South Mesa Elk

I believe you can find in every young boy’s heart the desire to be out in the wild. This is apparent in this urban world that we live in when you see your little brother or younger nephew trying to build a tree house or camp in the back yard. I was no different growing up. From my little toy squirrel rifle to watching Robert Redford’s Jeremiah Johnson, I wanted nothing more than to be a real mountain man. Unfortunately we all grow up and have to face reality. For some this reality sets in earlier than for others. Growing up for me started in high school. Contrary to some of my peers, growing up for me had nothing to do with girls and everything to do sports. The increased responsibility of after school practices and fall training camps kept me out of the woods more and more as the years passed. Luckily there are those occasional weekend hunts and summer fishing trips that make us feel alive again. Let me tell you about one of these moments that I had a few years ago.

I had the opportunity after high school to work the fall elk hunts with my dad. Our camps were set up about 3 ½ hours on horseback from the truck. It was a busy fall as we had a pretty successful year getting tags for our hunters. In fact, we had so many hunters draw tags that year that we had to get some extra guides and hunt out of two separate camps. This is good for business, but means a lot of extra work for our small operation. My job: pack hunters in and pack the successful hunters out along with the meat and trophy. The sad part of this story is that I too had drawn a license that year and would not be able to dedicate the time necessary to fill the tag. I would spend the first week of the hunt riding from the truck to camp, from one camp to the other, from kill sites to the truck, etc. I put in more hours on my trusty ride, Little John, that week then ever before. Later in the week as things slowed down I realized that I would have a morning to dedicate to my hunt.

Riding across North Mesa from White Rocks to Spring Canyon almost every day gave me the opportunity to scout out the elk traffic. I knew there wasn’t much as far as the big herds go, but I had seen a lone bull out on South Mesa a couple of times. I wasn’t close enough to tell how big he was and I didn’t have time to go after him, so I decided to put on the pursuit on my free morning.

As I woke up at 4am in my Spring Canyon camp the fog was very thick. I had to get the mules fed and watered before I could leave. What would usually take me an hour to do ended up taking a little longer. I couldn’t see the animals through the fog until I was right up to them. I finally fought my way through the fog and it was time to pick up my Savage 7mm Rem Mag and head up the canyon. Spring Canyon, slicing its way between North and South Mesa, is in an advantageous location for the elk hunts. I would have my choice of topping out on either mesa, both known for having large herds in the fall. What I didn’t want to happen was climbing out on one side just to find out that the herd was feeding away from the rim on the other mesa. With the heavy fog that morning it would be a gamble. Knowing that South Mesa hadn’t been hit very hard I decided to rim out on the south side just a mile or so up from our camp. At this point I was pretty frustrated with the fog. Not only was it a cold and wet fog, but there was no way that I could possibly see the elk before they had me made. I had conceded that getting a shot off this morning would be nothing more than pure luck.

As I labored my way out of Spring Canyon I decided to stop and catch my breath before rimming out. I became witness to one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. With the sun finally peaking over the horizon I realized that the fog wasn’t as thick up high. As I turned around I could see the sun was revealing the fog pouring out of the canyon like a pot of water boiling over. It was time to get serious. There wouldn’t be any fog on top. Originally I thought it would hurt me to have the fog so thick, but now I realized I would have no cover once on top. I had one chance at whatever elk might be close. With my breathing under control I inched my way to the very rim of the mesa. My plan was to get to the edge and have look to see what was around. As I did this, the giant beast of my dreams came into view. There was no more controlling my breathing. My heart was about to explode out of my chest. With only a few pinon pines to use for cover I jacked a bullet into the chamber. He was only maybe 150 yards away. He had no idea that I existed. I had him dead to rights, but wait, did I have buck fever? I took a second look at his rack to realize that he was just a 4x4 rag bull. He was a lone satellite bull hoping to come across some cows that hadn’t joined the big herds yet. I had been skinning and packing elk all week. Did I really want to go through all of that work for this guy? I decided to just sit and soak in the moment. It isn’t every day that you get to admire nature in this way. That was a special moment for me. After about ten minutes he finally caught my scent and hustled off to the other end of the mesa and out of sight.

I hunted my way back to camp so that I could water the horses again and head off to the other camp to see what work had to be done. Turns out I had another elk to pack out which meant another long trip to the truck and back to camp. But I rode with my head high. Sure I had been skunked on this hunt, but I like to think someone else would have a chance at that same bull, if not this year then in years to come.

