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Elk expedition turns harrowing
By Tim Renken Of The St. Louis Post-Dispatch
10/11/2002
KALISPELL, Mont. - Less than three hours before, we were celebrating the bagging of a nice 5 x 5 bull elk. Now we were contemplating how we could survive a night in the woods with rain falling, temperature probably in the 40s, our clothes soaked, one tiny, malfunctioning flashlight, no tent and no other equipment for even a primitive camp.
My 64-year-old legs were gone after a day of struggling through an immense burn littered with slash and fallen logs. My prehunt fitness regimen had been good enough for normal hiking through the woods but not nearly enough to prepare for climbing over miles of wet trees and slash, pushing through brush and sliding over wet rocks and mud.
We crawled up the almost-vertical, muddy creek bank about 10 feet to a muddy, steep slope and momentarily stood there together. I could hear Tim, my 38-year-old son, breathing. But I couldn't see him. The night was that dark.
"Let's get a fire started," said our guide, John Phelps, a 28-year-old Michigan native, who was guiding his first elk hunt.
I could barely stand, my legs were so weak, but I broke off dead branches from a pine overhead. Tim and Phelps used the flashlight to gather fuel.
With a block of starter he carried, Phelps got the fire going, despite the drizzle, and in a few minutes we could at least see our surroundings - miserable as they were. The muddy slope was so steep we were in constant danger of sliding into the creek or, now, into the fire.
Fortunately, dead trees surrounded us. I sat down and fed dry twigs into the blaze and by that and the light of the flashlight Tim and Phelps gathered wood. Tim made the mistake of going down into the creek for driftwood and again filling his boots with icy water.
With the fire hissing but going strongly, we took inventory. Among us we had three tiny packets of beef jerky and a fruit and grain bar. Phelps had that flashlight. Tim and I each had a $4 "space blanket" bought out of the Cabela's catalog almost as a joke. Unwrapped from their 4-by-4-inch packets, they turned out to be a sheet of thin plastic coated on both sides by foil.
They were waterproof, though, and 6-by-8 feet, wide enough to shelter two people. Best, I discovered, was that they served as a reflector of the heat from the fire. Held behind us, they kept our backs almost as warm as our fronts.
Phelps suggested we let the fire go out, curl up together on one sheet and under another, and try to sleep. We tried that, but no matter how close we got to one another, the ground sucked the heat out of us and we began shivering.
I remembered one time years ago when I and two others had turned a canoe over in the Boundary Waters Wilderness of northern Minnesota and soaked our clothes and sleeping bags. We survived, despite snow, by feeding the fire all night.
"If we let that fire go out, we're in big trouble," I said. "Nobody ever died from losing a night's sleep. People die from hypothermia all the time."
The two able men went back to gathering wood, and soon they had a pile of small logs and we were shoving them into the fire from all angles as they burned. Digging our heels into the mud, we sat there, holding the space blankets up with our arms as rain shelters, mud seats and heat reflectors.
The hours went by faster than we expected. The fire dried us out somewhat after we dumped the water out of our boots and wrung out our socks. We talked. Everybody stayed upbeat, especially Tim, who once announced, "3 a.m., we've about got it whipped." Once in a while somebody would briefly doze off.
Once I felt something sharp beneath me and discovered I had been sitting on the two rifles pressed side by side into the mud. They were in the driest place around.
Total exhaustion, then food and dry clothes
As the trees above began to take form against the sky, the rain turned to light snow with big flakes. With the heavy overcast, we had to wait until 7 a.m. for sufficient light to move. I struggled to get up and was surprised to find that my legs would support me. I could walk, but my legs were so weak the only way I could keep my balance was by holding onto something.
With plenty of trees around for support, we pushed off. When there were no trees to grab, I held onto the top of Phelps' backpack. A burly 200-pounder, Phelps at times almost dragged me along and often helped pull me up by hand when we had to climb.
The creek was much tougher going than the burn. Many places it was impassable, and we'd backtrack to find another route. Phelps led, with me right behind and hanging on as needed. At times Tim would help me get my leg onto a log so I could clamber over.
