A Hunt to Remember

Story and photos by Curtis Cotten

When asked to contribute a hunting story to this issue of Clearwater Properties Magazine, I knew it was meant to be. Hunting is my true calling and passion. Few animals escape my keen eye and sixth sense, attributes given to a man whose sole purpose on this earth is to hunt. At an early age my father nicknamed me Fudd, after Elmer Fudd the cartoon character, because I never miss an opportunity to take a shot. Of a lifetime of hunts to talk about, one especially notable hunt took place when I was in high school.

One hot summer day, my father, Howard, my brother, Chris, and I were working on the underbelly of Chris’ old ’77 Chevy pick-up truck. We were replacing the transmission and performing our annual tune-up for another round of hunting in the woods. Chris, a senior in high school, apparently had been planning his future while we worked. He suddenly climbed out from underneath the truck promising to be right back and said, “There’s something I need to do.”

He returned shortly and walked up to my dad and I who were still hard at work under the truck. Without hesitation Chris said proudly and nervously, “I just joined the Marine Corps.”

I’ll never forget the sound of Dad’s tools dropping as he slid out from beneath the truck, radiating pride and fear simultaneously; feelings I didn’t fully understand until I became a father.

The day came I had to give my big brother a hug goodbye as he left for boot camp. I remember thinking how strange my life would be without him and wondered when I would see him again.

Time passed quickly and before we knew it, hunting season, the most exciting time of the year was approaching. With Chris still at boot camp, Dad and I were devising plans for every possible scenario we would encounter, as well as caring for rifles, cleaning and sighting them in to make sure they were on target. But this year there was one less rifle and for the first time since I could remember Chris would not be with us on opening day. We felt the absence of Chris in a big way and the level of excitement was lacking compared to previous years. Despite our longing for it to be the three of us together, it didn’t completely dampen our excitement at the prospect for what the season promised.

The first few weeks of the season were spent scouting out new areas and simply spending time in the woods. It felt like a big pause button had been pushed; there wasn’t much shooting, a big change from the customary, and we had little to add to the freezer. Chris returned from boot camp on a short leave with one week left in the season. We decided to focus solely on Chris’ success as we didn’t know how long it would be before he could hunt again.

While I attended school during the week, Dad and Chris hunted in the area we hunted every year, an area plentiful with whitetails. At last, Dad spotted a deer hidden among the thick trees––it was a legal buck. Chris aimed, squeezed the trigger and brought the buck down with a clean shot. But this was no ordinary buck; it was fully mature with kickers on each side, and substantially larger than Chris had ever harvested. It seemed to me this was my brother’s reward after 13 grueling weeks of boot camp.

Saturday morning finally arrived when I could join the hunt. I had some big shoes to fill but I was going to outdo my brother although there was little time to do it. We loaded the truck up before dawn and headed east onto the interstate toward our normal hunting grounds. Without warning, Dad came to a complete stop in the middle of the highway then steered the truck toward the west. Surprised and confused we questioned him, but he simply stated he was trying something new. On the way we devised our plan of attack to assure no one would get lost and we strategized how to maximize our chances.

It was pitch black when we arrived. It was my favorite time of the year––late fall. The crisp cold morning air filling our lungs added to the excitement and anticipation of what the day before us held. While we waited for the sun to rise, signaling the legal time to hunt, we planned and agreed Dad would drive the truck back down the road where he could see the openings and wait for us to hike back out to him.

Chris and I climbed to the flattest area at the top of a ridge. I wasn’t in as good of shape as Chris, who had spent weeks working out in boot camp, but he hurried me along. Once we reached the crest it took me a few minutes to catch my breath and the sun to rise. The sun finally completed its rise over the hilltops, and I had partially recovered when Chris harshly demanded, “Dude, let’s get going!”

We hadn’t gone but a few steps when we heard rustling from below us and we crouched into position in silence. We spotted two whitetail bucks chasing and fighting for the kingship over the females entering the rutting season. I secretly gloated proud as a peacock that Chris would have to watch me get one because he had filled his deer tag and couldn’t shoot this time. But in that moment of hesitation came a slight breeze bringing the faint whiff of an elk. Suddenly the prospect of satisfying a deer tag didn’t hold a candle to bagging the almighty wapiti, also known as elk. Watching the bucks lumber off into the woods without a shot fired went against every fiber of my soul, but we couldn’t risk scaring away the elk.

Chris was happy to become a participant and not the silent witness that he was a few seconds prior. We followed the scent as quietly as we could and found the elk tracks, confirming we made the right decision. We followed it quite a long while and we were about to quit because we thought we had missed the elk, or it got wind of our scent. Suddenly Chris dropped to his knees and fired his 300 Weatherby, which rang out with a violently loud burst. I stopped in my tracks confused as to what was happening. He yanked me by the shirt and pulled me down so I could see what he was seeing. But all I saw was a lone elk calf on top of the ridge, which we didn’t have a tag for. I accused him of making a terrible mistake, thinking he had gotten buck fever, and the excitement had got the best of him. But he denied it and repeatedly insisted he shot a bull and was certain he had hit it. We looked high and low in the area that was open where a bull elk would have been easily seen. Eventually, we stood up to begin looking for a blood trail when five or six steps later came a 5-point bull out of the brush running up the hill.

“That’s him! That’s the one I shot! Get him Curtis, what are you waiting for? Shoot!”

A part of me wanted Chris to get his elk tag but a bigger part of me wasn’t going to let this chance slip away. We each took a knee, opposite sides of a pine tree. The bull hesitated and slowed for a brief pause. Chris with his 300 Weatherby and I with my Browning 338 Winchester aimed and fired simultaneously hitting our mark. The sting and ringing in my ears as both rifles fired is a moment I will never forget.

The bull flipped, slid a bit downhill and lay dead. We had done it! And together as brothers to boot. The exhilaration had us jumping up and down like little kids and the joy we felt was inexpressible. It was a moment that could never be timed more perfectly and can never be repeated.

The wonder and the awe of getting our first bull in precisely synchronized time melted quickly as we realized the enormity of the task ahead. We managed to flag Dad down and began the challenge of getting the elk into the bed of the truck. It was no small feat, but we figured out a way that entailed the elk sliding down the hill. Dad and Chris were in the front dragging while I was the anchor in the back. It didn’t quite go to plan, and it felt like a game of cat and mouse as the elk and I took turns passing each other down the hill. Beyond the truck was a big hole, and if our prize had gone into it, we would have been unable to retrieve it. But our efforts and ingenuity saved the day.

The pride we felt that day driving through town with the bull elk in the truck bed is indescribable. The ultimate shared experience with my brother can’t be outdone. That Christmas, our parents surprised us with identical gold rings made from the elk’s ivories and adorned with Montana sapphires. We not only have the memories but keepsakes as symbols memorializing the priceless experience to pass on to our children.

Chris went on to become a world-renowned Marine Body Bearer stationed in Washington, D.C. He performed countless funeral services at Arlington Cemetery for fallen soldiers and had the honor to fire the cannons at Friday evening parades at the Washington Marine Barracks near the White House. His distinguished service included bearing the caskets of former Presidents Reagan and Ford, which garnered the attention of a local reporter who wrote an article in the Missoulian Newspaper.

While we have gone on to hunt many times together throughout the years, nothing compares to the day on the ridge, a moment of providence generated by Dad’s unexpected choice to turn west and a series of split-second decisions.