There is a small creek nearby that I often fish in the summertime.  It isn’t anything special as creeks go, but something about it has always resonated with me.  Maybe it’s the way the willows screen the water enough to dapple the sunlight just so.  Or perhaps it’s that particularly eerie quality the old-growth Lodgepole pines have as they stand bare, like spears, guarding the younger trees around them; I don’t know.  In any case this creek is my first stop in any given summer, and even if it proves too high to fish until August I make a point to visit every time I pass.

This creek has often caused me to think about joy.  Not just the joy I take from being there, but joy in a larger sense.  At first blush, joy seems such a fleeting thing; even at its highest ebb it always recedes, always evaporates.  Much like this creek, all you can count on is that it won’t be there for long.

But that isn’t quite right.  It misses something.

Even in a dry September there is more water to be found in this creek than a first glance reveals. Sometimes you have to hike a ways to find more than a trickle, and sometimes the biggest pools have turned into small pockets, but if you know where – and how – to look you can always find one or two. Best of all, those pockets hold trout.

Several years ago, one little pool held a fish I’ll never forget.  It was a rainbow, resplendent in its autumn colors and fat; fat in the way only the biggest fish of a particular run ever is.  I spotted it from a distance and got very excited, and so promptly hurled the fly into the nearest bush.  Extrication took seconds, each of which felt like hours.  There was the fish – hovering in the current and still unaware of my designs.  There flowed the water – just a trickle, but moving on, on, on with that calm urgency of a late season creek.  There sat the fly – wound around a willow branch and finished with a beautiful overhand knot.

My initial panic at the bungled cast was, as is often the case, self-contained.  The fly came loose, my next cast was straight, the loop was tight, and the placement was perfect.

The fish was strong in that particular electric way that is unique to high mountain trout.  The vibration seemed to travel through the rod into my heart – the tugs and pulls and the ripping dives closed out the world.  There I was and there was the fish – nothing else existed.  In these quiet screaming moments fish always seem to assume massive proportions; surely this flashing, darting thing must be the Grand Old Trout of the mountain.  Was there ever such a fish in all the world?

Breathless, I brought him to hand.

He would not have broken 12 inches.

And yet: joy!

Joy.  What a funny thing.  To this day the memory of that catch is my favorite, and the one that most readily comes to mind when pleasant thoughts are necessary to balance an unpleasant reality.  That rainbow was not the largest I’ve ever caught; it was not the most wild, the prettiest, the hardest fighter, or anything else that should set it apart.  But something about that experience distilled all the things I love about the wilderness into one readily available and uncommonly clear recollection.

I’ve visited that stream many times since.  God willing, I’ll visit it again in a few months.  There will be no monster trout.  The water may be too high to fish.  The pool of my memory is likely to be gone, erased by a winter’s worth of sand.

But there are always other pools.

There are always more trout.

There is always joy, if you know where to look for it.

Nicholas Arthur

Author: Nicholas Arthur is an avid fly fisherman.  He was born and raised in the mountains of Central California and has spent many years fishing the pristine waters of the Sierra Nevada.  He is blessed to have married a talented and beautiful photographer who documents his adventures.   Nicholas recently accepted a commission in the United States Marine Corps and will soon be trading his fly rod for a rifle in order to repay his debt to the beautiful country he calls home. 

It is mid-day in January and trout are rising on the Niangua.  Wool shod, from top to bottom, I make the fifteen minute drive to frigid seclusion at the top of the Ozark range. As I pull in, the mist sags above the flow.  The white oak trunks are black against the snowy hillsides. While glancing expectantly, I fail to don my waders and retrieve the rod tube as quickly as I’d like. From two hundred feet away I imagine a rise-ring among the riffles. Certainty will be mine, soon enough I suppose. It is not necessary that I be intentional with my fly-rod; “Only purposeful” I remind myself. Ten-o-clock, two-o-clock and time fades away.

In a rhythm all their own, the trout tease my expectations. In my haste an empirical choice of fly will have to do. Shall I crease my brow and take a pinch of tobacco? Not yet. Instead, I wipe wet fingers on a rough sleeve. As the moments pass and no fish come to my frigid hand, the water speaks only of now, yet I fail to bend an ear.

Instead, ice formed at the edge of slow pools beckons me to imagine glacial flows, native footsteps, loggers and beasts. My wandering mind is tugged back by a splashing hail. While peering into my stretched net I ask the river to retell what I earlier missed. She will not acknowledge me but only continues on ahead.

So, for the remainder of the day, I try by context to catch up to her. Maybe next time I’ll heed her voice.

Michael Shuey

Author:  Michael Shuey fishes the Ozark waters of Missouri and Arkansas with the occasional trip elsewhere.Born in northern Minnesota, he now reside in Lebanon, MO. He is a veteran, an ITS Technician and a commercial fly-tier.

Sunset, last night of the season

I have an impossible duck hunting spot – the water’s too shallow for most boats, and usually too high for ATVs or trucks.  It’s too high, I’ve learned, when saltwater steam puffs up from the battery terminals.   If it sounds like too much trouble, it is, which is why no one hunts there. Including me. Until now.

Sub-optimal road surface

I arrived after lunch, keeping pace with the tide prediction.  It was wrong, and I knew it as soon as the salt spray hit me at the top of the cliff.  I continued downhill, where I was greeted by a shoreline of rolling waves from 15-25kt wind that the marine forecast had missed.  And so I waited.  The wind died a half hour later and a dry swath of beach quickly appeared.  Driving an ATV two miles down a sandbar to an island is not typical protocol, but it’s too far to walk with decoys.  Too far to kayak, solo, in the January night.

Ice floes and no one else for miles

As I eagerly set out my decoys – burlapped black ducks and buffleheads I’d chosen just for this hunt – I was flooded with forgotten feelings. Of new ideas, now old. No time to think.  Decoy to line. Line to anchor.  Current’s flowing east.  Throw the anchor west.  Splash. Upside down. Upright.  Grab the next one.  No time to think, but feelings of newness and challenge would not be denied. They were intoxicating and nerve wracking and wonderful, and I just somehow lost sight of them about five years ago. This is how I learned to hunt, and how I no longer hunt, because lazy repetition is easy. Innovation gets lost. And once I was lost and still somewhat successful, I just went with it, as we all tend to do.

Our offshore blind

Finally, around 4pm, hundreds of geese started coming out of the fields and piling into the creek.  The ruckus infuriated the ducks on the open water, and they decided to move.  I assumed they were headed south and upstream, to farms and farm ponds.   Oh well.   But they headed north instead – right towards my island.  Black ducks. I couldn’t believe it.  Three flocks split the island, ignoring my setup on the island’s widest point, and hugging the east and west shoreline, right off the water.  After the third flock, I abandoned my well-engineered decoy spread, and pushed toward the ducks’ flight path instead.   Daylight drew low.

Moon over the Chesapeake

I waited for several long minutes, conscious that the end of legal hunting time was twenty minutes away.  Then ten. Then three.  Suddenly, five black ducks rounded the point and put on the brakes to look at my decoys, now out of my range.  They weren’t convinced, and followed the previous flocks over the eastern shoreline, where I now stood waiting in the reeds.  I could feel my pulse rise in my neck as the ducks flew right at me – still looking at the decoys but not slowing their trip east.  My breathing grew heavy and I shouldered the gun slowly and deliberately, taking one duck at about five yards.  The bird’s wings went limp with my shot, and it fell on the shoreline beside me.   With my legal limit of black ducks (one) filled, I frantically searched the sky and water for other ducks in the waning moments of legal shooting time.  None came.

