Blues, Ruffs, and the Elkhorn Mountains: Part I

It was now just over a week ago that I wrote in anticipation of the bird season opener and all the promise that it held. The promise of a new season and new challenges; a chance to seek out new species, new landscapes, and begin what will ultimately be the little brown dog’s second full season putting his nose to good use. And as I lie back in my chair today I can only smile as I have birds in the cooler and some of my most memorable hunting memories to date.

Heading out on Saturday morning I reflected on the great many moments I could recall being out in the field: shooting my first bird with James in the waning evening hours of a January day; the first bird Farley ever tackled; the first double I ever shot, amazed and elated at the scene; and watching Farley track down a bird almost 100 meters away. Those are memories you can’t replace or pay for. And this weekend I am excited to say that I added bagging my first blue grouse, shooting my first ruffed grouse, and subsequently bring home my first limit of birds to that list. A pair of days that has had me smiling from morning till night.

When I arrived along the Elkhorn Crest Trail on the opening morning I could feel a cool breeze in the air. High elevations and the early dawn sunshine had me restless with anticipation. I was there to seek out a bird I had only had passing glimpses of but never before brought home. A bird that was there in an instant and gone the next. But now, with the dog in tow I entered into this game of cat and mouse with a new outlook.

The hike began by working my way down the trail and eventually off onto the rocky cliffs above, scrambling my way up the mountainside. I had decided early on that this would be a day to test my legs, work them as they had been worked in the past; remembering to “push through the obstruction”. I made my way up the gravel embankment and was soon on my way, off with the anticipation of my first encounter.

A little unsure of where to find these birds I had only my memory to work off of; thinking back to places I had seen them and trying to recall the landscapes. But here it was different. On these ridges the cliffs and wilderness were vast, the mountains bare. Looking out there was forest and valley as far as the eye could see. I had so much country to choose from and not really knowing where to start I just started, well, hiking. Knowing that, as has become a bit of a motto for the Haines Hunters, if I could just cover ground then good things would happen, and happen they did.

Working the slopes I began encountering clusters of greenery and stepping into a thicker patch of firs and spruces the moment I had been waiting for arrived. A grouse, starting up like a two-stroke engine, burst out of the trees in a flash, down the mountain and out of sight before I could blink. It happened so quickly I barely had time to comprehend what was happening but even before it was over I was quickly evaluating the scene. Looking around for clues, figuring out what had just transpired and working to see how I could improve my odds at the onset of our next engagement. And so, I got to work.

When I first started chasing birds James taught me one of the most important lessons in my young hunting life; a lesson that in my years of traveling has now proved invaluable. He taught me to not simply accept that I had just happened upon a bird, but to ask myself, “why?”, “why was the bird here and not over there”? He instilled in me early on that it was not random chance to find a bird sitting here or there but rather there must be something in particular, a micro-habitat of sorts that brought that bird to that spot. And that’s not to imply that every place you flush up a bird will subsequently reveal some absolute fact about their preferred place on the landscape, but that through many encounters and many flush sites, you can begin to put the pieces together and find a theme or pattern as to a birds whereabouts. As such, satisfied with some sound logic, that’s what I’ve done in the past and continue to do until this day. As it turns out, it can be quite effective.

What I found next to this flush site were small berry bushes, a wealth of short fir and spruce trees, ranging from two to six feet, and spots where shade was abundant. I began using this information to refine my search and bouncing from patch to patch I was not only covering ground with more purpose but with a heightened awareness of what might be coming out. And I also began to position myself differently. One of the reasons I had not even had a shot at the first grouse was because I was uphill of the bird. Flying away from me and using the surrounding vegetation cover to his advantage, the fight was over before it had even begun.

So, with my newly found knowledge I approached the game from an entirely different angle. I worked patch to patch, on the downhill side, and let the dog do the thicket searching; sending him uphill to push through the trees, hoping his nose would once again realize where we were and what we were doing. However, I must admit, it’s been a year since we chased birds and when we started the day I think it was safe to say that the dog was only after squirrels. Either way, having him run into the trees could only help. And help he did.

