Whale Tales
The morning dew clung to the trees and brush around us, glittering like diamonds. It was early September, six AM, and a bugling challenge between two rank bull elk resonated through the poplar and spruce timbered forest. I turned around, and bent down to whisper to 10 year old Hunter Efird's ear, telling him that one of the bulls is just 150 yards to our left in a spruce timbered gully, and would be a good contender to try and get closer too, he was mad! This bull’s bugle intensity said it all, he was all fired up. We snuck a hundred yards closer. “Screeeeeeeeeeeeeungh…..ung…ung…..ung”, as the air rushed from my lungs over my tongue between my reed, and across my lips. It must have had “gusto”, for it sure got a response. From out of the shadows in front of us, came a threatening deep bellow of a bugle, I could swear I could smelt the bulls foul breath. Twigs cracked and frozen branches popped and cracked, Heath, the 10 year old boys father, quickly got Hunter set up on a tree beside me just as the bull crawled out of the gully, his highly polished silver tines hitting the brush. I sat motionless with my fingers in my ears fixated on the tremendous trophy bull elk that just swagger out of the brilliant dew speckled timber, less than 5 yards away. I waited for Hunters muzzleloader to explode, billowing black smoke into the cool morning air.
He was a tough looking character, a veteran of many battles. He wore a network of gouges and battle scars on his body, and his magnificent antlers were covered in mud and tree bark. He stood staring at us head on, his peering evil deep emerald eyes scanned the area for the intruder he though he had heard. We remained motionless, and stared at this massive antlered image with our muzzleloader ready. Then suddenly, with no warning, before Hunter could do anything, the bull dug in with his hooves and surged 180 degrees in a panicky exit into the early morning darkness of the awakening timber.
This was the first close encounter with “whale tails”, as I called him. He was a cagy bull, well beyond his prime. I named him this because his antler tips flared out giving them the look of whale tails. He sported a magnificent set of 6x6 typical antlers. Heath Efird a client of mine had brought his 10 year old son Hunter to hunt with me for elk on my Saskatchewan hunt estates. My estate is one that specialized in archery and muzzleloader, but due to its challenging nature over 50% of our clients hunt with rifles. The hunting environment is scenic and heavily forested wilderness, a challenging environment. Heath knew we offered a hunt estate that utilizes all the ethical principals of hunting, and had an environment that duplicates “fair Chase”, and this is what he wanted for his son’s first elk hunt.
The west wind blew its bite into our faces as we sat pop-eyed by what had just happened. The rutting moon was in full swing, and the bulls were spread out around the property, each with their own small piece of territory, and not willing to associate with one another. “Whale tails” had vanished as quickly as he appeared that morning, but we decided to still hunt that small gully, thickly studded with gnarled poplar and spruce trees. This was an ideal rutting area for game to seek shelter from the wind. We slowly stalked along, trying to be as sneaky as possible, when 10 minutes into our walk two bull elk erupted into view and over the hill. They had been hunkered down in the shelter of some blow downs, and the roaring wind prevented them from hearing us until we walked into them. We followed them up over the hill, and seen that these two bulls had been joined by one other that had sought shelter in the thicket as well. The largest was a grand animal, he was fat, a brute that carried a first rate set of antlers, and a dozen points per side and 50+ inches wide. This was the bull Buddy Boyett would have a hard week of hunting for, and later harvest to become the “Worlds largest” non-typical ever shot with a crossbow” and officially scored at 477 SCI. He was over 60 yards away and we stood looking at him with admiration. We stood curiously gazing at the bulls from over the rise in the hill. They were spooky, and it only took a few seconds and they all trotted off nimbly to the safety of the spruce draw opposite us.
We carried on, sticking to the ridge so we could see down into the draw. Even though I have been hunting since boyhood, we all still learn something everytime we go afield. Every once and awhile I would hear this, “rustling leaves slurping” sound behind me, then “Whack”. Poor Hunter was learning the first and most important lesson in hunting…..Do not drag your feet, or the game will hear you, or worse yet pa-pa will thump you in the back of the head. Twenty minutes had passed since we evicted the 3 bulls out of the gully, and out of the corner of my eye I caught the glint of sunlight off the highly polished tines of a huge bull elk down in the dog thick timber. I picked up my binoculars and watched as this bull was engaged in a terrific battle with a local spruce. He would slash and stab his antlers, and rear up on his hind legs to strike pounding blows on the spruce sapling with his brow tines, breaking every branch off of the defenseless tree. As he was defeating the local vegetation, I scrutinized his head gear. He was a black bull, covered in wallow mud; his six tines on each antler were ivory polished. He would score in the high 350’s. He was hog fat, and had a sleek hide, and a neck swollen from the rut. “That’s our bull”, Heath muttered under his breath. It was an easy stalk. We picked our way amongst the wet leaves that covered the forest floor. We figured we were close enough, roughly 20 yards. Hunter got ready for his shot, and was waiting for the bull to quarter a bit more to tread his shot into the vitals. If we had paid attention to rule #2, “checking the wind”, this would have been the end of the matter. As it was, things happened. No sooner had we got set up, did the monster bull surge into reverse and departed at a high rate of speed through the knee-high windrows. Its mistakes like this that will cause me to have a nervous breakdown one day.
