Well, September wasn’t dull either.
At this point I could almost go for some boredom, but it ain’t gonna happen.
No, things just don’t really let up, but that’s OK. Has to be.
So while I could delve off into nearly endless conundrums, personal and political and praytell; pick a topic at random and it seems the feces has hit the fan lately.
It’s how you deal with it that makes the difference, in my opinion.

So instead of going off on a rant du jour, I’ll just stick to the last 48 hours, as they contain enough material for… a Moccasin Telegraph, at least.
As I mentioned last month, I was getting pretty fed up with never having any time off. We literally only took one weekend off all summer.
Now I don’t know about you, but part of what maintains my psyche during such marathons is anticipation of some adventure we might undertake when things let up a smidge.
All summer I’ve been anticipating an elk hunt.
Regular readers probably know that hunting is a passion of mine. Not just any hunting, but really big bull elk.
It kind of goes against my nature to mention where we go. Serious big game hunters generally make fishermen look like fountains of truth, but I don’t lie about my spots. I just give them different names!
We’re talking about the upper Madison valley, though, I will say that much. That’s sufficiently vague, as we hunt basically the entire range, from the Beartrap to Deadman, and no, I didn’t change those names.
Look at the map, and have at it! Maybe we’ll run into you up above Rainbow Lakes, or down in Shell Creek, or up in those basins by Cedar Lake where some big boys hang.
If we do, we’ll probably hit it off. It’s pretty exclusive company up in those places. Processes of elimination, etc.
With that said, we seldom run into other people in “our” spots. No, this is mostly about my son Cody and I, and we thought we might finally have enough of this fabled “free time” to make a serious attempt for the mightiest stags in the forest.
I’ve been involved in wildlife issues on other levels in that area long enough to learn that the numbers of those really big boys is astoundingly low. It’s taken me a while to get my mind around it; that with somewhere between six and ten thousand elk (more than Yellowstone, anymore) that winter in the Madison Valley, the numbers of bona-fide trophy bulls could just about be counted on the fingers of a careless butcher.
As an aside, we have the opportunity to make a hugely beneficial improvement in that situation this coming Tuesday, at the fourth and (we hope) last meeting of the Madison Elk Working Group. This diverse group of landowners, sportsmen, outfitters, and another faction or two have the chance to dramatically increase bull numbers, increase cow elk harvests via access to private lands, reduce impacts for landowners, and turn the situation into an incredible asset for all factions.
What’s not to like!? Let’s do it…
Barring blind luck (which I am regularly blessed with, but don’t count on) Cody and I had narrowed the possibilities to a particular area where those in the know seem to agree the odds of outsmarting a big boy are best.
Hah! Speaking of ironies, that last statement is loaded with them. We’re still talking a good-sized chunk of very rough country, boasting wolves and grizzlies and sundry other hazards. Suffice to say if a bull elk lives to five or six years of age in that setting, they are not stupid. Well, except for maybe during the rut. Even then, we’re talking at best momentary lapses of judgement. It’s Doctoral level hunting, seriously strenuous and requiring a mindset you just can’t buy at Cabela’s.
I can think of no finer sport, except it goes way beyond that. It’s a connection to how things really work, a chance to participate in a fully functioning ecosystem, the Matrix as it were, where we’re not even at the top of the food chain.
So yes, anticipation of this outing has been keen, to say the least. As the month went on, though, the schedule kept escalating. One thing after another, and another, and then I should really wrap up a few other details, and each day deals another hand, and occasionally the deck isn’t just shuffled, but shredded!
Not to complain; it gets to where reacting to changing circumstances can almost be habit forming.
As September wound down, though, and it appeared this long-anticipated bowhunting venture might not come to pass, I have to admit I was somewhat beyond maxed.
But then one thing on my list (seeding winter wheat) got crossed off. The window for that was closing, and I’d long since sworn off seeding under questionable conditions. In yet more ironies, the ordinarily reliable Gallatin Valley has been missing out on recent rains. Oh, we got just enough to shut harvesting down, but only a few hundredths of precip, and it’s actually fairly dry around here.
This opened up just enough opportunity to pull off a backcountry adventure/head-clearing exercise. After I shod four horses, anyway, and dealt with a few other details, which I was able to make serious progress on once I stopped answering the phone. And hey, if you’re one of the valued inquiries I haven’t replied to, give me another day or so, please.
So we finally hit the trail this past Friday afternoon. Other than Cody taking some of them on a handful of day rides in the Bridgers, my ponies are as out of shape as I am.
None of us go to the gym, though, we just get in shape doing what we do, and suffer in the meanwhile.

