F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Dale Stark
When I was young I assumed that when I was a Dad I’d be an assistant wrestling coach with my kids, but this wasn’t my fate. God blessed me with two beautiful daughters who happened to be extremely gifted in performing arts. So now I’m into whatever they’re into. That’s what dads do. So there I was, backstage performing stage manager duties during a rehearsal for our local theater production of Cinderella. I won’t say it’s miserable trying to keep track of 50 theater kids, but let’s just say it’s not my natural environment. I feel my phone buzz and see I’m getting a call from Evan Hafer.
It’s been almost two years since I met Evan, but I can remember it like it was yesterday. I had recently retired from the Air Force where I flew the A-10 Warthog. He invited me to be a guest on his podcast to talk about my flying career. We hit it off immediately, and ever since then, the best coffee in the world just magically shows up at my house every month. I had learned that when Evan calls good things happen.
After some small talk about family, Evan asked if I wanted to go on an elk hunt at Deseret Ranch in Utah. I couldn’t believe my luck. A hunt of a lifetime! As I organized a dozen tiaras and made sure ball gowns were just right for the Palace Ball, I told Evan I could be packed and on the road in about 30 minutes if needed. He laughed and told me it would be in a couple of months. I promised I’d show up fit with a zeroed rifle.
Unfortunately, I was only able to keep one of those promises. My rifle was zeroed at sea level, but for whatever reason, when I went to confirm zero, I was all over the place. I had issues with a turret and I didn’t have the tools to fix it. Incredibly embarrassing. Thankfully, the legendary Navy SEAL Terry Houin was there and he helped me get dialed in.
All of the hunting I’ve done up to this point has been local. As a kid we’d just fill our tags around the property wearing whatever work clothes we happened to have on at the time. I figured this was a good excuse for some modern hunting camo. The first morning I came out for breakfast looking like I had just stepped out of the Kuiu showroom. I couldn’t help but notice the other hunters looked like grizzled vets with a natural blend of dirt and blood baked into their kit. Every piece of gear looked like it was placed perfectly for maximum efficiency. After a less than stellar showing at the range and my shiny new camo from head-to-toe, I suspect my guide was thinking he’d have to keep an extra eye on me this week.
My guide was 71 years old with 50 years of professional guiding under his belt, 30 of which were at Deseret. He was blind in one eye and had cataracts in the other, not joking, but somehow he was able to spot elk miles away that I couldn’t see with him telling me exactly where they were. We didn’t hunt incredibly hard during the first three days. I had a nice six-point standing perfectly still broadside inside of 400 yards, but my guide said I should pass, as we’re still doing a bit of “shopping.”
Deseret Ranch is a magical place. It’s what you picture in your mind when you dream of a world-class Rocky Mountain Elk hunt. Dramatic mountains, streams, cliffs and aspens as far as the eye can see. Based on how the hunt was developing, I suspected I’d kill on Wednesday. But Wednesday came and went, and I started to get a bit concerned that with only two days left I might come up empty.
Thursday morning at breakfast I learned that my original guide was under the weather and I was going to hunt with a young guide. I could tell that he had every intention of getting me on an elk that day. Shopping time was over. We got out early and hunted hard. But by noon we really didn’t have anything in our sights. I was acutely aware that I only had a day and a half left. The clock was ticking.
That’s when we found an absolute monster, but he was in a difficult place to access—aptly named Hells Canyon. We grabbed a bite to eat and developed a game plan, ultimately stalking up a terrifyingly steep ridge. As we made our way up, everything was perfect, with the wind in our faces.
The game plan was to get into position and shoot him while he was bedded down at 200 yards. Easy money. As we were about a minute from our final destination I felt the wind shift and swirl—busted. We ran up to the ridge line and my heart was racing at about 170 beats per minute. My guide said he’s going to pop up on the ridge, “GET READY.” I was certainly not ready. I pulled my pack off and tried to steady my rifle on the tripod just as the majestic beast appeared exactly where my guide suspected. It was my moment of truth—everything I had dreamed of came down to me being able to collect myself and make the shot under pressure.
The bull was running along the ridge line, perfectly silhouetted on the blue sky. My guide pulled the range, 365 yards, and gave a cow call. The bull stopped and looked in our direction. My guide calmly informed me that I had 10 seconds. I struggled to steady myself, we were looking up about 20 degrees and I was sitting in the thicket of scrub brush. My 3.5x10x scope works great on the Oregon coast, but in the Utah mountains my monster bull looked like a tiny speck. Time was short, I took a breath and squeezed the trigger. Clean miss. The monster bull trotted off and that was it.
We sulked back into the lodge and felt terrible. I came in thinking that since I’d killed plenty of deer, and I had multiple combat deployments in the A-10, I’d be a steely-eyed killer when I had a bull in my crosshairs, but that clearly wasn’t the case. Extremely humbling. I was thankful I didn’t wound the bull, but in retrospect I should have never taken the shot. I was starting to imagine coming home explaining how I was surrounded by the most amazing bulls I had ever seen for an entire week, but wasn’t able to put one on the ground. It was devastating. I would have another chance on Friday. But in reality, the guides want to get home on Friday evening, so when you account for the time it takes to process the animal, I only had a half-day left.