Decoys in the dark

I collected my decoys and single black duck in the dark, overwhelmed by amazing, secret thoughts and images from my hunting past.  Memories of hunts in snowy Appalachian rivers, New Jersey ice floes, and Virginia oyster beds in 70 degree weather.   The smells and sounds of learning, of being alive. There’s something special about going as far as you can go and getting it done.  There’s something special about trying on long odds and figuring out how they fit before you run out of daylight, duck seasons, and days on earth.

Black Ducks

Kirk Mantay

Author - Kirk Mantay has managed the outdoor blog River Mudfor five years. An avid outdoorsman who began fishing at 6, surfing at 13, and duck hunting at 17, Kirk works as a habitat restoration manager for a small nonprofit organization in Annapolis, Maryland. He currently spends most of his free time teaching his son Hank about the outdoors, and his perfect day would involve small wave surfing, big flounder fishing, and more than a few beachside margaritas with his wife, Amy.

Dust sticks to my sweat. Rocks and branches cut through my fragile skin. The cleanliness of my contrived, pampered existence has long since worn off, replaced by a haggard remnant of my former glory. The traverse has proven to be a far more substantial undertaking than I was anticipating. My water ran out long ago, along with my food. Based on my estimates, I have three more hours to go. An additional three hours of running, scrambling, and climbing along an 8,000-ft subalpine ridgeline seems like an eternity. I chuckle at the naivety of the thought. To the mountains I am bathed in, three hours is a momentary flash; an inconsequential allotment of time; a disproportionate time span in a life measured in eons. Mountains, above all, remind us of the futile and temporary nature of our existence.

The High Traverse is a line that inspired me from the moment I read about it. Buried within illustrious descriptions and crisp photographs of the “classic” climbs of the region, the High Traverse yielded little more than a few paragraphs and couple of blurry, black and white pictures. But that only increased my intrigue of the route. A bit rogue. The black sheep. What I could glean was that a large 500-foot granite dome guarded the entrance of the traverse, followed by no fewer than five subsequent summits strung out along the knife-edge ridgeline.

Leaving home early in the morning, I twitch with excitement, due to both copious quantities of coffee surging through my veins, as well as the anticipation of the adventure the day holds in store. Highway turns to single-lane paved road, which bleeds into gravel, and eventually heals into a dusty single track, blanketed with pine needles and granite boulders.

Like a giant paper mache beehive, the 500-ft granite dome wards off visitors of the traverse with its innate iniquitous. Taking a deep breath at its base, I latch on and begin to ascend. With 200-feet of air beneath me, balancing precariously in ill-fitting running shoes on nubbins no bigger than a dime, I question the sanity of this endeavor. Sweat accumulates in pools on my forehead and hands. My heartbeat loudly divulges my inner distress to the world. I must stop. I must quiet my mind or my body will follow this downfall into madness. Closing my eyes and taking several deep breaths, I begin to climb out of the blur of psychosis. With composure regained, I resume scaling the precipice. Arriving at the top, the dome firmly planted beneath my feet, I let out a yell of sheer jubilation.

The seemingly momentous feat is immediately squelched as I take in the magnitude of the line in front of me. The knife-edge ridge of the High Traverse cuts through the landscape far into the horizon. These seemingly endless precipices were created 80 million years ago by the crumbling and subsequent thickening of the continental plate. The Cordilleran glacier, the grandest type of nature’s artists, created her masterpieces here during the last ice age. The mountains themselves were her canvas and, with an eye for detail, she carved out spectacular cirques, deposited huge moraines, forged towering peaks, and whittled away basins, which would later fill with aqua blue waters. Her works of art have become my playground 20,000 years later.

Despite their indomitable appearance, these mountains are no longer growing, but instead, shrinking. The erosive forces of frost, snow, and ice are slowly disintegrating these once glorious spires to piles of stony rubble. Holding their heads up high, they endure this indignity with poise, even as their bones collect around their feet. I grab a quick drink and dropped in, running and climbing among the eroded skeletal remains of the High Traverse. Despite the exposure of the ridgeline, my cadence naturally melds with the surroundings. Peaks melt away on all sides. The sun begins to drop in the horizon and its rays meld with smoke from distant wild fires. The alpine glows.

This landscape has been the site of countless plays and symphonies over the eons. I am but one more actor in the revelry. Humans are terrified of our finite nature. We stave off death till the bitter end. However, with mountains closing in around me, I am reminded of the transience of all things, even the mountains themselves. There is no way to impede this flow, despite our deepest protests and grievances. However, we may find enjoyment in this transience if we but accept this actuality and join in the flow. Shiver in the bitter alpine winds. Feel the pain of immersion into glacial-fed streams. Allow dust to dry onto sweat. Bathe in the alpine glow. I smile at the thought. Three hours doesn’t seem like so long after all.

Kevin Mahoney

Author - Kevin Mahoney is an avid fly fisherman and trail runner. When not teaching high school math and science, Kevin can be found combing the streams and trails of north Idaho with his wife and dog.

Elephant Trunk for the Chief

Day 8

This morning found us driving straight over to the local chief’s house. Evidently, tradition holds that the hunter is to present the chief with the trunk of all harvested elephant. This was a strange experience.  Though I appreciated the tradition behind this, it rubbed me the wrong way when the chief acted a bit put out by the fact that the skinners didn’t bring him any extra meat.  Different cultures are funny, and this situation was exactly that.

The Chief on his throne

We hunted buffalo for the rest of the day.  We took up the track of a herd that was in the same area that I had shot my elephant in yesterday.  We went to the kill site to see what scavengers had been there and I was very surprised to see that another elephant bull had came and walked about the carcass that night.  What a strange and awesome animal they are.  When I shot my bull, he was definitely alone.  But somehow, whether by scent or sound, another elephant bull had came to investigate.  That left me with a different kind of feeling.  A bit bittersweet I suppose.

Vultures

Vultures

Day 9

My Dad killed a very nice buffalo today. He’s pumped. They have several nice baits going now, and have several cats starting to come in.

Buffalo

I tracked buffalo for 9 hours today.  Got in tight with them several times, but no shots.  This jess that we were hunting today was incredibly thick. When evening came, we were very close to Lake Kariba.  Instead of driving close to an hour and a half back to camp in the Land Cruiser, we had our camp manager Mike and my Dad come straight over from camp in a boat to pick us up.  What a perfect end to a great day.  This lake is too beautiful for words.

On the Lake

Day 10

Today we took it easy and I spent all day on Lake Kariba hunting Hippo.  We must have seen over 100 hippos today.  Hippos lazily spend their day in pods resting in the water. While at night they exit the water to go onto dry ground to eat throughout the night.  Though I had grandiose ideas of hunting a hippo on dry ground, I quickly realized this is not a typical scenario as the hippo leave the water in late evening and return back to the water in early morning.  This afternoon we found one little pod of hippo in a small cove.  We made a long stalk around them, got the wind right, and crawled in for closer examination.  We found that there was a bull in this pod but Boet was not confident that his age or tusks were what we were looking for.  As we were sizing him up, a cow hippo made her way over toward us and meandered within 30 yards of us.  What an animal they are.