After that we proceeded on down the ridge. Ten minutes later we stood with our backs to a poplar tree on the lee side, out of the west wind, “Meowing” my brains out. I tried to envision myself being a love struck lady cow elk that was looking for dire companionship, and running out of time, winter was coming and I needed tending too. Moments later I could hear the sound of twigs being broken and the clanking thud of a bull’s antlers hitting a solid tree trunk. All was quite for a second of two, then the tell tale sound of challenging bugled came through the forest. Then from behind a wall of formidable growth stood “Whale tails” only 100 yards away. Hunter and his father quickly got set up on another tree as a shooting rest. The bull started to come down the hill to see who the new cow in town was. The big bull got about 70 yards and turned into the dark spruce thicket on the hillside.
This gave us a chance to move, and hopefully to get to a more open area. We followed the bull as he searched for the unattached cow he thought he had heard. We were obviously down wind of the elk. The unmistakable stench of rutting bull elk filled our nostrils. I “meowed” again, and at the same time the bull noticed us, or heard Hunter slurping his feet thought the leaves and twigs upon the ground. The bull wheeled around and locked on to us, and stood bug-eyed staring. The bull didn’t quite believe that we were a lonesome cow. For the most part I had him fooled, but he was taking no chances, the beast hung up. He stood there, his wicked eyes flared bright green, and the eerie sound of grinding teeth could be heard in the cold air. He looked even bigger this time, and he was in a rather foul mood. Still Hunter could not get a clear shot as his father fumbled with the video camera. The bull started to move off to my right, a bit more uphill and away from us. It all happened pretty fast. Hunter’s dad said shoot, and the muzzleloader bellowed and belched a plume of black smoke into the air. The large Cream body and dark coffee brown necked beast passed quarterd away and gave Hunter an opportunity in one step. Hunter was ready and the slug found its mark, hitting the bull right behind the front leg. The bull lunged forward several yards, and stood dogo. Struggling to keep his balance with splayed legs, the bull fell over onto his side. His antler gouged into the golden leaves on the ground. “Whale tails” lay motionless.
As we crouched down beside this brute of a patriarch, and placed our hands on his warm antlers, a flood of emotion filled us all. Sure this trophy was harvested on a estate, but does that make him any less deserving of respect and admiration, and had Hunter cheated myself out of a quality hunt experience, no way. He had a great hunt experience, and the emotions we all felt were born from respect and admiration for this animal’s life. The racket of south bound geese could be heard above, as I craned my neck to see them through the white skeletons of half naked poplar trees. This 10 year old boy’s hunt was over, and he was taking home with him a trophy of a lifetime, a priceless experience, and a lifetime memory.
He was a tough looking character, a veteran of many battles. He wore a network of gouges and battle scars on his body, and his magnificent antlers were covered in mud and tree bark. He stood staring at us head on, his peering evil deep emerald eyes scanned the area for the intruder he though he had heard. We remained motionless, and stared at this massive antlered image with our muzzleloader ready. Then suddenly, with no warning, before Hunter could do anything, the bull dug in with his hooves and surged 180 degrees in a panicky exit into the early morning darkness of the awakening timber.
This was the first close encounter with “whale tails”, as I called him. He was a cagy bull, well beyond his prime. I named him this because his antler tips flared out giving them the look of whale tails. He sported a magnificent set of 6x6 typical antlers. Heath Efird a client of mine had brought his 10 year old son Hunter to hunt with me for elk on my Saskatchewan hunt estates. My estate is one that specialized in archery and muzzleloader, but due to its challenging nature over 50% of our clients hunt with rifles. The hunting environment is scenic and heavily forested wilderness, a challenging environment. Heath knew we offered a hunt estate that utilizes all the ethical principals of hunting, and had an environment that duplicates “fair Chase”, and this is what he wanted for his son’s first elk hunt.
The west wind blew its bite into our faces as we sat pop-eyed by what had just happened. The rutting moon was in full swing, and the bulls were spread out around the property, each with their own small piece of territory, and not willing to associate with one another. “Whale tails” had vanished as quickly as he appeared that morning, but we decided to still hunt that small gully, thickly studded with gnarled poplar and spruce trees. This was an ideal rutting area for game to seek shelter from the wind. We slowly stalked along, trying to be as sneaky as possible, when 10 minutes into our walk two bull elk erupted into view and over the hill. They had been hunkered down in the shelter of some blow downs, and the roaring wind prevented them from hearing us until we walked into them. We followed them up over the hill, and seen that these two bulls had been joined by one other that had sought shelter in the thicket as well. The largest was a grand animal, he was fat, a brute that carried a first rate set of antlers, and a dozen points per side and 50+ inches wide. This was the bull Buddy Boyett would have a hard week of hunting for, and later harvest to become the “Worlds largest” non-typical ever shot with a crossbow” and officially scored at 477 SCI. He was over 60 yards away and we stood looking at him with admiration. We stood curiously gazing at the bulls from over the rise in the hill. They were spooky, and it only took a few seconds and they all trotted off nimbly to the safety of the spruce draw opposite us.
