Deadly Deadly Max Tyson Part 3

The past few days have been a whirlwind romance of travel and treats as I jetted across the USofA for various holiday reunions. I am currently engaged in my return trip to the fortress of solitude. Luckily for you America, I have an extended layover in the Portland airport and WiFi internet is readily available to steal so I've decided to catch you up with my recent going-ons. goings-on? going-ons. For continuity I begin where I left off, with the Elk hunt in New Mexico. For your enjoyment I will even give you two versions.

How it should have happened:

I awoke before sunrise, my cell phone alarm proving once again unnecessary as I returned to consciousness driven by a primal lusting for blood. Stripped naked I slid into the bathroom where I ritualistically smeared my face and chest with feces. I wanted the elk to know I was coming. I wanted them to fear me. Slipping out of the bunkhouse the cold night air eveloped me into its chilly blackness, embracing me as one of its own. With me I had a tempered steel bowie knife, its blade darkened in the blood of my enemies. At the edge of the forest I also obtained a skull sized rock with convenient grooves for my fingers to grip. I was still naked.

Good connecticut folk acquainted with the reclusive whitetail deer of our thickly forested home are often surprised to find that enormous elk herds still roam the ponderosa hills and open grasslands of middle America, ranging from Utah and Wyoming down through Colorado and New Mexico. The ones I encountered that day had grown fat and lazy in their bountiful wilderness. I was pleased. With the help of a pack of wolves I had earlier befriended I was able to drive a small herd inside a rocky box canyon. While the wolves harried and snapped, keeping the shaggy beasts bleating and indecisive I scaled the wall of the canyon, working my way around the rim until I reached striking distance. Like the dread crow god Morrigu sent to claim the souls of warriors fallen in battle I dropped from above, impacting with one of the 500 pound beasts. Stunning her with my rock, I swiftly claimed her with my knife. As I stood laughing, being showered by powerful arterial sprays from the fallen elk my wolves shepherded the rest out of the canyon. Then we feasted. At least that is how it should have happened.

How it actually happened:

I awoke before sunrise, my cell phone alarm proving once again unnessary as I returned to consciousness driven by a primal lusting for blood. After a delightful breakfast of sticky donuts and hot coffee I dressed warmly in layers (it was cold outside after all) and loaded my weapon. I was hunting with a winchester 7 mag shooting 7mm rounds, with the scope zeroed at 250 yards. By the time the sky had begun the slight graying of predawn I had departed with scotty and our guide in his 4 wheel drive pickup truck. My guides name was Steve Kunico, and if you ever find yourself scheduling a hunt through tri-M outfitters I highly recommend him. He had lived his entire life in the area, and knew the land like a gay man knows designer shoes. After a few hours of driving and walking we had seen a few groups of elk ranging in size from a half dozen cows to nearly 300 animals streaming across the horizon in a bawling rustling mass. We were in the process of tracking down a small herd I had located with my binoculars (I proved much better at this than the old men, remember that for later) when we drove around the base of a small hill and surprised a previously hidden group that had been grazing the long grass at the bottom. Elk are incredibly hard to sneak up on, they have excellent senses and a naturally skittish attitude. When surprised however, they are indecisive and easily confused. Therefore when this group was suddenly confronted by the strange looking pickup truck beast they stood staring in uffish thought, rather than fleeing over the ridge. Seizing my opportunity I jumped out of the truck and using my backpack to steady the rifle I drew a bead on a yummy looking female near the rear of the group. BAM. One shot, 300 yards or so and we had ourselves a dead elk. She was a big four year old and had already given birth a few times. Basically a choice cow. We gutted her and dragged her into the truck and then continued hunting for Scotty's animal.

Long story short, after an excellent hunt involving a great stalk using terrain and wind we got within 150 yards of a small group. Being so close I remained hidden behind a rock as he crawled out to line up his shot, so as to not alert the animals to our presence. I should have come with him. His haggard old man eyes couldnt tell the difference between a bull elk and a cow elk and he illegaly shot a young male. This resulted in his animal being confiscated bythe fish and game dept and him being assigned a court date. As far as I know he might be in a new mexico prison right now.
So. Our elk hunt culminated in everyone getting a beast eventually. In a group of 6 ex-military men including 2 generals and a colonel, I was the only one who needed to shoot only one bullet. I also shot the center out of a clay pigeon at 100 yards without shattering the pigeon. And I have some delicious elk meat to enjoy in my fortress of solitude. And I got to spend time with my father's old academy roomates. And I received 3 solid job offers which might eventually bring me back to the east coast. Deadly Deadly Max Tyson.