SITKA GEAR - Hunting and Archery Gear/blog/feeds/atom.xml Sitka Insight Copyright (c) 2012 SITKA GEAR - Hunting and Archery Gear 2012-05-17T08:39:36Z Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/05/03/Quest-for-the-Four-Part-III.aspx 2012-05-03T20:16:04Z 2012-05-03T16:38:39Z 2012-05-03T16:44:44Z Editor's Note: On April 6, Sitka Ambassador Adam Foss threaded an arrow through the lungs of a Carmen Island Desert Ram, making him the youngest archer ever to take all four species of North American Wild Sheep. He is 24. He was hunting with his brother, Cam, and his dad, Sitka Athlete Tom Foss. Each of Adam's "Quest for the 'Four'" posts highlights a sheep hunt that brought him closer to his goal. We've shared "Fortress of Stone" before here at Sitka Insight, but in light of Adam's recent accomplishment, we feel it certainly warrants another watch. If you haven't already, check out Parts I and II in this series. Here are some of Adam's thoughts on his B.C. Stone's Sheep hunt: Sometimes words fail to portray the ruggedness of a landscape or put you in the midst of a thick mountain fog. Hopefully, this short film my brother Cam and I created last summer helps you share in our excitement and adventure. A special thanks to Cam for teaming up with me on this hunt. His knowledge of sheep, mental toughness and physical ability in the mountains are matched by very few. Both of us are eternally inspired by our father a great bowhunter, sheep guide and friend. Thanks everyone for following along, and stay tuned for an account of our Mexico Desert Sheep Hunt . Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/04/30/SITKA-DIVERGE-Photo-Contest-Winner.aspx 2012-04-30T22:41:55Z 2012-04-30T20:52:37Z 2012-04-30T21:50:41Z And the winner is... Wow, we have some ridiculously talented photographers in the Sitka Tribe. Judging this contest felt like peering over a rise on an elk hunt, expecting to see maybe a satellite bull or two, and instead finding dozens of absolute giants. So many of the images were fantastic. So many were creative, artful, well-composed and //DIVERGENT//. But which to pull the trigger on? Which photo to splash across the 2012 Sitka Gear Catalog for every bad ass hunter to see? The decision wasn't easy. But we kept coming back to the same photo, entitled "One More Hour." You feel miserable just looking at him. The rain is dripping off his cap and collar, and you know he's just pushing past the discomfort and boredom, even when most hunters would have called it a day. "It's wet, it's cold, not much is going on, but I know at any moment the one opportunity we all wait for could present itself, and I don't want to be home on my couch when it happens," says winning photographer Ben Vazquez of Arcadia, Wisconsin. "Being an avid bow hunter from the Midwest, weather can really test your patience, and there is nothing more important than having the proper gear to help you stick it out that 'One More Hour.'" If you didn't win this time, don't be discouraged. We'll be hosting more contests and giveaways very soon. And we'll definitely be doing this again next year, so take your camera whenever you head out into the hills. Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/04/30/DIVERGE-Giveaway-Winners.aspx 2012-04-30T21:38:48Z 2012-04-30T19:29:14Z 2012-04-30T19:28:50Z We'll choose one winner every half hour until all five 90% Jackets are gone. Winners are chosen at random from among all entrants who //DIVERGED//. (SEE OFFICIAL RULES) And the winners are... 1.) Jon H., Yakima, WA, 98903 2.) Tom E., Michigan City, IN, 46360 3.) Joel S., Shoshoni, WY, 82649 4.) Mike B., Newark, OH, 43055 5.) Brandon H., Coldwater, MI, 49036 If you find yourself on this list, please check your email for further instructions. Congrats to the lucky winners and thanks to all those who entered! Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/04/26/Quest-for-the-Four-Part-II.aspx 2012-04-26T19:19:36Z 2012-04-26T18:26:20Z 2012-04-02T19:47:02Z See Quest for the "Four:" Part I August, 2010 I sprinted across the river bottom, feet crashing on smooth stones, a pair of binos in one hand, the spotting scope in the other and a tripod tucked under my arm. Clearing the bank, I rammed the tripod legs into the loose gravel and adjusted the focus ring. At just 20x, the spotter confirmed the glimpse Id caught seconds earlier. Dark curling horns, beautiful white coat, a streak of red behind the shoulder, and my brother Cam with a vacant notch in his quiver. He had just arrowed the ram of a lifetime! Our adventure had started three days prior, when Tavis Molnar of Arctic Red River Outfitters dropped guide Jeremy Bergen, Cam and I in his Super-Cub. Wed spotted plenty of up-and-comer rams, but had yet to find the monster of Cams dreams. On day three, we hiked up-river enjoying the sunshine and crisp air, wondering how long it had been since a human had walked these century-old caribou trails, when three suspiciously sheep-like white dots shook me from my thoughts. I whistled to Jeremy and Cam and they hit the ground. Were going to kill that ram, Jeremy stated as he stared through the spotting scope at the gorgeous, tipped-out ram. Cam and I exchanged looks of pure excitement. The sheep were bedded in scattered spruce trees, leaving them temporarily vulnerable. I stayed in the creek bottom and watched the stalk unfold. After four hours and the passage of a flash rain/snow storm, theyd closed the distance, and Cam executed the perfect shot. I hiked up through the willows and found my older brother standing speechless over his ram, grinning from ear to ear. Cam hunts harder than anyone I know, and after all the effort hed put in on sheep hunts past, his Dall was a moment of sweet success. In the darkness of the pack-out, the utter mass of the surrounding mountains seemed multiplied. Nearing camp, the three of us stopped to rest in the creek bottom. There was a mix of silence and the sound of water trickling over polished stone, and we gazed up at the shimmering stars, letting the day's events pour over us like the stream at our feet. Though the three of us could not have been more thrilled, we were all determined to keep pushing and find a ram for me my brother especially. Cams the kind of guy who kills a monster ram one day, wakes up the next, and only wants to keep hunting. His passion, determination and utter unselfishness are just a few of the reasons I feel lucky to call him my brother. Over the next four days, we scoured many mountainsides, turning up ewes, lambs and younger rams. The dramatic landscape seemed to be transitioning into the northern autumn all too quickly. The golden leaves multiplied daily, hanging ever more precariously to warn that time was running low. With less than three days left to hunt, we made the bold decision to spike out deep into an area that was rarely hunted. The rocky stack of impossibly steep mountains held few rams, but they were always old warriors. A day later, and without the weight of camp, we began maneuvering up a winding creek bed, knowing every turn could reveal what wed come for. As sudden as autumn, three rams appeared on the steep slope above us. One look at his broomed tips and stacked age rings told us all we needed to know. The trio was feeding in a wide-open bowl, enjoying the warmth of the mid-morning sun. We had no choice but to spend the second-to-last day of our hunt hoping they'd move into a stalkable area. They never did. That night, we sat around a small fire and reminisced about our adventure so far, told stories and laughed hard. We hoped luck would be on our side come morning. In the middle of the night, urged on by too much Crystal Light before bed, I found myself scrambling to unzip the tent. As I peeled back the tent fly, I was met with the most amazing sight Ive yet encountered in my short existence. Flashes of electric blue streaked the night sky like frozen lightning bolts, rolling slow in silent thunder across the sky. I shook Cam awake, eager to share my first Northern Lights sighting with my best friend and brother. A few miles from the Arctic Circle, we watched the beauty unfold until the night's chill chased us shivering into our sleeping bags. We took the stunning display as good omen. As the fog cleared on the last morning of the hunt, we relocated the three rams feeding toward a lone cliff row. Though not ideal, it was the best opportunity we could hope for. Cam, Jeremy and I took turns crawling through the buck brush, one moving while the others kept watch. After swinging off the backside of a ridge, we found ourselves approaching the cliffs from above. Arrow nocked and eyes manically scanning for silent places to step, we settled, one after the other, into a field of black scree. Too soon, the old ram stepped out on small bench, his white hide contrasting sharply against the black rock. Spotted, we froze and watched helplessly as the three rams bounded away, then climbed high into a group of rocky spires. The three of us replayed what had just happened. It was agonizing to come that close, and the long, late afternoon shadows made it clear we were out of options. There was nothing left to do but enjoy the view of the rams. But then, much to our surprise, the three sheep started pawing out beds plopped down. Did that ram have a death wish? With nothing left to lose, I told Cam and Jeremy, Im either going to spook those sheep out of the country for good, or kill one of em, and set off in an adrenaline-fueled race against daylight. Two hours later, I found myself above the rams with a lot of rugged country between us. My only hope was a steep, narrow gully hidden from the rams' view. I slid haphazardly down the snow pack with my bow on my knees, then crested the gully edge and began sidehilling toward the bedded sheep, weaving through the pillared cliffs between us. They were out of view, yet on the same level as me, so I scaled a pillar and peered over the top. Too far. I downclimbed, sidehilled and ascended another pillar, imagining the next column of stone would put me in position. As I scrambled to it's top, I caught movement below. The ram sensed something was amiss and was picking his way across the scree towards the rim of the bowl. The sun had sunk below a ridge to the west, and the early autumn air nipped harder. In the half light of the last day I thought now or never and clambered up the last cliff between us, slipped on an arrow, hammered the rangefinder button and came to full draw. The old ram paused, just briefly to get a last look at his pursuer, and the arrow was on its way. OH! You got em! exclaimed Jeremy from across the draw. Id forgotten that Cam and Jeremy had both been just a few hundred yards across the canyon the whole time. The shock of a shot opportunity materializing opened the mouth of even this experienced sheep guide. Minutes later, and still in complete shock myself, I had Dad on the satellite phone. I uttered only two words. Half Slam. Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/04/18/DIVERGE.aspx 2012-04-18T18:15:06Z 2012-04-18T16:50:19Z 2012-04-17T00:32:54Z What does it mean to //DIVERGE//?             diverge [dih-vurj]                  verb                  1. to move, lie, or extend in different directions from a common point; branch off.                  2. to differ in opinion, character, form, etc.; deviate.                  3. Mathematics: (of a sequence, series, etc.) to have no unique limit; to have infinity as a limit.                  4. to turn aside or deviate, as from a path, practice, or plan. The earth lies somewhere under all that autumn snow, and you have two choices: 1.) follow some other guy's bootpack, or 2.) start breaking your own trail. Sure, it would be easier to tread in the other guy's boot pack. You'd have solid footing, and the snow wouldn't mound up in front of you so bad. As you walked along, you would see where the other guy stumbled or slid or sank in deep, and where he had to backtrack from some insurmountable obstacle. And if you ended up in a place you didn't want to be, you could always blame the other guy. In every sense, following the beaten path is safe. And yet to //DIVERGE// means freedom. It means solitude. It means challenge and self-reliance and, at times, danger. It isn't the path of least resistance. It's the path of risk and determination. Sitka Gear was born from this path, from choosing to //DIVERGE//. Today, we build gear to keep you alive, comfortable, and mobile in the most demanding conditions imaginable. That way, you can focus on the pursuit. The SITKA //DIVERGE// PHOTO CONTEST is for hunters who go their own way. Not all of them pursue game in uncommon places, but they all see the world in uncommon ways. That's what makes their photos so captivating, so inspiring. They don't simply tell their buddy to hold an animal out at arm's length, say "cheese," and then snap the same old photo we've seen time and time again. No. They capture the the fullness of the hunting experience. One look at their photos and you can smell the rain on the wind, feel the rising sun warm your cheeks, or hear a leaf fall in a dead silent wood. Their images draw us in and refuse to let go. They fuel our passion and our ambition, inspiring us to get out, go farther, and do more of what we love. That's what the SITKA //DIVERGE// PHOTO CONTEST is all about. The question is, do you have what it takes to //DIVERGE//? If you win, you'll get your photo in the 2012 Sitka Gear Catalog, earning yourself a full Sitka System, from base layer to backpack. CLICK HERE to enter. Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/04/03/Utah-Lion.aspx 2012-04-03T21:24:54Z 2012-04-03T21:08:35Z 2012-04-03T21:11:23Z Filmed and edited by Dustin Lutt, Dusty Images. Go here for more of this story.  Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/03/30/Quest-for-the-Four-Part-I.aspx 2012-04-02T16:05:04Z 2012-03-30T20:52:24Z 2012-03-30T21:09:06Z Editor's Note: In the next two weeks, Sitka Ambassador Adam Foss could become the youngest person to take all four species of North American Wild Sheep with a bow. Of course, it's hunting, so there's no guarantees. On Monday, April 2, Adam leaves for Carmen Island, Mexico, with his brother Cam and his Dad, Sitka Athlete Tom Foss. All of them have tags for Desert Sheep, and Sitka Athlete Mark Seacat will go along to document the experience. Part I is the account of his first sheep harvest, an Alberta Bighorn, accomplished at the age of 18. Still to come: accounts of his successful hunts for Dall's and Stone's Sheep. Stay tuned to the Sitka Facebook Page   for updates on the Foss' Desert Sheep hunt. September, 2006 Every muscle in my crouched body contracted as I tried to resemble the stoic evergreen saplings around me. At 32 yards, the closest ram halted his insatiable feeding and glared at my outline he sensed an imposter. My clammy left hand clenched the grip of the bow, while the right instinctively clipped release to string. Our eyes met for an intense moment. And then he'd seen enough. The ram bounded out of range, and 13 others followed suit. The sun was dipping below a ridge as I watched the band climb a rockslide with ease. The hair on the back of my neck stood straight. My mouth was dry. Heart pounding. At the age of 18, it was safe to say Id become addicted to sheep hunting for life. I hiked the short mile back to camp in the quiet of dusk. In mid-September, winter was just around the corner in the Alberta Rockies. I sat alone in my tent and reflected on the day's events, grinning. I couldnt wait to share the experience with my Dad and brother: finally getting to within bow range of a ram. I felt a sliver of confidence grow inside me. But the morning brought a sheep hunters worst adversary, thick fog. I tried to find a window in the rain and sleet, though my efforts proved futile. Drenched and ill-prepared for the conditions, I put on every piece of clothing I had and trudged the five hours back to the trailhead. When the weather broke, I was determined to make another attempt though this time I needed to tilt the odds. I invited my Dad, a bighorn bowhunter of 25 years, to come along. Under his guidance, I knew we had a chance, or, more than likely, have a pile of fun trying! The weather report was accurate, predicting two days of heavy snowfall that made traveling deep into the mountains a difficult task. But the unwavering memory of my last encounter, coupled with Dads presence, pushed us through the knee-deep snow. Every step put us that much closer to the excitement that lay before us.   The thick evergreen trees gave way to Volgswagen-sized boulders, and again to loose shale. As we passed every distinctive curve in the path, I thought of my first backpack hunting experience. Dad had brought me to this very spot five years before. I remembered the feeling of a new, deep soreness in my legs, the sweet smell of alpine air, and the taste of my first dehydrated meal. We steadily gained altitude, and the snow grew increasingly deep. It was early evening by the time we made it to my creekside camping spot. You sure this is it? asked Dad. Pretty sure, I said, a touch of doubt in my voice. I paced around the small clearing trying to hide my panic. And then, thankfully, I noticed a patch of light green poking through the snow. The weight of wet, September snow had been too much for the tent poles. Dad patiently crafted a duct-tape solution to keep my rookie mistake from compromising our hunt. Under fading light, we crept around the cliff band to our glassing knob. Dad punched through the crusty snow ahead, and I caught movement directly across the steep valley. I reached out and grabbed him by his belt. Rams! I hissed. Less than 120 yards away, the band of 14 Id left three days ago fed eagerly on a steep grassy slope that held less snow than their high-mountain hangouts. We quietly pulled out the spotting scope, did our best to melt into the rock around us, and assessed the situation. Hes legal, Dad whispered, manipulating the focus dial. A pause. So is that one And him. With shooting light fading quick and the unspooked sheep feeding away, we retreated cautiously into the shadows of the spruce forest. We laid quietly in our sleeping bags, and it felt like we were among the sheep. Morning came and the stalk was on. We crossed the creek to the other side of the valley, and climbed the slope, heading towards the sheep's last location. Methodically glassing the hillside and adjacent cliffs, we could feel their presence. Coming to a clearing, Dads instincts told us to sit down and wait. The rams would soon be up feeding, and we had to spot them before they spotted us. We hunkered down in the wet snow and waited attentively. As if by magic, three sub-legal rams appeared, feeding our way. One by one, more rams filed across the hillside from right to left. There were eight, no nine, now visible. Dad punched the rangefinder on the main sheep trail stamped in the snow. 62 yards. With the steep upward angle, a 50-yard shot. We huddled behind a large tree, and I tried to steady my nerves. As if knowing my intentions, a ram we recognized from the night before made a beeline along the trail. He stopped on a rock outcropping, sky-lined as though he were a cutout tacked on a bright blue canvas. I drew my bow and coaxed the 50-yard pin to settle behind the rams shoulder. My Dad watched through his binoculars as the arrow disappeared into a coat of brown. The ram hobbled off and bedded, not 30 yards away. Seconds later, he put his head down for the last time. We embraced, feeling lucky to share another amazing moment together in the outdoors. I think having my Dad there meant as much to him as it did to me. Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/03/19/November-Sneak.aspx 2012-03-19T19:31:25Z 2012-03-19T19:23:50Z 2012-03-19T19:26:54Z This video was made for the Nebraska Bowhunters Association. Sitka Ambassador Dustin Lutt grew up with the NBA, and is very proud of what they stand for when it comes to hunting and respect for the outdoors. Lance Kush does voice over and performs his song, November Sneak. Dustin used some of his own footage from his 2011 archery season. Song: November Sneak by Lance Kush Directed and Edited by: Dustin Lutt Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/02/17/Kootenay-Bighorn-Curl.aspx 2012-02-22T21:26:06Z 2012-02-17T18:08:08Z 2012-02-17T18:13:40Z In early 2010, I booked a Rocky Mountain Bighorn hunt in B.C. with Sitka Athlete Dustin Roe. I spent the next year and a half dreaming of the hunt, and when the fall of 2011 rolled around, it was time to board the plane for Cranbrook. The weather had been warm and dry in my home of Lovelock, Nevada. I am a registered guide with Mountain Man Outfitters, the business my brother owns in Winnemucca, Nevada. I enjoy guiding, but my true passion is hunting in Alaska and Canada, and my favorite game is Wild Sheep. When my wife Jamie and I stepped off of the plane in Cranbrook, the chill of the northern fall air immediately commanded our attention. Coming from the desert, it was a shock to our senses, as it always is on our trips up north. At Dustins house, we went through the packs to weed out any unnecessary items, keeping only the essentials for relative comfort and survival. We would be trekking through the Kootenay Mountains, so we wanted to be light and fast for when sheep appeared. From the truck, we fought through tangled timber and underbrush, twining our way up toward the towering peaks of sheep country. Dustin, Shawn, Jamie and I pushed our endurance to the limit. A light drizzle pattered down on us for a couple of hours, so we donned the Stormfronts. They were good to have, though we ended up not needing them for rest of the hunt. We reached our first night's camp before the sun set, and as soon as the Hillebergs were secured, we started glassing the surrounding ridges and basins. The first day ended without incident, or sheep.  In the morning, we forged our way into the most rugged and intimidating landscape that I have ever seen. Impossibly steep cliffs sheared off into chasms deeper than the imagination. We moved upward, slowly, and when camp was set once again, the scopes and binos came out to scan every basin and pocket within several miles. The sheep began to materialize out of nowhere, at first just ewes and lambs, then a few immature rams. Excitement built around the evening campfire, and we could tell it was only a matter of time before one of us hit the jackpot and spotted the band of rams that would set this hunt into motion. After a few days of dogged glassing, it happened. Five mature rams. Two of them great, and one unbelievable old warrior. They were miles away, but we could tell this was the band we'd been hoping to find. We mapped out a course, packed up camp and moved out. A day later, we came to where they seemed to have been and tried to relocate them. Easier said than done, as the view was pierced by sheer cliffs, rock spires, and slopes filled with timber so thick it could hide a battleship. But with patience, experience, and some exceptional glassing skills on the part of Dustin and Shawn, one of the larger rams appeared. He was only 400 yards away, at least fifty yards deep into the timber, lying motionless in the shadows where his left horn resembled a massive, twisting pine branch. As the minutes passed, other rams began to move and stretch, feeding out of the timber and triggering our adrenaline. Each ram that appeared was more massive than the one before it, until finally, he came into our view. And he was awesome. The old ram had everything I dreamed of: mass, length, and the unmistakable look of BIG. He mixed in with the other sheep as they fed closer to our position, never giving me an opportunity for a shot. We were three hundred yards up the slope on an outcropping overlooking their feeding area. They fed so far under us that they went out of sight, and moments later, they fed back out into view. Dustin did the math for the shot. 304 yards, 52 degree downward angle. For my 7mm he told me to hold at 190 yards. I settled the crosshairs of the Swarovski scope behind his shoulder and gently squeezed. The shot thundered out across the valley, and then took eons to thunder back. The ram was hit, the shot was lethal, but he stood strong. I followed up with a second shot, and he went down. This all happened so quickly that I can't recall much of what was said or done. All I remember was after the second shot, a calm rolled over me as I realized we'd pulled it off. But the sky was growing dark, and treacherous cliffs kept us from getting down to the ram that night. We returned in the morning, and it took 7 hours just to get down to him. I knew he was big, but I was surprised by his enormity when I finally got my hands on him. We quickly went about taking pictures and caping and boning him out. And then we made the decision to hike all the way out to the trailhead in a single push. It turned into a 16-hour day through the worst deadfallen, cliffed-out country that I have been through, the last four hours of which were spent in the exhausted illumination of headlamps and burning muscles. We were out of water and pretty well beat when we reached the trailhead, right about midnight. But with an earlier call from the sat phone, Dustins wife was right on time with Powerade, pizza and beer. We sat by the fire for a while, measuring the ram and retelling the story of the hunt. The measurements were not important, just icing on the cake that he was well into the record book. As I sat and listened to my wife and friends talk about the adventure, I remember feeling overwhelmingly proud of each of them. I was so appreciative to have these wonderful people give it their all so that I could have the chance of fulfilling a dream. Photos courtesy Jamie Jurad and Dustin Roe. Adam Foss http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/01/31/Lion-Hunting-in-the-Territory-of-Personal-Satisfaction.aspx 2012-02-02T16:53:16Z 2012-01-31T21:11:31Z 2012-01-31T21:29:13Z I almost always set goals to challenge myself in the field.  I like the challenge of pursuing a mature animal with the simplest of traditional equipment, the goal of shooting an animal that measures well into the record books. Its never about competing with others. I just want to push my limits, to expand the boundaries of my experience, gobbling up ever larger tracts of the territory known as personal satisfaction. My Father, too, has always set goals. Years ago, he declared hed shoot his 50th Pope & Young animal before his 49th birthday, which came this year on Jan. 23.  The way his season was panning out, he was well on his way to doing just that. And in early November, he called and said hed drawn his Cougar tag for the Central Mountains of Utah.  So all he had to do was harvest one more whitetail before years end, and then fill the cougar tag before his birthday.  If you keep up with Sitka Insight, you know my Dad got lucky and shot his whitetail on the last day of Nebraskas archery season. He was drawing close to achieving a goal he had set years ago.  After discussing the lion hunt with him, we decided that not only would I be going along to document the hunt for him, but we would also be taking his father, my grandfather, to experience the hunt as well. Our schedules aligned, and we began a one-week hunt on Jan. 13. Utah had very little snowfall, so we hunted dry ground on the first day.  