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Elk is killed, but expedition's in trouble
By Tim Renken Of The St. Louis Post-Dispatch
10/10/2002
"Use that log for a rest," guide John Phelps whispered to my 38-year-old son, Tim. He sat behind the log, looked briefly to his rifle, then peered out through the drizzle over the long, steep burn below.
We were on a fire-scarred mountainside in the Bob Marshall Wilderness of the Flathead National Forest in northwest Montana. We had heard an elk bugle and were looking for it. Occasionally, Phelps would squeeze a chirp out of his cow call.
I was crouching with my rifle behind my own log about 15 feet away, but didn't plan to shoot. I couldn't see the elk, and I was afraid sticking my head up would spook it. But he had started a 400-yard march across the burn to where he thought a lady love awaited.
The going was rough. An old burn is a tangle of blackened, downed trees, rocks, thick brush and half-burned slash. In the rain everything was wet and slick. Periodically, the bull would stretch out his neck and issue a long, echoing "eeehoooeee," the King of the Wilderness making his unforgettable call of the wild, before crashing on. Phelps would answer with the flirty chirp of the cow.
The bull's approach was exciting enough, but adding to that was the lateness of the hour. It was just before 5 p.m. when we heard that first bugle. Darkness falls at 8 p.m. and we were at least 3 hours from camp. We had made no provisions for spending a rainy night in the woods.
After about 30 minutes the bull was so close we could hear him jumping the deadfalls and crashing through the brush. Then we could hear him breathing heavily from the exertion.
When he came up a steep slope about 30 yards away, Tim flicked off the safety and aimed. At that instant the elk stopped and turned to the right, presenting a perfect broadside. "Blam!"
The elk fell over sideways as if he had been hit by a car. His antlers snagged on a tree trunk, stopping any roll down the hill. He gave two spastic twitches and was still. The 180-grain 30-06 bullet, with some 2,600 foot-pounds of energy, apparently had killed him on impact.
We held the usual celebration with handshakes, back slaps and picture taking, but all this was done in haste. It was 5:30 p.m. and raining harder.
Phelps still had to field-dress the 5 X 5 elk (five points on each antler) and get it ready for retrieval by the mule packer the next morning. We could only hope that no bear would find it.
We didn't know it then, but when we set out down the burn we already were in deep, life-threatening trouble. We'd been in trouble, in fact, even before that first bugle. We were unaware that we were too far from camp to get back before dark, and we had none of the equipment we needed for a warm, dry night.
Phelps is a relative newcomer to the wilderness and was guiding his first clients. He didn't know just where we were or the best route home. And my 64-year-old legs were giving out after a day of pushing through the scrub and climbing over slick scrub and logs in the burn.
But slowly down the mountain we went in the belief that at the bottom was the Spotted Bear River and, across that, the main trail and our horses, which could have taken us home even in the dark.
I was exhausted and Tim and Phelps were tiring when we reached the bottom. To our dismay we found no river but only a small creek, clogged with logs between high, steep, rocky banks.
What creek was this? Did it lead to the river? How far is that? Phelps said he didn't know. He began to roar like a lion and moan, "Why me, why me?" His apparent panic began to erode our confidence that he could get us out of this.
When we tried to walk down the creek bed, ice water quickly filled our boots. Rocks, all sizes, were round and slick as wet ice. Several times I fell, soaking my clothes above my waist. Phelps fell into a deep spot and momentarily was submerged almost to his ears.
He dug out a tiny flashlight, the only one we had, and we tried going on by that. But with darkness now total, it was impossible.
"We've got to get out of this creek and start a fire," somebody said.
With our clothes soaked, the rain and the temperature probably in the 40s, what nobody said but all were thinking was that we could die here.
Friday: A long, cold night in the rain.
Outdoors reporter Tim Renken began in April to write about his plans and preparation for a once-in-a-lifetime trip to hunt elk in Montana with his son, Tim D. Renken. They hunted in the Bob Marshall Wilderness in the first week of October. This is the second of three stories about their adventure.
