When wanderlust strikes sometimes I climb on my Harley and head south on Lee Highway, through the Manassas Battlefield. To the west of it lies Bull Run Mountain. Beyond that, across Virginia's vast piedmont, lies the Blue Ridge, and beyond that lies the Shenandoah Valley. Elk once roamed that valley. Astride the bike on cool Saturday mornings in September I revel in the sights, sounds and scents of fall. I think about moving west, about the wanderlust of Americans who preceded me, and about elk and elk hunting.
In pre-Columbian times, as many as 10 million elk inhabited North America. They roamed from coast to coast, and from southern Mexico to the brink of the Arctic Circle in Canada. Today more elk—about a million—inhabit the United States than at any other time in the last 100 years thanks to hunter-conservationists. And though they also inhabit some states east of the Mississippi, I still can't think of elk without simultaneously thinking about the Rocky Mountains, which are decidedly farther west than I am able to move and still maintain a desirable commute to NRA HQ.
Such is the siren song conjured by the bugle of a mature bull. Hear it once and you're bound to return to his landscape again and again. Hunt him, or better yet place a bullet just so in his boiler room, and you're hooked for life on a glorious pursuit.
I don't use such words lightly, because most assuredly an elk hunt is never boring; the critters and the landscape they inhabit see to that.
Whether it's among pictographs in New Mexico or down a buffalo jump in Montana, every step I take in elk country reminds me that I am hardly the first to hunt what many consider America's most magnificent big game. After a morning of butt-kicking, oxygen-robbing, heartbreaking effort, I wonder what those who walked before me would think of my vain pursuit. Would they commiserate with or laugh at my foolish mistakes? Would they approve of my stalks and shots? When lunch in the sun beneath the quakies lulls me to sleep, I dream of them, their trials and their trophies. Though the hunting days of the ones who came before me are long gone, I awaken every time to the knowledge that my hunt is never over until the last moment of legal shooting light on my last day in the West. So when my optimism is rewarded I curtail my exhilaration and stop to give thanks, and I remember I have once again renewed my membership in an exclusive club.
I envy those who live in elk country. I pity those who have never seen it and felt it and hunted it. Though I am happy I have entered and hunted it often and killed a mere four elk, if I kill 40 more I don't think it will be enough to stanch my desire to stalk the animals on their ground. I'm an elk hunter—I'm sure of it. I may not live within earshot of elk, but I carry their song with me always.
Did You Know?
Set up active decoys where you don't want geese to land. Use sleeping and resting decoys to signal the area has been checked out and it's safe enough to drop in and nap.
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Like the fossilized skeletons of its ancestors displayed in the Smithsonian, a 12-foot alligator can be scary even when it's dead—something that Shooting Illustrated's Adam Heggenstaller learned in person during a gator hunt in Florida. Read More »
the Texas Auto Writers Association named Ram Trucks worthy of delivering true Lone Star State capability.... Read More »
Price of nonresident sheep tags-
Record-high winning bid for 2013 Montana special bighorn permit
U.S. states with native bighorn sheep seasons—Alaska, Arizona, California, Colorado, Idaho, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Mexico, North Dakota, Oregon, South Dakota, Texas, Utah, Washington and Wyoming
Researcher Laura Boester at the University of Toledo found that fox squirrels hear over a noise-frequency range roughly 2.5 times greater than humans, with more capability to detect higher-frequency sounds.