BIG-BORE Bull Elk

[Rock Home Isle]

Here's a story about a hunt that I went on years ago. It includes all the trials and tribulations of a novice Blackpowder Hunter. I broke the story up into easy to read posts.
 
I love to tell stories and I hope that you enjoy this one. 

[Rock Home Isle]

The weatherman had predicted rain for the coming weekend and I was bummed. This was to have been my first full weekend to hunt elk, so far this season. I had drawn a bull tag for the September 1990 Black Powder Elk Season in Colorado and I had yet to use it.

My firearm of choice was a CVA Big Bore Mountain Rifle in .54 calibre caplock. I had just recently been forced to build the rifle from a kit, so as to retain ownership. I was very excited to go out and finally use it to harvest an elk and feed my family. I had begun the assembly project in early summer. The rifle was the basic “in-the-white” 95% inletted kit. These kits had served CVA well, years ago, in luring so many into the black powder fold. It’s sad to me that such an icon of the black powder fraternity, of that time, has passed on.

I had purchased the rifle after reading an advertisement in Shotgun News. As I recall it was a closeout sale and the kit cost me $90.00. After it arrived I had set the package in the back of my closet, with full intentions of completing it as soon as I had time.

[Rock Home Isle]

The rifle had remained there for several years; that is until my wife came across it. We had been newly married for a few years at that time and I was finding that she’s a very practical woman. I, myself, did very well in convincing her that I was the man of her dreams…(well I had to get her to stand a certain way and look at me through the corner of her eye with me slightly blurry) but in the end I was the man of her dreams none the less.

My wife, being a practical woman, firmly believes that if I don’t use it after 2 years…I don’t need it. Many prized possessions have mysteriously disappeared over the ensuing years of our marriage. These are items that I hold most dear, even though I can’t really place or picture them right at the moment; as they haven’t been seen in over 2 years since the time of their sudden and suspected point of departure.  Well by gosh and by golly, when it came to that Big-Bore .54 percussion rifle; I needed it something fierce. The rifle kit sat by the front door for 3 days and that very weekend I started working on the gun. Up to this point I had been using a .50 calibre CVA Mountain Rifle that I had purchased from a pawn shop when I was 14 or so. But this was my first Big-Bore .54…and it promised to be big elk medicine with that fall’s planned hunt.

After a week or two, my assembly project was completed and hunt preparations continued as I took the rifle to the range many times that summer. Through my shooting sessions I was able to carefully season the barrel and experimented with powder, patch and ball combinations, looking for the elusive perfect load formula. It didn’t take to long and I had my rifle dialed in at 100 yards. The rifle was zeroed into a nice 3” group from the bench; and from the off-hand position my grouping opened up to 7” or 8”. That was plenty tight enough to bag an elk at my usual 20 to 30 yards. My chosen load for my Big-Bore .54 was 100 grains of ffg behind a roundy that was wrapped in pillow ticking and lubed with Moose-Milk. Fall black powder season is a warm weather proposition, so I didn’t feel the need to develop a further winter weather load that would be more impervious to the freezing temperatures that are common with later seasons.

[Rock Home Isle]

After all that planning and preparation, my carefully laid dreams were now in jeopardy as the news of solid heavy rain was in the forecast. Oh don’t get me wrong I’ve hunted in the rain plenty in my life. To me weather fronts, be they rain or snow, produce some of the very best productive hunting conditions. But my wife on the other hand…not so much.

You see, I was really looking forward to her joining me on this hunt. I was looking forward to us spending nice quiet quality time together. So with the impending weather front I changed my original plans of a “Hunting Trip” and picked several alternative locations that would bring us closer to home. But still it was not to be, I would be solo that weekend regardless. And with the rain in the forecast, I did not want to get bogged down to my axles in the backwoods due to the weather, so I chose to go with my alternative sites and remain closer to home anyway.

