From Russia With Love
By Buddy Story
My friend Aaron McGaughey and I stepped off the plane in Saskatoon into two feet of snow. The thermometer in the rearview mirror of our rented SUV read minus 18 degrees. “We’re not in Kansas anymore Toto,” I teased Aaron as we loaded up our gear and headed North to Steve Rahn’s Silvertine Ranch. I should have been freezing in the sub zero weather, but there was a fire burning inside me.
Three months ago, while hunting on Steve’s property with Raymond Oelrich, I had spotted what I thought was an apparition. We were stalking through a bedding area looking for elk, when something jumped up in front of us and vanished into the bush in a flash of white. For a moment, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. “What the heck was that?” I asked. “It’s a White elk. He’s very rare and hard to hunt,” Steve said. “His backside is about all we ever see of him. We call him 'The Ghost.'” “I want him,” I told Steve.
“Don’t lose your focus,” Raymond scolded me. We were there to hunt a giant Manitoban elk that I would eventually take with my Excaliber crossbow. That elk would score 477 SCI and become the new estate world record. However, I couldn’t get the White elk out of my mind. The vision of him floating through the bush ignited a flame in my belly. That flame grew into a blaze that could only be extinguished by coming back to hunt “The Ghost of Silvertine.”
We chose the first week in December to return because it fit into everybody’s schedule. I have always heard how cold the winters get in Saskatchewan, but trust me; you have not lived until you have been to the outhouse in 20 below and two feet of snow. I fell in love with the trap door long johns that my daughter gave me as an early Christmas present.
We had planned a three-day hunt. Aaron and I were to meet Raymond and his cameraman, Kelly, at Steve’s cabin around noon the first day. However, bad weather and icy roads delayed us until three o’clock that afternoon. “Can we still get a hunt in today?” I asked Steve. “I have been patterning the White elk for the last two weeks,” Steve said, “and if I can get you in the right place at the right time and you make the right shot with your crossbow, we could possibly make happen this afternoon.” As spooky as this elk was in September, I did not see how that could happen. My hunts never come easy.
We hurried to get to the blind that Steve had chosen for us to hunt out of that evening. We had barely settled in when Raymond whispered, “There’s the White elk coming through the poplar.” Words do not do justice to an animal as beautiful as this. His dark antlers were in stark contrast to his white body. He seemed to glide through the forest on a breeze. I was mesmerized by the sight of such a rare and special elk. He got to within 40 yards before Raymond elbowed me and said, “Are you going to shoot him or stare at him all afternoon?”
I eased up the crossbow and settled the 40-yard pin just behind the crease of his front shoulder. This would be a chip shot for my Excaliber Exomax. I gently squeezed the trigger and the arrow was on its way. It hit exactly where I had aimed and passed completely through the elk. He took a short hop and turned to see what had stung him on his side. Satisfied that it was nothing, the bull began pawing in the snow and resumed feeding. I don’t think he ever knew he was hit. A few minutes later and about 40 yards down the trail, the bull simply fell over and expired. The Wac’em broadhead had done its job.
There were a lot of high fives and congratulations going on among us. The whole hunt had taken less than an hour on the first day. Someone commented how lucky we were for it to happen that quickly, but you know what? Luck didn’t have anything to do with it. I had a guide that knew his property and had done his homework prior to us getting there. This hunt was successful because Steve Rahn was prepared!
We worked ourselves down to the fallen elk. Only then did the flames inside me begin to subside, which was a crying shame, because it was cold as a well-digger's butt out there. The elk was a main frame 7x7 and green-scored around 365 SCI. If SCI opens up a new category for the White elk, he will be the largest ever taken with a crossbow. Regardless of where he winds up ranking, it will be a hunt I will never forget.
As we began the task of field dressing the bull, I asked Steve what he could tell me about the history of the White elk. He told me that the bloodlines go back to their native Russia. They were brought into Canada in the early nineteen hundreds and there is a breeding herd of only around 200 head in this area. Their body size is a bit larger than that of a red stag weighing in at around six or seven hundred pounds. Only a few are available to hunt each year and the good news is that Steve gets first crack at them.
Later that evening while sitting around the wood stove, I asked Steve about the old run down house across the meadow from his cabin. “That house is haunted,” he said. “Sometimes on a full moon if you look real hard you can see the ghost of the White elk standing on the roof.” “Now cut that out!” I snapped. “You know it’s a full moon tonight and at some point I’ll have to get up to go to the outhouse.”
Since every one had tagged out early, Steve suggested that I take a crack at one of the world-class bison he has available at Keatley Ridge. These animals are huge. They stand six and a half to seven feet at the shoulder and weigh upwards of 2,500 pounds. The hunt started out great, but then it took a turn down a road where none of us wanted to go. The best way to share this story is to let Raymond tell you what happened in his own words. See his editorial on page 10.
My Dad used to say that a successful hunt was one that you returned home from. I have never agreed with that philosophy more than I do now.