We all fell countless times. Once Tim took a tumbling fall down a bank. He could have broken his neck. His rifle, slung over his shoulder, clunked his skull. That fall was one of dozens that could have resulted in an injury that might have cooked our goose. At one point I fell and felt too exhausted to get up.
"You guys get me a fire going and get out of here," I said. "No sense you freezing here because I can't go."
Neither of them liked that idea. Phelps said he would carry me out if he had to and turned around as an invitation to climb onto his back. I finally got up.
At every turn we thought we'd find the Spotted Bear River, but the creek wound on, getting steeper and more difficult as it went. It eventually was confined in a narrow V chasm with walls 50-60 feet high. But we could see far ahead through the trees the dim shape of a mountainside. Phelps was sure that was the far bank of the river.
We rounded one bend and looked ahead to see that the creek roared into a narrow canyon with vertical rock walls perhaps 20 feet high. Within the canyon there was a sheer waterfall, then more waterfalls below that. It was a spectacularly beautiful place. It was also a dead end.
"Nothing to do but go up," Phelps said.
We did, Phelps climbing up 4 or 5 feet, then reaching down with one hand to help me up that far. Again and again we did this and finally got to the top of the bank.
That's when we noticed that the slope ahead was tilted not just toward the creek but down along the route ahead. That had to be toward the river. Then we heard the water, roaring below. A 30-foot bluff kept us temporarily from reaching it, but, sliding and grabbing trees, we got to the gravel bar. Between Tim and Phelps, I waded through the thigh-deep, rushing ice water. The far bank was steep, but eventually we reached the main trail, where we held a noisy celebration, tired as we were.
Instantly, our shouts were answered by "Halooooo." Soon two riders came down the trail. Guide Jody Kuzmic and hunter Ken Howk had been looking for us all morning. They had food and dry clothes.
I rode on Jodie's mule the several miles back to camp. The tireless Phelps and Tim walked. At camp we learned that the Forest Service rescue unit had been alerted when we failed to return that evening and were going into action if we didn't show up before noon.
We did, just barely.
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
10/11/2002
KALISPELL, Mont. - Less than three hours before, we were celebrating the bagging of a nice 5 x 5 bull elk. Now we were contemplating how we could survive a night in the woods with rain falling, temperature probably in the 40s, our clothes soaked, one tiny, malfunctioning flashlight, no tent and no other equipment for even a primitive camp.
My 64-year-old legs were gone after a day of struggling through an immense burn littered with slash and fallen logs. My prehunt fitness regimen had been good enough for normal hiking through the woods but not nearly enough to prepare for climbing over miles of wet trees and slash, pushing through brush and sliding over wet rocks and mud.
We crawled up the almost-vertical, muddy creek bank about 10 feet to a muddy, steep slope and momentarily stood there together. I could hear Tim, my 38-year-old son, breathing. But I couldn't see him. The night was that dark.
"Let's get a fire started," said our guide, John Phelps, a 28-year-old Michigan native, who was guiding his first elk hunt.
I could barely stand, my legs were so weak, but I broke off dead branches from a pine overhead. Tim and Phelps used the flashlight to gather fuel.
With a block of starter he carried, Phelps got the fire going, despite the drizzle, and in a few minutes we could at least see our surroundings - miserable as they were. The muddy slope was so steep we were in constant danger of sliding into the creek or, now, into the fire.
Fortunately, dead trees surrounded us. I sat down and fed dry twigs into the blaze and by that and the light of the flashlight Tim and Phelps gathered wood. Tim made the mistake of going down into the creek for driftwood and again filling his boots with icy water.
With the fire hissing but going strongly, we took inventory. Among us we had three tiny packets of beef jerky and a fruit and grain bar. Phelps had that flashlight. Tim and I each had a $4 "space blanket" bought out of the Cabela's catalog almost as a joke. Unwrapped from their 4-by-4-inch packets, they turned out to be a sheet of thin plastic coated on both sides by foil.
