Broken Ribs Bull

Broken Ribs Bull
Charlie Ebbers

On Veteran's Day, Bruce Ruckman and I loaded up and headed for the Lewis and Clark National Forest. The red sunrise just touched the top of the faraway buttes when we hit the highway. Ruckman drove the icy local's road into the mountains. I texted some emergency contact info to my girlfriend and mom and hit airplane mode on my cellphone.

We pulled into the trailhead and spent an hour and a half getting everything set with the four horses and two mules. Tepee, the half-draft rez horse, carried the heaviest load, and the mules carried the most awkward. On the ride in, we passed a few smaller whitetail bucks that I would've gladly shot, but when I thought about it, I realized my hands were frozen blocks, my fingers seemed to be independent of my mind's will. Ruckman told me not to shoot any because it'd mess up our string.

We rode past the narrow six miles of the drainage up towards where the mountain walls strayed further from the creek bottom. The blazed trail was covered in downfall and nearer to our camp, grizzly and wolf tracks.

We set up camp and glassed for elk around camp with no luck. The next morning, we rode for two hours up to a timbered pass backtracking fresh wolf and elk sign the whole way. My inexperience with riding was on full display as I tried to recall the ins-and-outs of saddles, latigos, and stirrups. Ruckman and I climbed up a ridge to glass an adjacent drainage. Wolves howled at noon and we were disheartened. He was teasing me to no end about what I didn't know.

After an hour of glassing, I spotted a small herd of six elk about two miles away at about 8000', far above tree line bedded in the rock and snow. There were two cows, two calves, one spike bull and another small bull. I set to convincing Ruckman to chase those elk down. He wasn't confident. He said those were not easy elk to get to and if we did shoot one we'd be back to camp at 3 AM and still have to come back the next day to finish the job. I pushed him to go. Then I glassed two more hunters staring at the faraway herd.

He agreed and we set out after the herd. On our way to them, we stopped and talked to the hunters to see if they were going after the elk. They said no, they didn't see any bulls they wanted to chase. While we were talking, more elk started to appear on the ridge, and I was itchy to get going. We turned our horses and Ruckman showed me what riding hard means.

The narrow trail sharpened my wits. I dodged tree limbs to avoid the hard face slap, ducked fallen trees that would take me from my saddle, and used my legs to steer Mo, my horse, who had a keen eye for mud holes. I was still lagging behind and Ruckman stopped for me to catch up. All the while, we kept an eye on the herd. We stopped. I confirmed with my binoculars that they were still where they had been, Ruckman continued on. I held Mo in place to harden out a stalk plan while the horse grew anxious. He wanted to catch up to Ruckman and the two mules with me or not. His speed scared me, so I reined him hard. I went over the saddle and down in the snow onto my face.

At first, I couldn't draw a breath or see, all I felt was white pain. I got up and stumbled around looking for Mo, he had run off into the brush and I went after him. Ruckman called to me while laughing, I looked at him on the trail while Mo came back to him. Ruckman told me I made a good-looking snow angel while I tried to mount up, somewhat blind and ashamed.

We rode to the base of the foothill the elk were on. The beginnings of a heavy snowstorm hit while we started up on foot. We made it a few hundred yards to a meadow with thigh-deep snow when our visibility dropped to naught. I could hardly draw a breath. Ruckman told me he was too short and too fat to go after the elk, so we turned back for camp. The ride home was misery, every step gave me chest pain. The snow changed to sleet as we descended the mile back to camp. Trees had fallen, so we had to cut them out with a handsaw. I could hardly hold the reins, let alone saw. My attitude swelled up with my chest.

When we got to the turn off for camp, the snow was thick. I glanced up the hill above and saw an elk.

"Bruce – stop! Elk!!!" I said as quiet but loud as I could. He looked up and said, "big bull!" We hid our horses. I figured we'd have a chat about the next step. Ruckman had already decided on his plan, and it was time to shoot. I knew I didn't have the skill to shoot that far, so I put my earplugs in and watched the elk through binoculars. Ruckman posted up on a tree and fired twice. I didn't see any effect on the elk except that he continued his path out of the high meadow.

I looked at Ruckman and said I'd go up to see if there was any blood. He wanted to put the horses up and grab our packs, so we did and then started up. It was about 5 PM, and shooting light ended at 5:30.

Climbing that hill was challenging. It was a steep, convex slope that rose immediately from the creek bottom. We crossed fresh mountain lion tracks pretty quickly and then charged up the hill with a severe wind blowing snow in our faces. Loaded down with layers to stay warm with riding and with heavy packs. Once I got to the open, I tried to stick to the trees while hurrying to get up before dark. Ruckman told me to make sure I had a loaded gun in case he missed, and the elk was just behind the trees. I put one in the chamber.

I tried to calm myself to get where the elk had been when we saw it. There was no blood anywhere in the snow. I gridded the open area with no results, so I followed the elk tracks and found two fresh beds in the snow and a lot of sign. There had been more than one, the musky elk smell was strong.

I walked slowly and heard something stand up just in front of me about 25 yards, there was a bull starting to pick up speed, I leveled my rifle and shot him at around 40 yards. The bullet hit high and crashed through his spine. He fell in my scope before I could hear the shot and rolled down the hill. I called out to Ruckman that I had got the elk and waited five minutes before I went down to check for blood. I would've waited longer, but the darkness and snow were coming on strong.

I found blood immediately and followed the trail down into the small canyon the bull had fallen into. It was thick with ice covered in snow. The bull was breathing hard but unable to move, so I shot him in the head at point-blank range to end his suffering.

It was a hard moment. I've wanted an elk for as long as I can remember, and I've been hunting the ungulates for the past decade. I went from chasing birds with my dad to hunting big game and learning hard lessons. There's a feeling of being a predator that comes with big game hunting that doesn't show up hunting birds. Everything else about it is harder. Big game has cost me more money and time to pursue and butcher than small game ever did.

I've spent thousands of dollars, broken vehicles, been frustrated at least ten times in my encounters over the years. I had finally gotten one. He was magnificent, yet I had killed him. I know that the PC term is not 'kill' but 'harvest,' and in the end, I did take every bit of meat I could. I don't know how much that term switch justifies killing one of God's creations.

It's quite a thing to kill an animal more substantial than you. It's quite an emotion to kill an animal at all. My first "official" licensed kill was a quail when I was 11. I had killed doves with my dog in the backyard, but I hadn't hunted one with a license and shot one.

I remember the drive home. I sat in the middle pilot seat of an old conversion van on the way back to NM from Kansas and thought about all the other quail in the covey I had got mine from. They were likely his brothers, sisters, mom, and dad. All that I had done was be there on that day. He had been there his whole life, and I came along with a gun and ended his life. There wasn't anything ceremonious in the act between my father and I. We didn't take the heart and say a prayer. I went and picked the quail up, put him in my vest, and kept walking, but I felt more aware of my immediate presence and my place in the world. I had killed another creature who wasn't so different than me.

Looking at the elk drawing huge breaths reminded me of my grandmother dying of lung cancer in the hospital and the heaving breaths she took before she took her last. I felt sorry that I had killed him. I felt like I had accomplished something challenging and fulfilled a longtime goal of mine, but it was tinged by my creation of death. A wild and free-roaming beast had been brought down by the rifle my grandpa gave my dad, who then gave it to me. I was thrilled and mournful, but then we had to get to work.