That evening I went through everything I did wrong. My main problem was that I wasn’t prepared to quickly assume a stable shooting position on that ridge. I spent the evening practicing removing my pack, setting up my tripod and dry firing from a variety of angles and positions. I did at least a hundred reps. My plan was to hunt as hard as I could and I wasn’t going home until I killed a bull or they kicked me out. I was down by a touchdown with 100 yards to go and zero time on the clock.
Friday started slow. We had reports from other guides of several bulls in different areas, but all our stalks came up empty. By noon I was feeling pretty depressed. I was invited on a hunt of a lifetime and I blew it. I didn’t even want to know how much the tag cost. All these thoughts were going through my mind when another guide let us know he had eyes on a “shooter.” We worked our way over to the area and things were looking promising. We low crawled through the scrub brush and found some cover to set up. There he was. Despite the long odds I was back in the game.
A beautiful, mature six-point just lazily grazing in an aspen grove. We ranged it at 455 yards. I watched him through my little 10-power scope and he looked like an awfully small target. At the shooting range I can hit 10-inch steel at 500 yards all day, but the day before I learned that field conditions are very different. My guide let me know that if I was comfortable taking the shot this was my chance. I thought about it a bit and told him I wanted to get inside of 400 yards. As much as I wanted to kill this bull, wounding him would be far worse than not filling my tag.
We noticed another area of cover about a hundred yards towards the bull. We slowly worked our way around to that point and got into position again. We pulled the range: 355 yards. I set up for the shot; this time my heart rate was in control. I steadied and squeezed the trigger and heard the unforgettable sound of a 200-grain 300 Win Mag bullet thumping the target right in the sweet spot. I chambered another round and shot him again in the same spot. To my surprise, he continued to walk around a bit, but I knew I had him. We stayed put for about 30 minutes and watched him die.
It was an honorable death for this old warrior. I was thankful our lives intersected at this point in time. As we walked up to the animal I was overcome with emotion. It was the most beautiful bull I had ever seen. After we packed out the meat and rack, we placed grass on the carcass and said a prayer of gratitude.
Thanks for the invite, Evan. The experience surpassed everything I had expected. Now I’m back to work and volunteering at the local theater for my daughters, daydreaming about the elk at Deseret Ranch.
The post The Warthog & the Wapiti appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
When I was young I assumed that when I was a Dad I’d be an assistant wrestling coach with my kids, but this wasn’t my fate. God blessed me with two beautiful daughters who happened to be extremely gifted in performing arts. So now I’m into whatever they’re into. That’s what dads do. So there I was, backstage performing stage manager duties during a rehearsal for our local theater production of Cinderella. I won’t say it’s miserable trying to keep track of 50 theater kids, but let’s just say it’s not my natural environment. I feel my phone buzz and see I’m getting a call from Evan Hafer.
It’s been almost two years since I met Evan, but I can remember it like it was yesterday. I had recently retired from the Air Force where I flew the A-10 Warthog. He invited me to be a guest on his podcast to talk about my flying career. We hit it off immediately, and ever since then, the best coffee in the world just magically shows up at my house every month. I had learned that when Evan calls good things happen.
After some small talk about family, Evan asked if I wanted to go on an elk hunt at Deseret Ranch in Utah. I couldn’t believe my luck. A hunt of a lifetime! As I organized a dozen tiaras and made sure ball gowns were just right for the Palace Ball, I told Evan I could be packed and on the road in about 30 minutes if needed. He laughed and told me it would be in a couple of months. I promised I’d show up fit with a zeroed rifle.
Unfortunately, I was only able to keep one of those promises. My rifle was zeroed at sea level, but for whatever reason, when I went to confirm zero, I was all over the place. I had issues with a turret and I didn’t have the tools to fix it. Incredibly embarrassing. Thankfully, the legendary Navy SEAL Terry Houin was there and he helped me get dialed in.
A New Adventure
All of the hunting I’ve done up to this point has been local. As a kid we’d just fill our tags around the property wearing whatever work clothes we happened to have on at the time. I figured this was a good excuse for some modern hunting camo. The first morning I came out for breakfast looking like I had just stepped out of the Kuiu showroom. I couldn’t help but notice the other hunters looked like grizzled vets with a natural blend of dirt and blood baked into their kit. Every piece of gear looked like it was placed perfectly for maximum efficiency. After a less than stellar showing at the range and my shiny new camo from head-to-toe, I suspect my guide was thinking he’d have to keep an extra eye on me this week.
My guide was 71 years old with 50 years of professional guiding under his belt, 30 of which were at Deseret. He was blind in one eye and had cataracts in the other, not joking, but somehow he was able to spot elk miles away that I couldn’t see with him telling me exactly where they were. We didn’t hunt incredibly hard during the first three days. I had a nice six-point standing perfectly still broadside inside of 400 yards, but my guide said I should pass, as we’re still doing a bit of “shopping.”