Hunting in the rain can be a tricky enough endeavor, but throw a muzzleloader into the mix and it can be down-right frustrating and miserable. I prepared my rifle for its weekend trip afield by first pulling the barrel and sealing the drum and nipple with Vaseline. Then I replaced all my caps in my inline capper with fresh caps…the old caps went into an old tin so that they could be used at a later date out on the rifle range. The tin of fresh caps was stuffed with a cotton ball to reduce noise and then went into my shooting bag. On the rifle I fitted my Cow’s Knee and adjusted it to make sure that it kept the lock snug and dry when it was in position. As a final step, I took a few precut round patches and rubbed Vaseline into the course fibres; one of these patches would be pressed onto the muzzle to seal out the moisture and keep water from dripping into the barrel.

[Rock Home Isle]

Now that I was hunting closer to home, when I left work I was able to get in an evening hunt. That first evening of my hunt found me along the edge of a nice meadow located in a saddle between a steep timbered ridgeline on the right and a modest swell of aspen, sparse pine and grass on the left. I settled in next to a sweet flowing mountain stream that meandered out into and through the meadow. I chose to sit along the stream to benefit from the splash and swirl of the water to help cover any sounds that I might inadvertently make as the evening progressed.

For the first hour I just sat quietly. Then I actually laid down on the ground, out of the rain and drizzle, protected by the heavy bows of a great spruce tree and napped for a short while. I could hear the rain as it pattered all about me. I could hear its impact as it came down on a myriad of boughs, limbs and leaves. There is a whistling sound that a breeze makes when it passes through a stand of pine trees; that is something that you can only hear when you are in the mountains. On this day there wasn’t a heavy breeze, just a nice steady swirl that blew its way through the forest all around me.  When I next opened my eyes there were pine squirrels chasing about the base of a tree not 10 yards away, and a small grey bird was dipping and diving along the bank of the stream as it traveled against the current. I was ignored; I was now considered a part of the forest. I moved into a better position to view the forest around me, a position that offered me a clear view into the meadow.

Periodically, I called with my mouth call and grunt tube. I use a double reed mouth call to produce all the sounds that I make when calling elk. Cow call, bull call, calf call; it doesn’t matter to me; all sounds that I generate are directed into the grunt tube; and I use the grunt tube to throw the calls in random directions around me. My “meat and potatoes” sounds are calf and cow calls; the urgent call of a little lost calf mewing; the sharp reply of an adult cow. There is lots of chatter in a herd as the animals move, feed and the calves play. And I have learned through many encounters that when an elk is approaching, never throw a call directly at them, they find it unnerving and most likely will bolt and be gone.

[Rock Home Isle]

At certain times I sparingly mix in my bull bugles. My bugles are not the deep throaty grunts of a mossy horned mature bull. I firmly believe that the bull that responds to my calls is looking to take over and acquire the cows of my auditory herd. I want that mature bull to believe that this is going to be an easy proposition. Therefore, I imitate the youngest, wimpiest little bull that I can bring forth from my call. I want that mature adult 9X9 monster that responds to my calls, to think that there is a harem of cows and calves being guarded by a little yearling pip-squeak spike bull. It is my desire that the mature bull elk will throw caution to the wind, thinking that he’s got this fight for those girls won, before he even gets within range of my auditory herd. Many times I have brought in cows, calves and nice mature bull elk that must have thought that they had found a small herd of elk guarded by a weakling young bull; only to find me loosing an arrow or touching off a muzzle loader with their name on it.

As evening approached I began to call more often, and for longer periods of time. Each calling session ended abruptly followed by absolute silence as I listened intently for the slightest snap of a twig, the gentle rustling of brush and leaves, and thump of a dislodged stone or even that chilling throaty reply to my furtive calls.  After a few moments I would begin calling again, slowly throwing the calls into nearby brush or copse, gradually building and getting louder. Little by little as evening approaches the small bull calls would dominate the calling until I would bring a series of long bugles, grunts and chuckles; answered by a few cow calls and then silence again as I listened intently.

It was as the temperature dropped and the grayness of early evening became increasingly more apparent that I heard something. My heart leaped as I listened to the purest sweetest bugle that I had heard in years. My anticipation of a bull elk turned to despair as it hit me that this has got to be another hunter. The sound of this call was flawless, almost musical, and with the rut well under way, there was no hint of raspy and raw vocal chords. The bugling was coming from the dark timber to the right of the meadow. I just knew that some hunter from the next draw must have worked his way into my little pocket…again. It’s happened before and it seemed to happen with increasing frequency in this front-range pocket of my Colorado backyard.

