A First Bull Part 2

by: Tom Sorenson

This is part 2 of the story from my grandma, Willa Ziniker, Part 1 is here.

“Get some rest and hunt the little yew wood thicket south of camp,” he called back to me.  “I’ll bring you back the biggest bull you ever laid eyes on!”

I had wanted to yell, “I’m coming with you.”  But I knew I’d hate myself, and him too, when night fell and nowhere to lay my bed but in a snowbank.  This was the moment when I had cowed to hunt by myself every daylight hour he was gone.  Maybe, just maybe, I’d end up with a spike in camp before he returned from his bachelor expedition.

When I had learned that Merel was bringing several hunters into the high country this morning, and then hike on up to the basin where I had missed a bull the first year, I begged to be included.  Three hours later we had tied our horses in a protective forest and started the remaining hike to the ridge through the tiring snow.

“Jim, I just can’t keep up any longer!” I had finally gasped as we approached the old stand I was only too familiar with.  It was like visiting the spot where you’d had a wreck once upon a time.  There was the same ol’ twisted tree where I’d built my fire two years ago.  There across the clearing I could still remember how the five-point had turned toward me just long enough for that lone shot that had creased his side.  I even recognized the small bush where he had first entered into the opening.

“That must have been a game trail,” I thought to myself, “and it is right in line with the bull we sighted earlier this morning.  If today’s target was still headed uphill, it was possible he would again appear at the identical spot.”

So it had partly been because I couldn’t pick up my feet one more step, and partly because of sentiment for the old stand that I had leaned against the gnarled tree those few yards below the narrow saddle and waved Jim on up the ridge.

Numbly, I studied the glistening snow drifts over the 8,000 foot Wallowa Pass before me, and removed my wool gloves with caution.  A person moves stealthily in these Oregon mountains – partly because of a compelling reverence for their rugged grandeur which causes them to sometimes be called “America’s Little Switzerland,” – and partly because game may slip between you and the nearest tree at any unpredictable moment.

The biting November wind seemed to shift up-canyon, through my hunting stand, and onto my stiff fingers with fresh determination as I sneaked a candy bar from my heavy plaid jacket.  “Pay Day,” I grinned as I read the name on the candy wrapper.  “Well, I’d better not let such a superstitious encouragement make me jumpy, or they will rule women out of the mountains.”  But I folded the paper soundlessly and slipped in into my pocket for good luck.

Backed like a shadow against the gnarled fir tree I was using for camouflage, I examined the surrounding panorama.  To the west, separating the Eastern Oregon towns of LaGrande and Pendleton, sprawled the Blue Mountains – truly a smoky blue.  As I squinted into the brilliant horizon to the south, I located the snow crested ridge four or five mils away where Ed was hunting with his backpack.

Small fluffy clouds followed the ridges like locomotive puffs.  Granite bluffs and scattered timber drifted with snow, rimming an open basin about 500 yards east of my stand.  I also had a clear view of the 200 yards of slope directly below me.  No game tracks of any kind had cut the 10:00 a.m. snow of either into the basin, the slope, or the pass back of me.

Gradually, a bit of the apprehension that had been spreading through my lonely bones since leaving our tent camp four hours ago, began to melt away.  But I kept moaning, “If only Ed were in this place today!”  I was quite sure the elk were nearby . . . and he wasn’t.  Jim Archibald and Merel had allowed me to struggle this far around the mountain after them this morning.  Then they had crunched on up the ridge.  Perhaps there were bulls not only minutes but FEET away on this slope which funneled directly into the narrow saddle twenty yards away.

It had stormed for two days since we had left Lapover and ridden to elk camp on the Minam.  Rain in the canyons had confined the elk to dense thickets, while snow at higher elevations had isolated the rims from profitable hunting.  It was good to see the sky and the guarding peaks today which unfolded into 20 mils of rugged splendor.  We were in the heart of big game country and the royal wapiti were already moving out this morning to feed.

