On the elk’s terms

By Lyndsie Kiebert-Carey
Reader Staff

I nearly failed hunter’s ed. 

At least, that’s what it felt like at the time, as a 9-year-old girl who accidentally let her finger slide inside the trigger guard while handing a rifle to her partner during the firearm-handling portion of our field test.

Alex Carey stands with his 2022 harvest. Photo by Lyndsie Kiebert-Carey.

I had enough gun safety knowledge to know better than to touch the trigger of a weapon while passing it to another person; but, in the heat of the moment, I did it anyway. I will never forget the immediate dread I felt and the embarrassment of the quiet beratement from my instructor.

I passed, but I never forgot.

Hunting has proven to be a perfect setting for these kinds of lessons — when no amount of preparation or common sense can save you from yourself when the adrenaline kicks in. This is particularly true while hunting for elk.

Once I was old enough to be comfortable hunting alone, my dad would send me down familiar skid roads and trails to popular game crossings, where it would be my job to sit at the edge of a clearing and wait while he and other members of the hunting party walked wide routes in hopes of pushing animals into my path.

I had prepared for that fateful moment in every way I knew how. I sighted in my rifle, and practiced shooting in various positions: sitting, standing, kneeling, leaning against a tree. I packed my hunting license, tags, gloves and an extra flannel to provide a barrier between myself and the ground. I knew where — and approximately when — my dad would come into the clearing after he was done walking.

What I couldn’t prepare for was the moment I heard the elk coming.

The first time, I sat frozen in fear until the large, tan body of the herd’s lead cow materialized before me. I inadvertently stood up, sending her crashing away with the rest of the herd behind her, out of sight before I could even think about shouldering my rifle.

This kind of elk hunting — on the animal’s terms, in close quarters amid thick timber — is, in my mind, ethically ideal. It also requires a level of stealth that takes years of practice, and — at least in my case — years of patience.

I found myself in the same clearing the next season, feeling more prepared than ever to hear the signature sound of a heavy ungulate barreling down a game trail in my direction. The moment came, and I stood, situating my feet into the ideal shooting stance, long before the tan bodies reached the treeline.

Rifle shouldered and hide in my sights, I flicked my thumb hard against the safety. The resulting sound of metal on metal sent the animals over the clearing’s embankment in a flash. I’d been made by a noise I never considered might be problematic, but to the ears of an elk, signaled danger.

Another season gone by, and another lesson learned.

It would be a stretch to say that I have since learned to keep my cool and be entirely prepared for every contingency of elk season. Besides, the joy of the hunt is in the unpredictability. Case in point: Opening day of rifle season this year.

My husband Alex and I hiked our usual opening-day route — the same one I showed him five years ago when he first came to hunt with my family. Pieces of the route have earned place names thanks to the experiences we’ve had together, like “the cat crossing,” where an indifferent cougar walked up on us a few years ago; or the “skunk spot,” where one year the scent told us we had just spooked a skunk from its den. It’s a grueling hike best for opening-day legs, so we started up the ridge at dawn and within the hour, we heard elk. 

Our best efforts to divide and conquer sent the herd crashing through an impenetrable wall of shrubbery and pine and down into the canyon. We met back on our usual trail and considered our options. The attempt on the hidden herd had proved costly; with the sun now rising over the ridge, the wind would soon change and everything uphill would smell us. I texted my dad, hunting a route not far from us, and he advised us to continue our regular walk.

“Can run into them again, or I could put them back to you in a while,” he wrote. 

That was at 8:03 a.m. By 8:20, we had meat on the ground.

What transpired in those 17 minutes undoubtedly began with me rolling my eyes at the absurdity of continuing our regular route knowing that every uphill animal could smell us coming. Not five vertical steps later, a calf came ambling over the ridge, headed straight for us, and probably would have run into Alex had he not taken off his hat and waved it at her. She reared away, sidehilling in the direction of the herd. Alex and I shared a wide-eyed, grinning glance, and carried on our way. Later, we agreed that seeing the calf would have made the hunt worth it, regardless of what happened next.

I had just fallen back into a contemplative hiking rhythm — one foot in front of the other, stopping every six steps or so to listen — when I noticed Alex pick up his pace. He started waving me forward frantically, and after a few running strides, two elk appeared, doing what elk do in the fall. It would prove to be the male elk’s final act.

While we could have never prepared for the morning’s wild twists and turns, our material preparation served us well: knives for dressing, rope for pulling, a plastic bag for the spike’s heart. We earned our keep, just the two of us, packing him out whole with only minimal cursing, grunting and back injuries. We maneuvered the elk over blowdowns and through brush with rifles slung over our backs. At one point, Alex handed his gun to me and I grasped it by the stock, sure to keep my fingers away from the trigger.

Hunter’s ed had at least prepared me for that.