The ponies left no doubt of this. The trail gains elevation steadily, and by the later stages… well, it’s a good thing horses don’t form committees! Although in a way they do...
It was a further example of the telepathic communicating animals do. I was riding Buddy, and as the trip progressed he kept wanting to stop and rest. Now he’s been in there repeatedly, and knew where we were likely to camp, I believe. So he knew it wasn’t all that much further, and it seemed to me if we just sucked it up we might even get camp set up before dark, which I could handle while Cody scouted the neighborhood.
But no, Buddy not only knew when he (and the packhorses behind us) wanted to stop, they completely disagreed with my take on when it was time to go again! It was almost funny in retrospect; if I tried to make him go before he was ready, he’d only do so with obvious reluctance, and Strider, the lead packhorse would simply refuse to comply.
Or, if I let them rest without interference, they’d clearly agree on when they were ready, and take off again on their own, in unison. Eventually I came to my senses and let them decide this matter.
In any case, we reached the “campsite” in no doubt the same or less time, and with much better attitudes than if I’d enforced my unreasonable demands. Shortly thereafter they were picketed out for some keenly welcome grazing, and I set up camp while Cody climbed to a nearby high point to take in the situation.
He returned a while after dark to report a complete lack of elk vocalizations or even sightings.
Now we know this spot can be that way. It’s feast or famine; they’re either there or they’re not. This is another matter it’s taken me a long time to get my mind around, as sure, the big herds of cows tend to move up & down the range (with exceptions, yeah, yeah…) but it seems the bulls, the big ones anyway would stay up in those canyons. And they do, at least in… oops! Almost…
Here in… hmmm. I’d call it Bad Luck Creek, except there is actually one of those in the neighborhood, so I’d be lying. Let’s just call it Bad Spot in the Trail Creek.
Anyway, the elk seem to arrive or vacate en masse, and I’ve also vowed that I must verify their current location beforehand, instead of going where they were two days ago. This trip there wasn’t time, though, or at least I didn’t take it. Tsk.
Besides, we weren’t too worried about it. There’s gotta be elk in there right now, don’tcha know. Simply have to be.

Cody wasn’t so sure after he got back down to camp, though.
A backpack meal, bedtime, and the next thing you know it’s morning. I don’t think the horses even stirred all night. Yes, fatigue was the order of the evening. But now it’s daylight, and time to hunt elk!
I still had a couple of things to get ready, so Cody took off by himself. Shortly thereafter I followed, and although I’ve hunted this spot a fair bit, I hadn’t previously stumbled onto the Mother Of All Game Trails. A veritable freeway, with passing lanes in places and even roundabouts! And, a fresh track or two! Well, maybe not just smoking fresh, they were a couple of days old. Undoubtedly left by satellite bulls, chased off by the dominant big boys and left to wander the woods by themselves, pondering injustice.
Fresh sign was scant, for sure. At one point I was stopped, taking it all in, and heard an elk chirp. All right! Pulled down my face mask, and answered with a cow call. And then another. Lurked about for a bit, but figured he must have got my scent or something.
Until I got back to camp and compared notes with Cody. It was him! He did win the elk calling contest at the Winter Fair all those years ago…
He hadn’t been able to raise a peep. Nor had either of us seen any elk, or even any really fresh sign. Now what?
The plan had been to drop into an adjacent canyon, and then pursue several alternatives, depending…
We’d spiked out on the divide, instead of dropping into there the night before and creating a ruckus in the process, alerting the big boys to intruders. Our ridgetop spike camp is dry, though. We’d packed enough drinking water for ourselves, but doing that for the horses is logistical lunacy, which meant we had to at least get them to a creek or spring in the near future.
What to do? There’s no elk around (at the moment). Used to be I’d have said “not many”, but hard-earned experience has trumped denial, and if they’re gone, they’re gone.
But this is my vacation, dammit!! So we carefully evaluated our alternatives. Just about pulled out and packed into another spot, where there are always elk, although even the FWP biologists finally concurred they virtually never see big bulls in the vicinity. Cody has an extra cow elk tag, but there are easier ways to get cow elk.
So with considerable reluctance and consternation, after great deliberation, we bagged it and came home.
Should we have Stayed the Course?
No way. No point in it. Given the available time and energy, we’re talking exercises in futility. We’ll hit it again in a few weeks, with rifles in hand. And, contrary to earlier claims, we’re going to work out in the meanwhile so we’re in good enough shape to make it up to the South Pole, if need be. And, pack an elk back out, should we be so fortunate.
Bagging a long-anticipated “vacation” was a hard decision for me. Yeah, it’s disappointing, but so it goes. When you evaluate all the pros and cons, sometimes you gotta decide to do something you don’t really like.

It was the right decision.
When’s the last time you saw a politician reverse course based on changing situations, though? Oh, no, we must Stay the Course!
Many times, we also choose to do just that. Oh, no, we don’t give up easily.
Sometimes, though, staying the course is stupid. Even beyond elk hunting, perhaps.