On the opening weekend of archery elk season, the fourth stalk of the season began. The day, September third, of the year two thousand twenty three, began with a waning moon. Great intro!

I woke up with the sudden push on my shoulder, my dad whispering to me,. “Wake up. Get dressed.”

My feet slowly slid out of bed, touching the roughly woven rug below my bed pressing into the soles of my feet. I stared silently at the wall across from my bed, thinking if I stared any longer, I would be whisked into another dream along the trail. I longed to get back into the comfort of my bed, the heavy weight of sleep pressing onto my eyes and chest. My body ached to fall back into the comfort of my bed. 

I rose from the wooden frame of my bed, the screws and joints protested against my movement with a loud squeak. It was almost as if my bed wanted me to tuck back underneath the heavy covers. My muscles went into the same rhythm as the early morning before, leading to the short cushioned shoe bench below my window. I bent over, my back cracking as I reached for my dusty year-old boots. Soon, I was back in my hunting gear, Sitka shirt and pants clinging to my body. The clunk of my boots echoed on the wooden floorboards as I left the warmth of my room for the seeping coolness of the hallway. I could see into my parents’ room, where Mom was sleeping. I wish I was still sleeping, I thought to myself.

The end of the hallway eagerly greeted me with the light of the kitchen. The white light of the garage door spilled onto the floor and bled into the house. I turned to the left, and discovered breakfast after a quick hunt in the stocked five tier wooden pantry. 

When I turned back around, my dad was stepping into the house, ready to leave. “Do you have everything?” hHe asked, as he had the day before and would every morning that we would leave for hunting.

I nodded, filling up my water bottle from the filtered water dispenser of the fridge. It would barely last me the entire day. When I finished, the squelch of the lid closing onto the lid filled the silent house. My boots clunked through the house as I raced back to my room in the back of the house. 

My fingers fumbled around in my dark bedroom, searching for a rubber band, my sweatshirt, coat, and dark green baseball cap. When my search had finished and I had acquired everything I needed, I closed my door and turned the lights off in the house. I made my way to the garage door and closed it after assuring the family dog was inside. The messy garage had a miniscule path leading to the large machine motored door. I stepped out into the slight chill of a September morning, a slight breeze kissing my cheeks. 

I placed my acquired items underneath the white truck’s seat and returned to the garage to grab my bow case and backpack. When I came back out, two vehicles had arrived. From each, one man came out. From the Toyota Tacoma entered Mike, and from the White Dodge Minivan entered Scott. The two stocky men brought their packs and bows to load up into my dad’s truck. Soon followed Andrew in his Ford pickup truck. All three men were my dad’s friends and were seeking to harvest an elk this season.

Curt conversation followed as my dad closed the garage door and the five of us entered my dad’s work truck. The seats had pine needles threaded through the fabric and layers of dust covered the flooring pads of the truck. I squeezed into the middle, waiting for everyone to settle inside. Mike occupied the front seat. When he adjusted his seat, a click came from the movement of the passenger seat going forward. Scott and Andrew squeezed into the back with me, and my dad comfortably sat in front of the wheel. While in the back, I awkwardly pressed my knees together.

The roar of the truck’s engine soon followed and we were on the road, headed to the forest. The ride to the woods went smoothly, and daylight slowly filtered through the horizon as three quarters of an hour passed. 

When the truck turned onto the gravel road off of Hagg Lake, the cab shook. The tires grated the rocks into the ground, crushing the rocks into smaller pieces. The truck slowed to a lurching stop and Mike hopped out of the truck to open the gate. His keys rang against each other, and everyone waited for the groaning of the yellow rusty gate to open. Dad turned around, and looked at me with a smile. “Ready?”

I nodded, in a daze with sleep still heavy on my eyes. When Dad drove forward, the seatbelts all clicked. Mike hopped back inside the cab, the door slamming shut. And the drive began. The truck rattled as we drove along the mainline. Glassing clearcuts after clearcuts, and bugling time after time, we found nothing.

When the day felt like it would not be filled with stalking elk, nine o’clock struck and a reply came from the cow call of Dad. Everyone hustled out of the cab. I quickly zipped up my coat, the brisk morning air drafted in and made my bones chilled. 

Then, the cry of a bugle roared through the hills. The source came from a bugle tube resting inside Dad’s hands. Soon to follow was the response of the elk, all alone next to an old road. The plan was made, and everyone set out to their parts. Two hours later, that stalk ended, with a failed attempt at the four by five bull. I was now impatient to find another bull to get close to. 

