HOOKED

“In the shadow of His hand He has hidden me and made me a polished shaft. In His quiver He has hidden me. He said to me, “you are My servant, Child, in whom I will be glorified.” from Isaiah 49:2-3

Bow hunting. I was a fiend! September through November more times than not found me in camouflage hunting clothes. The reason, I guess, Stephen’s friends called me “Rambo Mom”. To which Stephen acted somewhat disgusted, but secretly, I think, he was pleased.

A friend of mine in Plains Montana introduced me to bow hunting when I was around 29. Her husband loaned me an old compound bow which had a pull that was too long for me and would not adjust lower than 65 pounds. A draw that is too long results in having to hold the bow back before it breaks over, which a compound bow will do, lessening the pounds.   When in full draw, I should have been holding around 30 pounds instead of the full 65. However, I learned to use it well, practicing every day.

I learned how to bugle with a diaphragm and bugle tube by listening to tapes (and yes in those days it was a cassette tape) of bulls and cows. I became quite good in bugling which took a lot of air to get volume and the low growls and grunts, so not only did I build up my arms but my lung capacity as well.

The first time out in early September my friend and I left Plains early in the morning while it was cool and drove around the surrounding mountains, stopping now and then to bugle. This is often how we located elk, unless we knew the location of a herd. It was getting warm; climbing into the low 80’s, so we stopped for one last bugle before calling it a day.

Having had no luck so far and thinking we wouldn’t have any this time, we left the rig on the side of the road and carelessly set up not far away. We stood behind a couple of large Yellow pine trees, not giving any thought as to what was in front or behind us. Tipping my bugle tube towards the sky, I let loose with a classic bull bugle, a high trumpet-like squeal, plunging to a guttural growl and ending with several grunts.

Immediately the high tones of an answering bull rang through the timber. My heart skipped into double time and I looked at Linda, whose eyes were wide. She motioned for me to bugle again. Not a heart beat after my bugle died, the thrilling call of a bull elk sailed on the clear mountain air, coming from just below us.

“Closer!” Linda mouthed and she knocked an arrow. I followed suit.

Again, the wild call filled the air from the timber below us, closer yet. He was storming towards us. Soon crashing brush and cracking twigs reached our ears. Linda gestured with her head mimicking a bull rubbing his horns on brush. My heart pounded in my ears, my knees shook. The bull was coming in! I couldn’t believe the event I had thought about and dreamed of was actually happening! There was no need to even bugle since the bull sent his own call ringing high and long every few minutes.

Linda glanced over at me and grinned, then motioned towards my bow. I realized, I was shaking so hard the arrow that was knocked and resting on the arrow rest was rattling. I quickly covered it with my finger to hold it in place. My breath came in gasps and I fought to keep it quiet.

My eyes searched the timber and brush below. Catching movement I locked on the spot and soon spotted ears, then a head moving from side to side. Antlers flashed in a ray of sunlight. He was so close! I wanted to draw my bow, but Linda mouthed “wait”.

The bull silently moved a few steps closer. My throat was clogged with the pounding of my heart. The bull moved behind a brush screen that was 20 yards below us. “Now,” Linda mouthed and smoothly pulled her bow. I tried but my arms felt weak. Tipping it upward to get the leverage of my left arm as it came down, I managed to draw.

The bulls head moved out of the brush, his horns in plain sight. Not huge, a rag horn, as they call the smaller racks, but a bull is a bull. I had never been so close to a wild elk before and I thought my heart would wing its way out of my chest.

With head and neck in the clear, but the rest behind the brush, the bull stopped. My shaking arm held the 65 pounds, but I knew I couldn’t hold it for long. A couple more steps and his vitals would be in the open. The bull was staring at something behind us. I slowly turned my head and could see the red and black Blazer sitting on the road in plain sight. Turning my head back slowly, I looked at Linda out of the corner of my eye. She rolled her eyes and slowly shook her head.

About then the bull decided whatever that thing was, it was not a bull elk. As quick as a blink, he whirled and was gone. With shaking arms, I released my bow and watched the yellow rump flitting through the timber.

I was completely and utterly hooked! Not only did I have yellow rump fever, but now I would die to hear that wild call of a bull elk ringing across the mountains!

That year was an incredible year for bugling. I’m not sure what makes the difference but where other times were good, my first year of bow hunting was amazing! Every time we went out, we heard at least one bugle, more often several and many times had bulls coming in. I could tell story after story of trying to outsmart the wary wapiti, of crawling through grass to get closer, cows and calves all around us, bulls storming in, creeping in and coming back even after winding us. I lay behind some brush one time, and watched a spike walk right up to the other side and peek through a hole. We had bulls within 20, 30 and 40 yards, but only one time were we able to take a shot. With bow hunting the shot must be broadside and completely clear. We weren’t good enough or had powerful enough bows to take a shot longer than 30 yards.

One time a bull stalked in to stand broad side, in the open, only 20 yards away. It was in a clear cut with small trees and a few large seed trees that we used for cover. The bull marched in and stood there looking our way. “Twang” I heard Linda’s shot go and then “thud” as it hit a tree just over the elk’s back. I released my arrow and it bounced on the ground under the rag horn’s belly. He jumped straight up and whirled. I grabbed another arrow from my quiver on my bow and in one motion, knocked it and pulled straight back.