Our guide, Reed Dalton, has very good dogs, and we were confident that we could track a cat if we needed to. The trick would be finding a track that was not only big enough, but fresh enough. I dont know how many times Ive said it, but Dad is probably the luckiest guy I know, and on the morning of day two we were blessed with six fresh inches of snow. Conditions could not have been any more ideal. We started covering ground early that morning to find as many sets of fresh tracks as possible. We ended up with three or four different sets. None of them appeared to be distinctly bigger than the others, so at around 10 a.m. we decided to let the dogs out on their first run of the trip. Grandpa stood back with a grin as he watched everyone prepare for the first chase. He decided he would take it easy and enjoy the view from the truck while we did all the hiking. The dogs were set loose, and we listened as the moans and howls faded away into the deep canyon. When we reached the first cat, we took a good close look at him to see if he was going to be old enough to make the books. But this tom was too young. We still had fresh snow, so we pulled the dogs and backtracked to let loose on one of the other cats. The next lion we treed was similar in size to the first, but she was an older female. Reed guessed her to be about 4 years old. It didnt take long to see she wasnt what we were after, either. We got back to the truck around 5 p.m., which left us too little time to tree another cat. We couldnt complain, though. We were feet away from two beautiful lions and got two good runs in for the dogs. Grandpa was full of grins as I showed him the pictures and answered his many questions. We slept well that night and woke up eager. But the weather wasnt looking good for us. The forecast called for warming and rain by late evening. If theres a bad condition for a hounds nose, its mud. We covered as much ground as we could, seeking a large tom track. We found a couple fresh tracks before noon, but nothing of size. The temps were rising and the beating sun was starting to take our snow away. We figured the best thing to do at that point was to release the dogs on one of the larger tracks and see if we couldnt happen on a big enough tom during the run. The dogs were collared and let loose. The sounds of howls filled the canyon again as they disappeared down the trail. We hiked to the edge of a ridge and listened as the dogs worked way down into the bottom, and then across the valley to the next mountain. After about an hour, the dogs had found a lion. It was going to be a long hike, but fortunately for Grandpa there was a road that looped around through the bottom. After finding where the lion was, we realized there was a good possibility for Grandpa to actually see this one. We made our way to the bottom and followed the road toward the dogs. Sure enough, the lion was treed only a couple hundred yards from the road. Dad and I took off toward the tree and told Grandpa to take his time, that we would wait for him. Dad and I got to where we could see the lion. It was in a very thick and tall pine. We could see its body, but never could get a good look at its head. We started to debate about what we should do. We knew the lion wasnt big enough to make Pope & Young. It was getting to be too late in the day to make another run before dark, and weather was moving in. Then, from down the hill, we heard Grandpa holler, Im almost there! Dad and I smiled at each other. At that moment we knew we had to take this lion. Having the opportunity to have Grandpa there to experience the entire hunt was worth way more than any score. Grandpa eventually made his way to us, and we got him in a good position to see the cat. He looked on as Dad made a great shot, and the hunt came to an end. I continued to record it all as Grandpa gave Dad a high five, full of smiles. The emotions I got to share with my Dad and Grandpa were something I will never forget. When we got down to the lion, Grandpa was able to lift the cat up for a couple pictures that Im sure have already filled the coffee shops of Wayne, Nebraska, with stories. This hunt didnt end with a giant trophy, but its a hunt that ranks at the top of my list, and always will. As for Dad, his 50th Pope & Young animal will have to come now at the age of 49. I guess you could say he didnt reach his goal, but youd be missing the point. He claimed for himself a valuable tract in the territory of personal satisfaction. Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/01/25/Looking-Back.aspx 2012-01-25T21:19:15Z 2012-01-25T18:01:05Z 2012-01-06T18:28:44Z Working as a freelance videographer during the 2011 season, I traveled a lot, trying to keep up with the bills. I was blessed with some great trips and captured on film some beautiful hunts for others. I was also lucky enough to find a little time to hunt around home for myself.  Ive been hunting the same piece of property in Nebraska for 14 years now. I used to follow my dads footsteps in oversized hand-me-down camo, just trying to learn his techniques and discover why he loves to hunt. I still hunt that property with my dad, and today, I know exactly why he loves to hunt. Well wish each other Good luck and head our own directions, meeting up at the end of the day to share everything we encountered, the ups and the downs. It doesnt matter what it is, we share it all because we love it all and want to learn from each other. I got lucky in late October when I had a day or two to spare between trips. The buck, a nice 4x4, came in to one of our food plots displaying his dominance to the feeding does around him. I filmed myself and made a well-placed 40 yard shot on his vitals. Dad was right there with me at the end of the day to hear my story and help drag out my buck. I also committed nine days in the middle of November to my tag in Iowa. Four years ago I drew the same tag, and after multiple short trips, I came up empty handed. This year was a different story. I dedicated the best time of the year to this tag, and it paid off on the fifth day of my trip. At 1:30 in the afternoon, this buck caught my eye cruising through the timber. I gave him a few challenging grunts and he turned on a dime. The rut-crazed whitetail marched right under my stand and left me with a 5 yard shot. I couldnt have been more pleased. With the remainder of the year, I tried to harvest my first mature buck with a recurve. I made it out quite a few times and saw some great bucks that I could have easily shot using my compound, but I stuck with it to the end and never had that clean, close opportunity to let an arrow fly. I did, however, harvest a few does to do my part on management and fill the freezer. Dad also had certain goals for the late season with two particular bucks he was after. He was so dedicated to these bucks I promised myself I wouldnt shoot if they ever walked by me. On the last day of season, dad got his opportunity and released an arrow into one of them: a mature 6x6 that weve had a lot of history with. It was a great way to end our season and the year. Happy New Year to my fellow Sitka lovers! Adam Foss http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/01/04/An-Awesome-Season.aspx 2012-01-06T19:03:47Z 2012-01-04T21:31:18Z 2012-01-04T21:41:55Z   A slideshow recap of Sitka Athlete Chris Awe's 2011 Hunting Season. Song by The Marshall Tucker Band: "Fire on the Mountain"  Photography By: Chris Awe & Josh Gage.  Edited By: Steven Drake of Seacat Creative Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/01/04/A-White-August.aspx 2012-01-04T20:44:06Z 2012-01-04T19:49:31Z 2012-01-02T20:02:40Z White sheep, Dall sheep, Dalls sheep, or Dahl sheep. no matter how you spell it, if you know this animal and the incredible places they live, then you know the very name evokes thoughts of absolute adventure.  You see, Dall sheep cant be hunted in high fence enclosures. There are no food plots, no tree stands, no roads or trails. You could use 4 wheelers, horses, airplanes, or helicopters, but we didnt!  A wilderness Dall sheep hunt for us meant heavy backpacks, stiff boots and putting one foot in front of the other from daylight to dark. This was to be my 5 th Dall sheep hunt.  Three times Ive hunted them with a camera and once with a rifle, but this was to be my first time with a bow, and I longed for the challenge. I was hunting out of Alaska with outfitter and guide Lance Kronberger , an excellent outfitter. If you get a chance to hunt with Lance, jump at it! Just be sure youre as fit as you possibly can be, because Lance can hike! Hunting with me was photographer/videographer William Altman, a very capable individual to say the least.    Also along on the hunt was Montana native Allen Skinny Mckinney (think Thor meets Captain America meets Ninja warrior), he was basically indestructible!   We had a great crew and we were all ready for the challenge before us. Even though our excitement levels were off the charts, this sheep hunt started out not all that different from my others. We had a pretty long hike on Day 1 (maybe 10 miles), gained a few thousand feet of elevation and had 30 or so river crossings under our belt. All in all, we had beautiful weather and a great day.   Day 2 of the hunt wasnt all that different from the first (another 10 miles hiked, more elevation gained, and another 30 river crossings). Luckily, Day 2 finally ended at our base camp location with just enough daylight to scout for tomorrows opening day. Scouting went well this afternoon, as the rams were plentiful.   The country was enormous, indescribable really It makes you feel so alive to climb to the top, but once there, you truly realize just how insignificant you are.   A little to Lances chagrin, he found we werent just looking for a legal ram, but rather a very mature, heavy horned hammer of a ram. Luckily we found him in the very last drainage that we looked. This is also where the hunt took a serious turn for the worse and made us thank our lucky stars we had the right gear!  While glassing our ram, Lance looked to the North and said sharply We have to go!   The wall of wind and snow hit just minutes after Lances statementour dangerous, difficult hunt just got that much more challenging. The next 60 hours were spent in lockdown no book, no magazines nothing but William and I forced to talk to each other.  Over the next 2 days we only left the tent 4 times to eat and to occasionally clear the snow off as to avoid a collapsed tentbrutal! Finally we were able to emerge.   Our first day of actual hunting was greeted with deep snow, cold winds, slippery rocks and the task of finding white sheep in snow-covered mountains.   Every day started with a 1200ft climb to the mountaintop where wed glass for hours, locate our ram, and watch him all day to see if we could make a play.   While this may sound easy enough, people dont realize that its a gear nightmare!    Lightweight, fast drying garments for hyper aerobic climbs, insulation for life saving core warmth and, of course, wind and rain protection are necessities, all while minimizing as much weight as possible.    This is no joke, truly life and death. You must have the right system, which is why we only hunt with Sitka. Everyday wed locate the ram (that was the easy part). Getting him in position to stalk was starting to seem impossible.   A few times wed get to the 150-yard mark, but, this is archery and thats just not going to cut it Lance wanted to throw my bow from the highest peak! Finally, the band of rams made a mistake by bedding down at the base of a steep hill.  I knew this stalk was going to be nerve-wracking at best hiking in the deep snow, my cameraman and guide in tow, and with all certainty, a long shot at the end.  No biggie, Ill just nock an arrow, clip my release on and execute a textbook shot...  Or, I could quietly freak out while nocking an arrow, fumble with my release, all the while Lance and William whisper/yell that the ram is ONLY 72 yards away, down a steep slope and broadside!! Needless to say, the arrow found its mark and we had a sheep down!  Now, I could tell you about the 2 wolverines, and I could make mention of the grizzly bear, or the fact the weather deteriorated so badly that there were serious concerns about frostbite during our photo shoot, or that we hiked an honest 30miles in one day (so far that some of my toenails turned black and fell off), but Id rather you just wait for season one of The Short Season, Jeff Simpsons and my new project, so stay tuned and check us out at TheShortSeason.com! -Donnie Vincent Adam Foss http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2012/01/03/Starting-Strong.aspx 2012-01-03T21:29:52Z 2012-01-03T19:07:36Z 2012-01-03T19:28:58Z We could start out the year with a chest thumping list of accolades and points of achievements. We could talk about what a banner year it was from a business perspective as our family of dealers grows even bigger to offer our customers the best access to product we've ever seen. We could talk about how we still can't seem to make enough for the bottomless stomachs out there that want to be fed more gear. But we won't.  Instead, we look back and smile at all the epic stories and adventures that we've been able to see, hear, or participate in. We've tried to share with you some of the great ones, and are committed to doing an even better job this coming year. At the end of the day, it's these compilations of passion and pursuit that inspire and make our tribe thrive. Go further, stay longer, get closer. Here's to the crazy ones.  That being said, we're stoked to start off the new year with a project that's gonna change the game. Two of Sitka's athletes, Jeff Simpson and Donnie Vincent, are embarking on a new project that is sure to reset the bar for our industry.  The Short Season is poised to deliver epic stories that will excite and inspire. Not only do these two have outstanding skills in the field, but also behind the camera and in the editing room. From the sneak peaks that we've been lucky to see, we know you're gonna be psyched.  Check out the trailer and be sure to support their efforts in following them on FB and blog. Here's to making 2012 the best one yet. Thanks to all of you for making all of this happen! Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/12/14/Last-Chance-in-Kansas.aspx 2011-12-14T22:21:35Z 2011-12-14T18:04:15Z 2011-12-02T18:08:02Z November 29 th was the eve of the 2011 Kansas firearms deer season. Kansas' archery season would go another couple of days, but it was my last real chance to fill an archery tag before things were turned upside down. I sat motionless in my tree stand, day dreaming about the close call from my morning hunt with a great non-typical mule deer. I had been matching wits with the buck for several weeks and finally had him in a great position to sneak in for a shot. Apparently, it was not meant to be because as I slowly eased up to pinpoint his location, a hen pheasant erupted in between the bedded buck and me. The flushing pheasant was enough to spook the buck from his bed. In between my trips to dreamland, I was keeping tabs on several whitetail bucks that appeared to have a hot doe pinned down in a distant pasture. None of the bucks were deer I would shoot, but it was something to pass the time. I had drifted off again, replaying recent hunts with the mule deer, when I saw movement in the bottom of the creek bed a mature whitetail buck working my direction. He walked slowly, stopped to groom himself, covered a few more yards and stuck his head into a bush, raking his antlers on the spindly branches. I thought about shooting, but there were too many twigs covering his vitals. The buck came out of the bush and I thought he was going to stay in the bottom of the creek to work several scrapes.  Instead, he turned and came up the trail that leads right by my tree. When he disappeared behind a thick trunk in front of me, I hit full draw. He stepped silently out in my shooting lane, and I let out a grunt with my mouth. He stopped in perfect view. My arrow disappeared behind his shoulder, and he bounded off a short ways, still within sight when he tipped over. Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/12/09/Thanksgiving-on-the-Cliffs-Edge.aspx 2011-12-09T20:48:42Z 2011-12-09T20:31:51Z 2011-12-09T19:05:12Z The day before Thanksgiving, I trekked out solo after a goat. The air was cold, -1 degree, as I broke trail through waist deep snow, high on the mountain. I'd already taken four Mt. Goats with a bow, and this was one of the toughest late-season goat hunts I'd ever been on. And it was about to get a whole lot tougher. Somewhere above a cliff that drops hundreds of feet into the drainage below, I got on a great white billy. Daylight was fading and the snow was quiet. I stalked to within bow range and let loose the arrow. The goat kept his composure despite the hole in his chest, and he stepped carefully down the vertical face until finding a thin ledge where he laid down and expired. There was no getting to him without ropes and tools, and certainly no getting him out that night. I made a call to my good buddy Jason Bunch, a great guide and hunter who also serves as a Search and Rescue swimmer with the U.S. Coastguard. He realized the severity of the situation and shared my eagerness to retrieve the goat as soon as possible. Within seconds he assembled an A Team of his Coast Guard buddies, experienced Search and Rescue Swimmers and Mountaineers to head out the next morning. I felt horrible asking such a tall order on Thanksgiving, a time these men should be relaxing with their families, but these were not ordinary men.  When Jason asked Magrath and Emley if they wanted to help, there was excitement in the air and they both agreed without hesitation.  We woke at 4 am and put an assaulted on the mountain with importance in our strides. The mission: Safely get the billy out and get these guys home in time for turkey dinner so as to avoid certain divorce and family disownment.  As I hiked, I kept feeling guilty to be putting the guys through this what some might call hell, but they seemed to be having a great time on a crisp 10 degree morning exploring a new mountain. I could tell these guys had the same disease or desire as I do. We arrived at the goat in good time, assessed the situation and decided that rappelling down would be the best way to reach the billy. After a short time, the guys had snow anchors buried and a back-up rope attached to an alder bush. Magrath, the most experienced climber of the group, rappelled first, and when he was safely to the ledge I followed.  There was barely enough room for the two of us on the ledge. We took a couple pictures of the billy and measured his horns, because the only way we'd be getting him down was to push him off the ledge. After four full seconds of free fall, the goat, to our amazement, had no damage.  When Magrath and I made our way back to the top, we looked and the time. Our efforts had taken longer than we had hoped. It was approaching the time that the guys had promised to be home, so after my thanks to Emley and Magrath, they flew off the mountain.  Jason was able to get an extension and wanted to stay with me to help take photos and pack out my billy. I kept telling him to leave and that I didnt want him to get in any more trouble, but he would have no part of it. He's a great friend, and he was as excited about the whole thing as if it were his own trophy.  Jason and I finally made it home, only a little after his third extension...   That night as I sat down at my Aunt's table to an amazing reheated Thanksgiving dinner, exhausted from all the events of the day, I gave thanks to God for truly great friends, their tolerant wives, and for watching over us and bringing us home safely. Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/12/05/Seacats-Ohio-Whitetail.aspx 2011-12-05T18:13:16Z 2011-12-05T17:58:22Z 2011-12-05T18:09:43Z Sitka Athlete Mark Seacat heads to Ohio to harvest his first archery whitetail buck with friend and Sitka Ambassador Bobby Warner. Song by Heartless Bastards: Sway {No copyright infringement intended. All acknowledements to Heartless Bastards and Fat Possum Records, 2009} Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/12/02/Whitetails-from-Wichita.aspx 2011-12-08T21:51:00Z 2011-12-02T18:00:17Z 2011-11-28T19:11:38Z Before November 2008, my perception of Kansas was that of twisters, the Wizard of OZ, remote truck stops, and endless miles of hill-less corn mazes.  I had heard of giant prairie ghosts that only a few lucky hunters had the chance to pursue. And that year, I got lucky with an invite to make the trip south with Sitka Founder Jonathan Hart. For five days I watched pale white antlers weave through cedar-ridden hills, and my whole outlook on Kansas changed. I have been back twice since, and I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be in the November rut.  My past experiences in the "sunflower state" are full of fond memories of frosty sunrises, hearty meals, and tales of successes and failures around deer-lodge fireplaces. The only thing that was missing was, well... me. I missed five bucks in my first two trips. Being a traditional bowhunter in the west my entire life, I'm well aware of and OK with the fact that sometimes I'm going to miss. But 200+ pound whiteys approaching my stand was making the adrenaline flow thicker than anything else I have hunted, and I was, quite frankly, falling apart. Killing is not the most important part of any hunt for me. I handicap myself with a stick bow from the moment I step out the door. But this streak was really getting to be a pit in the bottom of my gut, and I badly wanted to harvest a whitetail buck.  If you take a map, draw a straight, 150-mile line up Interstate 81 north from Wichita, and then go 40 miles to the west, you'll be smack dab in a small farm town called Glen Elder, Kansas, the home of Rader Lodge . This is where the latest of my Kansas journeys took me, and where my whitetail cold streak ended. My goal for this hunt was to leave behind my antsy elk chasing habits and try to sit all day for at least a few of the five days. As we all know, and as my whitetail-junkie comrades constantly remind me, a lot of mature bucks killed during the rut are shot in the middle of the day. But for the first three days, I did not stay in the tree all day. The thought of a hot lunch, toasty lodge, and a chance to get some blood pumping through my frozen veins was too much temptation. On day three, after leaving my morning stand at 11 a.m., I decided to sit a new farm across the county road where my hunting partner Ben Summers from True Ball had seen a couple dandy bucks on his morning sit.   That afternoon at about 2, we walked out to our stands. My stand sat about 300 yards down from his, just inside the hardwoods from a small patch of CRP and not 100 yards from a corn field. I harnessed in, slipped my face mask on, nocked an arrow, and did my usual routine of checking shooting lanes. To my left was a perfect 15 yard slot framing a small flat between two deep ravines with a perfect deer trail feeding right into it. I drew, anchored, and imagined a buck in my sight picture.  I settled into to my seat, checked my lanes, scanned the area, no movement in sight. A dozen minutes later,  a buck came like a dream right into my sweet spot. I drew, anchored, followed him into the clear and released. All that showed were four white fletches, stuck low and right behind the shoulder, quartering in. Beyond them, a pierced heart. I watched him tip over at 50 yards.  Many thanks to my friends at Grandview Media Group  for putting this hunt together.  Mark Seacat http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/11/29/BC-Double-Header3.aspx 2011-11-29T21:44:02Z 2011-11-29T21:34:05Z 2011-11-29T21:40:21Z Day One of my hunt with Larry Todd of Ohio had Shawn, Cody and I hiking deep into a drainage I'd always wanted to hunt. We made it to a camp spot just before dark and, after enjoying a trusty Mountain House Meal, we crashed in our backpack tents.  The following morning, we had a quick oatmeal breakfast and hurried up the ridge to watch the sunrise. As the sun crested the mountain, I spotted some fresh tracks in the snow. I panned my Zeiss spotter and, in no time, found the eight rams that were leaving the tracks. There was a couple nice sheep in the band and we decided a closer look was in order. We descended towards camp and continued towards the band of rams. Less than three hours later we were at 88 yards, with Larry dead-rested on my pack.  BOOM! Instantly, the ram began to roll. The rest of the band stood there, oblivious to what just occurred. We had previously decided that if there were two shooter rams, Cody would take one also and complete a "double header". Cody had guided hard all year and as part of his wages and our appreciation of him, we wanted to reward him with his first sheep. Cody grabbed the Gunwerks from Larry and took aim.  As the next shooter cleared the other rams, 168 grains of trouble found it's mark. Two rams down, and both Larry and Cody were ecstatic. The pack out was made manageable by four strong backs and my pack dog, Sitka. Another two day sheep hunt, but don't get me wrong... we definitely earned these rams by "doing what it takes!"  Adam Foss http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/11/22/Double-Buck-Weekend.aspx 2011-11-24T03:27:37Z 2011-11-22T19:07:00Z 2011-11-22T19:28:27Z I have been hunting whitetails nearly all of my life, and realize how blessed I am. I hunt on some property in Illinois with my brother David, and we take a few does while we wait for the challenge of close encounters with mature bucks. I pass up and film many young bucks in the hopes that one day I, my brother or other family members will get a crack at them. On November 4 th and 5 th 2011, I took two mature bucks. The first one had thick antlers, and an 8-point typical frame with short tines. In 2010 he was at least 5 1/2 years old, but he proved too smart for us. I did find his sheds though, adding them to the collection of three sets of his sheds that we found. He was a "home body buck that we never saw outside of his small area. In August, I hung a set-camera in an apple tree that grows in rough terrain. The apples usually drop this time of year and offer a change in food source from the typical soybeans. These are not food plots, just normal agricultural fields in Illinois. The apples get eaten long before the season starts. On opening day, I did get a chance to see this old buck working an over-hanging limb, but he was out of range. He looked great out of velvet, and his neck was just starting to fill out. Antler growth draws a lot out of a buck, so they really only put on body mass during the weeks in September and October prior to the rut. After I saw him opening morning, he went under ground, and neither my brother nor I saw him until the day I killed him. Fast forward through an uneventful October to November 4th. With a southeast wind, I knew I would be able to sit on the edge of the transition area between open grassy banks and smaller honey suckle bush and autumn-olive choked spoils. The trunk of the small cedar tree I sat in was only three inches in diameter at ten feet high. It did sway in the wind a little, but the blue-green needles provide great background cover for me and my Stratus jacket. After sitting there for 20 minutes, I heard some sticks breaking behind me. I gave out a faint grunt, but got no response. It may have been a doe. Three minutes later, I heard some sticks breaking about 80 yards out in front of me, so I wheezed three times. I still heard the branches breaking and knew that it was not from a walking deer, but from a buck thrashing limbs. To get more range, I grunted on a grunt tube a couple times. I could hear the buck coming closer. He was breaking limbs to let me (a wheezing and grunting buck) know he was coming. He took the bait. Finally, I saw the limbs of a tree shake and knew where he was. As his form popped up over a spoil bank, as if coming right out of the ground, I now knew who he was. He was the old 'Tree Shaker' that grew up on our property. He looked huge! His neck was enormous and we knew from the 4-inch sticker tine on his right antler that he was responsible for all of the deep parallel grooves cut into many of the thigh-sized rubs in the area. I let out one softer wheeze that caused him to come directly toward me. I had the bow up and the lower limb tip resting in the pocket I sewed on the inside of my left pant leg. He was not turning and ended up closing to five yards or less. I drew and held as he moved beneath me. I found a large opening through the cedar boughs and released a 250gr Woodsman Elite tipped 2219 arrow. Tree Shaker dropped in his tracks as the broadhead severed his spinal cord. A second arrow dispatched him, and the little cedar tree began to shake from my nerves. Tree Shaker was still working his magic on me. The story of the second buck starts in 2009, when my brother David filmed a tall buck with long Y-forked