As fate would have it I got a call on my radio the next day as I was riding back in from the truck. Ty, my 16 year old brother, was on South Mesa with more work to be done. He had found an elk and made a heck of a shot with his Ruger M77 25-06. I got to ride up and help him quarter out and pack his trophy. Turns out he found our little friend from the morning before. I was never more proud of my little bro nor the fact that I had let one get away. I may have gone home empty handed, but that was a successful hunt.

Hidden Wall

There are a few reasons why Provo is a lot more fun during spring/summer time. A top that list for me is Rock Canyon. Rock Canyon is not a well kept secret. In fact I would say it is the most traveled outdoors site in the state. Usually when you go outdoors, you are looking to get away from all the people. Here is where you may not be far from town or from people, but you feel like you are. The trails may be congested with day hikers, boy scouts, “date walkers,” and the like, but for rock climbing there is no better place for the time investment.

I will let you on a little secret that has kept me going back. Walking up the canyon you will see many areas where the sport climbing is good, but good luck finding an open route. In fact in the last five or six times that I have been up there, red slab and tinker toys have been over capacity. Recently Mike and I have found a little hot spot called hidden wall. Don’t let the name fool you, it is not hard to find this wall. The name comes from the fact that it is not in the Climber's Guide to American Fork/Rock Canyon, the local authority on the best sport climbing routes. We have visited this spot three times in the last two weeks and have not seen another climber nor have we seen the ever present signs of frequently climbed routes. With routes ranging from 5.8 to 5.11d, this is a good spot for the weekend warrior to get away and have a solid few hours on the rock.

My favorite of them all is the 5.9+ on the far right side of the wall. Making it to the first anchor may be a little sketchy, but from there to the top is a solid 60 foot ascent of knobby arête. The view from on top is pretty amazing and you will feel like taking on the world. Maybe word will get out of how great this spot is. Maybe it won’t. But for now, I can’t think of a better place to be climbing.

Product Review: Spit'n Image

For those of you that have not had the opportunity of catching a bass on top water you are missing out. I’ve been lucky enough to catch smallmouth on bullfrog poppers on the Gila River, Stripers on top water plugs on Elephant Butte Reservoir, and now largemouth bass in California. The secret weapon: Heddon’s Spit’n Image. This top water lure does a fine job imitating a shiner or shad trying to escape its chaser. The simple wrist action is easy enough for the inexperience but sensitive enough for the seasoned pro. No big daddy bass can pass up this one. Just flip it up near the reeds or brush and let it spit and pop its way back to the boat. In the early summer you are sure to catch that big one and have a great time.

Benjamin Franklin

I was sorting some of my pictures and came across this gem. Let me introduce you to my friend Benjamin Franklin. Ben is a mule that my dad bought a couple of summers ago. He got his name because we paid one hundred dollars for him. For those of you not familiar with livestock, you usually get what you pay for and a hundred bucks isn’t much for a mule. Ben only cost that much because he hadn’t been packed much and never had been ridden. He is kind of small so you probably wouldn’t want to ride him much anyway. But my dad isn’t one to shy away from opportunity.

So I guess it was the end of summer in 2006 that I went home to spend a little time with my family. My dad was off in the woods working I think and we all ended up going down to the farm to check on the horses. The conversation came up about our little mule and how he got his name. Sara, being the trouble maker in the family, thought it would be funny if one of us tried to ride him. I didn’t really think it was that good of an idea, until she made it clear that if I didn’t try I was just a chicken. Of course I would never turn away from such a challenge. It just so happened that my saddle was in the truck so I saddle Ben up for the first time ever. I made sure that we were in the field far enough that if he did decide to buck, the landing would be a smooth one.

As you can tell, my first attempt to get on wasn’t so successful. The only thing that I had going for me was that he was so small that I could pretty much man handle him and make him cooperate. I finally made it up on his back, to his dislike.

Ben never did buck, however he tried to run me through some trees. I really wish that we had got it on film. As he “loped” across the pasture I was doing my best to slow him down. He wasn’t having it. We jumped the irrigation ditch and right into the thick of the elm trees that line its banks. At that point I decided that I had done my part and stepped off. Ben ran through the trees, scratching up my saddle, and finally stopped about a quarter of a mile later on the other end of the holding tank.

