![]() Partly because I believe them to be North America's second-most challenging big-game animal to hunt (behind mature blacktails) and partly because I never dreamed of having these ghosts of the forest so near, I pursue them every chance I get. The encroachment of Roosevelt elk over the years, so close to home, piqued my interest in them starting decades ago. Hiking into the bottom of big canyons-and back out again-is the norm for Roosevelt elk hunters. Today, I regularly see elk within a mile from our home, sometimes in our backyard. For generations my family hunted black-tailed deer in those forests and never dreamed elk would one day thrive nearby. In the early '90s the western Cascades held huntable herds of Roosevelt elk. They also became established in the western mountains of the Cascade Range. Then, in the 1980s, the elk began expanding their range into the valleys. While I was growing up in Oregon's Willamette Valley, the only place we had to hunt Roosevelt elk was in the Coast Range. I learned a lesson that day, thus beginning my infatuation with Roosevelt elk. The lead cow was 15 yards ahead of the bull. When I made the move, I was looking at the bull through the scope, my left eye closed. Then I recalled moving the rifle a few inches higher on the fallen tree against which it was rested. The heavy rain knocked down my scent, so they didn't smell me. When the shaking stopped, I regained my wits, curious as to what had spooked the elk. Rain ran down my orange cotton stocking cap, down my neck. The rain fell harder, yet I felt hot and confined. It was my first Roosevelt elk hunt, and the encounter changed my life. The herd spun, quickly but quietly, and vanished into the jungle-like rainforest. Two more steps and I'd be able to confirm it was a bull. With a solid rest, I slid the safety off. ![]() My heart beat heavy in my throat, overpowering the sound of the driving rain. The bull's head was in the trees, hiding its antlers. It was larger than the cows, and its hair was white compared to their yellowish hides, just as Dad said it would be. Through the trees I could see the body of what I knew was a bull. I counted elk as they slipped from the dense Douglas firs, lining out one-by-one. Simply getting a glimpse of a mature bull in the thick habitat makes for a good season for some Roosevelt elk hunters. 30-06 that belonged to my late grandfather. Intense rain bounced off the hood of my rain jacket, and my hands looked cold due to the death grip I had on the old. The elk slowly moved along the trail, getting closer with each step. The little creek in the massive ravine separating us was overflowing its banks and roaring from recent rains, typical of the Oregon Coast Range in November. Cautiously, they walked single-file, broadside, 100 yards away. The herd of Roosevelt elk emerged from the mountainous timber, just as Dad said they would when he left me sitting there. The October issue is currently on sale nationwide. ![]()
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