After travelling for several hours, on difficult terrain with little to no stability upon the gravel mountain side, I saw the dog circle into a small patch of trees and soon heard the sound I had been waiting for again; the sound of the engine starting, roaring to life. Right above me, there he was, flying with speed and power beyond belief but this time, I was prepared. I took my first shot at less than 10 yards, miss. The bird flew right over my head and a second shot rang out, miss. Finally, with the bird sailing off in the distance, I took a third, final shot and the bird dropped, falling out of the sky and down onto the hillside. As I watched Farley run down the slope to the still fluttering bird, I could feel my cheeks tighten and a sense of pride wash over my body. I hadn’t done it; we had, as a team. It was our first blue grouse, and with feathers clogging up the little dog’s mouth, I could tell we were both blissful with the season’s return.

Looking over bird I couldn’t help but admire the size, feathers, and feet. It was a big male, with bright eye combs, and the colors reminded me so much of the other grouse I have had the privilege of seeing up close. And the weight was incredible. Never before in my life had I put a single bird into my bag and felt the weight change so significantly. It’s the weight that causes you to smirk. The weight that you know signifies all the hard work you have put in for the day. And it’s the weight that lets you know you aren’t going home empty handed.

After walking for another hour or so I returned to my truck satisfied and to the pleasant sight of two mountain goats hanging out on an adjacent hillock. A sure fire way to cap off a great day. As I sat and cleaned my bird I gave the now ceremonious heart to Farley, a sign of appreciation for all his hard work, and then put the carcass in my cooler. The day was over, my hands smelled of birds, and I was on top of the world, both literally and figuratively.

The Arrival of Fall: Elk and Blue Grouse

With the shimmering orange of an eastern Oregon sunrise over the Wallowa Mountains, this morning marks the official opening of the archery season. It has taken a little over 11 months to get here but the time has come to go out in search of elk and ultimately, success. And, with hours put in next to my trailer, the lone arrow I have left is flying true and any worries about missing my mark are past. But there is something else driving me today, something besides chasing elk that has me up at night. It’s September 1^st, the Saturday that is but a week away, and the day that marks the beginning of yet another season. It the opener for forest grouse and blue grouse in particular, are most definitely on my mind.

For most people scanning the woods this September their sole focus will be on elk. They will search high and low for those flecks of brown breaching the timber lines and listen for the thunderous crack of a branch breaking in the distance. It will heighten their senses and drive them deeper and deeper into the darkness of the forest. But while most will put all their energy towards this task, I will be walking in the back, scanning the trees with equal vigor. I will be searching for a bird that few see and every fewer bring home. A bird that is not only elusive but quick to disappear once discovered. Not just any bird, but a grouse.

Instead of looking for shades of brown I will search for hues of dark blue and black, lurking in the shadows of firs and pines; waiting for the slight movement that will give them away right before the crash of needles and the thrust of their bodies downhill. It is their moment of vulnerability and a window that is hard to take advantage of. It is a moment when the birds and their secretive homes will be exposed.

For many, including myself, the archery season provides its own unique challenges while seeking out grouse. There will surely be a point during the next month that I leave my bow behind and head out with my 870 to spend an afternoon pushing along ridgelines however, for the most part I will be confronting these birds with only my bow and that means an extra level of care must be taken to bring them down. I have now heard too many stories over the past two years that would suggest if you’re going to take down a grouse you’d better hit it in the head or shoulder, otherwise you can kiss the grouse, and your arrow, goodbye; flying and fluttering a thousand feet below you in a matter of seconds. It will take precise and accurate shots, knowing that your second chance will not come. Oh how I welcome the challenge.

I think I revel in the task not simply because it will test my skill with the bow but moreover, it is because I have such immense respect for the birds, that the challenge is that much more inviting. They are fast, cunning, solid, and live high up in surrounding mountains. A task that seems better suited for mountain goats and well aged bull elk. But they make their living on the rocks and under the trees, the chukar of the forest if you will. And it is because of their hearty nature that I am driven to chase them and seek out success. It is because they pose such a formidable front and can fly past you in the blink of an eye that I feel myself almost drawn to them. It’s a little crazy, but a lot of fun.