Now the sun jeweled the foot-deep snow which had crusted over the night before.  Somewhere below me was at least one sizable bull.  The boys had pointed him out earlier in the morning about a mile down the canyon as his tawny hulk had edged its way up to a clearing and through some tamarack timber.  Any moment now this bull could top out. Desperately, I tried to forget that I had missed a handsome rack in this identical spot two years ago . . . but the memory was all too real.

Wind-chased clouds covered the sun for a moment and I wished Ed wasn’t so many ridges away.  “Today just HAS to be my ‘Pay Day’, “ I thought fiercely.  “My five-foot frame has never climbed farther, nor worked harder for anything in my life.  One more futile season and I’m staying home with the kids, the November P.T.A., and the warm furnace!”

And then . . . one low rifle shot from across the canyon sliced the vast solitude of the morning.  My wandering thoughts toppled.  There is something about one lone shot that can drive you crazy with wondering.

“Someone’s shot my bull,” I groaned.  A chill curled up under my stocking cap as I gripped my little Remington tighter.  But the entire mountain seemed locked once again in discreet silence.

“If you need any help, just holler or shoot,” Jim had grinned when he disappeared.

And so . . . here I stood now in the late morning sun, savoring the last of the candy bar and wondering what Babe was stirring up in camp – 5,000 feet below me.  And wondering . . . who in the world had shot that lone shot this morning and what effect would it have on the elk in the area.

I was just thinking of building a small fire since I seemed to be freezing by degrees, when the dark hulk of a six-point suddenly appeared from the screen of fir trees.  Proudly, he picked his was up the meadow in awesome silence, the guard hairs of his mane blowing slightly in the brisk wind.  I really froze this time – and not from the weather.  I think my heart forgot to beat.  From the way my legs buckled, I know it had.  But I never even breathed and I felt no panic.

At 60 yards, I shouldered the rifle and aimed at the black chest which filled my scope.  The first 180-grain bullet tore into his right shoulder with fatal power and he lunged to the right and fell.  Then I came to.  I had shot automatically and scored.  But there he was – up and headed down into the timber again.

“He’s getting away!” I think I said out loud, and fired again and again whenever I caught a glimpse of his disappearing back.  I was quite sure that the first shot had been a vital hit, but remembering how distressed Merel always is whenever an animal is injured, I was going to make sure this one ended up in the locker.

Five shots.  Now I began to shake.  My arms were so weak I could hardly pick up the empty shells.  Nearly in a stupor, I lifted the camera from a limb, stuffed my brown paper sack into my pouch, and blew my nose – really hard.  He couldn’t go far.

“Poor beauty,” I whispered to no one in particular as I broke the snow to the crimson site where his tragic trail began.  It wasn’t long before I heard Jim off in the distance yell, “Ya got ‘im!”  Good ol’ Jim.  I had hoped he hadn’t gone too far up the mountain.

Willa Ziniker with her beautiful bull.
When I reached my fallen trophy, finished at the base of a tree, I started to cry.  His magnificent rack was perfectly matched – no Boone and Crocket record – but heavy and tipped with ivory.  Quite a sight for a gal whose only other trophy was a spike blacktail hardly stout enough to hold up Robin’s bath robe!

“I’m awfully sorry,” I remember saying, “but I’ve been dreaming about you for two years now, and this is pay day for me.”

I looked up the bank and there was Jim grinning and then frowning all over his face.  “Get out from under him!” He scolded me.  But the old bull’s eyes were wide open.  This is always a good sign Ed says, so I just went on bawling.

At the supper table the dentist from Klammath mumbled something about “It just isn’t fair.  A woman hunts for years, climbs for hours, shoots a trophy, and sits down and cries her fool head off!”

Ed of course was so thrilled with the shaggy cape and  rack which greeted him when he returned to camp, that he didn’t mind the teasing he got the rest of the week.  The only time I saw him wilt somewhat was on the way home when a service station attendant congratulated him on the fine bull displayed atop the car.  “Well, it’s my wife’s,” he sighed.  “Mine’s under the seat.”