It was nearly dark the evening of Colorado’s third rifle season opener. It was cold and snowy, and I was on horseback for the three-hour ride back to the barn. The adrenaline rush from this morning’s hunt hadn’t subsided, and while cold and wet from the heavy snowfall and acutely uncomfortable, I cherished this opportunity too much to be self-conscious of the need to ask my father-in-law to stop the pack string for a brief delay. I quickly assembled the portable small appliance packed for such a time as this. While not convenient, the battery-operated pump was efficient, and after a little adjusting, we continued the ride down the mountain in full dark. My father-in-law, unaware of my predicament, paused to ask if we heard bugles. While laughing, my husband replied in the negative. That high-pitched sound he heard was a breast pump.
As we continued down the trail, I thought back on the events leading up to the day and still couldn’t believe how it came together. My husband and I are hunters, but more than that, we’re parents who hunt. Children are not a burden to mothers, it’s just that when you’re a mother, you have other responsibilities that come before hunting. When a mother gets these opportunities, they mean even more because you understand you can’t do this alone. I quickly realized how much teamwork goes into this kind of hunt.
When we applied for third rifle Colorado elk tags in the spring, we were new parents of a 4-month-old little girl. With only 1 preference point, we didn’t think there was much chance of a successful draw, but that’s just what happened. Unfortunately, Tyrell didn’t draw, but I now had my own personal guide, the man I love most. After we talked with Tyrell’s folks, who are outfitters, to see if they had availability, the realization of how much planning and teamwork goes into a high-country hunt that involves a breastfeeding mother sank in. We would be riding horseback into a wilderness area with no cell reception, no vehicle access, and no quick or easy way in or out. This would be our first time away from Heidi who would stay with Tyrell’s mom. In anticipation of needing the whole season to hunt and limited time off work, we drove through the night from Oklahoma to arrive at my in-laws’ house the morning of Friday, November 6th. We had one day to unpack, settle our 10-month-old in with her Granna, and catch a bit of sleep before our pre-dawn departure on opening day.
We left the barn just before 6 a.m. It was a still and quiet morning and unusually warm. I was nervous on multiple levels, and in the darkness, my heart turned back to the cabin and the little girl I had left behind. Questions ran through my mind. Did I do right to leave my little one? Could I keep up with Tyrell? Would we see elk, and if so, would my aim be true? Then, the gray of the unknown turned to the blush of early morning and bugles added to the sound of horseshoes striking stone. My nervousness faded, and I knew I could do this.
We crested the last rise into the park. It was two minutes to 8 a.m., and for the first time in the wild, I heard what I’d been told were the most beautiful sounds of the high country – the bugles of rutting bulls. My husband ahead of me on horseback didn’t hear them yet. As we broke into the park, he was the first one to spot the few cows disappearing into the black timber across the brush-covered flat. In disbelief, we quickly handed off our riding horses to Tyrell’s father and grabbed our packs and the 7 Mag. We followed the now invisible herd by the bugles of the bulls.
It was not long before we saw glimpses of the cows and spike bulls ghosting through the trees. We kept within bow range, moving through the timber, adjusting our path to accommodate the ever-changing thermals. We kept the herd within sight for an hour. We roughly counted 150+ cows and small bulls as they fed through the parks but found nothing worthy of an opening morning punched tag.
Moving quickly and quietly through downed timber is no more challenging than keeping up with an energetic and healthy baby. In my haste, I dropped the rifle and it hit a rock. As the sound rang out, I saw Tyrell turn in disbelief and a nervous giggle escaped my heaving chest. Paralleling the herd, we hiked the rolling topo, getting ahead of them before they fed out into the open. We could hear bugles as they came out of the timber at about 250 yards to our right. First there were cows and then there were the bulls. One bull was obviously larger, a good sized 3 1/2-year-old, and there was no doubt he was the one I’d take if given an opportunity.
I moved towards a spruce, trying to get a secure rest, but no luck. Beyond, I saw a stump and quickly moved to it. I sat down and rested the 7 Mag on a limb. I took the first opportunity that presented itself, aiming at the shoulder and squeezing the trigger. The bull collapsed with my first shot. We looked at each other in disbelief and smothered our excitement. We moved a little closer. The bull was down but struggling some. Moving in, I took another shot, and three hours after leaving the barn, I’d taken my first elk.
We hugged, high fived, and fell on our knees beside this majestic animal. The conflicting emotions of having taken a life, feeling grateful for the food this life sacrificed provided for us, and the privilege to hunt overwhelmed me. While I was determined not to be dramatic, I gave in to the tears. We tried to reach Greg on the radio. He was at the camp an hour away by horse where we had planned on staying overnight if needed until I was able to kill. After unpacking the two pack horses, he headed our way to check in. We walked out of the timber as Greg rode up with the saddle horses. Tears of happiness confirmed what Greg noticed upon riding up – blood on my Sitka pants and a heartfelt smile. With complete happiness, I told him my hunt was over.
We took a few pictures before field dressing and quartering the bull in preparation for the pack out. After we shared the story with Greg, we all rode back to camp to eat lunch. There were two Davis wall tents set up with wood stoves, cots, and amenities that a high country hunter wouldn’t expect in the wilderness. I went to a tent to take care of my commitment to provide nourishment for our little one and think about her with joy that I’d have her back in my arms soon. Little Heidi had her part, although unaware of it, as I carried her on my pack through the previous weeks and months in preparation for this hunt. I think of the interconnectedness of motherhood, parenting, and the outdoors. I don’t cherish the time away from my girl, but I cherish that with all the possible setbacks, those who care for me helped make it happen.
We returned to the kill site as heavy snow blanketed the ground. We packed hastily. Unaccustomed to riding, especially made more difficult with the weather conditions, I nearly pitched off the saddle as I tried to mount it. When we reached the fork in the trail that would take us to the tent or back to my girl, her daddy said, “Let’s go see Heidi.”
Sharing this hunt with Tyrell was a highlight of a lifetime. The trophy aside, what makes these memories special is the relationships. My passion for hunting has stemmed from my husband’s absolute love for hunting and anything outdoors. This hunt would not have been possible without his help and knowledge that led us to be successful that first morning. I’m thankful for his encouragement and belief in me, whether it be on the mountainside or in our everyday life. To find a partner who is so supportive in every way possible and commits to helping those around him is a true blessing.