulled from the earth and chewed. We had snuck in to point blank range of the elk! I nocked an arrow and crept forward. A flash of brown through the trees made me instantly stop, then a flash of black and white. My head dropped and my heart sank, cattle.

We regrouped, formulated a plan, and decided to make a large loop, coming up towards the elk hole via a heavily used elk trail. We had the wind in our faces and it was still very early in the day. As the sun begins to cast it’s rays more strongly, I catch movement ahead. Pulling out my binoculars, I see her. A cow elk coming towards us, with two more cows and a bull in tow! My father looks at me, expecting to see an arrow in my hand, only my bow was setting on the ground at my feet and my range finder was at the ready. The lead cow made her way along a trail, eventually cutting in front of us. The bull surged ahead, breaking through the thick timber, trying to breed the cow while trotting at full speed. Eventually she stops, and he walks up behind her into an opening. A small gap in the trees frames the bull’s vitals, 35, I whisper. My father draws, settles and shoots. The familiar thud of arrow hitting flesh says it all. The bull whirls, and the cows explode in all directions. Complete chaos ensues before silence prevails. Moments later we hear it, a loud crash, followed by the sound of the bull’s final breaths escaping him. Joy floods out of our souls as we share a victorious smile. No words are spoken, as our eyes convey the message perfectly.

We sit on a nearby log to assess and confirm what had just happened. 20 minutes later we head out to look for blood, and we certainly did not need to look very hard. The blood trail was more like a blood road, nonetheless we followed, inspected, and reviewed. Rounding a corner, we came upon dad’s bull. Less than fifty yards from where he shot. A clean, quick, ethical, and lethal shot provided a merciful death to the beautiful 5x5 bull. His enormous body lie against a log, antlers tangled in a bushy pine. We wrestled him into a position to take a couple photos before beginning the task of breaking him down and into game bags. Five hours later, we had eight full bags of deboned meat, the ultimate prize for any bowhunter.

The first load got the tenderloins and back straps back to camp, the second got four more bags of meat. As the shadows grew long, we sat at camp. Four bags remained in the woods a mile and a half away. Dad was beat, his hips were fatigued and he decided that it was best if he rest tonight and go in to get the remaining bags in the morning.

Feeling ambitious, I decided to go out one last time to get as much as I could so his efforts would be less tomorrow. Hitting the trail, I had 90 minutes of daylight. With only my meat frame on my back I was able to get to the kill site in under 20 minutes, a previously 45 minute trip. Upon arrival, I loaded two bags onto my frame and examined it. “Hmm, there sure seems to be a lot more room on there.” I thought. Just for fun, I decided to see if I could strap all four bags onto the frame, then decided, just for fun, to see how heavy it felt. Then, just for fun, I decided to see how far I could carry it. One foot in front of the other, resting as often as required, I trudged back to camp. Ascending the final rise, I could see the truck. I had done it, slow and steady wins the race. There is no doubt in my mind that my pack weighed more than 120 pounds, just ask my knees. Once I arrived, I slung the pack onto the ground outside the camper, then looked up at my smiling father. “How many were you able to get?” He asks. “All of them.” His eyes widen as a shocked “what!?” explodes from his mouth. Looking at that pack sitting on the ground, I share in his amazement. Going into this season, I had not prepared very well physically compared to years prior. In fact, I hadn’t really prepared at all. I knew that in order to be successful, it was going to be due to a tough mental attitude. Throughout that pack out I vividly remember saying “you just need to do it.” several times. Sometimes that is all it takes, a willingness to go beyond what you think you can do. The struggles of a successful pack out are what we cling to in the offseason, knowing that you put forth such effort certainly makes that organic meat so much more precious.

Throughout the course of this trip I knew that I would not fill my tag unless my father filled his first. The gift of knowledge that my father had bestowed upon me throughout the years is one that I will never be able to repay. Without his guidance and encouragement, I would not be the bowhunter I am today, and frankly, this company would likely not even exist. My fire and passion for archery and bowhunting burns so fiercely, so intensely, it drives me every day to work towards the possibility of living the lifestyle whenever I can. The two remaining days came and went without an opportunity to fill my tag, but what did occur still fills my heart with joy, gratitude, and happiness. I was able to spend time with my father in the wild places that fulfill our souls, side by side, we hiked and shared in the adventure of hunting public land. Sometimes simply sharing in another’s success is just as fulfilling as experiencing your own. A full freezer, and a renewed confidence are exuded through my dad’s mind, and if you ask me, my unfilled tag is a small price to pay for that fact.