Hippo Country

Day 11

My Dad spent last night in a leopard blind, but without luck.  I believe they will try again tonight.  I hunted buffalo until 2:00 today.  Being here in May has its pros and cons.  The pros include nice cool weather, and prime time for elephant and leopard.  The cons I am finding out is that all of the leaves are still on the trees and it is extremely difficult to see these buffalo when you get in tight with them in the jess. Again we were into them all day, but no shots were possible.  Maybe tomorrow.  Boy am I starting to miss my family.

Thick jess

Day 12

Today we left camp extremely early to get out to a block of the concession that is close to 2 hours from camp.  Instead of driving roads looking for tracks, we cut out across some country that the team knew had held buffalo in the past.  Sure thing, we cut tracks one hour after sunrise.  In no time we came upon the herd and began to evaluate them looking for a nice bull.  Inside of a minute of getting within sight of this herd, the wind changed and they blew out of there.  We kept on them till close to 11:00 when Boet decided to lay up for the afternoon to let them settle down. So, we napped, ate and told lies for the next couple of hours.  At close to 2:30 we started back on their trail and followed them steadily for the next several hours.  Just about a half hour till sunset, we finally caught up to them.  This time though, the wind stayed true, the terrain was open enough and a manly looking bull walked past us at 60 yards.  I put that .375 Barnes bullet right in his lungs and he ran about 70 yards and fell over dead.  I know that Cape Buffalo have a reputation as being bullet proof, but that was just not my experience.  I completely understand that they are incredibly big and tough animals, but this bull reacted like any other animal that I have ever shot in the lungs.  We were a long ways from the truck, so pictures were quickly taken, and our guys cut poles to make the long haul back. Buffalo hunting has gotten into my blood. I really feel that I could hunt buffalo every year from now on and never quite be satisfied.  It’s just that special of a hunt.

Buffalo

Buffalo Hunting

Day 13

My Dad spent the evening in a leopard blind again, and I woke up this morning to find out that he shot a leopard.  He made a great shot and found it 20 yards from the tree dead.  This hunt has been a reminder to me that it’s not just about the places you go, but the people that you go there with.  I’m so blessed to be able to be here in this awesome place with my Dad.  Today we spent the day on the lake fishing and looking for a big hippo.  All the while we have been seeing huge crocs nearly on a daily basis, but I have my mind set on a big hippo bull.  We didn’t find him today though.  As a consolation prize, I did catch my first Tiger fish.  This is a neat fish and they sport sharp nasty teeth.

Tiger Fish

Day 14

What an awesome day I had today.  I finally shot my Hippo Bull or “puddle pig” as my guys kept referring to them as.  We spotted this pod early off in the morning and we made a quick stalk into 75 yards of where they were.  We set up for a shot and decided that the bull in the pod had a nice set of tusks on him.  For the next hour I waited for a clear shot.  In that amount of time, something would always prevent me from getting a shot.  The angle wouldn’t be right, his head wouldn’t be out of the water enough, a female would get in front of him, or he would go under water and we would have to reconfirm which one he was.  When my shot finally came, I put my crosshairs right in his earhole and squeezed off.  We heard a loud THWACK and he disappeared under water.  For the next 4 hours I second guessed my shot over and over.  To say I was concerned would be an understatement.  Boet was surprisingly confident though.  He claimed that this was all part of hippo hunting and that these bulls will sink at the shot, and that after a couple of hours the gasses in their stomachs will cause them to come back to the surface.  True to his word, at the 4 hour mark that bull surfaced, dead as can be.  What a relief.   We hauled the bull to the shore and a similar scene to the elephant unfolded.  Locals came out of the woodwork to claim their piece of meat.  Hippo hunting has got to be one of the most underrated big game hunts in Africa.  I absolutely loved hunting them, and would do it again in a second if the opportunity ever arises.

Hippo Hunting

Hippo Hunting

Hippo Hunting

I got back to camp mid-afternoon, knowing that my safari had come to an end.  I relaxed around camp, fishing and taking in every last moment of this trip.  My Dad and his PH came in after dark just in time for dinner.  At dinner, Lindon asked if I wanted to go out and try to call in a Hyena.  An “of course” came out of my lips and I quickly scarfed down the rest of my meal and got my gear ready.  I have always been a sucker for predator calling, and I wasn’t about to pass this chance up.  A couple of hours later, in the pitch dark in the middle of nowhere Africa, we were set up trying to call in a Hyena.  We started the call, which was recordings of different Hyena calling back and forth to each other. We called for only a couple of minutes when that eerie sound of a Hyena calling came from behind us.  Quickly answering was another shrill call that came from in front of us.  We stopped calling and let them come.  Not a minute later we could see a form out in front of us at about 40 yards.  Lindon hit the light, and when I finally got him in my scope he started to lope off.  He stopped again at about 80 yards and looked back.  My crosshairs fell on his shoulder and I touched off.  At the shot he went to growling and thrashing, and at the same time Lindon went to running towards his location.  Not wanting to be left out, I was right on his heals.  I put another shot into him at 30 yards and put him down for good.   I was giddy with excitement.  I still can’t believe that it worked out quite that easily. My Dad and I couldn’t wipe the smiles off of our faces on the drive back to camp that evening.

A successful hyena hunt

Heading Home

This morning was spent packing up, tipping our crew, and saying our goodbyes. Leaving such beautiful country with such great people can be tough. As I sit on the veranda overlooking the Ume river, I’m thanking the Lord for blessing me in so many ways.  First for safety on this trip, second for a fantastic time with my Dad, and lastly the fact that I  am on my way home to see my beautiful wife and little boy that I have been missing so deeply.  I will forever have this trips memories at the forefront of my mind, and will miss Africa until I return again.

A Successful Trip to Africa

Austin Parks

Author - Austin Parks is a fourth generation Arizonian who has spent most of his life hunting not only Arizona, but many locations around the world with his stickbow. When not stalking his prey or sitting in a tree, Austin spends his time with his understanding wife and two beautiful kids. 

Zimbabwe

Before we could get too settled, our Guides Boet and Lindon were shuttling us off to see if our rifles were still sighted in after the long flights.  Though I have hunted for over twenty years, I have very little experience rifle hunting. Over the years I have hunted nearly exclusively with my recurve bow in hand. So, coming over and hunting some of the worlds largest game with some of the worlds largest caliber rifles was going to be quite a new experience for me. On this hunt I brought my Dad’s open sighted .470 double rifle for elephant, and a scoped .375 H&H for everything else. Fortunately, the .375 was sighted in just fine. Unfortunately, my shooting was not so fine. Ordinarily I don’t care much about what others think about me.  But as my Professional Hunter observed my sub-par shooting, I prayed that he didn’t think that I was completely worthless. Heaven knows I was feeling as such.

