Their First Trip to Elk Camp
I’ve been hunting the wilderness a few hours from home for the last 13 years—ever since my daughter was three and my son was one. Every fall, I head into elk camp with my brother and one of my best friends, sometimes joined by an extra soul or two, depending on who’s willing to follow us into some seriously deep country.
Elk camp, for us, isn’t much more than a base. We usually hike in at least six miles and gain around 2,500 feet in elevation from the tailgate of the truck—the same one you sit on to lace up your boots before the journey begins. Once you're in, you live off what you carried on your back. Elk camp is a place to gear up for the day or crash after a long one. Nothing more, nothing less.
This year, I was lucky enough to harvest a bull early in our 14-day window. We hired pack horses to help haul out the meat. Speaking of horses—I don’t think I’d ever want to own one, but if you’ve got the chance to let one carry a couple hundred pounds of elk off the mountain for you? Do it. It keeps hunters in the field and bodies unbroken.
As I followed the horses down the mountain, I had a thought: What if I brought the kids up for the last three days of the hunt? I figured it would be a long shot. Someone would say no, surely.
I started with the guys at camp. They’re brothers to me, and they love my kids. Of course it was a yes. Next up: my wife—the boss. All she heard was three days to yourself, and she started packing the kids’ lunches.
Then came the kids. My daughter is 16, my son 13. I figured I might get one to come along if I was lucky. But when I pitched the idea, they both said yes—without hesitation.
At the dinner table that night, I asked what they were most looking forward to. They said they just wanted to get away from their phones—and the news. It had been one of those weeks where everything on TV or the phone felt heavy, even to them. So we packed.
This is where the nerves hit.
I don’t have two extra sets of everything. This wasn’t car camping—it was hours of hiking and sleeping in a tent very far away from anything that felt like home. I hope im home enough for them to feel safe.
And we’d be archery hunting, which meant no bright colors. I started borrowing camo from friends with kids or small wives, and most importantly, I secured two of the best sleeping bags I could find. If my kids were going to be out there, they weren’t going to freeze.
Within 24 hours of getting the green light, I had two full sleep systems—pads and bags. I found hiking boots and wool socks that fit. Base layers, mid layers, down coats. Camo pants and jackets. Rain gear top to bottom. Three days of meals each. New Nalgene water bottles. Gloves. Blaze orange stocking caps. And my old hunting packs, cinched down to kid size. It was a scramble, but it was going to have to work.
We were headed back into the wild—to help the boys try and fill another tag or two.
Right from the truck, it felt like a big dad win.
My son stopped to admire an aspen leaf turning bright red and found the perfect walking stick—or ninja sword, depending on his mood. But all I really wanted was for them to enjoy the trail, the river crossings, and the views I’ve fallen in love with over the years. And to see them grow closer? That would be the real gift.
Anyone with kids this age knows how hard it is to get them to spend real time together. I see them, and I hope they stay close. I won’t be here forever, and at some point, they’ll only have each other. I remind myself often that my job isn’t just to raise good people—it’s to help them become the kind of siblings who can count on each other when I’m not around.
There were moments on the trail—some steep, punchy sections—where I ended up carrying an extra pack for a quarter mile or so. But I didn’t mind. I wasn’t trying to beat the love of the wilderness into them. I figured: let them fall in love with it first, then slowly introduce them to the relationship between hard work and the kind of beauty only found at the edge of heaven. They were going to get to see it—even if it meant a few more heavy steps for me.
We drank from a little seep and ate berries from a bush. The kids slowed down, settled into the rhythm of the woods—and so did I. No meetings. No phone calls. Just six hours of hiking and reconnecting—with each other and with the place.
It’s usually a three-hour hike, but streams needed to be played in, logs needed to be sat on, and an endless supply of dead branches needed samurai sword-style smacking.
Once in camp, the kids wanted to rest. Fair enough. The tent was already set up from earlier in the week, and the guys had generously moved to a smaller one so the kids and I could have our own space. It pays to have good friends in camp. We blew up the pads, laid out the bags, and before long, both kids were napping—out cold for an hour and a half.
While they slept, the rain came. Hard. And I’ll admit—I felt the pressure creeping in. Two days stuck in a tent isn’t the kind of first hunt I had in mind. But I figured if I pushed the hot cocoa hard enough and kept them dry, we could still make a memory.
When they woke, I had one of my favorite mountain meals ready—and cocoa, of course. They loved it all. We sat under what we call the “kitchen tarp,” out of the rain, and ate dinner together. My kids and my hunting brothers. My favorite things, all in one place.
Hunt camp has always carried a little tinge of guilt for me. It can feel selfish—like I’m stealing time from my family. Precious time. Time that seems to be moving so fast lately. But this? This was different. I was in a place I love so dearly, and at the same time, I was getting to spend that slow, deep, connecting time with my kids.
I didn’t want to take them on all the hunts with the boys. So that first morning, we stayed in camp, sipping cocoa, reading books, or samurai-ing more trees. Hunting had been slow all week anyway, so I figured we’d try one evening sit with the guys.
We weren’t expecting much, but still—my brother and I showed the kids how the calls work, why we use the ones we do. After one intentionally funny cow call and bugle, just messing around, we heard it: a real bull screaming back, just across the creek from camp.
I guess we were hunting after all.
We ran about 300 yards down the trail and got set up. The two shooters were on the treeline, with a creek bottom and grassy opening in front of them. The kids and I set up on the opposite hillside—close enough to see the action, and in a perfect spot for our calls to carry across the valley.
I found a good raking stick for the kids. Time to put all that samurai sword practice to work.
We called. The bull responded. The kids got to hear him talk back, got to see the magic in real time. He came close, but hung up on the far treeline—too far for a clean archery shot. But maybe that’s all they were meant to see. Just the beginning of the journey.
Soon, I think one of them will ask to be in the shooter position. And if I can get them to fall in love with this the way I have… I’ll never need to draw another arrow. I’ll be the full-time elk caller and cocoa maker. Just watching them experience the magic of all this.
That’s the best gift I could imagine.