They were waterproof, though, and 6-by-8 feet, wide enough to shelter two people. Best, I discovered, was that they served as a reflector of the heat from the fire. Held behind us, they kept our backs almost as warm as our fronts.
Phelps suggested we let the fire go out, curl up together on one sheet and under another, and try to sleep. We tried that, but no matter how close we got to one another, the ground sucked the heat out of us and we began shivering.
I remembered one time years ago when I and two others had turned a canoe over in the Boundary Waters Wilderness of northern Minnesota and soaked our clothes and sleeping bags. We survived, despite snow, by feeding the fire all night.
"If we let that fire go out, we're in big trouble," I said. "Nobody ever died from losing a night's sleep. People die from hypothermia all the time."
The two able men went back to gathering wood, and soon they had a pile of small logs and we were shoving them into the fire from all angles as they burned. Digging our heels into the mud, we sat there, holding the space blankets up with our arms as rain shelters, mud seats and heat reflectors.
The hours went by faster than we expected. The fire dried us out somewhat after we dumped the water out of our boots and wrung out our socks. We talked. Everybody stayed upbeat, especially Tim, who once announced, "3 a.m., we've about got it whipped." Once in a while somebody would briefly doze off.
Once I felt something sharp beneath me and discovered I had been sitting on the two rifles pressed side by side into the mud. They were in the driest place around.
Total exhaustion, then food and dry clothes
As the trees above began to take form against the sky, the rain turned to light snow with big flakes. With the heavy overcast, we had to wait until 7 a.m. for sufficient light to move. I struggled to get up and was surprised to find that my legs would support me. I could walk, but my legs were so weak the only way I could keep my balance was by holding onto something.
With plenty of trees around for support, we pushed off. When there were no trees to grab, I held onto the top of Phelps' backpack. A burly 200-pounder, Phelps at times almost dragged me along and often helped pull me up by hand when we had to climb.
The creek was much tougher going than the burn. Many places it was impassable, and we'd backtrack to find another route. Phelps led, with me right behind and hanging on as needed. At times Tim would help me get my leg onto a log so I could clamber over.
We all fell countless times. Once Tim took a tumbling fall down a bank. He could have broken his neck. His rifle, slung over his shoulder, clunked his skull. That fall was one of dozens that could have resulted in an injury that might have cooked our goose. At one point I fell and felt too exhausted to get up.
"You guys get me a fire going and get out of here," I said. "No sense you freezing here because I can't go."
Neither of them liked that idea. Phelps said he would carry me out if he had to and turned around as an invitation to climb onto his back. I finally got up.
At every turn we thought we'd find the Spotted Bear River, but the creek wound on, getting steeper and more difficult as it went. It eventually was confined in a narrow V chasm with walls 50-60 feet high. But we could see far ahead through the trees the dim shape of a mountainside. Phelps was sure that was the far bank of the river.
We rounded one bend and looked ahead to see that the creek roared into a narrow canyon with vertical rock walls perhaps 20 feet high. Within the canyon there was a sheer waterfall, then more waterfalls below that. It was a spectacularly beautiful place. It was also a dead end.
"Nothing to do but go up," Phelps said.
We did, Phelps climbing up 4 or 5 feet, then reaching down with one hand to help me up that far. Again and again we did this and finally got to the top of the bank.
That's when we noticed that the slope ahead was tilted not just toward the creek but down along the route ahead. That had to be toward the river. Then we heard the water, roaring below. A 30-foot bluff kept us temporarily from reaching it, but, sliding and grabbing trees, we got to the gravel bar. Between Tim and Phelps, I waded through the thigh-deep, rushing ice water. The far bank was steep, but eventually we reached the main trail, where we held a noisy celebration, tired as we were.
Instantly, our shouts were answered by "Halooooo." Soon two riders came down the trail. Guide Jody Kuzmic and hunter Ken Howk had been looking for us all morning. They had food and dry clothes.
I rode on Jodie's mule the several miles back to camp. The tireless Phelps and Tim walked. At camp we learned that the Forest Service rescue unit had been alerted when we failed to return that evening and were going into action if we didn't show up before noon.
We did, just barely.
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.