By noon, we were back on the road with the truck rolling down the road. Eventually, we stopped at another clearcut. Mike, Andrew, Scott, and Dad all got out of the truck while I stayed, wishing and waiting to leave for the next clearcut. I felt bored, wanting to do something while the elk were hiding away from us.

When I thought the four guys were coming back to the truck, ready to leave, a shrill bugle sounded through the air. The echo running up to the truck. At first, I thought it had come from my dad. But it ran through the air again, coming from the left hillside. 

I sighed, and prepared myself for the long hike that would follow. Jumping out of the truck, I reached over the back of the truck, grabbing my backpack. The light but comforting weight of the bag on my back reminded me of all the other stalks that had taken place the year before. It reminded me of the thrill of the hunt. The patience. The planning. The whispers. The bugles and chuckles that vibrated your bones when you got close. 

My fingers grasped the handle of my bow, and I turned around, greeted by the ready pack of four other hunters. We made our way to the side of reprod, and began the stalk. Scott volunteered happily to stay on top and call. To the left of the truck was a massive rock base, red and yellow grass sprouting out of the side with twenty foot tall trees grazing on the top. We were walking straight to the rocky hillside, crawling over boulders that had gaps. They were waiting for my innocent feet to fall into, or an animal to crawl out and spook me. 

I paused at a fallen snag. I pushed away the branches, and hopped over the dead white crumbling tree. My foot snagged, but I caught myself. Shortly after, Mike took a tumble on the same snag. Everyone paused and looked back. He gave a thumbs up as he rose from the ground and stood up straight. 

Another bugle sounded, right next to the creek. All heads perked up. Dad gestured me forward, and I raced as quickly but stealthily as I could toward him. His finger pointed to the tree line that covered the creek. 

“He’s right there. About,” he paused, using his range finder. “Twenty yards from the rock to the tree line.”

I nodded, and made my way to the large rock slab. I heard rustling up to my left, tensing up. I knocked an arrow with a broadhead tip. It clicked, and I felt like the sound echoed across the entire forest. 

Eyes watching, I let out an annoyed sigh when I saw Andrew scampering on the large rock cliff. I waited a few minutes, waiting to hear the sound of rustling in the brush. 

Scott bugled from the truck, and the reply came from down the hill to my right. I silently groaned and sheathed my arrow into its quiver. Dad and Mike were already making their way down to the lower part of the creek. I followed in pursuit of the roused up bull. Andrew caught up with us, cutting across the creek and jumping ahead of me on the elk trail. 

I kept my pace, looking down at my feet. One step at a time. One step. One step. One step. My head shot up at the sound of an elk bugle. But I realized that it was just Scott from the top of the hill. 

Our party was soon at the edge of the short reprod unit, and then we plunged into the timber. Twigs and branches snapped in front of us and to the right. I imagined there being no trees and wondered if the elk were right next to us. 

We zigzagged back and forth through the timber. The soft green needles of  douglas firs brushed against my face. I put my arms up in front of my face as a snag went right into my face, bouncing back from Andrew in front of me. 

My feet paused as Dad stopped. I silenced my breathing, hearing the wind blowing around, playing with my ponytail and the tops of the trees. The wind was blowing from the elk, a relief. And we were moving again. Mike and Andrew branched off, Dad waiting for me. I caught up and we crouched down, listening for the elk again. The bull had gone silent when we had gotten closer. 

I gripped my bow, turning to Dad. “Where did they go?” They meant Mike and Andrew and the elk. 

“About twenty yards,.” Dad murmurs with his cow call in his mouth. He then pointed his hand down the hill and to the right. We went silent for a minute, then heard a snap and a crash at our five o'clock. A few seconds later a shout went up and into the air. “Hit!”

Dad quickly looked down to his watch and put on a stopwatch. As we crouched, I trailed off into my thoughts. Whoever shot the elk is lucky. I wish I had made the shot. If only I had been down next to the elk herd. If I had shot the other elk, we would be home by now. 

My trail of thoughts ended when Dad told me to head down the hillside with him to find Andrew or Mike. 

Through a few lines of trees, we found Andrew standing in a pocket without trees. One of his arrows were missing, meaning he had shot the bull. Lucky. “It was a spike, but the herd made its way down the hill,” he said out of breath. 

Dad and I both nodded, then the sunlight went through the small inch gaps in the tree canopy. The forest ground had a little shine on it and I walked over, bending down. 

“It went that way.” I say, forward. I pointed ahead of myself, where more brush and fallen snags lay. Dad and Andrew walked over. I started following the blood trail, massive patches painted the ground. 