brow tines on each side. The brow tines also had a twist to them, so we started to call him Twister. On opening day, I sat in the rain during the afternoon, but as soon as it stopped, I started to see deer movement, including Twister. He was heading out toward a soybean field at about 28 yards. It happened so fast I did not have time to age him, I only knew he looked big in the velvet footage my brother showed me. I drew and shot, but to my surprise the fletching did not hold to the aluminum shafts. I fletched my own arrows and have never had this happen before. There must have been an oxidation film on the shaft. As soon as I released, the arrow flew straight, but had a funny flopping spiral to it and missed low. Twister jumped a little, but he didn't spook. He just walked off. After getting down, I found the arrow with only one feather partially attached while the other three were lying on the ground up near the broadhead end. The fletching pealed off of the shaft and caused a lot of drag. I have since been using wraps or arrows from Jim Rebuck at J & M traditions. I saw him several more times in 2009. In 2010, he added some sticker tines, but didnt grow the double Y-forks, only his characteristic twisted brows. I had him at ten yards during 2010, but again elected to pass him up in hopes that he would add more antler growth. In the summer of 2011, I got an early set-camera photo of him under the same old scrub apple tree that Tree-Shaker visited. While giving up the Y-forks, he added five additional non-typical points to his basic 9-point frame. After taking Tree-Shaker on Friday night, I returned to the woods on Saturday, November 5 th with my second tag. I was sitting in a favorite walnut tree on another subtle transition area that usually showed deer movement. I saw two different does getting chased by several different bucks. Using wheeze calls with my mouth and a grunt call, I called in a couple bucks as well. I filmed some of the two- or three-year-olds, but always kept my bow in my other hand in case a mature buck presented himself. At 9:50 a.m., I saw the twelfth buck of the morning pop up over a spoil bank 70 yards away. It was Twister! We were worried that he would break off some of his longer tines in confrontations with heavier bucks, but this was not the case. I nocked an arrow and let out two soft grunts. I wasnt sure if he heard them or just followed a natural crossing pattern over the spoil banks, but he was coming my way. I remember he had a slight limp as he climbed up the final spoil. He stood there for a bit, then made a 90 degree turn and crossed about 16 yards from my tree. I tried to hold for a five count, but the arrow was gone at about three. The arrow passed completely through both lungs. He was 5 years old and sported 14 points. Oh what a great feeling again! I know I am very lucky to have two close encounters just two days. Even though my brothers and I have a couple of buck tags, I can't tell you how many years we have gone without taking a buck. So, when I get a chance to take one of these great animals, I cherish every moment. Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/11/18/Hunt-With-Heroes.aspx 2011-11-18T21:28:59Z 2011-11-18T18:48:16Z 2011-11-18T18:52:07Z W.L. Gore & Associates  teamed up with  Capitol Peak Outfitters , Sitka Gear,  Freedom Hunters , and  Cabela's  to give two deserving hunters an unforgettable elk hunt in Colorado, called "Hunt with Heroes."  Hundreds of entrants submitted essays about their passion for hunting, and their service to the country and community. Gore chose two true Heroes:  Army Warrant Officer Ron Warren and Search and Rescue Dog Handler Charlie Ek. This is the final installment of a three part series. You can learn more about these heroes and how their hunts unfolded right here on Sitka Insight, in  Part I  and  Part II . THANK YOU to Ron Warren, Charlie Ek, John Howe, all the guides of Capitol Peak Outfitters, Kyle, Shane, Ross, and Scott. "Sir Clicks-a-lot" Song by Beirut: Santa Fe {no copyright infringement intended, all acknowledgements to Beirut and Pompeii Records, 2011} Adam Foss http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/11/17/One-Day-to-Get-it-Done.aspx 2011-11-18T19:06:43Z 2011-11-17T18:16:02Z 2011-11-14T18:25:08Z Saturday, November 5, started clear and frosty. After fulfilling obligations all week, I finally had a day with nothing to do and all day to do it. I tossed my gear in the pickup and drove to the farm I hunt in Indiana. With a steady southeast breeze predicted, I climbed to a treestand on the north rim of a brushy hollow. The rut activity was fast and furious around me all morning. I only planned on hunting until noon, but I could still see five bucks and numerous does and decided to stay in all day. I had seen 15 different bucks. Two of them were tag punchers; a wide 8-point and a stacked 10-point. The author passed on this buck several times throughout the day.  Be prepared to watch your shadow do a 180 when you stay all day. You can always take some creative photos during the slack time. At 2 o'clock in the afternoon, the 10-point blew by me chasing a doe at 12 yards. I drew, but let down; just not a good opportunity. At 5:00PM, the wide 8-point pushed two does out of the hollow and hesitated on the rim at 20 yards. The shot flew true and capped the end of a great day.  Adam Foss http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/11/16/BC-Bulls-and-Billies-Part-II-.aspx 2011-11-16T19:55:00Z 2011-11-16T19:05:53Z 2011-11-14T23:20:41Z Normal.dotm 0 0 1 24 141 Seacat Creative 1 1 173 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} Spurred on by our successful moose hunt, Blair and I were determined to connect on a goat. We woke early and before long, we had nannies and kids in the spotting scope.  Normal.dotm 0 0 1 53 306 Seacat Creative 2 1 375 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} Blair felt optimistic that the area he pointed out to me would hold lots of goats. Minutes after we rounded a bend in the valley that opened up new country, we spotted a couple of billies. After looking them over and evaluating their respective positions, we decided that I should make a stalk on the closest one. He was bedded near a steep drainage directly above us. Normal.dotm 0 0 1 56 323 Seacat Creative 2 1 396 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} With the prevailing wind going down the valley, we figured the goat should remain on the upwind side. Blair remained with the horses to watch through the spotting scope, and it was game on for me. As if recognizing the predatory implications of my stalk, several wolves began howling in the valley. Blair later said he could see a black one about 900 yards above him on the ridge.   Normal.dotm 0 0 1 86 494 Seacat Creative 4 1 606 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} As I broke tree line, the steep, rocky terrain became more and more treacherous. It was extremely difficult not to disturb the rocks. The wind was fairly calm and I was sure that the slightest noise would alert the goat. As I closed the distance, I climbed cautiously out of the drainage. I peeked around a rock and there he was looking the opposite direction and bedded at 32 yards. I needed to get higher so I backed out and climbed up a short distance. This time, I could see his entire body still bedded and quartered away. I steadied myself on the 40-degree slope and got ready for the shot.  Normal.dotm 0 0 1 67 386 Seacat Creative 3 1 474 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} He stood up, still quartering away but glaring straight at me. Blair later told me as he watched through the spotting scope, he could feel the intensity of the moment. I hurriedly settled my 30-yard pin on the goats vitals and released an arrow. The shot was a little left of what I intended, striking him in his left shoulder. The billy fell dead in his tracks and immediately started to roll down the mountain. He was gaining speed when I lost sight of him.   Normal.dotm 0 0 1 93 531 Seacat Creative 4 1 652 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} Blair was whooping and hollering from the bottom and I was doing the same from the top. Excited and eager to get to my trophy, I packed up my bow and negotiated the rockslide as carefully as my emotions would allow. Though he ended up tumbling 340 yards, his horns only received minor scratches and slight brooming. The rest of his body was a different story. His left side was bloody, right side muddy and his face looked like he'd been in a fight with a claw hammer. Hopefully, my world-class taxidermist Allen Palermo could heal a few of the scars. The nine-year-old billy taped out at 9 1/2" and 9 5/8" in horn length and 5 1/2" bases.   Normal.dotm 0 0 1 52 297 Seacat Creative 2 1 364 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} On the hike out I reflected on the nearly 30 days Id spent in BC this year.   Id been witness to breathtaking country and countless critters. Id spent time with many amazing people, made new friends and many lasting memories. Yet again, I was one happy hunter while hauling out of goat country, soaking in the days events along with a beautiful BC sunset.   Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/11/14/The-Projected-Images-of-Elk.aspx 2011-11-18T20:49:44Z 2011-11-14T23:32:45Z 2011-11-14T23:46:45Z Editor's Note: W.L. Gore & Associates teamed up with Capitol Peak Outfitters , Sitka Gear, Freedom Hunters , and Cabela's to give two deserving hunters an unforgettable elk hunt in Colorado, called "Hunt with Heroes." Two lucky hunters were chosen from among hundreds of entrants who submitted essays about their service to their country and community, and their passion for hunting. Search and Rescue Dog Handler Charlie Ek of New Hampshire was one of the winners. This account is part two of three, as told by writer and photographer Alex Tenenbaum... (see part one here , part three here ) The shadows of tattered clouds rolled in steady progression down a bald grass hillside like movie credits projected on a drive-in movie screen, like beads of sweat rolling from a retreating hairline, down a pasty forehead covered in dew, wrinkled as if in perpetual surprise by the transit lines of game. Charlie Ek eyed it closely as the October day grew unseasonably warm, the cloud-shadow credits rolling too soon, the movie having just begun. The horses, tied up and silent somewhere back in the night-cool timber, just as they'd started that morning though without the lanternlight. Charlie resides in New Hampshire these days, almost begrudgingly after two lovely stints in Alaska, saying it's the farthest south he could think to put down roots. In that way he's like the arctic willow, the world's northernmost woody plant. You might find one high in the Rocky Mountains, but this gritty thing thrives in the skin-splitting cold of stony moorlands, the gelid tundras of Canada and Scandinavia and Alaska. These places call to his  Scandinavian blood. They dominate his dreams. He won't tell you that, though, unless you pry a little. Nor will he come out and tell you that, decades ago, he founded Minnesota's first Search and Rescue Dog unit. He's served as a search and rescue volunteer everywhere he's lived: Minnesota, Alaska, northern New England, Washington state. At last count, he was involved in more than 100 searches. The shadows of clouds continued to edge down the silverscreen hillside and Charlie leaned against a tree, his black rifle raised like the hand of a schoolchild who knows the answer, waiting impatiently to be called on. He and his guide Kyle existed in comfortable silence, neither of them much for gabbing. Their births were separated by many decades but both were thoughtful and bearded and seemed to get each other.  Amidst an audience of trees at the filmhouse hillside, they watched as the images of elk appeared at the edge, gliding smoothly across as though they too were projected. A handful of cows, two young bulls, one a shooter. "Being a search dog handler means you understand that things don't always go the way you hope," he said.  About a third of the searches he helped with turned up shivering and grateful people. A third were bodies. A third were never found.  Charlie doesn't much care for extra attention, would rather not be photographed. When media vans pulled up to search and rescue operations, he would hide in the woods. You have to pry into him. And it's worth it. He's an encyclopedia on Danish, Swedish and Norwegian culture, on the history of the Scandinavian people. He talks about dog breeds you've never heard of, recommends out-of-print books on history and obscure titles on the loveliness of winter camping. He embraces all things winter. "For much of human history,"  he said, "winter has been a threat, a chore. But all you need is a little creativity and the right gear, and it really becomes paradise." Charlie has worn GORE-TEX just about as long as he's handled dogs. He said so in his entrance essay for Gore's Hunt with Heroes contest, won, drew a tag for Colorado's second season, and arrived in Aspen a town that in its high season of ski bunnies and attention seekers would have rubbed him like a hair shirt. In October, though, the streets were mostly empty, the evidences of Hollywood fru-fru caged quietly behind storefront glass, within red italian sports cars. Elk camp and elk hunting suited him better, though his snowy paradise had yet to arrive. The elk were filing in cinemascope across the hillside. Charlie called upon his gun, it leapt to his cheek, he tried to hold the bull in his crosshairs but the bull kept its steady cinematic glide, and though Kyle cow called he could not freeze the projector. The clouds continued their roll and the bull continued on and Charlie didn't feel comfortable with the moving shot. He watched the shooter bull in his scope until he finished his cameo, exiting screen right. Three days Charlie and Kyle rode their horses out to the bald hillside, sat riveted like moviegoers, and rode back to camp. Charlie's hips ached badly in the saddle, arthritis brought on by the Lyme of an old tick bite, and on day three he was done. He spent the remaining days kicking around camp, baking pies and zucchini bread, wandering the close-by woods. The temperature plummeted and snow fell in half-dollar sized flakes and Charlie was grinning. Sixteen inches overnight. He immersed himself in it, walking about, tending the fire, his Scandinavian blood warm and satisfied, elk or no elk.  