From Plains to Peaks

My First Elk Hunt

My boots crunched over loose shale as I climbed the last few yards to the ridgeline, a bead of sweat running down my temple despite the cold air pressing into my face. I’d been moving uphill since well before sunrise, headlamp cutting a narrow tunnel through the dark, and now—finally—the mountain opened up in front of me.

As I reached the top of the ridge I could the air becoming thinner, my breaths became more shallow and sweat dripped down my brow turning ice cold against the cool wind cascading down the mountain ridge. I scrambled over a field of boulders, with each step my calves burned as they pushed against the weight of my pack. I took the final steps and found myself looking over a vast mountain valley.

The sun broke the horizon slowly, washing the sky in soft pinks and oranges against the dull blue of dawn. Below me, the valley fell away in the opposite direction of my climb. A grove of aspens filled the ravine, pale trunks catching the first light, before giving way to a maze of deadfall. Trees lay scattered across the slope like a careless game of pickup sticks, and between them, new growth pushed upward through the chaos.

I’d stood in this exact spot months earlier during a summer scouting trip, staring into this valley and dropping a pin on my map. At the time it was just a note on a screen—hunt this. Standing there now with a rifle on my shoulder and a pack digging into my hips, it felt heavier. Earned.

This was my first elk hunt.

I was born and raised in Oklahoma, a whitetail hunter through and through. Hunting was something I grew up inside of, passed down through my family across private land that had been hunted for generations. As a kid, I followed my father, grandfather, and uncles through those woods, learning when to be quiet, how to watch the wind, and how to notice when the woods felt different.

Those hunts were familiar and comfortable. We’d wake before sunrise, hunt the morning, and be back home by mid-morning greeted by the crackle of bacon and the sweet smell of syrup on warm pancakes. We could eat and take a nap before heading back out in the evening. The truck was never far away. The land felt known, almost predictable.

I took my first game from the land. A white tail buck. He wasn’t the largest deer of all time but you would have thought I had shot a world record as I called my family members over yelling my voice course to get their attention. (Ignoring the fact they all had heard my gunshot)

There’s something special about the American Great Plains—the watercolor sunrises, the slow pace, the way time seems to stretch. I loved those hunts. They shaped how I see the outdoors and what it means to share space with wildlife.

But they were also passive in a way I didn’t realize until much later.

As time went on, access changed. Tag prices rose. Land changed hands. Eventually, I found myself priced out of the hunting I’d grown up with. After nearly a decade of living in Colorado, I realized something had shifted. If I wanted to keep hunting, I would have to learn how to do it differently.

Public land. Big country. Elk.

The idea was intimidating. I didn’t grow up hunting mountains. I didn’t grow up hunting miles from a road or responsible for every decision once daylight faded. Colorado felt vast and unforgiving compared to what I knew.

I did my best to set that anxiety behind and I applied for my first draw. Somehow I managed to draw not only an elk tag but a bull elk tag in a good unit with no points. I guess they don’t call it beginner's luck for nothing! My excitement was matched almost immediately by doubt. I didn’t know what I was doing. Not really. So I strapped in and learned as much as I could. I spent time in the mountains, read all I could, and talked to any successful hunter who was willing to listen and give a few pointers. 

I decided early that this hunt wouldn’t be about outcome. It would be about learning. I trained not only to be strong, but to be responsible. I packed food like insurance. I studied maps knowing they wouldn’t give me answers—only options. And I got boots on the ground, scouting the areas they looked good on the maps to truly see them in person.

Everything about elk hunting demanded respect. The distance. The elevation. The weather. The consequences of mistakes. I wanted to arrive at the trailhead knowing that my body, my preparation, and my mindset wouldn’t be the weak link.

The first day in the mountains was humbling. The terrain was steeper than it looked on a screen. Deadfall slowed every step. Glassing sessions stretched long and silent, and more often than not, they ended with nothing but empty timber.

Still, the sign was there. Tracks. Rubs. Fresh droppings. Enough to keep me believing.

I spent a lot of the first day behind the wheel of my truck. Looking at each of the areas I had scouted to see how they had changed since the early fall, for most changes were slight but for others the landscape seemed entirely foreign. I drove as far as possible then I would get out and hike, taking in the sights and the sounds of the vast mountain landscape sprawling in front of me.

I returned home that night sweaty, yet confident. I hadn’t seen an elk that whole day, but I felt connected to the mountain in a new way. It was as if the mountain was speaking to

me, telling me the next move and I was learning to listen. Just as my grandfather had taught me to listen to the wind blowing across the plain.

The next day I woke early, far before sunrise. I started the drive up the mountain and watched as the streetlights of civilization began to thin and then disappear altogether, as they did I was cast to the true dark of our world, only my headlights lighting the landscape around me. 

The road began to rise in elevation as I felt the dull thud, transitioning from the paved highway to the dirt road that carried me further up the mountain. There were no more houses, only the forest road ahead surrounded by a dense collection of foliage and trees bordering the road almost as a tunnel. Still I carried further with each mile my anticipation growing. 