By Tim Renken Of The St. Louis Post-Dispatch
10/10/2002
"Use that log for a rest," guide John Phelps whispered to my 38-year-old son, Tim. He sat behind the log, looked briefly to his rifle, then peered out through the drizzle over the long, steep burn below.
We were on a fire-scarred mountainside in the Bob Marshall Wilderness of the Flathead National Forest in northwest Montana. We had heard an elk bugle and were looking for it. Occasionally, Phelps would squeeze a chirp out of his cow call.
I was crouching with my rifle behind my own log about 15 feet away, but didn't plan to shoot. I couldn't see the elk, and I was afraid sticking my head up would spook it. But he had started a 400-yard march across the burn to where he thought a lady love awaited.
The going was rough. An old burn is a tangle of blackened, downed trees, rocks, thick brush and half-burned slash. In the rain everything was wet and slick. Periodically, the bull would stretch out his neck and issue a long, echoing "eeehoooeee," the King of the Wilderness making his unforgettable call of the wild, before crashing on. Phelps would answer with the flirty chirp of the cow.
The bull's approach was exciting enough, but adding to that was the lateness of the hour. It was just before 5 p.m. when we heard that first bugle. Darkness falls at 8 p.m. and we were at least 3 hours from camp. We had made no provisions for spending a rainy night in the woods.
After about 30 minutes the bull was so close we could hear him jumping the deadfalls and crashing through the brush. Then we could hear him breathing heavily from the exertion.
When he came up a steep slope about 30 yards away, Tim flicked off the safety and aimed. At that instant the elk stopped and turned to the right, presenting a perfect broadside. "Blam!"
The elk fell over sideways as if he had been hit by a car. His antlers snagged on a tree trunk, stopping any roll down the hill. He gave two spastic twitches and was still. The 180-grain 30-06 bullet, with some 2,600 foot-pounds of energy, apparently had killed him on impact.
We held the usual celebration with handshakes, back slaps and picture taking, but all this was done in haste. It was 5:30 p.m. and raining harder.
Phelps still had to field-dress the 5 X 5 elk (five points on each antler) and get it ready for retrieval by the mule packer the next morning. We could only hope that no bear would find it.
We didn't know it then, but when we set out down the burn we already were in deep, life-threatening trouble. We'd been in trouble, in fact, even before that first bugle. We were unaware that we were too far from camp to get back before dark, and we had none of the equipment we needed for a warm, dry night.
Phelps is a relative newcomer to the wilderness and was guiding his first clients. He didn't know just where we were or the best route home. And my 64-year-old legs were giving out after a day of pushing through the scrub and climbing over slick scrub and logs in the burn.
But slowly down the mountain we went in the belief that at the bottom was the Spotted Bear River and, across that, the main trail and our horses, which could have taken us home even in the dark.
I was exhausted and Tim and Phelps were tiring when we reached the bottom. To our dismay we found no river but only a small creek, clogged with logs between high, steep, rocky banks.
What creek was this? Did it lead to the river? How far is that? Phelps said he didn't know. He began to roar like a lion and moan, "Why me, why me?" His apparent panic began to erode our confidence that he could get us out of this.
When we tried to walk down the creek bed, ice water quickly filled our boots. Rocks, all sizes, were round and slick as wet ice. Several times I fell, soaking my clothes above my waist. Phelps fell into a deep spot and momentarily was submerged almost to his ears.
He dug out a tiny flashlight, the only one we had, and we tried going on by that. But with darkness now total, it was impossible.
"We've got to get out of this creek and start a fire," somebody said.
With our clothes soaked, the rain and the temperature probably in the 40s, what nobody said but all were thinking was that we could die here.
Friday: A long, cold night in the rain.
Outdoors reporter Tim Renken began in April to write about his plans and preparation for a once-in-a-lifetime trip to hunt elk in Montana with his son, Tim D. Renken. They hunted in the Bob Marshall Wilderness in the first week of October. This is the second of three stories about their adventure.
