ELK HUNTING IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.
Of all the large game on the American continent, the elk (_Cervus
canadensis_) is the noblest, the grandest, the stateliest. I would
detract nothing from the noble game qualities of the moose, caribou,
deer, or mountain sheep. Each has its peculiar points of excellence
which endear it to the heart of the sportsman, but the elk possesses
more than any of the others. In size he towers far above all, except the
moose. In sagacity, caution, cunning, and wariness he is the peer, if
not the superior, of them all. He is always on the alert, his keen
scent, his piercing eye, his acute sense of hearing, combining to render
him a vigilant sentinel of his own safety.
His great size and powerful muscular construction give him almost
unbounded endurance. When alarmed or pursued he will travel for twenty
or thirty hours, at a rapid swinging trot, without stopping for food or
rest. He is a proud, fearless ranger, and even when simply migrating
from one range of mountains to another, will travel from seventy-five to
a hundred miles without lying down. He is a marvelous mountaineer, and,
considering his immense size and weight, often ascends to heights that
seem incredible. He may often be found away up to timber line, and will
traverse narrow passes and defiles, climbing over walls of rock and
through fissures where it would seem impossible for so large an animal,
with such massive antlers as he carries, to go. He chooses his route,
however, with rare good judgment, and all mountaineers know that an elk
trail is the best that can possibly be selected over any given section
of mountainous country. His faculty of traversing dense jungles and
windfalls is equally astonishing. If given his own time, he will move
quietly and easily through the worst of these, leaping over logs higher
than his back as gracefully and almost as lightly as the deer; yet let a
herd of elk be alarmed and start on a run through one of these
labyrinthine masses, and they will make a noise like a regiment of
cavalry on a precipitous charge.
I have stood on the margin of a quaking-asp thicket and heard a large
band of elk coming toward me that had been "jumped" and fired upon by my
friend at the other side, and the frightful noise of their horns
pounding the trees, their hoofs striking each other and the numerous
rocks, the crashing of dead branches, with the snorting of the
affrighted beasts, might well have struck terror to the heart of anyone
unused to such sights and sounds, and have caused him to seek safety in
flight. But by standing my ground I was enabled to get in a couple of
shots at short range, and to bring down two of the finest animals in the
herd.
The whistle of the elk is a sound which many have tried to describe,
yet I doubt if anyone who may have read all the descriptions of it ever
written would recognize it on a first hearing. It is a most strange,
weird, peculiar sound, baffling all efforts of the most skillful
word-painter. It is only uttered by the male, and there is the same
variety in the sound made by different stags as in different human
voices. Usually the cry begins and ends with a sort of grunt, somewhat
like the bellow of a domestic cow cut short, but the interlude is a
long-drawn, melodious, flutelike sound that rises and falls with a
rhythmical cadence, floating on the still evening air, by which it is
often wafted with singular distinctness to great distances. By other
individuals, or even by the same individual at various times, either the
first or last of these abrupt sounds is omitted, and only the other, in
connection with the long-drawn, silver-toned strain, is given.
The stag utters this call only in the love-making season, and for the
purpose of ascertaining the whereabouts of his dusky mate, who responds
by a short and utterly unmusical sound, similar to that with which the
male begins or ends his call.
Once, when exploring in Idaho, I had an interesting and exciting
experience with a band of elk. I had camped for the night on a high
divide, between two branches of the Clearwater river. The weather had
been intensely dry and hot for several days, and the tall rye grass that
grew in the old burn where I had pitched my camp was dry as powder.
There was a gentle breeze from the south. Fearing that a spark might be
carried into the grass, I extinguished my camp-fire as soon as I had
cooked and eaten my supper. As darkness drew on, I went out to picket
my horses and noticed that they were acting strangely. They were looking
down the mountain side with ears pointed forward, sniffing the air and
moving about uneasily.
[Illustration: THE _WAPITI_, OR AMERICAN ELK.]
I gave their picket ropes a turn around convenient jack pines, and then
slipping cautiously back to the tent, got my rifle and returned. I could
see nothing strange and sat down beside a log to await developments. In
a few minutes I heard a dead limb break. Then there was a rustling in a
bunch of tall, dry grass; more snapping of twigs and shaking of bushes.
I ascertained that there were several large animals moving toward me and
feared it might be a family of bears. I feared it, I say, because it was
now so dark that I could not see to shoot at any distance, and knew that
if bears came near the horses the latter would break their ropes and
stampede. I thought of shouting and trying to frighten them off, but
decided to await developments. Presently I heard a snapping of hoofs and
a succession of dull, heavy, thumping noises, accompanied by reports of
breaking brush, which I knew at once were made by a band of elk jumping
over a high log.
