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It was a very cold week in November 2022 when my son-in-law Shane decided we should head to the mountains in search of bull elk. Our hunting trip took us outside of Rocky Mountain House. We had just gotten a fresh snowfall and a cold snap kept the temperatures between -19 and -32 Celsius. The snow was about knee deep but was light and fluffy, so snowshoes weren’t needed.
Every morning we left with packed lunches before daylight and glassed a large valley for a nice bull. The bulls were scarce, but every morning we spotted cows which kept our hopes high.
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| The small band of wild horses. |
Our best opportunity came on an early evening stalk, but we ran out of daylight before we could get within shooting range. We made a plan to get into position before daylight the next morning. Anyone who’s hunted elk before knows the saying, “Here today, gone tomorrow.” Our small herd had left the valley overnight for greener pastures, crossing a river going out of the hunting zone.
I’ve always wondered why time flies by so quickly when I am hunting or fishing. It’s almost as if God is teasing us and before you know it, it’s back to work.
All week it had been cold and very cloudy, reminding us that winter had arrived. Only on our last day did we enjoy a cloudless day with abundant sunshine. Finally, I felt like taking off that heavy parka I’d been shouldering all week.
Shane spotted a smaller bull and decided to climb high to hopefully get a shot at him. My days of chasing elk uphill were long gone, so I decided to spend my last afternoon on a narrow pipeline. I picked my vantage point on top of a small hill where I could see in both directions. A small band of wild horses was feeding below me on some snow-covered alpine grass. They looked very healthy and paid me no mind, as they seemed to be enjoying sunshine.
Having hunted deer for over 50 years, I was accustomed to sitting on stands for days only to be surprised in a twinkling moment of time. I was eating my second sandwich when a flash of movement caught my eye at the far end of the pipeline. I dropped my sandwich and raised my binocular, as my heartbeat quickened. About 500 yards out I watched a monster buck working his way slowly down a steep hill. Quickly my hunting experience kicked in, as I assessed the situation. The wind was in my favour and as long as the buck stayed on the pipeline, I felt I had a good chance as I had a comfortable seat and a steady rest. I decided to wait patiently until the buck reached a small knoll about halfway between us.
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| Tim with Old Mossy. |
My Savage 6.5 Creedmore was sighted in at 3-inches high at 200 yards. I placed my binocular on top of my half-eaten sandwich and slowly turned my scope up to 9 power. My heart was seemingly beating out of my chest as I tried to control my breathing, not wanting to fog up the scope. You know, sometimes things just don’t go as planned. Usually my luck ends with a fickle wind of air blowing across my neck, but this time Lady Luck was on my side. “Old Mossy” got to the knoll and raised his head, looking directly at me. Safety off and trigger squeezed, my buck simply fell forward, bleeding crimson red on the white blanket of snow. A second round was chambered but not needed, as “Old Mossy” died on that knoll on a beautiful, sunny afternoon.
Shane’s rangefinder made the shot to be 305 yards, and my Hornady 125-grain bullet did its job. Though we weren’t successful at getting an elk, being able to hunt together in God’s wilderness was truly a great blessing.
Packing out “Old Mossy” ended in the moonlight back at the truck, revealing the sparkling snow-covered spruce trees. I felt as if it was Christmas, and no finer gift could I ever have received than the five days I spent in those mountains with a dear friend. ■
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