My dad and I had a spike only tags and Tyler and Corey had any bull tags this year. Dad's and mine was for the first bull season and theirs the second. Dad and I hunted together for the first time in 4 or 5 years and it was great. We both had a good feeling about a specific ridge and hunted it well. We saw around 40 elk in the bunch with 4 spikes in it and a few good branch bulls. We made a push and they sneaked out below us, through thick trees and escaped. It was the only elk we'd see for 3 days. We ended up taking the kids fishing at Morgan Lake, in the afternoons and had a blast catching fat, firm, fish upto 15 inches. They hit hard, fought deep and pulled some line. It was a blast watching the kids battle for keeps.
We found lots of fire wood to cut and decided the last day we were hunting (Saturday) that we'd make one last hunt in an area we hadn't hunted yet, then cut a load of wood. We piled off the top just as the fog lifted, the wind died, and the weather changed. We fought through heavy alder patches, across muddy, slippery slopes, and into the old burn. Dad spotted six bulls in a group, four ridges to the north. I thought one was a spike, but we never saw him again. The five we got good looks at were all branch bulls. One was a real toad, but there are only 50 branch bull tags for that unit and it opened the second season, so we were just enjoying watching them feed fast across the openings. While we watched I thought I heard a bull squeal to our south, around where we were headed. It was faint and I figured I was hearing things, until I heard it again. I looked to my right and a cow elk was 60-80 yards from us, feeding through the trees.
We sat back and smiled at our good luck. The wind was strong from them to us and we were well concealed behind some blowdown alpine fir. Five minutes of waiting paid off with a nice spike. I shot him through both lungs, missing major muscle, piling him up against a tree. Had he rolled, it would have been a long way to anything that would have stopped him. As it was, we weren't too far below some benches that ran around the mountain, slightly above the elevation our truck was at. Dad grabbed my rifle--he was so confident we'd get an elk he'd left his rifle at home and everything but binoculars and a range finder in the truck--and moved into a position to see another spike. When my bull went down, all the elk scattered, taking any other spikes with them; he only saw some cows and calves.
We took a few photos, dad headed back for his pack frame, I gutted, skinned and quartered the bull and we got him out before noon. We then headed down the road to a nice group of trees and cut a half cord of wood for the fireplace. We were a little too late getting home, or we'd have taken the last of the 6 kids fishing...........they said they'd wait for steelhead season for a special trip with dad and grandpa!
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