Rich Landers: Reasonable doubt dumbfounds elk-hunting duo

I‘ve returned from the annual muzzleloader elk camp in northeastern Washington with a new definition of dumb luck.

I had feared for the worst two weeks before last weekend’s muzzle-elk season opener, when my chronic elk-hunting partner, Dick Rivers, reported he’d suffered a groin injury. At the moment, the possibility that he would be unable to hike steep mountain slopes was not nearly as debilitating as the ache that began piercing my side.

“Yoga?” I said for the third time, trying to stop laughing before I was completely incapacitated.

“Actually, it’s called Gentle Yoga – 14 women in the class, and me,” he explained, noting that a man should never let his ego tempt him to compete with women in the art of body contortions.

Rivers stopped short of blaming his wife for talking him into doing the class with her, but the essence was that it made her happy to have him there sharing his agony with her.

All sportsmen know that a happy spouse is a prerequisite to happy hunting, or any hunting at all. That’s why I thought of my loving wife and daughter as I prepared the elk camp meals at home before departing.

Rivers and I enjoy bringing the hunt to our camp dinner table after a 13-hour day of hunting, and my family enjoys at least that much of the experience at home. I chopped extra veggies and marinated extra wild turkey from this spring’s season so my wife had all the fixings for a stir-fry the same night Rivers and I would be savoring that meal in camp.

Ditto for the next night, and the venison backstrap marinated in mesquite-lime sauce to go with the veggies I’d skewered for kabobs.

Knowing that we’d attended to domestic considerations, Rivers and I went to elk camp with a clear conscience and focus on the job at hand.

Rivers had already scouted several of our old haunts in the past few weeks, plus a couple of new possibilities. “More elk sign than I’ve seen in a long time,” he said as we pored over the topo maps the night before our first day of hunting.

The next morning was much like the start of every elk-hunting day. Long before daylight, we were on the trail hiking away from the main road to choice spots for intercepting elk as they move from feeding to bedding areas.

One thing, however, was profoundly different. Instead of hiking an hour on a steep trail and bushwhacking through tangles of false azalea, we were walking on a wide open and well-graded logging road that had been gated years ago to keep out motor vehicles. Only once did a blowdown force us to lift our legs higher than a normal stride.

I kept waiting for Rivers to lead me into the gnarly stuff to which we are accustomed. But after only 15 minutes of easy walking, Rivers signaled to take a break. “We don’t want to go any farther until its light enough to shoot,” he whispered.

My senses went on alert as we sat at the edge of an area that combined a couple of tiny 10-year-old clearcuts with thinned timber next to dark escape cover. My eyes searched for movement and ears strained for any sounds, such as the snap of a twig.

Rivers, on the other hand, started to whistle a sharp note over and over followed by a staccato run of the same note. He was answering a distant pygmy owl, and within minutes the volley of calls had lured the bird overhead.

“That owl is either going to whip your butt or make love to you,” I whispered.

Fulfilled on another level, Rivers stood in the gathering light and led the way farther up the road.

We walked through a burned area and then to an area where the new grand firs, Douglas firs and ponderosa pines are 6 to 10 feet tall. We started to see more elk tracks and piles of soft, dark elk droppings.

At legal shooting time, just as we eyed a choice spot to sit, we spotted an elk less than 100 yards to our right just as it sensed our presence. The elk took three steps and stood still with its body broadside and fully exposed to our view with the exception of its head. Rivers and I froze motionless except to cock the hammers on our muzzleloaders.

If we had been hunting in the Mount Spokane unit, where the rules allow muzzleloaders to shoot “any elk,” the hunt would have been over at that instant.

The elk hunting rules for this unit, however, allow hunting only for bulls.

In the second in which I was able to see the elk’s head, I was almost sure I had seen spikes between its ears. “I’m 99 percent sure,” I whispered, and I was about to shoulder the rifle and make the shot.

But Rivers wasn’t moving, and I paused. Turns out that his pinch of uncertainty was hinging on my hesitation.

For several seconds the easiest elk we’ve come across in years of hunting stood broadside before us while we were paralyzed by a tiny fraction of doubt.

The elk finally had enough and slowly wheeled away, giving us a clear but split-second look at the spikes on its head before eliminating all lethal targets behind the shield of its large tan rump. A cow elk emerged, assessed the situation and they both melted into the dark timber.

Rivers and I looked at each other, speechless as we pondered the botched opportunity to fill a tag in a spot where a season of meat could be packed out without breaking a sweat.

I felt dumb to have squandered our luck. Either one of us would have taken that shot had we been out of each other’s aura.

“It’s no big deal,” Rivers said later as we planned our next day’s hunt into the elk hole from hell. “We’ll get another opportunity like that – in another eight or nine years.”