I was again discouraged by this, but Tom told me to keep my head up, and he was gonna get us a shot at a tom turkey if it killed us that day! We trudged back down to the ranger, and Tom decided to drive us back to the truck to get warmed up and radio for some advice. There were two other turkey hunters on that land that day. They had nothing to do with the CPW youth hunt, but they also had turkey tags for that land. They were two guys from Chicago, and they had come down to hunt turkeys. Turns out, neither of the guys liked wild turkey meat, but knew that their friend, my guide, loved it. So, they went through all of the trouble of buying tags and flying down from Chicago to go turkey hunting that weekend, just so they could leave the birds behind for Tom.
Once we got back to the truck, Tom made sure I ate and drank something. I was running on a Mountain Dew and 10 ounces of beef jerky. Even though I didn't feel like eating or drinking, if I didn't, I was bound to crash, and Tom didn't want to carry my unconscious body down a mountain. While I snacked on some pretzels and chugged down some water, Tom radioed the two other hunters on the property and asked for guidance.
The guys responded, saying they had a successful hunt earlier that morning, but decided to stay for the rest of the day to scout for turkeys for us, hike around, and look for sheds (antlers) left behind by the bucks and bulls that winter. They gave us two locations to look for wild turkeys. The first location was on the other side of Tom's cabin from the area we were hunting before, and the second was the valley on the other side of the mountain where the little cabin and stable were. The guys were on a ridge overlooking the valley with the cabin and stable, and said they hadn't seen anything yet, so we ought to check out the other location first.
The first location was a range of mountains that was almost completely barren of any brush. It was mostly covered in aspens, barren twiggy willows, brambles and burs. It didn't help that the sun was out and wind was really picking up, making it much harder to avoid getting stuck by the brambles and the burs. I made sure to keep my sunglasses and bandanna over my face. The last thing I wanted was to get a mouthful or eyeful of burs. I tried to avoid the burs as best I could while keeping up with my guide and grandpa.
Eventually, after stumbling around through the brush for awhile, we made it to the crest of the mountain. Up there, the wind whistled through the twigs, making a sound that was just like distant cougar screams. I felt the cold wind biting at my face, so I buried my face into my bandanna even more. I knew it would be that cold and windy, so I made sure to dress for it, and thankfully my layers did stop the wind from chilling me to the bone. Eventually, we came to a small ditch, where Tom had us all crouch down as he called for turkeys. While he called for turkeys, I used a stick I found on the ground to get rid of the burs and brambles that stuck to my clothes. I knew if I tried to just pull them off with my gloves, I'd have even more issues, so I just slowly and carefully flicked them off with a stick.
We were up there for a good 20 minutes, hoping to hear and/or see some turkeys, but all we could hear was the wind and our own breathing. Tom decided that we spent enough time up there, and clearly the turkeys had sought lower ground in the weather. The turkeys would be exposed to predators and the wind in the sun, and were probably busy picking at roots and seeds in the shaded valleys below.
Tom had us hurry up, and I was practically sprinting by the time we made it down to the base of the mountain. I dove into the truck, and the men weren't far behind. I had a quick reality check when I sat down on a bur I had picked up along the way, so I had to take some time getting that off before I could actually get in the truck. Meanwhile, my grandpa sat in the front passenger seat, and my guide called over the radio.
Our scouts quickly called back, excitedly announcing that there was a huge rafter of turkeys in the valley near the cabin and the stable, and we had to get there right then, but to bring the ranger! So, Tom threw his truck into drive, spun around, and got us to the ranger. Once in it, he ignored the 35 mile per hour speed limit on the road, and drove the ranger about as fast as it could go. I'm not sure how fast we were going, but it was probably close to 50.
Once we got to where we could see the valley, there were a few trees blocking our view of the whole valley. Tom got out, and instructed us to follow. For a brief moment, I was distracted by the distinct scent of death, which seemed to be coming from a blind the two hunters were hunting from. Sure enough, hidden in that blind were two older tom turkeys, laying there being cooled off. Tom noticed I'd been distracted, and sharply called my name, beckoning me to follow him and my grandpa. He led us to the left, away from the blind in the valley, and up a draw. On top, there were two men in casual flannel clothing. They'd left their hunting gear behind in the blind once they filled their tags. One was standing on the edge of the ridge with a pair of binoculars, and the other came over to greet us.
He told Tom about the turkeys they were seeing. The turkeys were slowly following the valley up into the mountains. From where we stood, we couldn't see anything, so the man with the binoculars came over, and then passed the binoculars around. Tom had his own pair. My grandpa looked through the binoculars first and located the turkeys, then it was my turn. One of the guys threw his arm around my shoulders and pointed in the general direction of the turkeys. Sure enough, there were dozens of turkeys, and I counted seven puffed-up toms!
Tom quickly thanked them, and the three of us bounded back down the draw into the valley and across the road. Tom led us into the mountains rather than through the valley where we'd be exposed. The wind was still rushing through the trees as dark clouds gathered to the west above us. This made me nervous, because I don't do well in the cold, and feared that this possible storm could cut the hunt short. But I did my best to ignore it as Tom led us across the steep mountainside in the shelter of the red cedars, blue spruces, and ponderosa pines.