So, while today marks a day for elk, it is now under a week until blue grouse will be fair game as well. It will undoubtedly make the trips into the woods twice as exciting and with every flicker of a branch, every brush of a leaf, I will look around for those shades of brown, blue, and black. I will lock onto them with ever vigilant eyes and pull my bow back. Elk or blue grouse, either way, it will be my first. What more could anyone ask for?

Pushing Beyond the Pain: Taking on the Beast

The pains that we will endure during these upcoming months will without doubt be the most enjoyable pains we have ever experienced. They will be the pains associated with mountain climbing, elk watching, dog following, and early alarms. We are drawn to the pain like a bug to a midnight lantern. It’s calling to us like a beacon in the night, so very close and pushing us so very hard to reach out. However, there will be moments when we find ourselves weak and weary from the day’s events, forced to lean on a large rock and dream of a warm shower. But those are the moments that we must fight through, overcome, triumph over, because in the end, it will be the worst pains that lead to the greatest successes. And isn’t that one of the goals when the season begins? Success?

Hunting provides us with an unparalleled outlet. It’s a chance to prove that we can still head out in the blackness of a cold fall morning and make something of ourselves. Prove to ourselves that we are not some pampered race that only survives within the confines of our man-made dwellings but that are still our ancestors offspring. Prove that while we may choose a life that has many advantages, we can still get down to the raw basics of human instincts and bring home some well earned meat.

There is no denying that we have been given modern rifles, compound bows, and state of the art shotshells, but we must still go out and seek our prey; seek the prize and at the same time test ourselves. There are only so many roads out there and for the many hunters like James and I, which put great value on a trip through the backcountry, your endurance will be pushed to limit. You will climb mountains that seem to touch the sky, walk through snow with water logged boots, the feeling in your toes gone hours before. Your eyes will wander when not a single animal has been seen all day, but we will not stop. And by pressing on, moving forward, we will test the capabilities of not only the human body, but the human mind.

With the archery season less than two weeks away I feel that I have much to do to prepare. My shooting aside, which has unfortunately gone AWOL (not fun by the way), I know that besides hitting my mark, I must first track down the elk that I seek, and in this country, that is no small task. There are rocky ridges to climb, lingering summer temperatures to deal with, and legs to be tested. Ever since early summer I have been forced to put any long hiking aside to deal with some personal issues in my life. Ones that have kept me away from the hills and mountains that in the past have molded my legs into steel and expanded my lungs to take on the challenge. But since our spring bear season my life has been turned upside down and I have not done the things I need to cover the ground I want. However, that does not mean I will not cover it all the same.

For myself, and everyone out there, endurance and pain are not simply physical, they are a state of mind. William James is quoted as saying, “Beyond the very extreme of fatigue and distress, we may find amounts of ease and power we never dreamed ourselves to own; sources of strength never taxed at all because we never push through the obstruction”. In this he implies that we must only tackle our minds to experience our true potential, the true potential of our bodies. We are so often derailed from where we want to go or what we want to accomplish because we simply can’t get past the mental hurdle. We feel the pain and the fear begins to set in. It takes over like a cancer, infecting your mind and radiating pain to all your extremities. And that is when the decision has to be made. You can either give in to the pain, or fight it, break through, and take yourself beyond your known limits. And that is not to imply you need to be some superhuman, or that by doing so you will tackle Mt. Everest, but when you begin to take on the things you fear most, like pain, you begin to tackle yourself and your limits. From there, the possibilities, and distances you can cover, are endless.

An excerpt that has inspired me and subsequently this post comes from the book, “Born to Run” by Christopher McDougall, which reads:

Strictly by accident, Scott (Jurek) stumbled upon the most advanced weapon in the ultrarunner’s (or in our case, hunter’s) arsenal: instead of cringing from fatigue, you embrace it. You refuse to let it go. You get to know it so well, you’re not afraid of it anymore. Lisa Smith-Batchen, the amazingly sunny and pixie-tailed ultrarunner from Idaho who trained through blizzards to win a six-day race in the Sahara, talks about the exhaustion as if it’s a playful pet. “I love the Beast”, she says. “I actually look forward to the Beast showing up, because every time he does, I handle him better. I get him more under control.” Once the Beast arrives, Lisa knows what she has to deal with and can get down to work. And isn’t that the reason she’s running through the desert in the first place – to put her training to work? To have a friendly little tussle with the Beast and show it who’s boss? You can’t hate the Beast and expect to beat it; the only way to truly conquer something, as every great philosopher and geneticist will tell you, is to love it.