[Rock Home Isle]

To let the interloper know that I was not an elk but that I was another hunter, I bugled the first furtive notes of the “Star Spangled Banner” to make it obvious. At the end of my rendition, instead of the expected silence and solitude, I again heard that sweet perfect bugle of just a moment ago. I hung my head and whispered to myself, “You’ve got to be kidding me…this guy must be thick.”

I took a moment and thought of another throaty tune, adjusted my mouth call and belted out the melody of a bawdy drinking song that had come to mind. I chuckled and rasped that tune into the grunt tube directing it out across the meadow perpendicular to my interloper’s suspected position. Frustration set in as again there is that sweet pure reply to my whacky little rendition.

I quit calling and slowly, quietly, began to gather my gear and prepare to leave. Darkness will be here soon and my idiotic interloper across the meadow will be shortly making his exit by “tree-bashing” his way around in the dark on his way out of the pocket and back into the adjoining draw.

After a few moments on my knees, gathering my gear and packing it away, I reached for the rifle and at the same instant I heard a very audible “woof” sound directly in front of me….I froze.

[Rock Home Isle]

Carefully I raised my head, ever so slowly, trying to catch sight of what made that sound. I could hear movement, I had even heard it before but I had ignored it since I was focused on inventorying my gear and mentally taking note of where my next hunt would take place. Now whatever it was…it was closer, much closer. All that I could make out through the brush was the movement of a dark dark brown that was followed by what appeared to be a patch of tan flank. And all the while I was slowly bringing my rifle to bear.

Eventually I brought myself into a shooting position, waiting till I could clearly see my quarry. Then at 10 yards, just at the edge of the meadow, stood a nice 5X6 bull, snorting at me in a way that made that “woof” sound. All the while his eyes were wide and bright as he looked everywhere for the herd of females and the little wimpy bull. It has always amazed me how such a massive animal can make so much noise one moment only to move so quietly then suddenly and unexpectedly appear the next. The elk is a majestic animal by all accounts.

I didn’t have to aim at all, the bull was that close. I slowly shouldered the rifle and gently pulled the trigger… “pop”. None of the expected recoil, only a loud “pop”…followed almost instantly by thundering hooves as the heavy bull tore up great chunks of sod, that landed around me, as he applied his powerful muscle in covering the distance away from where I lay. I pulled out my grunt tube and made a few furtive calf calls, throwing the sound in multiple directions behind and to the sides of where I lay. The bull stopped at the very edge of the meadow, some 100 yards away. He moved in tight circles, stomping and raking his antlers in frustration. But he would come no closer to my little copse of trees. It was obvious that he needed to see the herd before he would let go his fear and come closer.

[Rock Home Isle]

I carefully settled into position and cradled the rifle across the decayed remains of an old gnarled blow-down. With a simple click I set the trigger of the rifle and then holding my breath and waiting until the sights drifted to the proper position I touched her off. This dramatic moment was followed by another useless “pop”…and it sounded like thunder to my ears against the gentle drizzling of the rain. It must have sounded similar to the bull as well, for all my calling tricks could not stop him for a second time. But at each of my bugles he answered as he faded into the forest. He slipped quietly into the dark timber and was gone. Still I tried to entice one more appearance out of him, but each of his answering calls was getting fainter and fainter as he traveled farther back into the timber.

When I got home, I was elated at my experience. I was so close to him that I could smell his rank odor and clearly hear his deep breath as it went in and out of his massive chest. I had touched the moon.

The other thing that excited me was the fact that the bull sauntered into the woods, and each reply to my calls indicated a leisurely walk, not a run. By all accounts he was not feeling pushed, he was startled by the encounter for sure, but not pushed. If no one else bumped him, I felt very secure that the bull would still be there the next day.

