6 minute read
MOUNTAIN SONG
Hunting bugling bulls in British Columbia's remote Rockies.
STORY AND PHOTOS BY CASSIDY CARON
Author Cassidy Caron with a bull elk all loaded up and ready for the long trip out of the mountains.
The first bugle of the day is always the best. e fury, the hoariness, the roar – none have yet dominated the bull’s voice. I stood still as each perfect note split the cold morning air, ringing off the jagged walls of the Rocky Mountains that towered all around. In the seconds of silence that followed, the sun broke dramatically over the looming peaks, lighting their ancient faces and chasing the dull grey predawn from the icy valley.
Another bugle sounded and the quiet morning sprang to life as every bull in
Hobbled for the night, pack animals graze at an elk camp in a part of British Columbia “accessible only by horse, untouched by resource extraction and enclosed in pure wilderness.”
the draw added his note to the song. I shivered, not from the morning cold in the shadows of British Columbia’s Rocky Mountains but from the power of being here – a valley accessible only by horse, untouched by resource extraction and enclosed in pure wilderness – with the primitive excitement of rutting elk surrounding me.
I checked the wind again, happy to see that it was still in my favor. I was close now. e herd of about 20 elk had to be right above me. I hadn’t seen the herd bull yet, but I could sure hear him. My chest constricted with nervous excitement. What might a bull with 20-some cows look like?
I worked my way up through the steep timber, cow calling. Another ear-splitting shriek ripped through the peaceful air. I was very close now. Suddenly a creamy rump materialized dead ahead. A cow call sounded. I had caught up to the tail end of the herd. e lead bull bugled again, and I could tell he was near the front. Sneaking around most of the cows dispersed throughout the heavy timber to get a shot at him was going to be tough. Working with the wind, I moved right and continued to flank the group of elk.
As if I was an art thief tripping a motion laser, an alarm sounded. A group of cows had come up from below me. e bush all around me exploded as the cows announced the intruder. A flurry of high-pitched calls ensued as the entire herd raced up the mountainside and over a steep pass into the next valley where we could have never gotten our horses to recover an elk even if I could catch up with them.
My excitement was extinguished. I turned and started back down the mountain. I had just missed my chance at probably the biggest elk I had ever gotten close to.
It was a Hail Mary, but I stopped and let one last bugle go. Before the last note left the tube, an answer with the intensity of a passing freight train screamed up from right below me. e rim of a cliff was just visible through
A thundering waterfall and steep terrain speak to the ruggedness of the spot where the author was able to ambush her big satellite bull.
the timber on the steep mountainside. I bugled again and the same screeching blast answered before I had finished. It seemed as if the bugle was originating from the sober stone itself.
I made my way to the edge of the drop and peered over. Snug against the cliff face and glaring straight up at me was an old silver-bodied bull. His huge square body and heavy, dark rack made my breath catch in my throat. e dilemma was that the shot was nearly vertical. e bull was 120 yards directly below me, presenting his entire backbone for a shot. It was a bizarre scenario. Gripping my cow call with my teeth, I shouldered my rifle and took aim. As soon as the crosshairs settled, I blew the call. Instead of turning sideways as I had hoped, the irate bull reared straight up, shaking his head from side-to-side and glaring at the cliff as if willing it to melt.
I waited as the elk pawed furiously at the unrelenting stone until, finally, a distant bugle made him turn slightly broadside to the cliff. I squeezed the trigger and tried to follow him in the scope as he bolted into the timber. e shot had looked good, but the angle was weird. Several terrible seconds of doubt filled the time until I found him again in the crosshairs. e second shot also hit home. e mighty bull tossed his head defiantly, his antlers shining in the autumn sun, and collapsed.
With gratitude, I stayed awhile at the top of the cliff gazing across the vast wilderness that the old bull called home. As I made my way down, a lone perfect bugle rang from the summit above, perhaps as a tribute to the old fallen warrior. e 20-cow bull remained unseen – a tease, a legend. A mystery perhaps to be unlocked another season. Another year and another quest that would begin with the timeless scene of a horse pack train winding its way deep into the wild and secret land of the Rocky Mountains. Editor’s note: Cassidy Caron is the owner of Compass Mountain Outfitters. For more information, visit compassmountainoutfitters.com.
Caron and her bull, harvested with a tough vertical shot.
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