I couldn’t have said it better myself. I head into this season unprepared but hold tight with the knowledge that when the burning begins and the pain starts to present itself, I will not let it defeat me. I will not let it stand between me and the animal I seek. There is too much at stake and I have been there before. The time is here.

 Now, who’s ready for the fall?

Boys to Men: Little Changes As We Grow Old

A fish, a fish, what a wonderful fish,

Bringing you home is all that I wish,

Where do you hide I surely must know,

To find you beneath I must search through the flow,

Your red and yellows and purples and blues,

Are only a spectrum of your beautiful hue,

I cast my line and begin to wait,

The basket I carry will be your fate,

But try as I may and try as I might,

Elusive you are and further my plight,

A fish, a fish, what a wonderful fish,

Bringing you home is all that I wish.

Coast to Coast and Back Again

As I took to the open road last month I began a journey that was long overdue. It was a journey that I had taken in my youth and one that I barely remember but will never forget. Now, a little bit wiser and a little bit older, I began that journey again and, with a new outlook, tried to fully immerse myself in the experience. It was on this journey that I would delve into the inner workings on our country and peel back its many layers. It was a chance to discover America, a chance to learn about it hunters.

I made my maiden voyage across the country when I was 13 and it was the first time I had ever seen the world outside the northeast. Back then I was almost unaware of where I was going or what I was doing. It seemed only natural that a family should want to explore the country they lived in. But now, just shy of 30 and having lived out west for nearly three years, I began this trip again, with a new perspective; the perspective of growing up in the east, traveling the west, and settling down in Oregon. The first time I crossed the country I saw many landscapes, people, and places, but on this trip, I “saw” the landscapes, people, and places. And they were beautiful.

My destination was New England, the unique region I called home for the bulk of my early life. It was the place I lived and the place I love. It’s where I met many great friends and went to university. It is a place I will forever hold dear and returning after so many years was a little overwhelming, but wonderful. Even now I smile thinking about it. Of course, as I sit here today I find it hard not to write and reflect on the journey I took with a most sentimental viewpoint, but I must focus, and remember that this is a hunting blog and that if I care to write about my “journey”, I best find myself another outlet.

Sentiments aside, what I can reflect on is what was constantly going through my mind as I made the crossing and that was the incredible diversity of habitats that define our states. The myriad of wooded pockets, wet meadows, dry grasslands, and massive hardwood forests that make up this country are truly spectacular. To see each of them and imagine the hunters that disappear into their clutches provided me with endless entertainment throughout the trip. The places encouraged me to take photos, not to be framed or heralded as some great landscape photographs, but rather to remind me of what I had seen and where I had been.

When I entered Montana I thought of all the places you could find (or lose) yourself; one moment you could be in the flats, grasses as far as the eye could see. The next, running along a river bottom, looking at perhaps some of the best fly fishing one could ever ask for. Moving up you could find yourself in snow covered mountains chasing elk and then in an instant, back down in rolling fields pushing you dog after sharp-tailed grouse.

The South Dakota grasslands spread a glowing yellow as far as the eye could see. Minnesota’s cornfields and waterways had me dreaming of mallards. Wisconsin wetlands and dense vegetation made me feel as if I were in some exotic land and Pennsylvania immediately reminded me of why I love the east so much with hardwoods on a goliath scale. New England (CT, RI, MA, VT, NH, ME) was everything I remembered with the ocean breeze drifting into the diverse forests.

As I returned west I crossed the Mississippi River, thinking of all the men whose blood, sweat, and tears have made it what it is today. Nebraska’s landscape had me dreaming of upland birds and Wyoming was almost synonymous with antelope. Idaho’s canyons and sagebrush brought me back to what I love and as I crested the hills into Oregon, the Elkhorn Mountains rose above the clouds and reminded me of why I love living where I do today.