The game was now not more than fifty yards away and in open ground, yet
I could not see even a movement, for I was looking down toward a dark
canyon, many hundreds of feet deep. Slowly the great beasts worked toward
me. They were coming down wind and I felt sure could not scent me, but
they could evidently see my horses, outlined against the sky, and had
doubtless heard them snorting and moving about.
The ponies grew more anxious but less frightened than at first, and
seemed now desirous of making the acquaintance of their wild visitors.
Slowly the elk moved forward until within thirty or forty feet of me,
when I could begin to discern by the starlight their dark, shaggy forms.
Then they stopped. I could hear them sniffing the air and could see them
moving cautiously from place to place, apparently suspicious of danger.
But they were coming down wind, could get no indication of my presence,
and were anxious to interview the horses.
They moved slowly forward, and when they stopped this time, two old
bulls and one cow, who were in the front rank, so to speak, stood within
ten feet of me. Their great horns towered up like the branches of dead
trees, and I could hear them breathe.
Again they circled from side to side and I thought surely they would get
far enough to one quarter or the other to wind me, but they did not.
Several other cows and two timid little calves crowded to the front to
look at their hornless cousins who now stood close behind me, and even
in the starlight, I could have shot any one of them between the eyes.
My saddle cayuse uttered a low gentle whinny, whereat the whole band
wheeled and dashed away; but after making a few leaps their momentary
scare seemed to subside, and they stopped, looked, snorted a few times
and then began to edge up again--this time even more shyly than before.
It was intensely interesting to study the caution and circumspection
with which these creatures planned and carried out their investigation
all the way through.
The only mistake they made, and one at which I was surprised,
considering their usual cunning and sagacity, was that some of them at
least did not circle the horses and get to the leeward. But they were in
such a wild country, so far back in the remote fastnesses of the
Rockies, that they had probably never encountered hunters or horses
before and had not acquired all the cunning of their more hunted and
haunted brothers. After their temporary scare they returned, step by
step, to their investigation, and the largest bull in the bunch
approached the very log behind which I sat. He was just in the act of
stepping over it when he caught a whiff of my breath and, with a
terrific snort, vaulted backward and sidewise certainly thirty feet. At
the same instant I rose up and shouted, and the whole band went tearing
down the mountain side making a racket like that of an avalanche.
As before stated, I could have had my choice out of the herd, but my
only pack-horse was loaded so that I could have carried but a small
piece of meat, and was unwilling to waste so grand a creature for the
little I could save from him.
The antlers of the bull elk grow to a great size. He sheds them in
February of each year. The new horn begins to grow in April. During the
summer it is soft and pulpy and is covered with a fine velvety growth of
hair; it matures and hardens in August; early in September he rubs this
velvet off and is then ready to try conclusions with any rival that
comes in his way. The rutting season over, he has no further use for
his antlers until the next autumn, and they drop off. Thus the process
is repeated, year after year, as regularly as the leaves grow and fall
from the trees. But it seems a strange provision of nature that should
load an animal with sixty to seventy-five pounds of horns, for half the
year, when weapons of one-quarter the size and weight would be equally
effective if all were armed alike.
I have in my collection the head of a bull elk, killed in the Shoshone
Mountains, in Northern Wyoming, the antlers of which measure as follows:
Length of main beam, 4 feet 8 inches; length of brow tine, 1 foot 6-1/2
inches; length of bes tine, 1 foot 8-1/2 inches; length of royal tine, 1
foot 7 inches; length of surroyal, 1 foot 8-1/2 inches: circumference
around burr, 1 foot 3-1/4 inches; circumference around beam above burr,
12 inches; circumference of brow tine at base, 7-1/2 inches; spread of
main beams at tips, 4 feet 9 inches. They are one of the largest and
finest pairs of antlers of which I have any knowledge. The animal when
killed would have weighed nearly a thousand pounds.
The elk is strictly gregarious, and in winter time, especially, the
animals gather into large bands, and a few years ago herds of from five
hundred to a thousand were not uncommon. Now, however, their numbers
have been so far reduced by the ravages of "skin hunters" and others
that one will rarely find more than twenty-five or thirty in a band.
