The Trouble With Elk

    Things clipped quickly from there. Wayne called once, and the elk replied. Wayne figured the bull was holding his ground on a bench below us, and that he would tire of our chatter and leave if we didn't push him hard, so we ran down 100 more feet of vertical drop, making more noise than I thought prudent but not scaring the elk one whit. Wayne blasted again, and the elk came in.

    In retrospect, our setup was good but not good enough. Wayne, unarmed, was on the bull's level, facing across the slope. Jeff stood behind a tree to his right. George was behind Wayne, 25 yards to his left. I had only a camera, so I hunkered behind a log above the others.
    The elk came straight for Wayne. He was a 5-pointer with long tines like the bony fingers of a witch. Jeff had the shot, but he wasn't comfortable with the head-on angle and decided to hold until the elk turned, the sort of rational decision that marks an experienced hunter. At 30 yards out, the elk caught something—sound, smell, a glimpse of one of us—and paused, then slowly wheeled. As he turned broadside, I could hear Wayne whisper, "Shoot, shoot," but Jeff had a problem. Because he had set up behind a tree rather than in front of it, his view of the elk was now blocked. He had no shot, and the elk, tired of this petulant, whining bull that had challenged his turf, disappeared down the draw like a wispy fog.
    We were unable to call him back, despite Wayne 's best attempts, and we did not have enough time to follow him down. Jeff was disconsolate, although he had no reason to be. He had made a wise, difficult decision not to risk a frontal shot. Wayne was upset because he knew Jeff should have been in front of the tree, not behind it, yet in the excitement he had not said anything.
    The first chuckle was on us.
    Jeff's body brushing consoled us the next morning, at least. We agreed brushing down was strong medicine, better than a well sacrificed chicken. The plan for the day was to explore a draw across the creek from our tryst with the 5-point bull. Virgin country, we assumed, for no horse trails passed near it. We would walk from camp—three miles on the map. George, mindful of his chefly duties, chose to stay behind to cook a sumptuous dinner. Jeff, Wayne and I packed our gear and headed out.