Day 1-2

Days 1 and 2 found us up by 3:50, and on the road by 5:15. Both days we cut nice Elephant tracks first thing, and both days, the concern was that the tracks were heading from our hunting area directly towards the neighboring park boundaries.  The area that we are hunting is the Omay communal area (over one million acres) and is surrounded by several different national parks. Sure enough, after following the tracks for a couple of miles, they crossed over into the park.  I began to realize that this scenario of bulls going in and out of the parks would haunt us for most of our hunt.  The rest of these two days were spent going around and talking with different villages and seeing who has been seeing what. I quickly learned that they all say that they have huge bulls coming in and eating their crops.  Boet pointed out the lack of bull tracks in their fields, which proved the majority of them wrong.  Really, I think that they embelish about this for three reasons.  First, they are extremely intimidated by elephant and don’t like having them around.  Heck, if I lived in a hut, I’d be pretty intimidated by them as well. In fact, just a month prior at one of these villages, an elephant cow had killed a middle aged man. Second, they want us to hunt their crop raiders so that they can have all the meat. They live near Lake Kariba with plenty of fish available, but red meat is definitely highly prized here.  Third the elephant do come in and eat what little crops they have.  Very frustrating for them.

Zimbabwe Elephant Hunting

Day 3

We started fresh this morning at one of the villages that is claiming that there is a big bull coming in and eating their crops at night.  Sure thing, there was a very nice 19 inch bull track leaving one of their crops.  We started on his track and were moving it pretty fast (about 1 mile an hour).  His dung was looking fresh and I began having high anticipation that this may be my bull.  After about 3 hours into the morning and one mountain climbed, one of the trackers spotted elephant ahead of us.  Boet checked the wind, assessed the situation and began his approach into this herd.  We had been following a lone bull and this was a herd of elephant, so we had to get in close and see if he had mixed in with these cows and calves.  After looking at all the elephant, it was clear that he was not with them and had most likely already passed by.  At this point we had to sort out his track from the herds tracks, which was no easy task, as the terrain on this particular mountain was very hard and rocky.  While the tracking team was busy with this, Boet and I set up with our binoculars to glass the valley below.  From our perch, we could see for several miles, so we thought that we may be able to see our bull out ahead of us and save some tracking time.  After about ten minutes of looking, I spotted a herd of buffalo about a half mile out.  After a quick discussion with Boet we decided that the buffalo were just too tempting and that we ought to give them a shot.  An hour later we were off the mountain and getting in close to this herd of about 15 buffalo.  By now it was close to 11:00 and we knew that they should be bedded down.  There was a nice little ravine with running water just in front of us, and we anticipated that they would be bedded right there.   Closer and closer we stalked all the while the dung was getting more and more fresh.  Up to this point we had a nice steady wind in our face, but then all of the sudden an easy breeze hit our necks.  Not 10 seconds later the herd is busting out of our side of the ravine and running at about 70 yards.  Three of the buffalo (including one bruiser of a bull) stopped and turned back to look at what just spooked them.  Before I could even get up on the shooting sticks for a shot, our game scout Thomas informs us that they were in the park.  Unbelievable! I questioned Boet if we are going to get hamstrung by a park like this every day?  He was noticeably very upset about this one.  His issue was that before we climbed off of the mountain after these buffalo, he asked the scout how far the park boundary was.  “Very far” was his reply.  What a letdown this was!  Hunting is hard enough as it is, but then to have another obstacle like this in your way really was beginning to frustrate me.  On our long walk out, I had some time to think out this park situation, and came to a different perspective.  Hunting around national parks is definitely a catch-22.  If you are hunting around them you will definitely have frustrating situations like what I had already been experiencing. But, on the flip side a large number of these animals are there primarily because of the parks.  It’s their safe haven.  I just needed to stop letting it bug me, and give into it.

Today is Mothers day… not just mother’s day, but my wonderful wife’s first mother’s day.  Ya, I’m definitely not getting the husband of the year award this go-round.

Zimbabwe Elephant Hunting

 Day 4

On the way back to the area we were yesterday, we cut a nice 18-inch bull track.  This track was walking away from the park and looked to be promising. After a couple of hours of tracking our team decided that the sign was not fresh enough and that we would most likely not be able to catch up to this bull. While we were tracking him though, he walked right by an old elephant skull and bone pile. He hung there for a few minutes then kept on walking.  Boet says that this is very common.  Elephants are extremely unique animals.  Makes me wonder what’s going on in their heads.  Boet told me a story about how one time he was using elephant meat as leopard bait, and an elephant came and tore it down.  Just a different kind of animal.  We quickly made our way back to where we were the day before and picked up the tracks of a nice 19” bull.  For the next 7 hours we stayed with this track.  At about a half hour before sunset we walked into a herd. We spent the next twenty minutes or so trying to sneak in and out of the herd to see what was there.  All the while trying not to bump them or give them our wind. We looked at what we thought were most of them, but never saw our bull.  Darkness caught us and we made our long walk back towards the truck.

Day 5

Wow what a slow day this was.  We never found a track worth following.  We did a ton of driving trying to cut a track, but no such luck. Some hunting days are just like that. Boet and I spent a lot of time talking about Zimbabwe and what it’s been like living here all of his 58 years.  He has been around farming all of his life.  Whether it was sugar cane, or cattle, he and his family farmed in some form or fashion.  That is until in 2002 when his farm was taken from him by the government to be given to the war veterans.  Mind you, Boet is also a war veteran, just from the other side.  These people have been through so much here.  Boet says that he knew it was getting out of hand when he was at the grocery store and he spent 36,000 Zim dollars on an onion.  Later it got as bad as one million Zim dollars for a loaf of bread.  The currency did finally crash to where they did away with it and are now using US dollars and RSA rand as their currency.

Zimbabwe

 ^{Day 6}

I had an awesome day today.  We tracked a 20-inch bull for 10 hours today.  This was some ball busting tracking.  Slow at times, fast moving at others.  Through rivers, up mountains…. You name it we did it.  In those 10 hours he never once stopped to feed.  This bull had it in his mind to go somewhere.  All the while we thought he would stop and feed or stop for a nap.  What a day though.  It felt good to get out and work hard after such a light day yesterday.

Zimbabwe

 Day 7

We are trying something a bit different today.  There is a small block of land (maybe 8 square miles) that we have not spent much time in.  So we’ve decided to spend the day, just cutting across this section and seeing if it’s holding any game.  We were only a half a mile into our walk when we cut some very fresh buffalo tracks.  We followed these for less that a half hour before we were right on the fringe of a very large herd. As they were feeding, we stayed off to the side glassing and trying to find a nice bull in amongst them.  A couple of time the wind swirled and part of the herd would run off, but it always seemed that we had another couple of buffalo to evaluate.  After about a half hour of us playing this game with them they had enough and got out of there.  Listening to a herd of buffalo thundering through the jess is awesome.  We had not yet seen even a quarter of this herd, so we decided to stay on their tracks and see if we could find a big bull in amongst them.  As we were on their trail, we came to the edge of a ravine, and there on the other side less than 100 yards away was a beautiful bull elephant.  This time though our park boundary was more than a mile away.  After a quick evaluation of his size, Boet suggested that we try to take this bull as he felt it would be difficult to do better than him.  Music to my ears!  We planned a stalk and were on our way.  After dropping down into the ravine from our side, we lost sight of him.  Two long minutes later we were carefully working our way up his side of the embankment.  As we crested the edge I could not believe the sight that was in front of me.  There not 20 yards in front of me was my bull elephant standing head on to me.  My Dad’s .470 double rifle came up to my shoulder just as it had hundreds of times in practice prior to this hunt.  As I put the bead right where I knew his brain would be, I touched off the left barrel.  As if in slow motion, his back end sagged, followed by his head being thrown in the air, then he collapsed.  What a moment.