In the fall of 1879, a party of three men were sight-seeing and hunting
in the Yellowstone National Park, and having prolonged their stay until
late in October, were overtaken by a terrible snowstorm, which
completely blockaded and obliterated all the trails, and filled the
gulches, canyons, and coulees to such a depth that their horses could not
travel over them at all. They had lain in camp three days waiting for
the storm to abate; but as it continued to grow in severity, and as the
snow became deeper and deeper, their situation grew daily and hourly
more alarming. Their stock of provisions was low, they had no shelter
sufficient to withstand the rigors of a winter at that high altitude,
and it was fast becoming a question whether they should ever be able to
escape beyond the snow-clad peaks and snow-filled canyons with which they
were hemmed in. Their only hope of escape was by abandoning their
horses, and constructing snow-shoes which might keep them above the
snow; but in this case they could not carry bedding and food enough to
last them throughout the several days that the journey would occupy to
the nearest ranch, and the chances of killing game _en route_ after the
severe weather had set in were extremely precarious. They had already
set about making snow-shoes from the skin of an elk which they had
saved. One pair had been completed, and the storm having abated, one of
the party set out to look over the surrounding country for the most
feasible route by which to get out, and also to try if possible to find
game of some kind. He had gone about a mile toward the northeast when he
came upon the fresh trail of a large band of elk that were moving toward
the east. He followed, and in a short time came up with them. They were
traveling in single file, led by a powerful old bull, who wallowed
through snow in which only his head and neck were visible, with all the
patience and perseverance of a faithful old ox. The others followed
him--the stronger ones in front and the weaker ones bringing up the
rear. There were thirty-seven in the band, and by the time they had all
walked in the same line they left it an open, well-beaten trail. The
hunter approached within a few yards of them. They were greatly alarmed
when they saw him, and made a few bounds in various directions; but
seeing their struggles were in vain, they meekly submitted to what
seemed their impending fate, and fell back in rear of their file-leader.
This would have been the golden opportunity of a skin hunter, who could
and would have shot them all down in their tracks from a single stand.
But such was not the mission of our friend. He saw in this noble,
struggling band a means of deliverance from what had threatened to be a
wintry grave for him and his companions. He did not fire a shot, and did
not in any way create unnecessary alarm amongst the elk, but hurried
back to camp and reported to his friends what he had seen.
In a moment the camp was a scene of activity and excitement. Tent,
bedding, provisions, everything that was absolutely necessary to their
journey, were hurriedly packed upon their pack animals; saddles were
placed, rifles were slung to the saddles, and leaving all surplus
baggage, such as trophies of their hunt, mineral specimens and curios of
various kinds, for future comers, they started for the elk trail. They
had a slow, tedious, and laborious task, breaking a way through the deep
snow to reach it, but by walking and leading their saddle animals
ahead, the pack animals were able to follow slowly. Finally they reached
the trail of the elk herd, and following this, after nine days of
tedious and painful traveling, the party arrived at a ranch on the
Stinking Water river, which was kept by a "squaw man" and his wife,
where they were enabled to lodge and recruit themselves and their stock,
and whence they finally reached their homes in safety. The band of elk
passed on down the river, and our tourists never saw them again; but
they have doubtless long ere this all fallen a prey to the ruthless war
that is constantly being waged against them by hunters white and red.
It is sad to think that such a noble creature as the American elk is
doomed to early and absolute extinction, but such is nevertheless the
fact. Year by year his mountain habitat is being surrounded and
encroached upon by the advancing line of settlements, as the fisherman
encircles the struggling mass of fishes in the clear pond with his long
and closely-meshed net. The lines are drawn closer and closer each year.
These lines are the ranches of cattle and sheep raisers, the cabins and
towns of miners, the stations and residences of employes of the
railroads. All these places are made the shelters and temporary abiding
places of Eastern and foreign sportsmen who go out to the mountains to
hunt. Worse than this, they are made the permanent abiding places, and
constitute the active and convenient markets of the nefarious and
unconscionable skin hunter and meat hunter. Here he can find a ready
market for the meats and skins he brings in, and an opportunity to
spend the proceeds of such outrageous traffic in ranch whisky and
revelry. The ranchmen themselves hunt and lay in their stock of meat for
the year when the game comes down into the valleys. The Indians, when
they have eaten up their Government rations, lie in wait for the elk in
the same manner. So that when the first great snows of the autumn or
winter fall in the high ranges, when the elk band together and seek
refuge in the valleys, as did the herd that our fortunate tourists
followed out, they find a mixed and hungry horde waiting for them at the
mouth of every canyon. Before they have reached the valley where the
snow-fall is light enough to allow them to live through the winter their
skins are drying in the neighboring "shacks."
[Illustration: WORK OF THE EXTERMINATORS.]
This unequal, one-sided warfare, this ruthless slaughter of inoffensive
creatures, can not last always. Indeed, it can last but little longer.
In ranges where only a few years ago herds of four or five hundred elk
could be found, the hunter of to-day considers himself in rare luck when
he finds a band of ten or twelve, and even small bands of any number are
so rare that a good hunter may often hunt a week in the best elk country
to be found anywhere without getting a single shot. All the Territories
have good, wholesome game-laws which forbid the killing of game animals
except during two or three months in the fall; but these laws are not
enforced. They are a dead letter on the statute-books, and the illegal
and illegitimate slaughter goes on unchecked.