The arctic willow in his element. Adam Foss http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/11/14/BC-Bulls-and-Billies-Part-I.aspx 2011-11-14T18:43:22Z 2011-11-14T18:14:17Z 2011-11-02T22:40:28Z Normal.dotm 0 0 1 48 275 Seacat Creative 2 1 337 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} My second BC trip of the year began with a flight from Texas to Montana, and then a drive north to Toad River through Kootenay, Banff and Jasper Parks some of the most awesome country that God created. Though Id made the drive before and have hundreds of scenery pictures, I couldn't resist taking a few more. Normal.dotm 0 0 1 60 346 Seacat Creative 2 1 424 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} After spending a night at Folding Mountain Outfitters lodge, the outfitter Dale Drinkall transported me to base camp. I felt extremely fortunate to be matched up with Blair Miller as my guide, whose awesomeness was only surpassed by his lovely wife Rebecca. Blair and Becca were amazing people and competent guides with great attitudes. The morning after my arrival, they were packed, saddled and ready to head out.   Normal.dotm 0 0 1 60 345 Seacat Creative 2 1 423 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} After a two-hour horse ride up the Toad River, Blair and I started a four-hour hike to get into prospective goat country. Our packs were loaded with camp and four days of food. Though not particularly steep terrain, the vegetation was extremely thick with willow and timber blow-downs. The high country, where the goats were hanging out, was a different story rocky shale with the word steep as an understatement. Normal.dotm 0 0 1 79 451 Seacat Creative 3 1 553 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} Right away, Blair picked out several billies with his spotting scope.  Though wed been going all day and had less than three hours until dark, Blair figured we should make a go of it. We pitched the tent, unloaded unnecessary gear and started climbing. We were able to make it to within a couple hundred yards of the bedded billies, but there wasnt an approach for a bow shot. We were forced to back out and, after a long first day, we turned in early. We had high hopes for the following day knowing that several goats were bedded above us.   Normal.dotm 0 0 1 52 301 Seacat Creative 2 1 369 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} As light came the next morning, we confirmed the goats location and began another climb up the mountain. Again, the terrain offered extremely difficult stalking conditions, and we were only able to sneak within 200 yards of our quarry. The four billies had a lookout in every direction. We tried to close the distance, but ended up blowing them up the mountain.  Normal.dotm 0 0 1 52 298 Seacat Creative 2 1 365 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} As the weather deteriorated we found our sixth billy of the day, bedded on a sliver of rock.  With less than four hours of daylight remaining our plan was simple; drop our packs and go. If we could get below him without being seen and climb into the cliffs through a 42-50 degree chute (as later confirmed by our inclination range finder) we might have a shot. Normal.dotm 0 0 1 86 494 Seacat Creative 4 1 606 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} The stalk was perfect. I climbed through a notch in the cliffs and onto an ice-covered rock ledge no wider than 18 inches. I tried not to think about the several hundred-foot drop off on either side of me as I ranged the goat. 45 yards. I drew my bow and carefully walked the last few feet from behind the rock to expose the goat. The billy was still bedded and looking straight at me. Though Id made that shot a thousand times before, perhaps the severity of the situation got to me. I watched in horror as my arrow flew underneath him. We safely descended to our tent to complete another full day.                        The goat was bedded in the center of the photo, something Blair and I wont soon forget.  The next morning, we spotted two billies from our snow-covered tent. At about 270 yards, I could have shot them with a rifle without getting out of my sleeping bag. But with bow in hand, we took off up the mountain. Unfortunately, we only ended up having a brief encounter with one of the goats before, again, sending them up and over. Seeing ten billes in the area, it wouldnt have been a problem to take any of them with a rifle. However, we only managed a single archery opportunity, which I managed to blow. After spooking all the goats out of the immediate area and the weather looking bad, we decided to break camp, pack up and head back to base camp. Our focus would shift to moose hunting for the next few days.  Normal.dotm 0 0 1 63 363 Seacat Creative 3 1 445 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} The brush-busting hike was much easier coming out, though Becca didnt receive our sat phone message in time leaving us without horses for 12 of the 20 river crossings. Again, my hat is off to Becca. She saddled up three horses and loaded pack boxes on the fourth and came to meet us without any help. I tied a nylon cord around the bottom of my Stormfront pants and never got a drop of water in my boots while wading the knee-deep river. Normal.dotm 0 0 1 91 523 Seacat Creative 4 1 642 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} As we rounded a corner on the trail near the river, we spotted a small bull. We noticed a larger bull with a cow in the timber so we dropped our packs and I readied my bow.  As we attempted to push the small bull out of the way, he approached us coming as close as ten yards. Blair threw a rock at him and he tried to hook the rock with his antlers. Finally, he moved out of the way and we proceeded to evaluate the other bull.  Though the large bull was approachable, he wasnt legal due to the three brow tine rule. It was a spectacle to watch the 165 class bull court and even mount his cow. Normal.dotm 0 0 1 57 329 Seacat Creative 2 1 404 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} After one of Beccas big breakfasts the following morning, we set out to find a shooter moose. Though we found plenty of cows and bulls on the surrounding mountainsides, none met the three brow tine/ten point criteria that makes a bull legal to harvest in BC. Finally, late in the day, we located a bull off in the distance. Though he was at least two miles away, we could tell he was worth spiking out for. Normal.dotm 0 0 1 152 871 Seacat Creative 7 1 1069 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} The next day, we climbed above where we had last seen the bull the day before. We spotted the bull and cow he was with at about 150 yards. Blair let loose a cow call. The bull disappeared into the willows and I focused on a shooting lane that would leave a 40-yard shot. Then, without warning, the wind hit the back of my neck. The cow caught our scent and took off.  We started down through the willows with Blair making bull grunts as we went.  By the time we saw the bull again he was 200 yards out, moving across an opening.   Blair shoved his 300 Win Mag in my direction and I put my bow down. A lot went through my mind in a split second. Though Id always wanted to take a Canadian Moose with my bow, we had seen only two legal bulls thus far. To add more pressure, I wanted to get back to goat country and redeem myself. Blair cow-called and the bull stopped giving me a narrow shooting window between spruce trees. Standing in the waist high willows, I free-handed two shots and the bull went down. With the help of Becca and the horse team, the pack out only took one full day. I was thrilled with taking a 50 Canadian Moose and the coming opportunity for mountain goat redemption. Adam Foss http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/11/09/Change-Calling-Techniques-as-Season-Progresses-.aspx 2011-11-09T22:14:48Z 2011-11-09T17:45:38Z 2011-11-09T17:56:43Z Normal.dotm 0 0 1 2545 14507 Seacat Creative 120 29 17815 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} As a lifelong bowhunter, I was trained to be stealthy, stalk undetected, or wait motionless in ambush for unsuspecting whitetail deer. So, it goes against my grain to break the silence of the woodlands by calling blindly or to out-of-range deer in hopes of luring them for a close shot.             I primarily hunt whitetail deer from a tree stand because of the added advantage of seeing more animals and facilitating more time for field-judging and filming. When I have good confidence in the predictability of deer movement during a particular setup with appropriate wind direction, I will not call at all; however, if I see a mature animal or a group of deer passing out of range, or if Im trying to prevent them from colliding with my downwind odor, I will call to them using different techniques throughout the season.             During the opening week, I set tree stands based on summer scouting and hope to intercept a mature buck still on a predictable feeding pattern. In Illinois, this usually means extensive feeding on drying soy beans or alfalfa. Any calling I do during this time of year consists of soft doe or lost fawn bleats. Bucks are still curious and often search out the added security provided by a family group of does.             While bleating at a group of fawns on the second day of the season, I managed to entice the mothering instincts of the lead doe enough to move the entire group fifty yards closer to my tree. Allowing them to pass within fifteen yards resulted in my taking of a mature four-by-four with long back tines and a seven inch Y-fork on the right side who was trailing the herd a short time later. By the time mid-October arrives, the mast crops of acorns, black locust pods, or wild apples begin to attract deer. Its also a time when there is much posturing and sparring from young bucks who are trying to establish their pecking order. I will begin carrying a small set of rattling antlers in my pack, using them very sparingly to arouse curiosity of other combatants. I realize that not everyone is interested in taking only mature bucks, so a young buck will do just fine. Light tickling of the tines has brought in many bucks for me to enjoy and capture on film. Tapping the tines or softly grinding the lower beams together is often all that is required to get a buck to strut in on stiff legs, with ears laid back, and neck hair at attention. His preoccupation with posturing often causes my broken camouflaged form in the tree to go un-noticed. The end of October and first of November are a time for the initiation of the regional rut. Not only do I use the doe bleat, but now employ a host of other techniques including tending grunts, serial grunts, bawling grunts, rattling antlers, and the often over looked wheeze call to try to move deer. Many of the mature bucks have not yet hooked up with a receptive doe yet, so I will call at any large buck moving through the area as well as increase my frequency of blind calling at periodic intervals as needed. I typically do not call much during the first hour after light because I prefer going undetected during this time of increased deer movement. During the following three hours of my tree stand sit, I will call quietly using a grunt tube or going directly to a wheeze call. I may let out two wheezes thirty seconds apart every twenty minutes or so. This is a very close range calling technique that I will definitely use on a big buck out of range or about to cross my scent trail. This call is most appropriate for mature bucks that are not in the presence of a receptive doe. I do not wheeze at young bucks because it is a vocalized warning signal telling all other bucks to stay away from me and my doe. It will often cause young bucks to flee or at least be on red alert. Mature bucks have a different mindset and presumed dominance while trying to take over a receptive doe from a competitor. So the wheeze will not incite fear, but rather a brazen attitude of machismo. This aggressiveness was clearly demonstrated to me when I used a series of nine wheeze calls and six grunts over a twenty minute period to call in a huge seven and a half year old buck I was familiar with in my area. He responded to my warning calls with a wheeze of his own while rubbing trees, breaking limbs, and scraping the ground. He got very angry with my lack of respect of his reign. I finally enticed him to come straight in at me through thick honeysuckle brush, but alas, my shot went just under his heart. Even though I missed this great buck, I still cherished the experience with doing battle with such a magnificent animal. During windy days I tend to use rattling antlers to increase my effective calling range, but over the years I have learned not to rattle as much during the rut. My goal is to bring in mature bucks and I have found that rattling may be counter productive this time of year for this age group. Again, if a young buck is what you seek, then light or heavy rattling will usually work well. The young bucks are actively searching for available does throughout the day and they are acting on instincts associated with a presumed fight for dominance. Meanwhile, there is a good chance that older bucks may have had a negative experience from being fooled by a hunter or an actual confrontation where he lost. They are also more apt to circle my location in hopes of finding the scent of the doe which caused the conflict. It is also simply a numbers game where there are generally few mature bucks in the age structure of a herd, but they have a higher occurrence of already finding and locking with a doe in heat, which makes them significantly less responsive. I grunt at bucks during the rut but