We carried on, sticking to the ridge so we could see down into the draw. Even though I have been hunting since boyhood, we all still learn something everytime we go afield. Every once and awhile I would hear this, “rustling leaves slurping” sound behind me, then “Whack”. Poor Hunter was learning the first and most important lesson in hunting…..Do not drag your feet, or the game will hear you, or worse yet pa-pa will thump you in the back of the head. Twenty minutes had passed since we evicted the 3 bulls out of the gully, and out of the corner of my eye I caught the glint of sunlight off the highly polished tines of a huge bull elk down in the dog thick timber. I picked up my binoculars and watched as this bull was engaged in a terrific battle with a local spruce. He would slash and stab his antlers, and rear up on his hind legs to strike pounding blows on the spruce sapling with his brow tines, breaking every branch off of the defenseless tree. As he was defeating the local vegetation, I scrutinized his head gear. He was a black bull, covered in wallow mud; his six tines on each antler were ivory polished. He would score in the high 350’s. He was hog fat, and had a sleek hide, and a neck swollen from the rut. “That’s our bull”, Heath muttered under his breath. It was an easy stalk. We picked our way amongst the wet leaves that covered the forest floor. We figured we were close enough, roughly 20 yards. Hunter got ready for his shot, and was waiting for the bull to quarter a bit more to tread his shot into the vitals. If we had paid attention to rule #2, “checking the wind”, this would have been the end of the matter. As it was, things happened. No sooner had we got set up, did the monster bull surge into reverse and departed at a high rate of speed through the knee-high windrows. Its mistakes like this that will cause me to have a nervous breakdown one day.
After that we proceeded on down the ridge. Ten minutes later we stood with our backs to a poplar tree on the lee side, out of the west wind, “Meowing” my brains out. I tried to envision myself being a love struck lady cow elk that was looking for dire companionship, and running out of time, winter was coming and I needed tending too. Moments later I could hear the sound of twigs being broken and the clanking thud of a bull’s antlers hitting a solid tree trunk. All was quite for a second of two, then the tell tale sound of challenging bugled came through the forest. Then from behind a wall of formidable growth stood “Whale tails” only 100 yards away. Hunter and his father quickly got set up on another tree as a shooting rest. The bull started to come down the hill to see who the new cow in town was. The big bull got about 70 yards and turned into the dark spruce thicket on the hillside.
This gave us a chance to move, and hopefully to get to a more open area. We followed the bull as he searched for the unattached cow he thought he had heard. We were obviously down wind of the elk. The unmistakable stench of rutting bull elk filled our nostrils. I “meowed” again, and at the same time the bull noticed us, or heard Hunter slurping his feet thought the leaves and twigs upon the ground. The bull wheeled around and locked on to us, and stood bug-eyed staring. The bull didn’t quite believe that we were a lonesome cow. For the most part I had him fooled, but he was taking no chances, the beast hung up. He stood there, his wicked eyes flared bright green, and the eerie sound of grinding teeth could be heard in the cold air. He looked even bigger this time, and he was in a rather foul mood. Still Hunter could not get a clear shot as his father fumbled with the video camera. The bull started to move off to my right, a bit more uphill and away from us. It all happened pretty fast. Hunter’s dad said shoot, and the muzzleloader bellowed and belched a plume of black smoke into the air. The large Cream body and dark coffee brown necked beast passed quarterd away and gave Hunter an opportunity in one step. Hunter was ready and the slug found its mark, hitting the bull right behind the front leg. The bull lunged forward several yards, and stood dogo. Struggling to keep his balance with splayed legs, the bull fell over onto his side. His antler gouged into the golden leaves on the ground. “Whale tails” lay motionless.
As we crouched down beside this brute of a patriarch, and placed our hands on his warm antlers, a flood of emotion filled us all. Sure this trophy was harvested on a estate, but does that make him any less deserving of respect and admiration, and had Hunter cheated myself out of a quality hunt experience, no way. He had a great hunt experience, and the emotions we all felt were born from respect and admiration for this animal’s life. The racket of south bound geese could be heard above, as I craned my neck to see them through the white skeletons of half naked poplar trees. This 10 year old boy’s hunt was over, and he was taking home with him a trophy of a lifetime, a priceless experience, and a lifetime memory.