The weather reports of that night indicated that things were still not cooperating with me. Drizzling rain that produced damp cold conditions, did not improve my wife’s low opinion of spending a cold wet afternoon sitting in the woods; just not her cup of tea. And if I did connect with this bull, I felt that I would require help in bringing him home. Option number two was Monty…

[Rock Home Isle]

Monty was a co-worker of mine that possessed the most infectious personality. I had known him for a little over a year and he had become a good friend, and more importantly Monty wanted to hunt. He didn’t know how to hunt, had never done it growing up, but he was eager and wanted to give it a try. I called Monty and he was very excited to tag along with me the next afternoon.

Early the next day I discharged the Big-Bore .54 and rammed home a fresh load. It took some time to get the rifle to go off. Figuring moisture from the adverse weather conditions, I pulled the nipple and dribbled a little powder into the drum then replaced the nipple. The next cap produced the desired effect as the rifle boomed out its projectile into a bank of earth. Once the rifle was reloaded I then weather proofed the rifle against the dampness and waited until it was time to go.

Monty and I arrived at the meadow near mid-afternoon. We had plenty of time to settle in and observe the area. I had high hopes of a successful evening hunt.

But it wasn’t long before I noticed that Monty had issues. He could not sit still or be quiet for longer than five minutes. He wanted to see everything, so his head was in constant motion as every sound attracted his wondering attention. As time passed by Monty wanted to talk about work, discuss the plants that he was seeing, he was curious about the sounds that were evident and he wanted to hear my theories about the hunt…Monty did not whisper, mind you… Monty talked in a vey audible tone that possessed the capacity to carry its content to the next county and beyond. My mind reeled, this just would not do.

[Rock Home Isle]

I moved close to Monty and very quietly and politely explained that our quarry, the bull, could hear every sound that we made; his keen eye sight allowed him to see even the slightest little movement; and if the breeze shifted from us into the meadow, he’d smell us and be gone long before we had any idea that he was even around. I carefully explained that all movement had to be very very slow and deliberate. Head movements had to be even slower and you had to rotate your eyes to see around you, more than move your head. There could not be any talking or communication of any kind that involved sound. We had to become a part of the forest and blend in with our surroundings.

For the remainder of the afternoon, we both sat comfortably dry under the drooping bows of the spruce tree by the crick. We both waited and watched; Monty was bored and I was concerned.

Periodically I would give a short series of calf calls and cow calls followed by a long period of silence. As the afternoon progressed these periods of silence saw their duration decrease and the amount of calling slowly increase. As evening approached the young bull of my auditory herd would make his appearance once again. And all the while Monty was getting…fidgety.

[Rock Home Isle]

In a moment of pure inspiration or maybe even desperation, I encouraged Monty to move just the few yards needed to place him in a small depression near the water. In this little hallow, Monty could look at all things interesting, fiddle around with most anything that attracted him, twist his head in any direction that he & god would allow and his movements would be fairly well hidden…almost secretive. I whispered that I would keep calling until about dusk and then we would begin to pack up and head back to the truck, if nothing had happened by that time.

An hour later I was watching Monty drop pebbles into the water of the stream and thinking of the long drive home and theorizing where the bull had wandered off too. I again pulled out my tube and produced a single furtive bugle. In reply, I could have sworn that I again heard that sweet perfect song in answer. The sound of its melody wafted gently through the air, and for a moment I wasn’t even sure that I had actually heard it. Was it that I wanted to hear it so badly that my mind had manufactured the pure sweet sound for me? One look at Monty’s face told me that….yeah, I had heard it.

For the first time in an hour and a half Monty wasn’t moving, not even breathing. His head was locked into a fixed position and his facial expression didn’t change for several moments. But Monty’s eyes gave me an indication that some semblance still lay within. His eyes darted madly in all manner of directions trying to determine from where the sound had come. I recalled once when I had sprained an ankle, and the thought crossed my mind was it possible to sprain a human eye. It took almost inhuman effort to suppress a giggle and not swallow my mouth call at this thought.

[Rock Home Isle]

Once I regained control I called again…and again there was a response; much closer and much louder. The bull was moving to the meadow, the bull was coming to us.

As time passed, I went through my repertoire of calf and cow calls imitating the sounds of a small elk herd that I wanted the bull to believe had moved into our edge of the meadow. These calls were lightly seasoned with bugles, and each bugle was answered by that beautiful reply that grew ever nearer, ever louder. Finally the bull came out onto the very edge on the opposite side of the meadow. His calls were now loud, raspy and challenging, but he would move no further.