usually only after the wheeze fails to draw a desired response from a solitary buck. Grunts can be made loud, soft, or commandingly drawn out, but like all calling, may bring in a buck on red alert, making getting off a shot more difficult. Grunts have an over all calming affect, but like any calling can simply be ignored. My brother, Mark, experienced this calming once when he was in a tree stand positioned in a thicket set so he could see out into an oak grove. He saw a doe with a fawn feeding on acorns or fallen leaves from nearby bushes. He did not think she was in heat any more due to the closeness of the fawn. The fawn started running around and playing, like they do, when Mark saw a huge 11-point buck come into where they were. Instead of wheezing or rattling which may put the buck on the offensive, Mark grunted two times and the buck immediately left the doe and walked straight at him. Since he was in the thicket, he did not have a wide shooting area, only a small lane from that direction. The buck stood straight on in his lane at sixteen yards. Mark held his seventy-five pound longbow at ready, but could only wait for the buck to make the next move. Shortly the fawn began running around again causing the buck to look in its direction. As the leaves and brush rustled from the fawns play, the big buck needed to get a better look, so it turned sideways, giving Mark the broadside shot he was wishing for. He sent a Kentucky flint knapped stone tipped birch arrow on its way and saw it pass completely through the buck and strike something hard in the ground on the other side. After waiting a while, Mark got down to pick up his arrow. It was then he noticed that the shaft was broke at the notch where the flint was secured. It hit a stone so hard after passing through the deer that it cracked the shaft end. The shaft was blood soaked; causing excitement in Mark as he followed the trail for the first seventy or eighty yards, but then it gave out. It took a while to find the deer, and the big buck made over four-hundred yards before it was found dead. The 800 grain arrow passed between the fifth rib from the diaphragm at an angle that clipped one lung and the liver. Mark does not recommend taking anything other than a broadside shot, and is seriously thinking about only shooting from the ground with these type broad heads in the future. The buck had thirteen-inch back tines and was over twenty inches wide inside spread that resulted in a net Pope and Young score of 172. He filmed this same deer in a previous year, but had not seen it again until this final time. So in review, I much prefer the wheeze call during the rut and into the late season; however, I have had great success post primary rut using a specialized calling technique I termed puppet fights. Being frustrated with traditional rattling and inability to hold a bucks attention at close range without him spooking or circling me, I   devised directional rattling from the ground by tethering four shed antlers together on three-foot cord leaders attached to a single haul-line fastened within reach of me to the tree near my elevated stand position. I was then able to continue my fierce rattling with a buck moving in, often at less than thirty yards. I like the fact that the sound from four heavy sheds bouncing and clashing each other on the ground comes from a more natural direction and the ruckus created is more realistic of two fighting bucks as they break limbs, rustle leaves, and tamp their feet on the earth. I can also swing the antlers against the trees trunk creating yet another convincing sound of the battle. By pulling or the single haul-line with one hand like a puppeteer, I can better control the tempo of the fight. I can do so with less movement, and with my free hand holding my bow or video camera at ready, Im better prepared for the shot than when using traditional rattling with dual sheds clashing together occupying both hands. I keep my eyes on the approaching buck for the entire duration using the puppet fights technique without having to hang them up like traditional antlers and then reach for my bow and nock an arrow. I am simply much better equipped for the quick action that rattling entices.          I successfully called in several bucks the first time I used the ground rattling technique. I attached one end of the tote line to the tree, leaving it easily reachable at my side while facilitating minimum movement. I left about four feet of slack in the line as the pile of four antlers tied to the other end laid ready to dance at the base of the tree.   It was mid-December in Illinois when I first reached for the cord and lifted the sheds a few feet off the ground, giving them a shake and dropped them. As soon as they hit the ground, I quickly jerked them back into the air allowing them to flip and clank against each other. I found I could vary the intensity of my fighting bucks from sparring and tine tickling to an all out fight for dominance by increasing the force at which I pulled the line. The four large sheds sounded much more realistic to me than just a pair, and they imitate a variety of action. Bucks came right away, one from the north and the other from the west. Both eight-pointers, they appeared to be two and a half years old. As one of them went behind a tree, I slowly lifted my forearm. Taking the slack out of the line allowed the sheds to lift and group together, then came to rest with sounds of bone as I let down. The massaging of the tines was all it took to bring both bucks right on in within five yards of my tree. With un-noticed movement, I easily brought my right hand up to the bowstring and would have been ready to shoot had the bucks been a little older.             Assessment of this first hunt revealed that I could continue the antler rattling when the bucks were reasonably close, and still prepare for the shot much more quickly and with limited movement. I was convinced that the sound of antler tines and a slight rustling of leaves directed from ground level was the key to bringing the bucks past me. More than anything, the rustling leaves fooled the bucks into thinking the action was taking place a little further down the hill, so the bucks hurried to get there.                 I was very pleased with the outcome of my first attempts, but still wasnt sure if the technique would increase the frequency of response by mature bucks. Bucks that have just gone through the rut seem to respond much more readily to rattling because the competition has increased between them, and this fight over a receptive doe may be the only action in town. However, mature bucks are still more cautious, and are familiar with the consequences of a fight, making them much more reluctant to come charging in. I was hoping that the additional sounds created by the puppet fights would provoke a sexual urge that a mature buck would have to address, or at least spark enough curiosity to make him come to investigate the origin.             During mid to late December and into January, the rut has tapered off and the cold weather makes deer more interested in food. As deer concentrate around a dwindling food source, fights among dominant bucks becomes more prevalent and serious as competition increases over a few remaining does coming into estrous. Consequently, I greatly increase my use of rattling this time of year because of its increased range and effectiveness to lure mature bucks. Again, it can be used as a successful tool to bring in lesser bucks if you desire.             Between Christmas and New Years one year, I used puppet fights to lure over forty bucks while spending time hunting two separate properties ten miles apart. Waiting for a special buck, I captured many of the other deer on film. Images of these bucks can be viewed in our next video from Brothers of the Bow called Essential Encounters. On one hunt I stayed in my tree stand during near forty-degree temperatures and rain, and the following day endured temperatures that dropped to twelve degrees. The heavy wind was constant, with gusts exceeding forty miles per hour. The fine snow ice-blasted my face,   and, paired with the negative five degrees wind-chill, numbed any exposed skin. In late afternoon, four does fed on honeysuckle toward me but eventually veered off, passing wide of my tree. One of those does would have been very tasty, and with this icy wind, it would have been a good time to make a kill without disturbing the rest of the evening hunt. About thirty minutes later, I bounced the four sheds off the ground with the haul-line and raked them through the brush at the bottom of the tree. There was mostly grass and very few dry leaves at the trees base, but the dead and dry box elder limbs cracked crisply when the horns struck. Shortly, three bucks came toward me to investigate. A small eight-pointer went back into the thickets to my right, while the second buck with shed antlers and large pedicles stood around for a few minutes but soon lost interest. The third buck was a ten-pointer that started to come closer. He was four and a half years old and I recognized him from a shed I found the previous spring not a hundred yards from where the buck now stood. After staring in my direction for a while, he turned to walk away. I reached over, grabbed the line and shook the antlers. The buck immediately turned and trotted toward me, locking up at thirty yards. After three minutes, he again started to turn away. He couldnt see the origin of the fight, so I grabbed the line and bounced the sheds one more time. He swung his head back toward me and crept ten yards closer. Turning to his right, the buck slipped through the honeysuckle brush until he stopped broadside in my shooting lane at twenty yards. After a short blood trail, I found the buck at the bottom of a ravine. He was quite a prize. With limited movement and my bow in hand, I conned a big buck at close range. The wind may have helped disguise my calling, but I didnt feel the cold as I collected my reward for staying out there all day and having faith in a peculiar calling method. I have dedicated an entire chapter to the puppet fight technique in my new book called One with the Wilderness.    Since isolated does coming into estrous abandon their fawns, I like to capitalize on this confusion using fawn bleats to move deer toward me. The bleat may bring in does in a defense mode, or even bucks who associate this distress with an opportunity to find a receptive doe. Late December and early January in my area is the time of year that yearling does who were born early in May go into their first estrous. These young does are very confused by the attention they are getting from multiple bucks. There is usually a very active chase involved for theses fawns, so a fawn bleat may bring in a nearby buck that has lost track of her. When used appropriately, calling deer is very productive, but we must all pay attention to its overuse, and undesired effects they may have in your specific hunting area. Similar to bugling elk or calling turkeys, deer are able to adapt to adversity they may experience at the hands and voice of hunters. There really is no magic bullet to deer hunting, so neither is calling. It will work great at times and be detrimental at others. The same can be said for using scents, decoys and any number of gadgets marketed to hunters. But if these things give you confidence and keep you hunting, they may bring success inadvertently by employing the ultimate gimmick, time spent in the woods. I used fawn bleats to move a group of feet toward me; this nice nine-pointer followed the group.  A mature buck taken using the Puppet Fight technique.     Mike Mitten is a cancer researcher from Illinois. His lifes passion can be experienced in his new book One with the Wilderness (Passions of a Solo Bowhunter), and as a co-producer of the bowhunting films Primal Dreams and Essential Encounters.   For information visit brothersofthebow.com Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/11/08/Saddlesore-Elkless-and-Grinning.aspx 2011-11-18T21:00:05Z 2011-11-08T19:20:38Z 2011-11-04T20:21:13Z Editor's Note: W.L. Gore & Associates teamed up with Capitol Peak Outfitters , Sitka Gear, Freedom Hunters , and Cabela's to give two deserving hunters an unforgettable elk hunt in Colorado, called "Hunt with Heroes." Two lucky hunters were chosen from among hundreds of entrants who submitted essays about their service to their country and community, and their passion for hunting. Warrant Officer Ron Warren was one of the winners. This account is part one of three, as told by writer and photographer Alex Tenenbaum... (See part two here , part three here ) The phone was ringing. Ron picked up and a woman's voice said he'd won some elk hunt in Colorado, said he'd be flown from Fort Rucker to Aspen, said he'd ride horseback into the wilderness after elk. She wanted his measurements, said a couple boxes full of Sitka Gear would arrive at his home. Oh, and he'd get a Cabela's gift card for whatever else he needed. He almost hung up. "I thought it was a scam. I was just waiting for her to say all you have to do is spend a week in some timeshare or something," Ron said. But there were next steps and goodbyes and still no catch. A few months before that call, his old commanding officer wrote an essay about Ron's service in action and his love for hunting and sent it to Gore. A few months before that, Ron sought counseling.  War had eaten at him. He enlisted 12 years ago, before the towers fell, before multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. On his last tour, his company got pinned in a village in Helmand, Hum-Vs disabled, got all shot up. He worked to stash his injured buddies under the Hum-Vs. Two American casualties, one of them a dad. Ron, like an uncle, had spent many stateside weekends tailgating at his buddy's son's t-ball games. Those men were his family. And more of them would have been killed if not for the Apaches that came in heavy, laying down cover. Uninjured, Ron flew home, received a Bronze Star for his efforts, and foundered. He lost weight, 40 pounds before meeting the counselor who helped with the terror and the loss, then helped him chart a new direction. He'd just started flight school to become an Apache pilot when the call came about winning the hunt. "You know, this is the hunt of a lifetime," his flight officer said. "You should go." Ron arrived at Capitol Peak Outfitters on an unseasonably warm Friday in October. Ranch trucks, a stockyard, men in cowboy hats fitting horses with saddles, bridles, bits. A shoer, dull thuds affixing new metal to old hoof.  