The bull disappeared in the timber. Breathing hard I released my bow and pointed the arrow to the ground, holding it against the arrow rest with my pointing finger. Looking at Linda’s big grin and wide eyes, I knew my face mirrored hers. My legs were shaking and adrenaline was pumping through my veins. I was looking around for something to sit on, when Linda exclaimed, “You’re bleeding!” She pointed to my arrow. Sure enough, blood dripped off the tip in a steady stream.

What? I hadn’t shot that arrow, how was it bloody? My eyes followed a stream of blood up the arrow shaft right to my finger. Looking at my finger, I saw a deep cut across the pad. In my frenzy I had pulled the bow all the way back, which was a draw longer than my arrows, and had sliced my finger open on the point. As I stared at the cut, it began to throb, but I had felt nothing before. Goes to show the level of excitement and adrenaline we experienced when a “playing” with the ghosts of the timber.

A small rag horn

I would go home and tell Jim and Stephen all my wonderful adventures. Jim wanted to bow hunt but couldn’t afford a bow right then, so the three of us went to a favorite hunting spot where we knew elk to be. I sat up below Jim and Stephen, who was about 7 then, and Jim bugled. A bull answered right away and started coming up the steep slope. That didn’t happen all the time. Usually we would hear them and have to work our way closer to them. If they kept talking to us, we would know their location and could work in close, using the wind in our favor. This time the bull came in fast, not even bothering to be quiet. Crashing and grunting deep as bigger bulls tend to do.

Jim, several yards above me imitated him by grunting and squealing.  On the steep hillside below, was a huge patch of alder brush that grew well above my head. When I saw horns above the brush, my heart pounded against my ribs. As the bull came closer, more and more antlers came into view until a gigantic set of horns towered over the brush. I was breathing hard and my heart was pounding as if I had run up a mountainside.

The bull stopped right at the edge of the brush. I could see his head and the huge set of antlers. A magnificent creature, the essence of wildness, so close I could smell his spine-tingling scent. He was staring right at me and I dared not move. Now if only he would step out of the brush. That’s the hard part, getting them out of cover.

My legs felt weak, my arms shook. The bull circled below me, moving sideways, still in the brush. An opening was coming and I tried to draw my bow. It wouldn’t budge. I nearly grunted with the effort. The bull paused a moment in the opening, long enough for me to release an arrow. If, I’d had the bow pulled! I didn’t.

Nonchalantly he walked on. I took three deep breaths and pulled the bow, using the levering method. I got it! But the bull was in the brush. He stopped broadside, staring at me for a long time. Holding 65 pounds, I waited, seeking a hole, but there was none in the vital spot. My arm shook. I could only count points. Seven, on each side!

The big guy must not have liked the set up. With no bull elk in sight, he was suspicious, so without a sound he slowly moved deeper into the brush until the horns disappeared from sight.

I released my bow, staggered up the hill to where Jim and Stephen were standing wide-eyed and collapsed. I clasped my chest and gasped for air, literally thinking I was having a heart attack. Jim finally left off trying to entice the bull back with cow talk to make sure I was going to survive.

I don’t know if Stephen remembered that incident or not, but I’m sure he never forgot about his mom nearly dying on the mountain out of sheer excitement.

Jim, however, was completely hooked. By the time bow season rolled around the next year we both sported brand new bows and were practiced to where we could put several arrows in the center of a paper plate at 30 yards.

Do I seek after my Lord like I sought those bulls? Do I long to see His face and hear His call? Do I wait in the garden straining for the sound of His footfall?

Do I prepare myself for His service by allowing Him to polish and sharpen me? Am I in His quiver ready to fly to the mark, whatever it may be?

Do I fight the sharpening? Am I angry when trouble comes my way? Do I grumble about the steep mountain I must climb? And cry a bit when my muscles burn from the long day?

That’s it! I must think of the prize, I must run the race. His awesome, magnificent presence walking with me down the road. My eyes searching out and locking on His dear face. His nail pierced hands taking my heavy load.

“My Savior, in the silence, COME”! I call thee now. I wait for thee in the forest, by the stream, under the wide fir bow.

“They shall feed along the roads and their pastures shall be on all desolate heights. They shall neither hunger nor thirst. Neither heat nor sun shall strike them. For He who has mercy on them will lead them, even by the springs of water, He will guide them. I will make each of My mountains a road, and My highways shall be elevated.” Isaiah 49:9-11

“Seek the Lord while He may be found. Call upon Him while He is near.” Is. 55:6

“When You said, “Seek My face, Come talk to me,” my heart responds, “Lord, I am coming!” Psalm 27:8 NLT and NKJ

Stephen around 5, The sweatshirt has seen better days by now, but moose horns are the same and have traveled many miles with us to Colorado then Montana

Stephen loved his dog, Kinji, this is in the Gallatin valley near Belgrade MT where we lived for awhile before moving to Plains MT

Jim giving 4year old Stephen some pointers on hitting the ball

Stephen at about 5 playing t-ball and goofing around a bit.