As the daughter of one of the best hunters I know - my Dad – I like to talk about the Pope and Young elk antlers at the Cox House in Roswell, Idaho. (The Pope and Young Club is the official record keeping organization for bow hunters.) The antlers are thick, brown, six-by-six beams that dwarf the Cox furniture. My father harvested each one of the animals that sported these antlers. But there is one specific set of antlers I have an affinity for, because I helped locate the animal that they belonged to.
Each year before bow hunting season begins my Dad spends countless hours pouring over topographical maps, looking for plausible hunting sights. After narrowing down the selection, he spends a day or two scouting out these locations. Though I usually stay behind, I had the chance to go with Dad on one of his scouting adventures in the summer of 2000.
The night before the adventure Dad and I camped at the trail head in the back of Dad’s pickup. That night a terrific storm struck. The thunder and lightning transformed the quiet evening. It seemed like each bolt of lightning flashed nearer than the one before, illuminating the trunks of the nearby pines and a long-deserted campfire ring.
There is something ironically peaceful and about watching a thunder and lightning show while sitting at home on your couch. I feel control over something like this, because I cannot be touched by the danger. When far away from civilization, however, and spending the night in the back of a pickup truck, the intensity of thunder and lightning is terrifying. Oh, to be sure it is a thrilling type of fear, and I did not cry or scream in terror as the boom echoed through the valley. I wondered, however, as the lightning struck closer than I dared calculate, what we would do if the forest started to burn and we became trapped. I looked at my Dad. His face was calm, so I snuggled further into my sleeping bag and listened to the rain pounding on the truck’s canopy.
The next day we awoke to silence. The ground was muddy, the leaves dripping, the tall blades of grass were like fingers of water, all mingling with the rich scent of pine trees and forest dirt. I sniffed the air again and again, but there would be plenty of time for that later. Now was the moment for loading the motorcycle.
It took awhile to pack the motorcycle with binoculars, food, survival supplies, a camera and tripod. I made a conscious effort to focus my tired body on the task at hand, directing the flashlight beams to wherever my Father’s hands were readying the equipment. Securely tying the last of the supplies on the motorcycle rack, Dad climbed over the motorcycle and motioned for me to jump on behind him.
As the motorcycle revved up an electric-thrill surged through my body in anticipation of what, we might discover in the mountains. The day was crisp and cold (and wet!). I held onto Dad as we hit numerous bumps and ruts. Branches and tall clumps of grass brushed across my legs, saturating my clothes with water.
After one mile on a rocky trail we parked the bike and began hiking. To begin with, we gained almost 600 feet of elevation. Hiking for some hunters is a leisurely stroll, but not for Dad. Striding ahead of me Dad set the pace for our journey, but he continually kept an eye on me to see that I was okay. The breeze whispering through the pine and aspen trees calmed my spirit, even while my leg muscles burned from the steep climb.
At last we arrived at one of Dad’s choice locations. There before us was one of the biggest, muddiest, dirtiest “ponds” of muck I had ever seen. It is what elk hunters call an “elk wallow.”
Bull elk are massive, brown creatures that turn small pools of water into large wet, sticky slush as they roll around and cake themselves in mud. They do this during the rutting/breeding season which cools down their body temperature (they are pretty heated up during the rut!). According to Dad the wallow would be “active” when the bow hunting season rolled around, and what lay before us was evidence that this would be a good place to hunt. After making special note of where the wallow was located and snapping some pictures, we continued our trek.
After another mile or so we came across a meadow: a beautiful, peaceful place, and apparently the elk thought so, too. Spearmint-green grass carpeted the landscape along with trees stripped of bark. I imagined the rack of antlers and the power behind them violently ripping this arbor of its outer layer. This is the perfect place for an elk and his herd of females to bed and feed during the early mornings. In addition, my Dad spotted a pile of brown and red clumps of bear excretion; apparently, the area is popular for other creatures.
Before leaving the area Dad carved the letters C-O-X and a Christian cross in an aspen tree. He named the meadow “Joanna’s Meadow.” I gave thanks to God for our success in finding yet another plausible hunting spot. When we left, I was already imagining the day we would return together. As we picked up the pace, I looked backwards to get a mental picture of the exact place. I wondered I could find my way back alone because so many places in the woods look the same. But with the abundant traces of elk I knew Dad would remember how to return!
Crunching the ground underfoot I looked above at the tall pine trees shielding us from the sun which had been in place for several hours. The birds flying over head, the rustling of leaves, and pine cones snapping beneath my feet made this a peaceful place, despite my heart pounding with each new step through the rugged landscape. We arrived back at the motorcycle, sweaty and dirty. We traveled faster on the way back, not taking as long to navigate through the familiar terrain. With the wind rushing past me and a smile on my face, I said goodbye to the stillness of the forest, exchanging it for a four-wheel vehicle and, later, a hot shower.
The next three trips to this same place Dad and his hunting partner, Doug Ramsey, harvested three elk, two of them with record book antlers. Dad shot one of these while hunting by himself, and Doug the other one after Dad called it to within bow range. I am proud of their accomplishments, especially because Dad tells me I helped make this success possible. I am happy to claim part of the victory and this gives me a wonderful sense of satisfaction.
Joanna Cox currently attends George Fox University where she enjoys writing, eating ethnic food, and reliving past hunting experiences with her father via cell phone and email. She wishes to thank all those who help her edit her articles.