Author and his Zimbabwe Elephant

This was hands down the single greatest hunting experience of my life.   As I approached the bull I was absolutely dumbfounded.  It was a feeling that I had never felt before.  Hunting elephants is just different.  Awesome really.  Uniquely awesome.

Zimbabwe Elephant Hunting

High fives and hugs were exchanged, and our entire group was on cloud 9.  As is custom, I cut the tail off of my bull. Within a half hour the first native showed up, and after about 2 hours there were more than 80 people sitting and waiting for their portion of meat.  I was surprised to see how organized this process began.  About 10 men were selected to be a part of the butchering team, and the large chore began.  First the head was cut off so my tusks could be taken out.  Then large amounts of hide that I wanted to take home were cut off folded up.  Boet mentioned to the locals that not an ounce of meat would be distributed until they helped carry out my tusks and hide back to the truck.

Once this was completed, the meat was cut up and set to the side.  The meat was then evenly distributed between everybody present.  After this was complete, Boet gave the green light and I watched everybody charge the remaining carcass and start hacking away at what was left (mainly intestines).  This was unbelievable to witness.  There were knives, axes, blood and guts flying every which way.  What a sight.  Buckets, packs and poles were loaded up, and the locals started their 4-mile hike back to their village (mostly in the dark).  I shot my bull right at about 10:00 and we didn’t get back to the truck until dusk.  What a day.  What a perfect day.

Customary Tail Cutting

Elephant Skinning

If you shoot it, they will come

Heading home after a long hunt

Check out Wild Zimbabwe Part 2

Austin Parks

Author - Austin Parks is a fourth generation Arizonian who has spent most of his life hunting not only Arizona, but many locations around the world with his stickbow. When not stalking his prey or sitting in a tree, Austin spends his time with his understanding wife and two beautiful kids. 

Paddling Isle Royale

I’m sitting in my kayak under one of only two bridges in Isle Royale National Park. The water is shallow, clear, and lined by variegated and brightly colored stones. No one knows where I am, I am all alone and supremely happy. Through this narrow inlet that leads to the vast expanse of Lake Superior I can hear the dull roar of surf.

As I drift under the bridge I look up and spot a plaque. I paddle and scull to hold my position, for there is some current here. I wish I had my camera out to photograph the plaque, but it is safe in a dry bag- after three days of paddling sheltered Tobin Harbor I don’t trust the big lake. The plaque is dedicated to a firefighter from L’anse Michigan, who died during the famous Storm King fire in distant Colorado.  It adds a bittersweet moment to my day, to think of this local boy who travelled so far to help others only to die in this most awful manner. The rust colored bridge, its symmetrical arch reflected in the water, with the rising granite walls behind it is a fittingly beautiful and very lonely memorial.

I am in the channel that separates Caribou and Cemetery islands, about to paddle out onto the open lake. As I paddle on the bottom drops away into blue-green nothingness, the water gets noticeably rougher, and as I round the corner the horizon bends off to infinity.

Not that Lake Superior is especially rough today, but even on calm days long swells generated perhaps a couple of hundred miles away slap the sheer black rocks, bouncing back in reflected waves called clapotis. My craft is small but capable, engineered for rough water- the trick is to keep your head and shoulders still and pivot at the hips with the water. The kayak does the rest. Still, this rough water is uncomfortable, no one is in sight, and a swim in these chilly waters where there is no place to haul out for perhaps a mile is unappealing.

I’m not unprepared. I have a whitewater spray skirt with a bungee so strong that if I flip over it will hold me in the cockpit. It requires a strong tug on the handle on the front to unseat it. A lot of people mistakenly believe that the Eskimo roll is the essential kayaking skill.  It’s not.  The wet exit is. Most people can’t or shouldn’t try to roll their kayak in an emergency, but pulling that handle and getting out of your boat may save your life. My other essential gear anticipates just such an event. I have a dual action bilge pump and a paddle float. The float attaches to your paddle, allowing you to use it like an outrigger, and the pump of course will empty your boat. I’ve practiced these skills and I’m wearing a PFD. While it may seem foolhardy to be out here alone and without having left a float plan (I wouldn’t have stuck to it anyway) I’m comfortable with the level of risk, I do this all the time. With all this talk of wet exits and clapotis, Eskimo rolls and self-rescue I’m perhaps over-dramatizing the danger- it is a lovely day, with blue skies, calm winds, gentle waves and little boat traffic in Rock Harbor. I paddle on down this particularly exposed Coast, past off-shore stacks that look like the ones you see in the Oregon travel brochures, not as big, but just as steep and forbidding. The vegetation line thirty feet above the water line tells another story- anything trying to grow below that level gets swept away by the fall gales. I paddle past a small cove, perhaps the only place to land on a mile or more of coast, but waves break on a rock reef that guards its entrance. My goal is the Rock Harbor lighthouse, to at least see it, see something besides the ferry dock, the restaurant and grill, and the park buildings.

Isle Royale

I had come to Isle Royale with a group of guys to fly fish for Coaster brook trout, a lake dwelling form that is increasingly rare. We did our fishing, caught a few even, but the season closed on Labor Day and so we portaged our kayaks from Tobin Harbor, where most of the Coasters live, to Rock Harbor to cast for salmon and rainbow trout, while secretly hoping to catch a native lake trout or Coaster. We launched our kayaks as the fog rolled in, obscuring everything. A couple of our friends cast half-heartedly from the American dock, but Brett and I pushed out into the harbor. In a harbor, in the fog, in a kayak, there is no worse sound than that of a boat motor, and so I quickly pushed out to the first island, a pile of granite really, with parking-cone-orange lichens on its flanks and a smattering of trees and brush along its top. I found a smooth granite cradle in a protected spot, beached my boat and walked the slick scoured flanks. It was like walking on the carcass of some great dead elephant, just as craggy, just as black and folded. I cast for a time into the clear depths from the few points that allowed it, but my heart wasn’t in it. The brook trout season was closed, and I had no desire to catch salmon. What I wanted was to explore, to see a little of this great isolated island, to get a sense of its breadth. Most visitors think of Isle Royale as a hiking destination, but with 450 smaller islands, numerous bays and fjord-like embayments which can be many miles long, Isle Royale is a kayaker’s paradise. Many of the campsites are accessible by paddlers only, and many other trail campsites are located on the shores with access to boaters. While hikers see virtue in taking one step at a time with their life on their backs, paddlers know the pleasures of sculling smoothly along, their kayak bearing all their gear and perhaps even some gourmet food items or a bottle of wine as they float on the lovely waters.

Fly fishing has always been a first love of mine, but at times I had found it wanting. In fly fishing you’re always striving for something- the perfect cast, a good drift, the next fish. While I enjoy this most of the time, at other times I find it vexing, another source of unfulfilled desires in a world that always tells us we need more. I needed something that kept me exploring without the exasperation. In kayaking I found the perfect medium. It is water based, scenic, adventurous- perhaps even daring. I took private lessons, learned (sort of) how to roll, learned self-rescue, and most importantly I learned how to paddle- correctly. From then on it was pure bliss. Sometimes I packed a fly rod, most times I did not.