Eight rocky miles in a Suburban and he was at Elk Camp, altitude 10,000 feet. "How comfortable are you on a horse?" John Howe asked at dinner. Howe owns Capitol Peak Outfitters and knows the country better than all but its maker. He's ranched and ridden bulls and broke horses and his exterior is tough as saddle leather. Ron liked him immediately. "Cause we're ridin' up over that mountain in the morning." Guides readied the horses by lanternlight and Ron and Howe mounted up and pushed into the timbers. The camp's light faded like an old memory as hooves rattled against dirt and rock and root. A steep trail, thick woods, timberline. Horsehair bunched into sweaty rivulets despite the night's cold. Orion loomed overhead, the great hunter in the sky. Above timberline, they rode high in there saddles, silhouettes swimming in a flicker-filled sky. Horseshoes shot sparks against the talus, then cut switchbacks through blown and crusty snow. Below their traverse the earth fell away and the stars out on the horizon shined up at the horses' hooves and the horses looked out wildly over the void as if to step off, as if to leave the earth and drift among constellations. Ptarmigans flitted past and cawed at ear level and though the horses did not spook the hunters were fully awake. The men and their horses crested Hell Roaring Divide at over 12,000 feet, plunging their bodies into some electric pulsing artery of the jetstream. Ahead, a gentler country of stub grass rippled down into pines and down into a canyon where the night's darkness held like the last water in a draining tub. Ron and Howe put their horses in a slot in the rocks and sat out in the wind. In the glass of their binoculars they found the canyon walls below and on the far wall 80 head of elk. Perhaps 1,200 yards by crow, but a two miles by horse, and the elk would soon hide in the timbers.  They rode the rim north, dismounted, slipped into the wood, the sun rising warm on their faces.  In the trees, the legs of elk. Ears. Rump patches. Maybe 60 yards. A dozen cows gathered around one bull. A short bugle. Ron jacked one into the chamber as Howe wove like a shuttle and string between pines to the edge of an opening. Binos up, then down. A wide-eyed look and a mute signal to move in.  Ron crept through the trees toward Howe's vantage, but dark eyes made him through the timber and then what sounded like a rockslide. The elk were gone. "Oh my God that was awesome!" Ron said. Howe led the way through other pine stands and clearings and not entirely by accident to a lone bull feeding across the hillside. He whistled a cow call and the bull stopped dead, half obscured by trees. His horns were tall and dark and heavy, white at the tips. Ron moved out into the open for a clear shot. The bull turned to face him head on. 140 yards.  "Shoot the middle of his chest, right where the coat changes color," Howe whispered. The bull cocked his head like a confused dog. The rifle stock made Ron's cheek and too soon a thunder clap. The bull unhit stood as still as the mountain beneath him, as though he were sculpted from the same ancient earth. Ron ripped open the bolt and rocketed in another round and lifted the gun. The white peaks and the dark pines and the gradient sky stood breathless. The elk was gone.  "Well, you can't blame the guide," he said. "Practically tied the bull to a tree for me." The subsequent days were warm and cloudless with little more than rumor of elk. They canvassed glacial valleys, plunging cirques, rock-strewn ridges, expansive bowls, aspen stands, peaks, creek bottoms. Under the grass and the trees and the snow, the earth was all red flanges and spires, great pinches of unfired and crumbling clay. Ron grew saddlesore. On day four of the five-day hunt, the snow began to fall. It did strange things to the horses. Another hunter out with another Capitol Peak guide had his horse come untied. It arrived at camp sudden and alone, steaming with sweat that looked like shaving cream, saddle on its belly, saddlebags and blankets gone. The runaway dried in the cold, got brushed, watered, fed. And as sudden and unexpected as the horse's appearance, so came another. A pair of hunting buddies from Pennsylvania had taken a young 4-point Mule deer, and their guide Dewey packed it proudly into camp. The next day, 4 a.m. came in a thick, wet coat of snow. "Be ready, guys," Howe said. "The elk have to eat to keep warm, which means they'll move to find food. We'll cut tracks. When we do, things are going to happen very, very fast." The temperature was dropping, no wind, air dry and paper thin. Overcast, light snow, dark. Ron and Howe rode out for their final day. The on-off buzz of their LED headlamps made the tiny snowflakes appear like straight, dotted lines, like perforations. Tear here. The sun did not rise. Rather, light filtered in through aspen trunks like a fog from the east.  They rode the morning, Mule deer does peering out between aspens, Mule deer tracks, nothing of elk. The temperature continued to dive and at midday they stopped beneath a lone pine to build a fire.  Warm and impatient, they rode on, covering more miles in one day than the sum of all previous days until the woods began loosing light.   "That's elk," Howe said, pushing his horse back and forth over the darkening ground, considering the holes in the snow as though they contained the world and there were nothing worth considering aside from them. He sighed. "It's a cow." They rode back to camp in the dark, breaking the silence that is hunting with stories and ribbing and hankering aloud for dinner and for beer.  "I have never in my life ridden that many miles in fresh snow and not cut track on a whole pile of elk. I don't get it," Howe said. They made the lanternlight of camp and the warmth of the mess tent. Chicken fried steaks, potatoes, gravy, cheap beer, Jack Daniels mixed with Coke and Jack Daniels straight. The fire blazed outside in the snow, and the tent filled the aromas of meat and oil and joyful voices elevated by drink.  At a quiet moment Howe said, "Really wish I could have got you an elk." Ron laughed. "Are you kidding? If I'd just took a few seconds to set the shot the first day, I'd have had him and you wouldn't have had to work so hard." "Well." "I got to ride five days in this country. Don't apologize. I'm apologizing. I'm sorry I missed that shot." They drank and told tales of bull riding and horses and hunting and war, and you could tell Ron would make his way back there one day. And it wouldn't be for the elk he missed but for the friend he'd made. Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/11/03/Responsible-Family-Men.aspx 2011-11-03T18:25:20Z 2011-11-03T22:57:04Z 2011-11-01T23:07:37Z Normal.dotm 0 0 1 555 3165 Seacat Creative 26 6 3886 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} 502 miles 20 hours and 53 minutes roundtrip 33 Gallons of Unleaded 7 Red Bulls, 4 Gas Station Coffees 3 awesome Antelope Bucks and 3 great friends Youd be hard-pressed to walk down Main Street in Bozeman without passing someone whos already harvested a great bull this season, or someone capable of climbing the many WI 5's just south of town in Hyalite Canyon.   People push it hard here no matter what their activity.   The recent addition of my son West to the Seacat family has definitely made me respect the virtue of being home, so my trips this season have been shorter and more intense.   Its not just me anymore. Im a FAMILY MAN, and time with my family is more valuable and more important than ever. But that doesnt mean I wont still get out and CRUSH IT. I just have to be more creative.   Even as I type this, Im two weeks late telling you the story.   West had Katie and I up at 2:00 this morning, and I couldnt get back to sleep now 3:51 a.m., Im in front of my computer at the office.   I fit my work hours in WHENEVER I can. Ive long been motivated by the great climbers whove called Montana home.   Ive logged many cold winter days up in Hyalite Canyon, just south of Bozeman, climbing its unbelievable ice flows.   On our drive home from Eastern Montana, somewhere between Judith Gap and Harlowton, my friend Chris Awe said we had become Responsible Family Men, and my mind immediately drifted to Alex Lowe. Alex Lowe was arguably Bozemans finest alpinist.   He too was a family man, but he never slowed down.   Even now, more than ten years since his death, hes still motivating me.   As a dad, he made a mission-style first ascent of an impossibly steep formation of ice columns in Hyalite: waking early, lots of coffee, a pre-dawn approach, a lightening ascent, and a rushed trip back to his home and family in Bozeman. He named that area test-piece Responsible Family Men. Our antelope adventure was spun from the same cord.  For us, t he times have changed. We too have become Responsible Family Men. I knew from the get-go that wed have to make this hunt a mission. With a growing business, a growing little man, and lots to do at home, time is at a premium.   Normally, my annual Eastern Montana Antelope hunt is a 3-4 day adventure, one always shared with my father.  But a nother tough winter in eastern Montana led to decreasing antelope numbers, which meant fewer tags for our hunting district. Two years ago there were 14,000, last year there were 9,000, and this year, a scant 6,600. For the first time in more than 30 years, my dad didnt draw a tag.  So no  Scott Seacat plush camp this season, no steaks on the grill, no cots under a huge tent, no late nights by lantern light reliving the days adventures. And for the first time, no great fatherly companionship.   This years hunt, however, would be shared with a couple of great friends.   Les Hausauer is the GM at Schnees/Powderhorn here in Bozeman, and we have shared some wild days in the hills chasing elk and deer, but this would be our first antelope hunt together.   Fellow Sitka Athlete Chris Awe and I always put as many days in the field together each fall as we can get away with. Chris is also a new father to his son Rowan, so the need to make this a quick turnaround was shared.   Ive been hounding Awe for a few seasons, telling him he needed to experience hunting antelope. Finally he had relented to my pestering. We settled on leaving my house at midnight Tuesday with two goals in mind: 1. Get three bucks. 2. Make it back in less than 24 hours. My garage door shut in front of us at 11:56 p.m. and opened again at 8:52 p.m. the following day. A true "Alpine Style" mission had been experienced. -Mark Seacat Adam Foss http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/11/02/Montana-in-Black-and-White.aspx 2011-11-02T18:21:25Z 2011-11-02T18:20:08Z 2011-10-31T18:52:54Z Normal.dotm 0 0 1 384 2191 Seacat Creative 18 4 2690 12.0 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} 2011 Montana elk... what can I say? The journey was as long as it possibly could have been, the elk were as quiet as I've ever witnessed, but the experience remained a great one. Its been three weeks since my elk adventure wrapped up and, looking back, it dawned on me. This was my second trip to Montana in the past three years and, comparing the trips, I couldnt have had more opposite experiences. Back in 2009, I was fortunate enough to draw a Missouri River Breaks tag. It was a hunt on a private chunk of ground that was nice, rolling hills. The openness of that country made the elk visible and huntable. I had a huge hunting party following me around the woods; my wife, my friends Vaughn Esper and Chad Johnson and a cameraman. We were staying in the basement of Dan and Lori's house (BD Ranch) where we could shower daily, charge batteries and sleep in beds and on top of all that, there were elk absolutely EVERYWHERE. This season, we spent 90% of our time in general draw units in the Montana backcountry.  There were no beds, just one-person tents.  It was just either Kyle or William running camera, depending on the juncture of the season, and I.  There were no outlets to charge batteries; we relied on our solar power solutions from Brunton to keep us going.  Moving camp meant 70+ pound packs to wherever our next home was going to be.  We ate far from camp to keep the bears away, water was provided from natural springs, the terrain for the most part was brutally steep with blowdown and there were not many elk talking at all. It was what most would call a rough backcountry hunt, but for me, it was just what the doctor ordered. The 2009 trip was the worst hunt I've ever had. Unfortunately, we had one person in the hunting party that ruined the experience for all of us.  Sure we harvested a great bull, but the end result leaves me to cringe when thinking of that trip.  This season, we didn't harvest a bull. Heck, we didn't even see a bull we truly wanted to pursue, but we covered a ton of beautiful ground, had highs and lows and did it with a smile on our face.  Don't get caught up in judging your hunt by the number of animals seen and certainly not by the harvest alone.  Enjoy your time, build memories, take pictures and put the work in to get deep in the woods and experience natural environments that such a small percentage of as humans get to truly see. Enjoy some pics from the trip and enjoy your season, no matter how it unfolds! Cheers  -  J. Simpson For more blog entries, pictures and video from Jeff, you can follow his company blog at fencepostfilms.com/blog Alex Tenenbaum http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/ http://www.sitkagear.com/blog/2011/10/31/The-Fanatic.aspx 2011-10-31T19:33:06Z 2011-10-31T19:27:16Z 2011-10-31T19:33:06Z Sitka Athlete Jeff Simpson and the anatomy of the Fanatic Jacket.