Quite the contrary, Ann. Elk mate but once a year and the biggest, baddest bull gets all the cows, thereby giving all their progeny his big bad genes and improving the species forevermore. Bulls care nothing for their "families." Cows will defend their calves in the spring.
During the mating season, called the rut, bull elk go about bugling their contempt of lesser bulls. Other bulls hearing this contempt come to see if the one voicing it really is the biggest or just is just hoping to stumble into an unattached cow. If the issue of who is biggest is questionable, they settle the matter on the field of honor. The winner staggers off with the cows and the loser just staggers off. Some time during the late winter the bulls lose their antlers, and many die, exhausted from all their jousting. Next spring the calves are born.
You, the wiley hunter, knowing of the hubris of the elk tribe, do your impression of biggest and baddest with your elk bugle (a length of PVC pipe). Bulls come from miles around to thrash your butt, completely ignorant of your superior intellect and your high-powered rifle (archers use a bow and broadhead arrows). They come stomping in, grunting and bugling all the way, and when they get within range you wait for a good clean shot. Then you grieve for a while, knowing that you have ended a magnificent life.
While contemplating this small tragedy, you get out your razor sharp knife, your bone saw, and your hatchet. You get out your tag and attach it to the elk. Then you build a fire to warm yourself by as the work progresses.
Soon you are bloody up past both elbows and a few camp robbers and ravens start circling around hungrily. You harvest that huge heart for supper back at home, that liver for tonight's supper, and of course, the tongue for sandwiches later in the week.
When the elk is fully emptied, you get out your bone saw and hand ax to quarter him. Three ribs on the back quarters, the rest on the front quarters. You split the backbone up the middle so accurately that you leave spinal cord on both halves. All four quarters prepared and skinned, you drive four 80 penny nails into a dry snag and hang the meat to cool. This is enough for one day, so you put the heart, tongue, and liver in your pack and shoulder the head to impress your partners back in camp. You walk the miles back to camp, and the ravens and camp robbers come down to eat. In a few days, the coyotes and bobcats will slake their fill and only the 80 penny nails will record the fact that you were there.
If you are a lonely hunter, like me, it might take you three days to get the meat out of the woods on your back. If you have pals, they can help and you help them. If you have horses, you get them to carry the meat, but then you have to feed them.
At camp, you contemplate your ancient role in the business of life. You know that some day your day will come and you too will be consumed. You will not have others kill your meat for you any more than they can die for you. You know hamburgers do not come from McDonalds, and somehow it seems right. Such killing is good and honorable.
(Since you probably have not heard an elk bugling, I can describe it only as being indescribable and one of the spookiest sounds you will ever hear. A few movies have depicted this sound, but the only one I can remember is "Jeremiah Johnson" with Robert Redford). It was a poor rendition.
PS, while composing this, my daughter sent this message on Instant Messenger: "Well, a shot between the eyes is a less savage death than starving to death during the winter. You can tell her your reformed liberal daughter said that." |
