Slow Elk

By Becky Sather

Growing up in a big city I never got the chance to enjoy the simple pleasure of hunting. Moving to Prineville Oregon, a major hunting town, the year of my high school graduation was a huge culture shock. I worked at a gas station during hunting season my first year in Prineville. Seeing so many people; male, female, rich, not so rich, young, and old filling up their vehicles to go out in the woods to shoot at Bambi confused me. Filling up the homebound hunter’s vehicles that had the head of Bambi proudly strapped to the truck in a spot just right for the deer to stare at me—extremely confusing. All hunters came through the gas station with stories about the one they shot, the one they missed, or the big one they had seen. It wasn’t until I married a local hunting enthusiast that I learned what the big deal was all about. But before I discovered the joy of hunting there was my first hunting experience.

My husband Nathan and I left the night before opening day pulling our camper trailer out to a campground that had no water, sewer, or electrical hook-ups (remember I was still a city girl). All that the camp consisted of was dirt and trees. Nathan announced at about 7:00 pm that it was bed time. Even though I didn’t understand why we were going to bed so early, good thing Nathan knew what he was doing because 4:30am comes very early.We got up in the dark and put on the very fashionable camo outfit and orange vest, threw our rifles over our shoulders and went to find some deer.

A few weeks before opening day I had practiced shooting the rifle. I was going to use a 7MM Mauser. The first time I fired the rifle I bruised my shoulder. I wasn’t prepared for the noise or the kick of the gun. Nate tried to warn me but I didn’t believe him. Every movie I had ever watched with a rifle in it made me think that there was nothing to it. The bruise on my arm proved otherwise. I learned from this mistake and became an O.K. shot by opening day.

We hiked up hills, down draws and around clearings in search of the mighty buck (Nathan explained to me that deer with horns were called bucks) that would feed our family. I remember getting tired of all the walking but pushed on because of the excitement of spotting a buck, getting the perfect shot and impressing my husband. The city girl was going to show country boy that she too could be a hunter.

Being in the woods seeing all that Mother Nature had to offer, kept me going too. Some time during our long walk, we came to a cliff, looking down was awe-inspiring. Pine trees blanketed the whole valley. Aspen’s with leaves turning crimson, yellow and brown scattered themselves between the pines. But the most beautiful sight was how the clouds sat just below us circling the forest. Sunrise being in motion gave the clouds a pink fluffy appearance; they reminded me of cotton candy during a county fair. All of these wonderful sights working together gave me a sense of peace greater than any sight I had ever witnessed in the city.

Shortly after leaving the cliff, we came into some thick pines. How I was suppose to see anything in that dense of forest was beyond me. I hoped that Nate’s experienced eyes would be able to see something. Within in seconds of this thought Nathan pointed to our right, “Becky look—slow elk.”

Now at this point in my hunting career I didn’t realize that there was a deer season and a separate elk season, I figured if it had horns it was free game. What I couldn’t figure out is why Nate wasn’t taking aim. I looked in the direction where he had pointed and caught a glimpse of a brown hide and what appeared to be horns. My line of sight was obscured by all the darn trees but from what I could see the creature behind the tree was enormous.

I lifted my rifle to my shoulder, found what I could see of the slow elk with my cross hairs and decided my husband must want me to take the first shot. My finger trembled as it looked for the trigger. I drew in a deep breath steadied myself for the kick back of the 7MM and, “BECKY! What the hell are you doing!” fired.

Nathan screaming my name caused me to jerk at the same moment I pulled the trigger. My bullet flew high tearing through a tree just above the animal’s head. With the loud noise of the rifle report, Nate yelling, and the bullet causing shrapnel, the Moo Cow ran off.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I had almost shot down a poor rancher’s cow. How was I to know that a cow had the silly nickname of slow elk? Or that ranchers let their cows roam freely on BLM (Bureau of Land Management) land? I set down my rifle and looked at my husband. The man was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his face. I tried being pissed off at him for laughing at me but just couldn’t do it. I had almost shot a cow because of a slight misunderstanding between country boy and city girl—that’s funny stuff. Both of us were laughing by this point so hard that we were doing the potty dance. We called it a day and headed back to camp.

Though this story would be told for years to come with the same reaction from others as we had reacted, my skills would not stay the same. I am happy to report that I can tell the difference between an elk and a cow. I have been hunting many times since the cow incident and have learned the ways of the hunter. As a matter of fact, I shot my first buck this hunting season, a beautiful three by four. Hunting is a skill and a tradition that is now being passed down to our three children. The first thing that I taught them was that cow’s are also called slow elk.