Deseret Ranch is a magical place. It’s what you picture in your mind when you dream of a world-class Rocky Mountain Elk hunt. Dramatic mountains, streams, cliffs and aspens as far as the eye can see. Based on how the hunt was developing, I suspected I’d kill on Wednesday. But Wednesday came and went, and I started to get a bit concerned that with only two days left I might come up empty.
Thursday morning at breakfast I learned that my original guide was under the weather and I was going to hunt with a young guide. I could tell that he had every intention of getting me on an elk that day. Shopping time was over. We got out early and hunted hard. But by noon we really didn’t have anything in our sights. I was acutely aware that I only had a day and a half left. The clock was ticking.
Warriors on the Mountain
That’s when we found an absolute monster, but he was in a difficult place to access—aptly named Hells Canyon. We grabbed a bite to eat and developed a game plan, ultimately stalking up a terrifyingly steep ridge. As we made our way up, everything was perfect, with the wind in our faces.
The game plan was to get into position and shoot him while he was bedded down at 200 yards. Easy money. As we were about a minute from our final destination I felt the wind shift and swirl—busted. We ran up to the ridge line and my heart was racing at about 170 beats per minute. My guide said he’s going to pop up on the ridge, “GET READY.” I was certainly not ready. I pulled my pack off and tried to steady my rifle on the tripod just as the majestic beast appeared exactly where my guide suspected. It was my moment of truth—everything I had dreamed of came down to me being able to collect myself and make the shot under pressure.
The bull was running along the ridge line, perfectly silhouetted on the blue sky. My guide pulled the range, 365 yards, and gave a cow call. The bull stopped and looked in our direction. My guide calmly informed me that I had 10 seconds. I struggled to steady myself, we were looking up about 20 degrees and I was sitting in the thicket of scrub brush. My 3.5x10x scope works great on the Oregon coast, but in the Utah mountains my monster bull looked like a tiny speck. Time was short, I took a breath and squeezed the trigger. Clean miss. The monster bull trotted off and that was it.
The Agony of Defeat
We sulked back into the lodge and felt terrible. I came in thinking that since I’d killed plenty of deer, and I had multiple combat deployments in the A-10, I’d be a steely-eyed killer when I had a bull in my crosshairs, but that clearly wasn’t the case. Extremely humbling. I was thankful I didn’t wound the bull, but in retrospect I should have never taken the shot. I was starting to imagine coming home explaining how I was surrounded by the most amazing bulls I had ever seen for an entire week, but wasn’t able to put one on the ground. It was devastating. I would have another chance on Friday. But in reality, the guides want to get home on Friday evening, so when you account for the time it takes to process the animal, I only had a half-day left.
That evening I went through everything I did wrong. My main problem was that I wasn’t prepared to quickly assume a stable shooting position on that ridge. I spent the evening practicing removing my pack, setting up my tripod and dry firing from a variety of angles and positions. I did at least a hundred reps. My plan was to hunt as hard as I could and I wasn’t going home until I killed a bull or they kicked me out. I was down by a touchdown with 100 yards to go and zero time on the clock.
Back in the Game
Friday started slow. We had reports from other guides of several bulls in different areas, but all our stalks came up empty. By noon I was feeling pretty depressed. I was invited on a hunt of a lifetime and I blew it. I didn’t even want to know how much the tag cost. All these thoughts were going through my mind when another guide let us know he had eyes on a “shooter.” We worked our way over to the area and things were looking promising. We low crawled through the scrub brush and found some cover to set up. There he was. Despite the long odds I was back in the game.
A beautiful, mature six-point just lazily grazing in an aspen grove. We ranged it at 455 yards. I watched him through my little 10-power scope and he looked like an awfully small target. At the shooting range I can hit 10-inch steel at 500 yards all day, but the day before I learned that field conditions are very different. My guide let me know that if I was comfortable taking the shot this was my chance. I thought about it a bit and told him I wanted to get inside of 400 yards. As much as I wanted to kill this bull, wounding him would be far worse than not filling my tag.
An Honorable Death
We noticed another area of cover about a hundred yards towards the bull. We slowly worked our way around to that point and got into position again. We pulled the range: 355 yards. I set up for the shot; this time my heart rate was in control. I steadied and squeezed the trigger and heard the unforgettable sound of a 200-grain 300 Win Mag bullet thumping the target right in the sweet spot. I chambered another round and shot him again in the same spot. To my surprise, he continued to walk around a bit, but I knew I had him. We stayed put for about 30 minutes and watched him die.
It was an honorable death for this old warrior. I was thankful our lives intersected at this point in time. As we walked up to the animal I was overcome with emotion. It was the most beautiful bull I had ever seen. After we packed out the meat and rack, we placed grass on the carcass and said a prayer of gratitude.
Thanks for the invite, Evan. The experience surpassed everything I had expected. Now I’m back to work and volunteering at the local theater for my daughters, daydreaming about the elk at Deseret Ranch.
The post The Warthog & the Wapiti appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...