Eventually I reached the sight I wanted to hunt. Today was only a scouting mission, my dad would be joining me the next day and that is when the hunt would truly start. 

I stepped out of the vehicle and looked up the path I wanted to follow. A 4 mile hike deeper into the woods, far from any road, a sign reading “no motorized use” hung from only one corner to the right of the path. Then I took one more look at the hunting map I had made with on x, to my right a sheer rise, up to a ridge overlooking a bowl. Something about it beckoned to me and before I knew it my feet were carrying me up through the darkness. Climbing and clambering over rock and timber as my breaths

shallowed and my calves burned. 

As I reached the top the sun began rising above the mountain scape revealing the scenery far below. I found a place to settle in, leaning against a rock where I could see the entire valley below. I took out my binos, and a few snacks, and I watched. 

After hours my butt was numb and my thoughts began to drift until I heard a crashing through the woods. It sounded huge, and fast breaking dried limbs as whatever it was stepped gracefully over the field of pick up sticks laid out in front of me. The noise stopped before I saw it but as I looked I saw one of the most magnificent creatures I have ever laid eyes on. 

A bull elk, right in front of me. I counted 6 points on each antler and all of them were long. I couldn’t believe the size, far larger than any deer ever could be. My heart began to race as I reached for my rifle, trying to move slowly, deliberately so as not to give away my position. I rose to one knee and found a fallen tree to rest my rifle against. 

I settled my sight and took aim. My breath was out of control, scope swaying, I tried to control my body to reamin steady as I took aim at the wonderful creature's side and then, CRACK,  I heard it before I felt it as a branch broke against my elbow. All  I could do was watch as the elk bolted up the hill behind it faster than what seemed like an animal of its size should be able to carry itself. 

I looked on in awe as the creature vanished, laughing quietly to myself, struck by the majesty of what I had just witnessed, content in just being an observer. Then, another crashing through the landscape. I looked for the source of the sound as a second bull entered my field of view, no more than 60 yards from me. 

My breathing was slower this time as I took aim at the beast walking through the landscape. This one was smaller than his friend, though not by much. He had 6 tines breaking off his antler though the 6th at the back was small, not much more than a nub. Its coat was a beautiful combination of light browns and earthy blacks. I took aim as he followed his friend up the mountain, only his rear visible to me. 

I had to think quickly, and so with my eye still in the scope I made a sound, “MEWWW”, my best impression of a cow elk. I wouldn’t be winning any elk calling championships but the mighty beast turned, turing broadside to show me his side. I wasted no time as my finger squeezed the trigger, “CRACK”, as the shot ripped out across the landscape, finding it’s target as the animal dropped.

I pulled away from the scope as a heavy silence filled the air and I felt a cool tear drip down my cheek.

Standing over that bull I gave thanks as I took in the scale of the absolutely spectacular animal, pride was brief. What replaced it was scale. The realization of what still had to be done. The pack out would take hours. The terrain wouldn’t get easier. Darkness would come whether I was ready or not.

I pulled out my phone to mark the sight on the map and somehow, far in the backcountry, my phone pinged with service. I called my wife to tell her what happened, her response wasn’t hesitation—it was support. She showed up. We worked together. We made mistakes. We took wrong turns. We shouldered heavy loads through deadfall and darkness, headlamps cutting small circles of light through the trees. Every step out felt earned.

We managed the job in one trip. My wife brought a friend and a fellow hunter found us at the kill sight offering to help carry the load. A reminder of the impact a community can make. 

As I shouldered my load and took the journey, all I could focus on was the step in front of me. The descent became steeper as the deadfall continued to grow thicker. Soon we had no choice but to continue our descent through broken limbs and giant logs as darkness quickly set in. A pack broke and we were faced with a choice, keep going and come back for the final load, hidden somewhere on this mountain face in a dense collection of deadfall in foliage, or take more load and see it through. I chose the latter. 

I doubled the load on my back, and had to be hoisted up but I managed to stand. There were a few times in that final mile where my legs began to quake and my balance almost gave as I climbed over trees. Branches sliced into my palms leaving cuts and trees grabbed onto my pants tearing holes in the fabric. However despite the pain, despite the effort I focused only on my feet and the dim light my headlamp cast in front of me. 

Eventually the deadfall thinned and we found a trail. The descent flattened as we crossed the finish line and found the truck. The relief I felt taking off the pack was like taking a dive in a cool mountain creek. My body took a breath and my muscles sighed in relief. 

Driving down the mountain that night my body ached and my joints were in knots and yet I struggled to wipe the smile off my face. The sense of pride and community I felt was overwhelming and I thanked God for the opportunity to experience such amazing places as this.

That hunt changed how I see the outdoors. It reminded me that learning never stops, that success isn’t guaranteed, and that the work doesn’t end when the shot is fired.

Standing on that ridge at sunrise, I didn’t know how the hunt would end. But I knew I was exactly where I needed to be.