Driving across I kept thinking to myself, there is some guy or gal out there that knows this particular spot like the back of their hand. An area that others have sworn off as no good or worthless may likely be a treasure for another. I imagine some old fellow laughing on his rocking chair, smoking his pipe, and telling his grandchildren stories of the most mythical kind. But he would not be exaggerating and his in depth of knowledge would soon be passed down for generations to come; knowledge that only comes through years of experience and countless days in the backwoods.

It is these unique landscapes that make the effort to perfect your hunting abilities impossible. It’s like trying to find the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. You may often in your life be very close, believing you know where the end is, but when you push forward the colors will disappear and you will have to start again. Really, it’s what makes it all the better.

As for the place we live, we keep pursuing that rainbow. We keep working and working to get better and better and learn the landscape with our eyes closed. I suppose that is one of the main reasons we all don’t like moving so much. Perhaps it is simply for the fact that you get to know a place and you get comfortable. You get to know the hills, the tree lines, the peaks. You get to know the pockets of sagebrush, the best bunchgrass spots and when we are forced to move we are forced to ponder how we will learn a new area. But that is perhaps what makes hunting and this country so great. You can grow up your whole life and hunt in a given region but by moving, you may be right back on your ass at square one. However, using the skills and knowledge you have acquired through the years you can put your mind and body to work again and begin anew, discovering new places and new styles of hunting. Is there any better or more fitting challenge for the most avid of hunters?

The challenges out there are many. We will never stop growing and hunting, in the end, is all about growth. We learn to do this or that, stop here or push by there. We learn to listen to the woods, read the grass, feel the rivers. And we do these things so that we can progress as hunters. So that when we do cross state lines to hunt we bring with us our most sophisticated weapon, our brain. We walk into the new landscape and understand that while we may be unsure of the physical challenges, we know that mentally, we are ready for the test. We are ready to be challenged. We are ready to adapt. Ready to grow.

Fishing the Wallowa Mountains: Eagle Creek

As I sit here in my trailer sweltering in the 90 plus degree heat I find it endlessly fascinating that there is still snow up in the surrounding mountains, clinging to the sides of sheer cliffs, holding on for dear life. The masses are like the guards of an ancient castle, under siege from the bright star above, yet determined to hold their ground. But even these formidable creatures of ice, worthy as they are, are finally submitting to the July heat. And while there are a few areas where the snow will survive the coming months, much will be melted down to liquid form and feed the beautiful rivers below.

To find a river around here you need only take a short drive. The Grande Ronde and Powder Rivers define the valleys that we call home. To our northeast you have the Wallowa, Minam, and Lostine Rivers and to our east, the Imnaha; all fostered and fed by snow melt from the Eagle Cap Wilderness within the Wallowa Mountains. And then there are the creeks: Wolf, Sand, Rock, Balm, Goose, Catherine, Elk, Eagle, Antelope, Muddy, Pilcher, Big, and so on, and so forth. Some are bigger than others, running hard through the summer months with the rest soon to be empty, dried out with only cow tracks defining their beds. But at the crux of it all, what we can appreciate most is that while we may live in a rather arid valley, the mountains that surround us provide us with much needed relief; not only in our need for water to simply survive, but also, and perhaps more importantly, to quench the desire to rest our flies in a pocket of cool mountain river water. It is something we should all aspire to be doing whenever we have the chance.

Aspiring as I was, this past week I got a tip from a local biologist that Eagle Creek, well known to most of us here in Baker Valley, might provide a measure of relief from the higher running main rivers. As such, I was “forced”,quite literally, to take my own advice and with our friend Laci in tow the decision was made to head up to the mountains. It is a trip that always brings a smile to face and after having had some long nights and trouble sleeping, a day fishing in the woods could only do the body good.

With the dogs loaded up we hit the road and were soon headed out of town. The day was perfectly suited for fishing and before I could comment on the splendor of the summer woods, we came up alongside Eagle Creek, not simply running, but gushing at a furious pace. White-capped rapids pushed across boulders and to imagine catching a fish in those waters would to push your imagination to its limits. But knowing there was only one direction to travel, upstream, where the main creek originates from several smaller tributaries, we pressed on.