Kayaking is pure adventure, pure discovery. Never mind that lake or river you’re on, that island you’re exploring from the wet side, has been on a map for 400 years- it is new to you, which is all that matters. That sky and those waters are never the same, always changing, an infinite horizon painted on a canvas of water, cleaved by the bow of your craft. Some of my happiest moments are when I’m far from shore, floating through the reflections of clouds never seen by anyone else-  they are all your own, the ripples from your craft are your way to mark them as yours for a moment. When you pass, the ripples fade, a reminder that we never really own anything on this earth, and in releasing what we held for a moment, we heal a small part of our souls. It is this simple freedom that I love about kayaking, and every time I go out I must resist the urge to paddle off into an imaginary horizon.

I had set off in the morning fog, fishing from island to island, but soon I tired of this. I had heard that someone had caught rainbow trout from the dock at Three-Mile campground, which I was guessing was, well, three miles from Rock Harbor. This sounded like a great place to eat lunch. I paddled there, past lichen crusted cliffs, past hikers on the shore trail, some of whom hailed me jealously as I floated past them trudging under their sixty pound packs. “I’m coming with you!” they’d shout, fluster-faced and hoarse from their travail. I laughed and bantered, and paddled on. Boats passed in either direction, and at first I would turn to face their wake, but after a while I ignored them. Small boats are of little consequence to a kayak. The boat I was watching for was the national park ferry, the Ranger III. This is a big boat, capable of carrying a couple of hundred passengers plus cargo. A friend saw it off-loading a 16 foot fishing boat. The Ranger III is also capable of kicking up a sizable wake, one that could quite possibly swamp my little craft. I reached the Three Mile dock after some time and put ashore. I ate a particularly non-gourmet lunch of cheese sticks and granola bars, then dug my fly rod out from my deck rigging and started casting.

Casting a fly rod is much like paddling- repetitive, metronomic, punctuated by long pauses, intense concentration, and complete lapses of memory. I don’t know how long I stood on that dock casting, but I knew that at some point I looked up, and there was the Ranger III docked at Park headquarters on Mott Island, over a mile away. It looked large and comfortable, a sturdy work vessel and my ride home the next day. I was also ready to leave the Three Mile dock and hoped that the Ranger  was staying in port. Large and comfortable can also look enormous and forbidding when your bridge is 18 inches off of the water. I launched, pointing my boat directly at the ferry, and I paddled with a purpose, hoping to inspect the ferry up close, but within minutes of my leaving shore, the ferry did likewise, its bow headed my way. It mucked around at first, side thrusters growling, now in reverse, then forward slowly. After ten minutes I seemed to have made no progress forward, but the ferry kicked it into high gear.

I can’t tell you what it is like anticipating a wave. You can see them coming across all that expanse of water. They look huge even at a distance. They seem to take forever like the proverbial Heinz. Cue the music. When the waves arrived- I counted 11- nothing much happened. Right when you expected disaster the Greenland-style bow of my boat rode up and over them, though the fly rods strapped to the deck stabbed into the waves then bowed crazily under the strain as the kayak rode up and over the water. In the end it was a fun ride, but anti-climactic, just a bigger version of the passing power boat wakes. From there I paddled out to the bridge, through the channel and into the open waters of Superior.

It was pleasant floating on this vast sea, its swell lifting the boat gently before breaking on the black cliffs behind me. It was an easy conceit sitting there to imagine this island kingdom as mine alone, that I ruled over gulls and geese, foxes and loons; that even the wolves paid tribute by their howling. In such moments it is all too easy to lose oneself in the seascape, pronounce yourself ruler of all that you see, and from your buoyant throne to survey your holdings, king for a day.

I was getting worried about the time. No matter how hard I paddled, I never seemed to get closer to the narrow passage that leads past the Rock Harbor light. After a while a fog bell chimed, and I knew I was getting close. It chimed a lot, and when I turned I saw it- a fog bank, several miles distant to the south-east. Probably not a threat, but I was grateful to be turning back into Rock Harbor. I pulled off at a beach, dug out my camera, took some photos of the lighthouse, ate another granola bar, pulled at my water, and listened to the clanging of the fog bell and the slush and chug of the mild surf. I launched and paddled hard back for home port. From here there isn’t much to tell- the air was hazy and light, the sky blue, creased by high cirrus clouds, the sun golden in that mellow manner of a September afternoon. As I rounded the island I notice that the wind had shifted to the south-east.

From there I raced back. Rock harbor isn’t wide, perhaps a mile at the most, but it is many miles long, and I didn’t want to be stuck in fog seven miles from port. I got stuck in fog five miles from port. The ferry had dropped its load of explorers and vagabonds two hours before, and now a fresh wave of hikers and a pair of kayakers in fine wooden boats (mine is sassy red plastic, thank you very much) came toward me, as the first tendrils of fog enwrapped the outer islands, flowed out over the harbor then hit shore. Shore disappeared. I made it reappear by steering to my left, hugging it from then on. The kayakers reappeared, smiling and happy, we exchanged pleasantries, and the hikers on shore stared in disbelief (“We could have floated?”)

Soon enough I was back in port and greeted by my friends, the Ranger III anchored at the dock I would board it from the next day. I had left in the fog and returned in it, my own vanishing act, the water and sky keeping my secrets.

Isle Royale

Jason Tucker

Author - Jason Tucker lives and fishes in Northern Michigan.  You can follow his slow descent into fly fishing mania on his blog, Fontinalis Rising.  We highly recommend against this however.

I recently had a few hours to get out and revisit one of my favorite forgotten spots where Maryland, Delaware, and Pennsylvania all come together.  It’s less than 30 minutes off of I-95, and ample public parking is available.  Heads up – it’s foggy almost every day.

Foggy Morning

Luckily, the water line is less than a half mile from the parking area, so you probably won’t get lost.  Now, it’s a little steep – about a 40% grade.  And the trail – wait – there is no trail.  Along with your fishing tackle, you may want to bring a few extras, like reflective tree tacks, eye protection, a small limb saw, a sharpened pair of pruners, 50’ of climbing rope, and the gnarliest tick and chigger repellent that money can buy.  Since  you’ll be back- and belly-crawling up and down steep cover all day in your chest waders (which you’ll swamp when you slip into chest-deep mud – hence – climbing rope), you’ll want to pre-hydrate in a really significant way. Allow some pack space for additional electrolytes; I personally recommend Gatorade or an orange.   Oh, and despite the fact that this place is just 50 miles from Baltimore and 40 miles from Philadelphia, there’s no cell service.

But despite ticks, loose rocks, zero visibility, and an army of hungry spiders, the water is there.  And despite the bleeding and cussing that goes into my Dukes-of-Hazzard style ass-bouncing scramble down to the water’s edge, I am always content and excited to see it.

The Hole

This muddy point is downhill of a 300’ thick band of mountain laurel and a 20’ thick band of invasive Phragmites, over 12’ tall this time of year, and full of chiggers, spiders, and an awful plant fungus that leaves powdery black dust in your nose, and in the tiny grass cuts up and down your arm.  The Phragmites ends abruptly at the casting zone, where the water depth goes from 18” to roughly 96” – a true vertical dropoff.