If you asked Ben he would tell you that he had won the battle. I never did ride him again and as far as I know my dad sold him last year. But ask me and I’ll tell you how I got the best of the poor little guy. And ask my sister and she’ll tell you that I’m no chicken.

The Elusive Gobbler

I have been asked before and even wondered myself what is so great about hunting turkeys. It is true that they are not the smartest species of big game that offer a good chase. What makes a man proud of scouting, tracking, calling and killing a dumb bird? It is true that a well prepared hunter has many advantages over the wild turkey. Turkeys are predictable. They will often use the same areas for roosting, feeding, watering, and nesting year after year. If you can find a turkey going to roost in the evening, the odds are definitely in your favor that you will find him in that same tree when the sun comes up in the morning. Turkeys are also vulnerable to calling during the early spring. In this case however, they have an advantage over the pursuer that attempts to call him in. As the bird gets older and as the season progresses, he begins to differentiate the hunter’s attempt at a hen yelp and a real hen’s search for companionship. These aspects and others make the turkey hunt atop my list of favorite big game hunts.

There is nothing like leaning up against a ponderosa pine on a cool spring morning in your guille suit watching a gobbler strut around your decoy 35 yards away. As he lets out his trademark gobble, the excitement is so high that the most seasoned hunter struggles to keep his composure.

Just recently I had the opportunity to listen to the music of Rio Grande Turkey in a way that I never had done so before.

I found myself that morning in what I had always thought was wine country in northern California. I never would have imagined that one day I would travel to the golden state to chase a big tom. This particular hunt was not the turkey hunt I am used to. Growing up in Southwestern New Mexico, I became accustomed to millions of acres of public land where you can hunt for days and most likely not run into another hunter. In the hills just outside of Ione, CA I quickly realized that I was not alone and more importantly I couldn’t give chase to all gobblers within earshot. In fact, that first morning I heard and even saw more mature gobblers than previously before on any hunt in any state. The real challenge was finding a tom on property that we had permission to hunt. We were given permission to hunt the 170 acres of the LNC Ranch as well as a collection of other small pieces of land that in years past had offered up multiple “shooters.”

My friend Ryan, native of Ione, and I arrived later in the evening and unfortunately were unable to put any bird’s to bed. The first morning hunt would have to be done blindly, giving more advantage to turkeys. On the first morning we heard a gobbler leaving his roost on the neighboring ranch, where we didn’t have permission to hunt. We knew however that these birds tended to cross the lower corner of the LNC on their way to the shady hillsides where they spent the afternoon feeding. Just as predicted we cut off a tom as he was sneaking around the hill the ranch house sat on chasing some hens. We skirted around the hill and got set up just as he let out his gobble to the hens that were ahead. At this point my inexperience ranch hunting came into play. I knew that there were houses in the area, but was unsure of the exact location relative to where we were set up. I had the open shot as the gobbler came around the corner, but froze for a second to make sure the shot was clear. Then he did what every smart bird that you think is dumb does: he walked behind a tree and on over the hill.

On any other hunt I wouldn’t think twice about letting a six inch beard get away and even though it turned out to be a safe shot, for the few seconds it was open I was unsure. I didn’t realize how difficult this hunt would be from here on out. Did you know that the game laws in California only allow turkey hunting until 4 pm in the spring? I didn’t It seems that we just missed our only opportunity at a bird that day.

On Saturday, the last day we would be in Ione, we didn’t have the same early morning luck that we had the first day. We saw plenty of birds, only not on the LNC or any other properties that we could hunt. But at about 3 in the afternoon we caught a break: a mature gobbler with three hens we hanging out on the upper end of the ranch. We saw them from the road a half mile away and had just about an hour to put the move on him. The fact that the afternoon birds weren’t talking much coupled with him having his hens made it clear that we would have to put the stock on and surprise him. I have never successfully snuck up on a turkey and this time would be no different. Fortunately as I made the approach, Ryan hustled around the point to cover the escape route. Just as expected the hens made me. Seconds later I hear the sure sound of a Binelli shotgun. Ryan had bagged him a nice Rio Grande Turkey with an 8 ½ inch beard. At that point it was nearly four o’clock and my hunt ended, but it was a success.

I just had my first California hunting experience and what a blast it was. We heard a ton of gobblers, saw more birds in two days than I ever have before, and caught a slew of bass in between. Of course that is another story for another day. Next time that elusive tom won’t be so lucky.