We would eventually make our way to a roadblock and after scooting around the barrier we followed along a somewhat sketchy, washed out roadway until we ultimately arrived at the primary river fork. At this confluence the main drainage and East Eagle Creek waters were substantially less violent than that of the downstream waters and offered us a ray of hope. So we pushed on, headed up the western fork, and after travelling a few more miles still we arrived at West Eagle Meadow and parked the truck down down old dirt two track. As we began to unpack our gear the creek, just beyond the neighboring tree line, looked primed for fishing.

As James and I put our rods together, the dogs, Farley and Sweet Pea, the latter being Laci’s little black and white canine, were off causing trouble and the scene was alive with movement. Upon walking down to the creek in what seemed like mere seconds it was to my infinite delight that James had already caught a rainbow trout; it would also appear to have been his first cast of the day. Surprised, I could only smile and rush down to join him. And it was at this point that Laci, initially professing that she would take no part in the day’s activities except to read and enjoy the forest, was soon taking a rod in her hand an receiving a short lesson from James (perhaps it was James catching that fish, or perhaps it was my subtle mentioning that to appear in this blog, one had to take part in the offerings of the afternoon). And so, scampering up and down the water’s edge, we were soon fishing under the sun.

For me, they day’s delights were three fold. First, just being in the woods with good friends has always been a cure for any ailment and as insomnia had slowly been taking over my life the past few days, there was no better place to clear the mind. Secondly, Farley, who has seemed to be adjusting better and better to water with each trip out, could be seen from across the meadow running across downed logs, swimming through the shallows, and seemingly willing to follow me wherever I wished to go. And finally, we were in a place where the possibility of catching trout, which had already been demonstrated by James, had me more excited than ever.

As time would pass it would appear that James could not only demonstrate how to catch fish himself, but that he could teach others to do it as well. It wasn’t long before I heard Laci, having only limited experience with fly fishing, shouting across the creek with the joy of a child on Christmas, pulling in her first trout of the day. And once she had reeled the fish in that vocalized joy was immediately transferred into a giant smile, ear to ear, and was without question a moment of pure bliss. But as quickly as I saw her release the fish back into the water I knew I would have to get back at it, because now it was a fact and no doubt well known that I was the only one of the day without a fish!

So I ventured out on my own and began trudging out into the creek to fish the backwater, paint-like swirls forming in the shadows. It was on this walk that I realized I had been getting better and better at tying knots and changing flies and what only a few weeks ago had me slightly frustrated was now being done with ease and efficiency. It was another nod to our philosophy which is simply that if you just put yourself out there, in the woods or on the water, you will eventually see results. And eventually, on that day, I had results and snagged a beautiful brook trout (or some hybrid thereof) to my extreme pleasure.

The fish, only six to seven inches or so, exhibited beautiful colors, none more so than the deep, vibrant red of the gills. It was almost too radiant for nature but to see not only their color but to think about their function was wonderful. The body was a mix of dark greens, yellows, silvers, reds, and white. Orange spots decorated the sides with illuminated halos marking each one. To realize that I had just pulled this from the waters of a mountain creek only served to please me more. And after giving the dog a sniff I placed the fish back in the river and off it went, back to the depths of the pool from which it came.

The rest of the day would bring another fish for James and Laci both and we would end up spending hours on the small meadow. We cooled off on the sandy shores, watched Farley swim across the river (a little hesitantly now after making a jump in earlier to reach me and nearly getting swept under a huge log; me diving in to save him), listened to the wind rush over leaves and grass, and watched the water flow by. The day, which had started out with hope and promise, had fulfilled any expectations we might have had and returning home to a setting sun we left the forest behind, knowing that it would only be a matter of time before we returned, the rivers calming down, and the fishing only getting better.

Countdown to Fall and Our Big Game Seasons

Waiting in anticipation I know the results will soon be here. I have spent my time meticulously going through the big game regulations, choosing my hunt units and playing the odds. It’s the time of year when you find out where you will be hunting and how many chances you will have to test yourself during the approaching fall and winter months. Soon enough a chill returns to the air and animals once again become slaves to their instinctual needs; a time when we return to our humble roots.