Those of you who read River Mud know that I have a 3 year old son (Hank), who dominates my schedule, and starting this year, my fishing time.  It’s great.  But it’s not relaxing, and it’s not focused.  And I love to be outdoors, and singularly focused.  My wife gave me a carte blanche pass to be gone until “whenever” – a rarity for either of us.  I wanted to fish – seriously fish.  I came here to get it done.   And I did.

Bass

Again

Bass

And again

Bass

And then I didn’t stop

Bass

Nope. Not yet.

Bass

It was a surreal morning.  More bass (9) than I’ve caught at one time since my son Hank was born. The forest would have been silent but for the constant bombardment of the mountain laurels by ripe persimmons and rock oak acorns.  The breathless silence on the water was only broken by the occasional “pop” of a surface strike by panfish.  No eagles on the wing. No deer in the forest.  Quiet.  And no deadlines to get back out of “The Hole.”

The Hole

I fished until I didn’t want to fish anymore.  Reflect on that statement for a moment.  How rare is that?  Don’t answer that.  For most people I know, it’s pretty rare.  Not quite to the level of “until I was sick of catching fish,” but still, a rare, good feeling.  As I cut my last lure off of my line, I looked up, right in front of me, at the impossible tangle of mountain laurels.  I slipped on my first step uphill, and the hill broke loose, sending me belly-deep back into the swamp. Five minutes later, it was time for a second try.

I’m fortunate to be back in shape this year – if I were my old self (only older), I think The Hole would be a hazardous place from which to extract myself.  This year, I kept slowly trucking up the slope, reminding myself, “It’s OK to be tired.  It’s OK to be winded. Don’t stop. Keep it steady.”  Would have been more motivational coming from a supermodel, or Shaun T. from Insanity Workout!, but all I’ve got is me.

Soon enough, I was back to the truck, covered in spiders and sweat-soaked waders, and looking at the scratch in my sunglass lens that should have been a scratch in my cornea.  I didn’t see another soul all morning.  No one coming or going.   This place is not mine – I’ve heard of people who have fished here.  But as I ask them to go back, the answer is always, “I don’t need to run down into that hole just to catch a fish.”

The Hole

Well, I do.  Soon enough, I’ll be back down in the Hole again.

Kirk Mantay

Author - Kirk Mantay has managed the outdoor blog River Mud for five years. An avid outdoorsman who began fishing at 6, surfing at 13, and duck hunting at 17, Kirk works as a habitat restoration manager for a small nonprofit organization in Annapolis, Maryland. He currently spends most of his free time teaching his son Hank about the outdoors, and his perfect day would involve small wave surfing, big flounder fishing, and more than a few beachside margaritas with his wife, Amy.

Africa

Africa. To some it is fantasy. To others it is a fulfillment of the quest that only the untamed spirit aspires. The Dark Continent holds more than its share of adventure for those that dare the teeth, claws, thorns, and venom to experience the richness of its resources. Many find satisfaction in the pursuit of game with flash and film, capturing images for posterity. Some need more, a closer connection to the land and its devices; a chance to experience a more unfettered form of stewardship. The uninitiated and the skeptic see it as little more than filling a trophy room. But that notion is empty, reduced to the likes of collecting shot glasses or stamps. It is anything but collecting; collectors don’t know the thrill of the chase, the blood on the hands, the pain of defeat, the unknown. Hunting is not collecting, it is connecting. Connecting, in this sense, is deeper in meaning than the simple connection of a missile to flesh. It is the tangible connection of mastery of the land, of understanding that life is sustained by death.

I didn’t understand it at first. Raised by a first generation big game hunter, my father did the best he could to show me the way to meat, horns, and hide. He had a 20 year head start, but even still, he was learning as he taught me. Early on, it was as much about the meat, horns, and hide for me. Then later, as I came into my own, it was the pursuit and the satisfaction of providing. But now I recognize something greater. It isn’t a mere statement said to pacify the unbeliever or to mask bloodlust. Make no mistake; taking an animal’s life is not for everyone. Nor does killing necessarily set well with me. But killing is not the goal, it is the result. And that greater thing that I am recognizing is truth. Truth sets us free.

I hunt because it is right, the right thing to do. The African model of conservation is undeniable: placing value on species gives it value for sustainability. My pursuit (it is so much more than a hobby) is a win-win given the correct perspective. I desire an animal for its yield. If I am fortunate enough to kill it (harvest is such a sanitized description), my hard earned money is placed into the local economy to benefit others, then with them I will be filled from the creature’s meat, and the breed benefits overall by the human realization that there needs to be more of them tomorrow to propagate the circle. Even the offal, offensive to the prejudiced palate of most westerners, is consumed by thankful people. Upon return of my cargo, I will display the hide and horns to honor the animal for the challenge that was presented me. Nothing goes to waste. Environmentalists should be impressed; it is the ultimate demonstration in recycling.

Hunting Africa

I was fortunate enough to experience Africa firsthand once. It was a pure endeavor, but for it I had to sacrifice. I have no benefactor, no trust fund, no winning lottery ticket. I possess ability, so I chose a career of protecting human life over a cushy office and a big salary. I have no regrets about it. My job fits my personality and I find it rewarding, but all that fulfillment doesn’t buy me daily rates and trophy fees, so earn I must. While working as much overtime as my bosses could give me, I reacquainted myself with all literature about the continent. Despite all my reading from the greats, I was still unprepared for the depth and breadth of Africa; from the smells of the veldt to the scenes of the mountains, rivers, and valleys. Much of it was familiar like my native Arizona, but the context of it was so alien that I couldn’t bring myself to recognize it as anything but curious and extraordinary. Each day in the bush presented new experiences, new creatures, and even new feelings. One day those new feelings took me by surprise.

In my life I had yet to experience a dichotomy like Africa. It was fulfilling in every sense, yet I am left with a craving that only that sole experience can fill. It is like having a full belly and being hungry at the same time. In fact, I remember the wife of my PH citing some prose about drinking the water of Africa will make me feel the need to return. How she was right! Not a day goes by that I don’t think about that hunt. Perhaps it is because I have unfinished business there.

It happened during my first day. An incredible spiral horn specimen presented opportunity. It was the animal at the top of my wish list, and the PH said it possessed horns unmatched in magnitude for his concession in quite some time. No matter the numbers, it was big enough. I have played the scenario in my head more times than I can count. I have never had so calm and confident a moment as the one where I saw the arrow strike the intended spot where the white line meets grey hair. My normally unflappable PH gave me a congratulatory backslap so hard I chipped a tooth. But for reasons I don’t understand, it was not meant to be. Whether he lived on or was carrion for the jackals and hyenas, none of us will ever know. Of course I felt bad, feel bad. I still had a successful hunt and even took a management bull of the same species. But for me, that big bull is still out there, and I need to pursue him.

In the meantime, my broadheads are sharp, my muscles are tense, and my dreams are haunted. Someday I hope to go back. To drink the water, see the sunset, and take in more experiences, even though I know they will only serve to make me desire more.