By now Monty had moved to a hidden position so that he could peer through some brush and clearly see the bull as it emerged from the thick timber. I was in a quandary, its one thing to punch paper at 100 yards, but its something else entirely to open sights on a primitive firearm over that same distance to harvest a majestic animal and risk wounding it. But after several more subtle attempts to draw the bull nearer, I found a solid rest and settled in to prepare for my shot. I set the trigger and touched it off as the sights lined up on the front shoulder of the bull. I was greeted once again by a wimpy “pop” and a sudden immediate feeling of desperation.

I gave a few calls, and the bull stopped at the edge of the timber. I whispered to Monty to watch him and let me know if he again heads in the direction of the woods. I then took my nipple wrench from its place in my pouch and pulled the nipple of the percussion rifle. As carefully and quickly as I could, I dribbled a few grains of ffg powder from my powder horn into the drum of the rifle, then replaced the nipple. I took a fresh cap from the tin, pressed it onto the nipple and slid back into position behind my rest. I was now nervous, the bull had moved back towards the woods and was sitting beyond 100 yards and would not move closer; in fact its body language told me that soon he would slip into the forest and be gone. He was definitely feeling pushed. And worse…I no longer trusted my rifle to go off when it should.

[Rock Home Isle]

The elk turned to bugle, its body quartering towards me as I touched off the shot. The recoil set me back as the forest reverberated with the powerful blast of the Big-Bore .54. But my vision was immediately obscured by a dense white cloud of smoke that seemed to hang unmoving in front of my rifle’s muzzle. The shot felt very good to me, I was as calm as I could have been, under the conditions, but I did not see the shot strike home. I glanced to my left and looked at Monty; his expressive face immediately told me that the elk was down. I stopped Monty from rushing out into the meadow and running up to the elk as I instinctively began the process of reloading the rifle. While reloading I kept an eye in the direction of where the elk had stood when I had taken the shot. Once the reloading was completed Monty and I moved out into the meadow and a short time later I found my elk, downed at the edge of the forest. The shot was clean and the elk was brought down by a hit to the spine and the reload finished the hunt. 

If you’ve ever been elk hunting you already know that now is when the real work begins. Monty braced himself while he held the elk in position and I field dressed the animal. It was actually good now to hear his excited voice as he recapped each and every detail of the hunt. His excitement was contagious. He now even made the boring parts sound exciting and interesting.

Once the dressing out was completed, Monty sat on a rock near the elk carcass while I walked across that meadow and down the draw to get the truck. We had noticed that there was the faintest trace of a road that came to within 30 yards of this side of the meadow and Monty and I were able to drag the elk and actually load the animal whole into the back of the truck. I had never done that before with an elk. It was a first for me. I explained to Monty several times that this wasn’t a normal part of an Elk Hunt. Elk need to be quartered out and hauled painfully for miles through dense forest and waist high blow-downs before they could be safely loaded and transported home. Monty just smiled and huffed as the animal was finally secured in the back of the vehicle.

The rack of that majestic bull hangs prominently on the wall of my home. It hangs among the trophies of other animals that I had harvested over the years. The memories of that hunt are as fresh in my mind as if they had happened just last weekend. Every time that I look at that rack, I can once again hear the sound of that purest sweetest call wafting in from the dark timber just to the right of the meadow.

[Rock Home Isle]

Here's the rack of my Bull Elk and the rifle that I used to harvest him.
 

[Black Jaque Janaviac]

I'd like to come and visit your "trophy room" some day.  Your trophies have stories.  I get nauseated when men gush about G-2's and 140 points, yadda-yadda-yadda.  The purpose of a trophy is to serve as a reminder of a noteworthy feet.
 
It's not about the numbers - it's about the feat, it's about the story. 

[keith44]

ditto what  Black Jaque Janaviac said
 

[lakota]

Thnaks for sharing. I enjoyed your story.

[Sierra Sherpa]

Man, that was great.  And BJJ is right, I hate it when an animal is described as beautiful in the context of how many points it carries.  What a piece of crock!  I have got to try elk hunting one of these days.  Thanks for the story.