“Hey,” a whistle came from Dad. I turned around, stopping. “We’re going down the hill. There’s an old road so we’ll end up on the spur road.”

I nod, leaving Andrew to follow the blood trail, and following Dad down the hill and to the old road. My chest heaved, greeting oxygen happily as we finally came to a halt at the gravel road. “We’re going to go up the road, see where the elk crossed the road.”

I nodded in agreement, following the gravel road along the unit with the creek running down it. The rocks crunched under our boots. Once we passed the intersection eighty yards from the old road, we stopped and turned back around. I sat down where we paused. Dad and I were next to the creek, where it ran underneath the ground in a culvert. I flopped down in the middle of the road. 

Dad dropped his pack on the ground. “There’s SNICKER bars in the big pocket.” I reached into the bag, opening it. Ah, the perfect protein bar. 

The crunch of gravel sounded from the road, where we had walked down to check. I turned around to see Mike walking down the road. He took off his pack when he reached the two of us. “I went up on the road after Andrew shot the spike. I was trying to find where the elk had gone.” He says, catching his breath. “I know they went down into the next unit, just not where they crossed over.”

“We checked, too.” Dad says as I munch away at the SNICKER bars in my hand. When I finished, I took a refreshing drink of water. I felt the cool water travel down my throat.

A few minutes later, Scott came down the hill, and walked towards us from the old road. “I almost blew out my reed with all those calls,” he chuckles as he reaches us. 

Dad checked his watch, looking down at me. “It's been about forty five minutes since Andrew shot the bull.”

“Do you know what he shot?” Mike asks. 

“He said it was a spike,” Dad says, then we walked down the direction of the road we had not checked, looking for elk tracks crossing the road. 

“Why are we checking if we already know Andrew has a bull?” I ask, Dad looking over to me from further down the road. 

“To see if the bull he shot crossed with the herd.” Dad answers, then points to a steep hill above the road. A dirt path went up, but the elk tracks went down, fresh grooves in the dark dirt. “And he most likely did not, unless the herd split.”

Then the four of us marched back up the hill to the old road. At the tree hidden entrance, there was yellow flagging tape and a pack and bow. 

“Was that there before?” Scott asks. 

“No,” Dad says. “I’ll go get the truck.”

Scott and I sat down on the side of the road, leaning our backs against the hill as we waited. Mike and Dad went up the hill and to the truck.

I twiddled my thumbs, waiting for the truck. I leaned back, closing my eyes for what felt like hours. Then I sat back up, grabbing a pine cone and pulling it apart. And then the next. And another. And a fourth one. 

My hands slapped against my thighs, and I sighed again for what felt like the six thousandth time. Then the roar of an engine finally came down the road. The white truck came down the road and turned around to back up to the old road. 

Dad and Mike hopped out and we got ready to pack out an elk. We followed along the yellow tape, the trail leading up and to the left of the road. The branches of the trees guarding the road caught on my clothes, but I punched through and into a clear area. I followed after the yellow tape, gasping for air. Up the hill a few yards and I arrived at the carcass of the bull. 

Andrew was already on the second hind leg, the red meat gleaming in the forest. The white fat on the meat looked like the stereotypical raw steak, just twenty times the size. The shearing of the hide from the meat seemed to shred the forest into silence. “I messed up the backstrap, but there isn’t much meat to cut off.” Andrew states. Apparently the spike was smaller than the average bull, but I could not comprehend how any elk could be bigger. The spike on the ground was as humongous and larger than a horse. 

Dad guided Andrew on how to slice the bull. “Just avoid the liver and stomach,.” Dad instructs., “It’s called the gutless method.” After a while, the elk was bagged up. Dad took his packing frame and heaved it onto his back with the help of Mike. Dad then helped Mike put the other pack containing the other hide and front leg. 

“Usually, you can barely fit a hidden quarter in a bag alone.” Scott says with surprise. 

We made our way back to the truck, and the legs were skinned and the hooves were broken off. The hide was thrown into a bush for the cougar or bear that would follow the smell later. 

When we finished, the five of us made our way to the Meating Place. Cute title

Today, I still apply the lessons learned while elk hunting to my daily life. Like the idea of, I might be waiting now, but I will be doing what I am waiting to for in a little bit. Or interesting facts learned in the conversation of the truck. Whether it be learning to hunt elk, to wake up and get out of bed in the morning, to be patient, or just to feel happy for those who succeed, September third taught me many lessons.