The lore and wonder that follows big game hunting cannot be denied. It is one of the most iconic forms of the sport and takes an entirely different frame of mind to involve yourself in. It’s not a game for the weak of heart or those looking for a gingerly walk through the woods. It takes a mindset, strong and determined, that will overcome the multitude of odds stacked against you and then, above all, the mental strength to take a life. Life of course, being something we can all appreciate.

At this point in my life I have yet to be successful on any big game hunt I have been a part of. I have not had that opportunity, that moment when everything comes together and you place the animal in your peep sight or behind the crosshair of your scope. But as I walked away from the post office a few weeks ago, I realized that this year I would have the opportunity to not only hunt once or twice for elk and deer but a total of three times. Three times that I will put myself in the woods, challenge myself to push hard and work smart, and ultimately try take an animal.

Moving into this year I have an advantage, now having lived in Oregon for nearly two years the surrounding hunt units and overall country are becoming much more familiar to me. I have a starting point for most every hunt and this go around will be very different. James and I will head up with our bows into the Elkhorn Mountains and chase bull elk starting at the end of August. We will put our minds together to explore the Walla Walla unit for spike elk come late October. And with James’s help, we will travel to the Mt. Emily unit in search of deer, probably my best chance of the year to bring home an animal and put meat in my freezer (the same unit Mike and James both shot their deer last year). I can’t wait for that season to begin.

As such, with all these opportunities I am inevitably faced with the reality that to put meat in my freezer, to be successful, I must take the life of another. It is only at this point in my life I believe I am ready to do so, however, that wasn’t always the case. There was a time, not too long ago, that while I wanted to get into hunting so badly, I struggled with the mental aspect of the endeavor. Never before was I faced with questions of life and death and never before had I contemplated how the moment would affect me. But I have contemplated it now. I have considered the mental aspect. And I now know I am ready.

When I look around at those who grew up out west I am sure that many of them would think it silly to have such conflict running through my head. Not that they do not respect these animals and what taking one means, but rather, many of them grew up with this culture. Grew up with mom and dad bring home deer and elk from the time they were old enough to reach up on the table. So for them, as kids, they were exposed to and saw hunting not as something to be learned later in life, but a way of life, right from the beginning. And to see this as I’ve moved around and gotten to know the country has always fascinated me.

For the others of us, growing up in more urban areas of the east coast, hunting was accepted and practiced, but to a much lesser degree than out west. Growing up in New England myself, hunting was always prevalent, not so much in the southern regions but more so in the backwoods of New Hampshire and Maine; a place of mystery and wonder and the region where I first heard my “call to the wild” if you will. And so, as I sit here today I recognize that I have learned much about the western culture, this hunting culture, and only now having a firm grasp on and deeper understanding of these cultures, do I feel I am ready to take the next step.

I think back to last year and while I would have loved to have brought an animal home, perhaps the learning experience did me more good than I could have ever imagined. I learned of the struggles one must go through to reach these animals and James taught me patience and how to push myself harder and farther than I thought possible. And coming close to several animals, getting on your hands and knees, nose in the ground, you come to want it that much more.

I told James a while back that I am most definitely ready to put an elk down the center of my peep sight. The time and practice has been put in and now the only thing left to do is pull back on the release and let the arrow fly. It is in that moment that I am sure my instincts will take over but I also know that the accompanying moment that I approach the animal on the ground will be a new experience, evoking unknown emotions. I suppose you can never really know how you will react until you are there.

Hunting so much last year during the bird season I was able to overcome any emotions I might have had. With the sport of it challenging and the little brown dog working as only a mutt dog can, I took great pleasure in the outings. But I never forgot to reflect at the end of the day and be thankful for the meat and adventure I was bringing home. With big game, I know the experience will eventually become the same but until that first animal is on the ground I think about that moment often.

Ultimately, when the time comes, I will be ready. I have worked hard, practiced harder, and simply have to put my best foot forward. And when that shot arrives, I know I will have James and Mike to help me clean the animal and relish the day. However, I am ahead of myself, and with almost a month and a half until those seasons begin, I must bide my time and bare through the summer’s heat.

It’s going to be 92 degrees today here in eastern Oregon but soon that chill will arrive, the mornings will be cool and you will open your backdoor to see your breath escape into the cold air. When that time comes, our journey into the mountains will begin.