My dad and I hadn’t taken a trip together in 20 years. Even though we live only 15 minutes apart in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, we’re both business owners with busy schedules, thus our dad-and-daughter time tends to be few and far between, except during whitetail deer season since we are both avid hunters. This year when he needed a hunting partner, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to head west with dear ol’ dad and try to help him take down a bull elk. I said farewell to my family, leaving my husband caring for our three kids and small farm.
Dad was lucky enough to draw an elk tag in Idaho’s unit 37A. He has hunted elk in Idaho for about 10 years, but this particular area was new to him. Dad studied his maps and talked to Isaiah at Huntin’ Fool, along with two conservation officers, and even wrote a letter to a landowner asking permission to cross his land to get in the backcountry where we’d hopefully find some elk.
After making the 1,500-mile drive, we set up camp and did some scouting. This unit is known for very steep country and big bulls, and we were excited to hike around and find some areas that looked “elky” as dad likes to say. The first day of season brought cold temps, a bit of snow, and very little elk sign. We spent all day hiking and glassing, only seeing one small bull.
On the second day of season, we awoke to six inches of wet, heavy snow weighing down our tent. Hailing from an area known for its annual snowfall to be over 300", we weren’t deterred. We set out in the wet slop, hoping the snow would push some elk down the mountain. We had only been hiking about an hour when I spotted a bull 300 yards away. Too far for Dad to comfortably take a shot with no resting aim, we waited as the bull slowly made his way in our direction. Standing out in the sagebrush, we had little cover and I was nervous he’d see us, or worse yet, the wind could change direction and he’d get a whiff of us and head for the hills. Patience was our friend, though, when the bull dipped out of sight. We waited for a few minutes, and as luck would have it, he crested the small hill just in front of us. Dad took the 150-yard shot and dropped him in his tracks. After what seemed like a long wait, our hunt was over in a matter of minutes.
We breathlessly made our way to the downed elk, and although he was far from being the biggest bull Dad has shot, he had a big body and we were grateful. The clouds parted and the sun came out just in time for us to pack out the delicious meat. Six hours later, we were back at camp, sore and tired but with smiles spread across our faces that lasted well into the evening.
This precious time spent together and memories made by a dad and his daughter are priceless, and even more so in God’s great outdoors. I hope we don’t wait another 20 years to take a trip together!
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