Beyond the Tag: A Public Land Pursuit
Looking back, it’s hard to distill this story into words. In the wild, with minimal distractions and good company, life unfolds fast. In the early winter of 2023, I gathered a group of men, spanning decades in age and experience, to chase elk on Colorado’s public land. Some were close friends; others, near strangers. By the end, the Mountain wove us together through grit, laughter, and quiet reckonings in a way only the Mountain could.
Gathering at the Cabin
Jason, my childhood friend, arrived first at the cabin, eager to deepen his connection to the meat he consumed. Though a Colorado native, he was new to big game hunting, his first tag in hand. We prepped the cabin, turning the garage into a communal hub for meals and stories.
Soon, Jon, Rodger, and Danny rolled in. Jon, my father-in-law, thrived on bringing people together. For him, the elk hunt was secondary to the joy of camp chairs and shared tales. Rodger, my wife’s uncle, came from North Dakota with a purpose. Years of guiding others on elk hunts had left him empty-handed, and his intense gaze portrayed unfinished business. Danny, or “Doober Dan The Mountain Man,” was their lifelong friend, a gravel-voiced storyteller whose wild yarns could captivate any crowd. Give him a fishing pole, a bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and you’d hear tales that stretched belief.
As daylight faded, “Dan the Man” and Davis, brothers from North Dakota, arrived with Darren, Dan the Man’s best friend and a last-minute addition. Both brothers were seasoned deer hunters but new to this rugged terrain. Spirits were high as we settled into the cabin, scanning the landscape for elk under a painted sunset. The high country’s towering peaks and crisp air humbled us, filling the group with curiosity and wonder.
Opening Day: Snow and Silence
Morning brought a fresh blanket of snow, cold air, and high spirits. We scattered across the mountain, but despite the ideal conditions, no elk tracks appeared. Dan the Man hiked 18 miles, while others covered at least eight, battling snow and wind. Chipmunks and pines were all we found. Exhausted, we gathered in the garage that night, sharing solo cups of bourbon and makeshift meals. Jon’s warmth and Danny’s tales broke the ice, knitting our ragtag crew closer.
Day Two: Doubt Creeps In
The next morning, a grim discovery: Davis had twisted his ankle badly, swollen and bruised. Most would’ve quit, but he laced up his boot, determined to press on. The mountain offered no mercy; frozen snow revealed no fresh tracks or signs of elk. Doubt settled in as we logged double-digit miles with nothing to show. That night, Jon and Danny’s stories kept spirits afloat, but frustration lingered, unspoken but heavy.
A Garbage Man’s Tip
By day three, the mountain remained silent. At lunch, empty stomachs mirrored dwindling morale. Jon and Danny made a supply run to town, dumping trash at the landfill. There, a garbage man offered a tip: elk were “thick” a few hours west. True or not, it was a lead. Desperate, we chased it on day four, leaving before dawn. The journey yielded old tracks, washed-out trails, a stunning sunrise, and no elk. Mule deer, moose, and raptors filled the landscape, shifting the trip’s focus. It became more than a hunt; a raw communion with the wild, felt by all.
Day Five: The Herd Appears
Back at our mountain, Jason and I perched on a hill, hope fading with the sun. We made a last hour decision and sprinted to a ridgeline overlooking a meadow where 20-30 elk emerged, grazing peacefully. Jason, new to this, trembled with anticipation. I urged him to take a clear shot. His rifle cracked, the shot sailing high. Relief and disappointment mixed in his voice.
My turn came. I settled on an older cow, adjusted my scope, and fired. A puff of dust; another clean miss. I didn’t take the advice I had uttered just moments before. Relief hit hard, but so did an unshakable shame.
Darren’s Triumph
As we pushed on, two shots rang out in the distance. It took till the next morning to locate the harvest at the bottom of a steep drainage. Darren, filled both of his tags, a bull and a cow were laid down just yards apart. The celebration was brief, packing out two elk was brutal. Everyone pitched in: Davis, limping on his busted ankle; Doober Dan, battling cancer; Jon, Rodger, Dan the Man, and Jason. Hours of grueling work stretched into the night, sweat freezing, breath sharp. By the time we hauled the last quarter to the cabin, we were spent. Jason and I quietly thanked our misses; two more elk might’ve broken us.
Rodger’s Redemption
Day six dawned, and we were running on fumes. Then Rodger and Dan delivered the trip’s defining moment. At first light, they watched a ridgeline. A bull appeared. Dan fired first, but his shot sailed high due to an unnoticed equipment failure. In those seconds, Rodger steadied and dropped the bull. No shortcuts, just years of effort culminating in this public-land triumph.
Dan’s reaction was remarkable. Despite his own miss, after countless miles and the previous day’s pack-out, he celebrated Rodger without hesitation. His selflessness set a benchmark for character I still hold dear. We rallied around them, hauling the bull back in celebration.
The Final Night
With one day left, we set rifles aside. Jason strummed his guitar, and stories flowed into the early hours. This trip wasn’t about tags filled. It was about resilience, bonds forged, and the wilderness’s raw beauty. Success wasn’t antlers or harvest counts; it was the laughter around wobbly camp chairs, the shared frustration of empty pursuits, the pride of backbreaking pack-outs.
A Call to Return
As I write, I ache to return to the mountain with this ragtag family. The process, the challenge, and the wild places call us back, their lessons etched into our souls.