The iPhone’s screen read “3:05” a.m. after I set the 12th bag of elk meat beside the others.
Then I leaned backward, arms on hips, stretching every kink in my aching back.
That’s a price one pays for arrowing a cow elk at dusk in early September, when overnight temperatures in southeastern Idaho barely dip into the low 40s, even at 5,500 feet of elevation. Rather than risk letting heat spoil about 250 pounds of meat, I don’t wait till morning. I butcher the beasts promptly, boning out all meat, right down to the neck and ribs.
Even then, the work isn’t over. Coyotes, black bears and red fox roam these mountains of the Targhee-Caribou National Forest, so my next chore was hauling and caching the meat 100 yards closer to camp. One whiff of a boned-out carcass and gut pile summons scavengers, and I don’t care to share the meat, heart and liver with any of them.
I had been working since 10:30 p.m. I figured I could cache the meat beneath my treestand by 4:15 a.m., and reach camp before 5 a.m. With luck, I’d sleep two hours before starting the six 1-mile roundtrip hikes to pack out the elk’s meat and hide, and ice everything in my coolers by early afternoon.
My estimates weren’t too far off. The clock read 4:54 a.m. when I shed my pack in camp, and studied the stars above the surrounding peaks. The constellation Orion peeked over the ridgeline, its upper body visible above its star-studded belt. Orion was gone when I awoke about 6:20 a.m. After a quick coffee and oatmeal, I strapped on my cargo pack and hiked back to the meat cache.
My bowhunt couldn’t have gone much better. Three years had passed since Dave Burgess and I last drew elk tags for this region, which I’d hunted annually from 2006 through 2021. This time, I’d hunt my usual spots while Burgess focused on his favorites to the southwest.
My first choice, however, failed inspection. No fresh elk tracks pocked the mud surrounding a wallow on the mountainside behind camp. I retreated down the mountain and hiked westward through a valley’s willows, aspens and willow-brush.
I paused a half-mile later to inspect a dense stand of aspens and Douglas firs, many scarred by bull elk rubbing their antlers over the years. The valley narrows there, with faint game trails squeezing between steep mountainsides and dense brush. As I studied possible treestand options, a cow moose stood up 50 yards away, studied me a few seconds, and trotted away.
I chose a large fir for my treestand, hanging it 16 feet high to give good views of small meadows 20 yards to the east and 50 yards to the west. I then returned to camp for lunch and a nap, before climbing into the treestand for daylight’s final three hours.
When nothing moved besides robins, chickadees and red squirrels, I used various calls to mimic a cow elk. With luck, all that girl-talk would lure a bull into arrow range. With darkness closing in about 7:45 p.m., however, no elk appeared. Instead, a cow moose browsed into view 100 yards up the valley. I silently wished it were an elk.
And just like that, a cow elk stepped out between me and the moose. I grabbed my bow from its hook and clipped my release onto the bowstring. My heart sank when the elk walked toward the moose, directly away. Then my heart rate jumped when it turned and walked my way.
I pulled my bow to full draw when it was within 50 yards. Then it stopped to scan my woods. Ten seconds passed and then 20. Just as I considered letting down, the elk resumed walking. I bleated like a deer when it stepped into a shooting lane between trees. The elk paused to look around at 20 yards, giving me a second to align my bowstring’s peep sight with my bow’s pin sight. I squeezed the release’s trigger when my sight rested behind the cow’s right shoulder.
The elk crouched instinctively at the bow’s twang and flinched as the arrow struck. Just before the cow spun and retraced its path, I saw a wound where my sight-pin had just been. After the cow vanished into the brush, I listened as carefully as my hearing aids allowed, thinking I’d soon hear a crash as the elk collapsed.
Hearing nothing, I waited 10 minutes before lowering my bow, descending and sneaking out. I returned to camp in the twilight, gulped down a Mountain House meal, and loaded my cargo pack with butchering tools, a plastic pack liner, a dozen 2.5-gallon plastic bags, and backup headlamp.
Then I texted my plans to Burgess, assuring him I didn’t need help. Next, I called home to share my news before heading back out. It was 10 p.m. when I reached the site where my arrow struck the elk. Finding nothing, I moved 5 yards down the trail and tied orange flagging to mark the blood trail’s start.
Ideal blood trails let you move from one red spot to the next with little guesswork. Such blood trails are rare. Still, experience told me this one would end at a corpse. Fifty yards later, a small red pool showed where the cow had swerved off the game trail and paused in thick brush, suggesting it was losing consciousness. And then 30 yards later, I found her dead in a small meadow, the rear half of my broken arrow jutting upright from the rib cage.
I sighed with joy and relief. To ensure no bears stumbled in while I worked, I pulled out my iPhone, chose an upbeat playlist, slid the volume to its loudest setting, and began skinning my prize.
Although I’ll never cherish all-night work, butchering elk beneath the stars has its advantages. Primarily, pesky bees and flies don’t work nights.
Some ask why I didn’t hold out for a bull elk, as I’ve done at times over the years. I’ve soured on forsaking gifts. As the character Del Gue told Jeremiah Johnson, “Mother Gue never raised such a foolish child.”
When hungering for elk meat, I take the first good shot an adult offers, no matter its gender or how many days I’ve hunted.
Patrick Durkin punched his elk tag on Sept. 5, his first day afield, during Idaho’s archery season. — Patrick Durkin photo