David Moffitt

Author - David Moffitt is a lifelong archer, determined hunter, hapless fisherman, and a desperate, awful photographer. He resides in Phoenix, Arizona where the extent of his writing thus far has been treatises to keep him out of jail, only just barely. Should the people to whom he owes money find him, he will be survived by his beautiful wife and two children that make him the luckiest husband and father in the world.

Arizona Bison Hunting

As bowhunters, I believe that we all have dreamt about crawling through open sage country toward a herd of one of America’s most unique animals, the Plains Bison.  After years of diligently playing the application game, I was fortunate enough to draw a wild bison tag in my home state of Arizona.  This tag has always been one of the most coveted in the state since it is a once in a lifetime tag opportunity.  What makes this hunt that much more special is that it is one of the few herds of wild, free-ranging bison recognized as a fair-chase hunt by the Pope & Young Club.

Prior to my hunt I contacted past hunters, searched internet information, and read old articles.  What I found was that this hunt was going to be extremely difficult and not at all like I had envisioned it would be.  Arizona bison live in one of the more remote places in the state and in recent years had abandoned their traditional grounds (the House Rock Wildlife Area) and had relocated to higher grounds near the boundary of the Grand Canyon National Park.  This move took them from nice open sage and juniper country at 5600 feet to extremely dense pine and aspen country at close to 9000 feet in elevation which would necessitate a completely different hunting strategy.  I had originally planned to spend my time setting up on a ridge top with my binoculars and tripod, find the bison, and then plan a stalk which wasn’t practical in this higher elevation, thick brush setting.  Instead, I learned that I would need to still hunt and patiently lie in wait in a tree stand or ground blind set over travel routes, water sources, or mineral deposits.

When the season started on the first of January, I searched the lower country for several days trying to confirm the idea that they really had abandoned their old grounds.  Indeed they had.  There was no bison sign down low whatsoever, so, the high country it would be.  The problem facing me was that the upper plateau was still packed with many feet of snow making access absolutely impossible without the use of a snowmobile.  Being born and raised in Phoenix, I have never even set eyes on a snowmobile; much less have access to one.  My only choice would be to wait a few months till the snow levels dropped and the buffalo moved into huntable areas.

By late April we had a warm spell and with the snow melting I was quick to get into the high country for my first week of hunting.  With a pregnant wife at home and several major events (mother’s day, anniversary, and my wife’s birthday) in May, I planned to take off several, five to seven day trips, until the season ended in mid-June which I thought would make my bride happy and allow myself a little rest if needed.

My first week of hunting was largely a scouting trip.  Although I had my 70# Morrison recurve in hand at all times, I was mainly just trying to figure out how and where I was going to be hunting.  Although I knew the general 30 square miles that I wanted to hunt, I put a lot of hard miles under foot that week narrowing my search for fresh sign or the bison themselves.  While still hunting on April 30th, I did stalk into one herd of 15 cows and calves.  I was quick to pass on the cows so early in my hunt, as my tag was for “any buffalo”, and hey, everybody dreams of killing that big nasty bull right!  My optimism was sky high after having seen my first herd of bison and locating fresh sign.  I set a few stands in the area and sat the remaining few days.  No bison came into my set-up during the day, but tracks showed that I did have some nighttime visitors.  I thought I was sure to trick an unsuspecting buffalo the following week.

Arizona Bison Hunting

I made the lonely drive back to bison country after being home for three days.  The first morning back on the chase, I parked my truck a couple of miles from my stand.  It was a beautiful 27 degree morning and I figured that I would still-hunt my way in to the stand.  I eased into my setup and heard a low grunt and immediately got down to my knees.   There was a herd on the waterhole where my stand was set, getting their morning drink.  The wind was right and I eased in to get a closer look.  This was a nice herd of 13 cows and calves.  I was able to get right in the middle of them without being detected.  At one point I had a cow and yearling walk past me inside of 10 yards.  Still, it was so early in the hunt that I really did not want it to be over, so I once again elected not to shoot any of these bison.  Later that afternoon, I had an old cow and a week old calf come in.  It was such a neat experience being able to watch these two interact with each other just 15 yards from me.   The rest of my week was fruitlessly filled with 13 hour days on stand, and when I tired of sitting, all day hikes.  It was easy to keep my optimism up with the action that I saw early this week.  I dutifully headed home to see my wife for a few days to celebrate Mother’s Day as I was in Africa last year for Mother’s Day and I was not going to make that mistake two years in a row!

I made the 5 ½ hour drive from my home in Phoenix to my hunting area once again, and would be hunting for the next five days.  On this trip everything seemed to go wrong.  The area that I had been hunting was showing no fresh bison sign at all which prompted me to move several miles to a new location.  After setting new stands I once again started feeling confident in what I was doing.  That confidence was quickly shattered by bad winds, truck problems, flat tires, and other hunters sitting on my stand, and a general “woe is me” attitude.  I did have one good morning on stand when I had a large heard of cows, calves and two young bulls come into my position.  I decided to try to take a shot at one of these young bulls if the opportunity presented itself, but that opportunity never came.  Though they were inside of 20 yards from my ground blind, there was always another bison in the way so no shots were possible.

I don’t often get discouraged while hunting, I am an optimistic person by nature and I carry that optimism into the field with me but at this point I felt burned out.  To date, I had hunted 20 days, averaged 5 hours of sleep a night, put well over 100 miles under foot, and sat close to 170 hours on stand.  I was wiped out.  It sounds backwards, but for the first time ever I needed a break from my hunt. I decided to head home for a week off.

I returned on May 25^th and felt ready to bust my butt once again. I hunted hard for the next three days but saw no bison.  On May 28th I was into my blind early and ready for a long sit.  I had been reading Tom Sawyer all morning when I heard crashing echoing through the woods.  I quickly got to my knees, nocked an arrow, and got ready for whatever may be coming into my setup.  After a couple of minutes I saw the first cow emerge from the treeline.  What an awesome sight!  Ten cows and calves total fed my way.  Right then, I decided that I had held off long enough and that I was going to try to take a shot at one of these cows.  This was my 24^th hunting day and I was ready to make it happen.  The entire herd came inside of 20 yards and I picked out the largest cow that did not have a calf.  I started to draw five or six times on her but something always prevented me from getting a shot.  Finally, after all other buffalo were clear, she threw her right leg forward offering me a slightly quartering shot, and my arrow was on its way.  My Eclipse Werewolf tipped shaft cleared the 18 yards quickly and found its mark exactly where I was looking.  My arrow had entered on the crease and exited a few inches on the offside shoulder. It was bedded within one minute and died inside of 2 minutes.

A rush of emotions flooded my head. There was something special about the sense of accomplishment at that moment.  As I approached her, I knew that I had worked as hard as I possibly could to reach this end result.  I couldn’t help but reflect on how blessed I am as I began the nearly overwhelming chore of butchering and packing a bison by myself.  To be in such a beautiful place hunting one of Americas most iconic animals left me grinning from ear to ear, a great end to a great hunt.

Arizona Bison Hunting

Austin Parks

Author - Austin Parks is a fourth generation Arizonian who has spent most of his life hunting not only Arizona, but many locations around the world with his stickbow. When not stalking his prey or sitting in a tree, Austin spends his time with his understanding wife and two beautiful kids.