[Hooker]

 Ever since I was a kid I have loved stories about hunting. RHI thanks for a most excellent story.

Pat

[streak]

Great story RHI!!

[coyotejoe]

Great story very well told! It's surprising that such a careless bull lived long enough to grow those antlers.

[Swampman]

Thanks for sharing!

[Graybeard]

One of the things I like best about forums like this is people share their stories of hunts. Anymore in magazines the articles aren't stories of a hunt but just one long continous commercial listing all the items used and little detail of the enjoyment of the adventure.

Long ago I developed the practice of pulling my nipple and putting a few grains of powder down in there and putting it back in place. So far I've never had a failure to fire when hunting.

I do a few other things to help as well like using both alcohol and then acetone to clean my barrel before I head out to hunt. I then pop a few caps before loading it up.

I enjoyed your story but have to say I'd not be inclined to put up with a wife who got rid of my things just because she didn't feel they were being used enough. I have things that likely will never be used again like the shotgun I learned to shoot with as a boy. I'll pass it onto my youngest grandson one day but likely will never fire it again.

[Black Jaque Janaviac]

I enjoyed your story but have to say I'd not be inclined to put up with a wife who got rid of my things just because she didn't feel they were being used enough.

Naw!  Sounds like the wife is giving him the perfect excuse to spend LOTS of time on his hobbies.
 
"Well Honey, if I DON'T go shooting 5 times a week, I won't be able to shoot all my guns. . . and if I can't shoot all my guns you'll want to get rid of them." 
 
Nothing wrong with having a wife that is a good home-maker.  But if I can give a word of caution . . .  Don't lie to her about what you paid for each gun. . . you may come home to find out she sold one or two.  And of course you'll ask what she got for them . . .
 
"Exactly what you told me you paid for them, Dear."

[Rock Home Isle]

Well I'm glad you've enjoyed the story and posted your comments and opinions. Feed back is such an important factor, so thank you one and all...and yes, it was a very memorable hunt to say the least.
 
In defence of my wonderful wife. I enjoy my sense of humor and living with me is no day at the beach; while she enjoy's a clean and neat home; she is not a fan of clutter and I cannot fault her for having those ideals.
 
I would like to add that on September 26th, about a week ago, I was feeling a little under the weather and wound up having emergency surgury. I was not released to go home until October 3, yesterday. There were a couple of uncertain days there, where my wife was my only solice. She held this very active family together, made sure that our lives ran smoothly and took care of me while I was in the hospital.
 
I would have to say that I definately married up in the world.

[streak]

RHI,
Hope you have a rapid recovery and all is well with you.
God speed to you!!

[Rock Home Isle]

RHI,
Hope you have a rapid recovery and all is well with you.
God speed to you!!

I must admit that this did put a HUGE wrinkle in my fall and winter plans...ALOT. I feel that I've been completely de-railed by all this garbage.
 
Here is the original plan....
 
This idea has been simmering in the back of my head for quite a few months now, ever since you dropped me that message a few months ago. I was planning a Winter Camp Primitive Hunt to the plains of Eastern Colorado. The weekend hunt would be strictly Blackpowder rifle and smoothbore hunting with a small select group of invited hunters.....you're on the short list there streak, so please get back to me if you would like to be included. Shoot me a Private Message
 
The hunt would be a Fur & Feather affair and target mostly rabbits and pheasants. This would be a short weekend hunt with us arriving and setting up camp on a selected Friday evening, followed by an evening hunt Friday...hunt Saturday...Mornin Hunt Sunday and clear camp and head home in the afternoon on Sunday.
 
From my late Dove Season hunt this year, We should get into some real good Pheasant hunting at least...and there are a few good areas for rabbit hunting as well.
 
I was originally going to set the date for mid November near the Pheasant Opener...but it may have to wait until early December or it might even go bust...depending on my recovery & health.
 
If nothing else we can just do a day at the range with the guns.
 
I see my surgeon tomorrow so I'll know more in a day or so...

[streak]

RHI,
Sounds like a great idea!
You have a P.M.