The thing that caught me off guard where the number of bones we were stumbling over. The mountainside looked like an above-ground graveyard. Dry, sun-bleached bones, belonging mostly to elk, were scattered everywhere, creating the illusion of snow in some places. I crushed many ribs and skull caps under my boots as I did my best to stay quiet without letting Tom get too far away, or losing my balance on the very steep and slippery mountainside. Suddenly, Tom motioned us to immediately drop to the ground. So, I did as he motioned and squatted down, putting some of my body weight on my right fist while I rested my left arm across my knees.
It sounded just like thunder, though it was constant and distant, and kept getting louder and louder. I began to shake with anxiety, because I was certain that thundering sound belonged to the storm system headed for us, and Tom wanted us to brace for it. Instead, straight ahead of us, no more than 15 yards away, dozens of elk came charging up the mountainside. Elk never looked bigger to me up until they were charging up the mountainside, just mere feet from us. They were so close, that I could see the whites in their eyes, snot dripping from their nostrils, and patches on their hides where they had shed their winter coat. I noticed a single bull among the cows. He had a few nubs of velvet antlers that were just starting to grow. I could tell he was an old bull because of just how large his antlers already were. But as quickly as I saw him, and the rest of the herd, they charged over the other side of the mountain, and were gone forever.
I was just in awe. I just crouched there with my eyes wide and jaw hanging open, unable to move for a few moments after the last elk disappeared. I wasn't afraid, but I wasn't off-guard either. It was just a new feeling. Something within me had been triggered at that moment, and suddenly all of my anxieties about the weather and predators left my mind, and were replaced by a deep, burning passion for hunting. Suddenly, I was motivated and optimistic. Suddenly, I just knew I would hunt for the rest of my life, no matter what. Rain or shine, sleet or snow, wind or calm, illness or health, I was gonna hunt every chance I had until the day I died. Even then, I figured heaven's got some pretty great wilderness too.
Needless to say, we didn't get any turkeys to come up to us, but being no further than 50 feet away from an elk stampede was almost better than bringing back a turkey. I ended up picking up a small vertebrae from the piles of bones on the mountainside, just to serve as a reminder of what happened. I'm not sure what it belongs to. It's smaller than an elk's, but too big to belong to a coyote. It probably belonged to an early fawn, or something like that. Whatever it came from, I still have those bones on my bookshelf.
Rain began to quietly drizzle the ground as we made our way back to the ranger. As usual, Tom got in the driver's seat while I got in the front passenger, and my grandpa got into the backseat. It was about 2:30 in the afternoon, and Tom finally decided that it was time to get us some lunch. My grandpa couldn't wait for that moment, and as soon as we had cell service, he called my grandma to tell her to meet us at a historical restaurant in Meeker called the Meeker Cafe.
Tom drove us to Meeker in his truck. I was pretty silent while my grandpa and him talked. The adrenaline I was feeling was allowed to wear off in the truck, and by the time we got to Meeker, I was so hungry that I felt weak and shaky. Once we got there, we ordered our food quickly. I had a chance to use the restroom and wash off the mud and dust that turned my face a dark shade of reddish grey.
Finally, shortly after I sat down, our food arrived. Tom was quite impressed by the number of pills I take before every meal. He joked that he struggled to take two little advil pills, let alone the handful of horse-sized medication I take. I laughed and dug into my food. I barely had time to taste the bison burger I was eating. My grandparents gently teased me for it, asking why I was in such a huge hurry. The thing is, Tom was eating his food about as quickly as myself, so my grandparents ate their meal fairly quickly too as we discussed plans for the last two or three hours of daylight we had left.
Tom kindly paid for our order, rather than splitting the check, and we agreed upon a plan; my grandparents would follow me and Tom to the hunting grounds in their SUV, park on the county road, and Tom would lead me through the wilderness in hopes of finding some turkeys preparing to roost. If we didn't get anything, at least we'd have an idea where the turkeys would roost for the night, so we could meet them there early the next morning.
The drive back to the hunting grounds was tense and nearly silent. I knew what to do as soon as we got out of the truck. I watched my grandparents behind us through the rear-view mirror, and occasionally glanced up to stare at the great outdoors as we sped past it. The wind had died down considerably, though it was still howling. The sky was dark shades of blue and grey, and pockets of white sheets of sleet poured down on the silver and green wilderness below.
The air felt different. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I was excited and hopeful. I prayed to God in my thoughts, hoping He'd provide me something to eat before dusk arrived. I had two hours. If I didn't get anything within those two hours, I would have to return to the hunting grounds early the next morning. However, there was always a chance that I could score something that evening instead of the next.
According to Tom, all of the other youth hunters had successfully gotten their turkeys. I was the last one on the field. Some kids got their turkeys within the first hour of daylight, and others had gotten them just as we made our way back to the hunting grounds from the Meeker Cafe. Most of those kids, if not all, had gotten tom turkeys that were no older than two years old. Most of them would be considered jakes, which are just teenage turkeys. I hoped that I didn't just spend 11 hours hunting, only to bring home a jake. I wanted something bigger, not for the trophy, but for the food.