My friend Aaron McGaughey and I stepped off the plane in Saskatoon into two feet of snow. The thermometer in the rearview mirror of our rented SUV read minus 18 degrees. “We’re not in Kansas anymore Toto,” I teased Aaron as we loaded up our gear and headed North to Steve Rahn’s Silvertine Ranch. I should have been freezing in the sub zero weather, but there was a fire burning inside me.
Three months ago, while hunting on Steve’s property with Raymond Oelrich, I had spotted what I thought was an apparition. We were stalking through a bedding area looking for elk, when something jumped up in front of us and vanished into the bush in a flash of white. For a moment, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. “What the heck was that?” I asked. “It’s a White elk. He’s very rare and hard to hunt,” Steve said. “His backside is about all we ever see of him. We call him 'The Ghost.'” “I want him,” I told Steve.
“Don’t lose your focus,” Raymond scolded me. We were there to hunt a giant Manitoban elk that I would eventually take with my Excaliber crossbow. That elk would score 477 SCI and become the new estate world record. However, I couldn’t get the White elk out of my mind. The vision of him floating through the bush ignited a flame in my belly. That flame grew into a blaze that could only be extinguished by coming back to hunt “The Ghost of Silvertine.”
We chose the first week in December to return because it fit into everybody’s schedule. I have always heard how cold the winters get in Saskatchewan, but trust me; you have not lived until you have been to the outhouse in 20 below and two feet of snow. I fell in love with the trap door long johns that my daughter gave me as an early Christmas present.
We had planned a three-day hunt. Aaron and I were to meet Raymond and his cameraman, Kelly, at Steve’s cabin around noon the first day. However, bad weather and icy roads delayed us until three o’clock that afternoon. “Can we still get a hunt in today?” I asked Steve. “I have been patterning the White elk for the last two weeks,” Steve said, “and if I can get you in the right place at the right time and you make the right shot with your crossbow, we could possibly make happen this afternoon.” As spooky as this elk was in September, I did not see how that could happen. My hunts never come easy.
We hurried to get to the blind that Steve had chosen for us to hunt out of that evening. We had barely settled in when Raymond whispered, “There’s the White elk coming through the poplar.” Words do not do justice to an animal as beautiful as this. His dark antlers were in stark contrast to his white body. He seemed to glide through the forest on a breeze. I was mesmerized by the sight of such a rare and special elk. He got to within 40 yards before Raymond elbowed me and said, “Are you going to shoot him or stare at him all afternoon?”
I eased up the crossbow and settled the 40-yard pin just behind the crease of his front shoulder. This would be a chip shot for my Excaliber Exomax. I gently squeezed the trigger and the arrow was on its way. It hit exactly where I had aimed and passed completely through the elk. He took a short hop and turned to see what had stung him on his side. Satisfied that it was nothing, the bull began pawing in the snow and resumed feeding. I don’t think he ever knew he was hit. A few minutes later and about 40 yards down the trail, the bull simply fell over and expired. The Wac’em broadhead had done its job.
There were a lot of high fives and congratulations going on among us. The whole hunt had taken less than an hour on the first day. Someone commented how lucky we were for it to happen that quickly, but you know what? Luck didn’t have anything to do with it. I had a guide that knew his property and had done his homework prior to us getting there. This hunt was successful because Steve Rahn was prepared!
We worked ourselves down to the fallen elk. Only then did the flames inside me begin to subside, which was a crying shame, because it was cold as a well-digger's butt out there. The elk was a main frame 7x7 and green-scored around 365 SCI. If SCI opens up a new category for the White elk, he will be the largest ever taken with a crossbow. Regardless of where he winds up ranking, it will be a hunt I will never forget.
As we began the task of field dressing the bull, I asked Steve what he could tell me about the history of the White elk. He told me that the bloodlines go back to their native Russia. They were brought into Canada in the early nineteen hundreds and there is a breeding herd of only around 200 head in this area. Their body size is a bit larger than that of a red stag weighing in at around six or seven hundred pounds. Only a few are available to hunt each year and the good news is that Steve gets first crack at them.
Later that evening while sitting around the wood stove, I asked Steve about the old run down house across the meadow from his cabin. “That house is haunted,” he said. “Sometimes on a full moon if you look real hard you can see the ghost of the White elk standing on the roof.” “Now cut that out!” I snapped. “You know it’s a full moon tonight and at some point I’ll have to get up to go to the outhouse.”
Since every one had tagged out early, Steve suggested that I take a crack at one of the world-class bison he has available at Keatley Ridge. These animals are huge. They stand six and a half to seven feet at the shoulder and weigh upwards of 2,500 pounds. The hunt started out great, but then it took a turn down a road where none of us wanted to go. The best way to share this story is to let Raymond tell you what happened in his own words. See his editorial on page 10.
My Dad used to say that a successful hunt was one that you returned home from. I have never agreed with that philosophy more than I do now.
