by T. Duren Jones

Happy Hunting

Despite my big-game hunter plans, wild beasties have plans of their own—like surviving.

Late last year, after a near decade-long break, I went elk hunting in Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. Or, as I call it, “hiking with a heavy gun, in the dead of winter.” And this means getting up at 3 am (to find a good hiding spot before dawn), trekking miles off-trail through the dark forest, in deep snow, braving freezing temperatures, and dealing with exercise-induced snot-sicles. I asked myself several times why I was doing this. The answer was simple.

​My grown son Cary had announced that he wanted to go hunting with me again—something we had not done together since he was much younger. How could I say no? We had started archery hunting when he was just a boy (with no success), and then transitioned to equally failing 

What I enjoy most about hunting is the camp time: the camaraderie, the retelling of glorious hunting achievements.

rifle hunting. This was great father-son time regardless of whether we “bagged” a deer or elk. Time for me to be out in the wilderness (any excuse), and to spend time with Cary. My son-in-law, Joe, an experienced hunter from Georgia, also joined us, along with two other friends.

I don’t feel I have to kill to have a good time hunting. This should be good news to local police and the FBI. Although, it would be nice to sometime swap stories of deer or elk hunting successes around the campfire with other real hunters. My “almost-coulda-shoulda-just-missed” contributions are just not the same as the manly, dramatic, outdoorsman account of a single 500-yard shot, with a .300 Win Mag, that dropped a trophy-sized bull, having tracked it all day, on mountain cliffs, at 12,000 feet, in a blizzard, then holding its still-beating heart up in the air, to a warrior’s whoop and holler.

I’m not even sure I can call myself a hunter, having never had success. Although, by definition, I guess, I was out hunting for something. So, maybe. This year would be different. I would get up earlier, work harder, hike farther, find more evidence and game trails, be smarter, use more stealth, and hope to get lucky. I was committed to victory this time. Besides, with the expense of a trip like this, and the time away from the household, my wife, Diane, had said, “Don’t even think about coming home without freezer meat.” No pressure there.

Despite my big-game hunter plans, wild beasties have plans of their own—like surviving. In the summer, hiking the Colorado Trail, or climbing to the summit of peaks, I always see deer and elk out casually grazing, seemingly without a care in the world. They sometimes even come into mountain towns like Estes Park or Evergreen to shop with the tourists and picnic in public parks. On the opening day of hunting season, however, game has the uncanny ability to just disappear. If I didn’t see occasional tracks in the snow, I’d assume that the elk were actually on a beach in Florida, sitting in lounge chairs, antlers protruding through straw hats, sipping drinks with little umbrellas in them, and giggling. 

There are a lot of places to hide in the wilderness, and a lot of land in which to do it. If you compared the size of our huge hunting unit (approved section in state by drawing and permit tag) to a card table, the whole of the area we could hope to cover would have been about the size of a dime. And this is very rugged country.

The elk have every advantage over us. They can they hear, see, and smell us at great distances, and they are powerfully built for quick uphill bolts, with hooves the right shape for grip and quiet landing, even leaping over fallen trees. It seems like by the time you see an elk—or, more to the point, it sees you—it will have bounded through dense forests, crossed many canyons and be miles away. I shouldn’t feel too bad: an experienced elk hunter’s success rate is only about one every eight years.

But I don’t measure success as some do. I am in the outdoors—my favorite place to be—by myself, or with others. I love the adventure, trying to think like game, the sound of the crunch of fresh snow under foot, and the feeling of being at the edge of getting lost, only to discover that you know your way back. I love the tactical planning with my hunting buddies for the day. And for me, the hunt is as much about the scenic photo ops as it is about finding elk. It is hard to describe the pleasure of sitting on a log deep in the forest, all by myself, with no breeze, and with snow gently falling onto already heavy-laden pine branches, in absolute silence (except for the tinnitus ringing in my ears).

Beyond that, what I enjoy most about hunting is the camp time: the camaraderie, the retelling of glorious hunting achievements or epic fails, the laughter, the glow of the campfire, the canopy of stars overhead, the delicious camp food prepared in advance by our wives, the late night poker games in the warm camper, the strategizing over topo maps, the sensation of climbing into a warm sleeping bag completely exhausted, the making of lifetime memories between a dad and a son (and son-in-law).

Nobody killed anything this hunt, but we had a killer of a good time.

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