Montana advertises with the slogan “The Last Best Place.” Being a native son of the Treasure State, I have mixed emotions about that. I understand tourism is a major industry and the economy requires bringing people to the state. However, like many Montanan’s, I find it hard to share paradise with strangers. I’ve found that same set of mixed emotions is not unique to Big Sky Country; people in many US tourist destinations harbor similar feelings.

It is true, Montana is pretty special. I’ve lived in eight states and traveled to all 50 and the only two that come close are Alaska and Wyoming. Montana is big, wild, and sparsley populated. This translates into a lot of room to pursue outdoor recreation, on public land.

I had been planning a trip to my hometown of Great Falls for months. Visit my folks, hunt birds, spend a week in elk camp, and do some fishing; it was gonna be awesome! Then the Navy changed my plan. Part of my present duties are to ride ships and train the crews. I knew I was going to sea when I planned my trip but it was in October so the second week of November was open. Then, as they do, the schedule slipped. I had to cut my MT trip short. I would got six days sandwiched between ship rides.

I had an interesting itinerary. I flew from San Diego to Norfolk to board the ship for a week, then disembarked in Mayport, FL to fly back San Diego for a 10 hour layover before flying to Great Falls. After a week in Montana,, I flew back to San Diego with another layover before flying to Atlanta. I spent a short night in Atlanta before flying to Nassau, in the Bahamas. From there I caught a flight to Andros Island, where I spent two nights at a small Navy base, before boating out to catch another ship, which I rode into Mayport, before flying back to San Diego. I was in San Diego three whole days before flying to New York City to spend Thanksgiving with my daughter. I finally unpacked my bags when we returned to San Diego. What a road trip! With that backdrop, I’ll share my cast ‘n’ blast adventure.

USS MASON, my assignment right before this adventure.

I spent the first couple of days at my parents house. Plan was to hunt pheasants with my Old Man and best friend Jim. Jim has a German short-hair pointer he was itching to show me in action. Chip, the pointer, had to live with the same disappointment I did. It was windy and the birds flushed wildly. I had a couple of shots but flubbed them both, which got me the stink-eye from Chip.
I did spend a couple mornings walking along the Missouri River in town. It was cold and beautiful. Lots of critters were about but we were the only humans. It was time well spent with the Old Man.

Missouri River at dawn, in Great Falls.

Jim and I then hit the road for Roundup, MT. Like the walks on the river with Dad, the road trip with Jim was good for my soul. We’ve been friends for nearly 40 years and despite literally oceans of distance between us, every reunion is just like highschool all over. On the way, we stopped to fish Belt Creek and though it was beautiful, the fish didn’t cooperate. So much for the “cast” portion of the trip.

He’s fishing with the wrong hand.

The drive down to Billings was filled with more BS than the average person can stand, broken only by breaks to point out wildlife along the way. We saw hundreds of deer and antelope in fields the entire way.

Open road and Big Sky.

In Billings, we had dinner with an old friend from college. Billy had listened to so many of my tales from MT that he retired from the Marines and lived there. I don’t get to see him often, so it was great to catch up. After dinner we drove to the Smith Ranch and got our gear ready to hunt elk in the morning.

After a hunting camp breakfast, we headed out. There were seven of us in camp – Chris our host and his son; Jim’s brother Don and two of his co-workers, Matt and Jim; plus Jim and me. Since we had several hunters, we made a plan to split three directions. The second Jim and I headed over a ridge that drops into a nice timbered bowl that often held elk. About the time we got to the top, shots rang out from below. They sounded like they came from the hay fields. My heart rate picked up as I began to look and listen for elk escaping up the ridge I was on. I was in a great spot. However the only thing we heard was Don, huffing up the coulee below me. Our host’s son had shot a deer. It was not the deer he wanted, which was a whopper muley who escaped when a smaller buck jumped in front of the bullet. The “smaller” buck was a nice wide 3×3, the big one was a heavy non-typical. When we told Don the big buck hadn’t passed, he headed back to help get the buck to the barn.

I continued across the ridge with Jim 2, looking into the bowls at the heads of three more coulees. We saw no elk, but lots of deer. I had a deer tag, but really wanted to stay focused on elk as did Jim 2. We dropped out of the last coulee and met Jim.

The rest of the day we spent covering the ranch, looking everywhere for elk. We saw numerous deer, a few turkeys, and lots of elk sign but no elk. At least no legal elk. Don had a tag for a bull and was looking for a big one. The rest of us could only put our tags on a cow or spike. Four of us climbed a ridge to look into the bowl at the head of a piece of state land. The parcel was locked in on all sides by private land. Chris had gotten permission to one of those borders and we were hopeful that some elk had moved into the secluded spot. Don elected to stay in the truck, but said to come get him if we saw a good bull. Yeah, right.

We went up a ridge from the truck that had me huffing by the time we crested it. The climb made it obvious that I don’t live in Montana any more. I was the slow one in the group, a position I’ve never filled before. The bowl below us held only a half dozen deer. However, the ridge across the way garnered our interest.

A six-point bull strolled out of the timber. He was oblivious to us in the opposite ridge, 400 yards away and upwind. He grazed, scratched his ear with a hind hoof, and even shook the dust off himself. I will always remember how that dust in the sunlight formed a halo around that bull. He was not a huge bull, but still nice. I’d have certainly shot him; if I had a tag; if he’d have been on land we had access to. Big “ifs.”

Back at the truck, Don refused to believe we’d seen a bull. It didn’t really matter as the elk was on a ridge we couldn’t hunt and smaller than what he wanted. But we told him like he’d asked.

In late afternoon, our party thinned to three as those with work and school commitments headed into town. In the evening, we set up to cover three openings that elk often fed in. For Chris and me it was more deer and turkeys.

Just waiting.

However, just before dark, the heavy boom if Jim’s. 338 came rolling down the ridge. One shot, followed by another, then a third and final shot a few seconds later. Chris and I linked up and got the truck. We had to drive about a mile off one piece of the ranch and into another. We found Jim at the head of the clearing, looking for a spike bull. He’d hit it with his first shot but missed both followups. We found his bull about 20 yards into the trees. After some backslaps and handshakes, we quickly got the elk in the truck as night settled in.

Driving back to the ranch house, a 5×5 bull ran through the swath of light the headlamps cut across the hayfields. It added to the excitement of an already eventful evening. Chris dressed the elk by headlights at the ranch’s bone pile. He avoids dressing animals in areas that may still hold elk. Once the bull was cleaned we hung it in the barn and skinned it to cool it faster. From gunshot to hanging skinned in the barn, the clock only moved three quarters of an hour; Chris runs a pretty efficient outfit.

The next morning Jim and Chris dropped me off to hunt the lower end of the clearing Jim killed his spike in. It was an awesome spot. Working my way through the pines and into the open, the musky scent of elk filled my nostrils. It is a smell that always stirs the primeval part of my soul, awakening the predator within. By the fresh droppings, flattened grass, and tracks I deciphered that the elk had fed and bedded in the grassy meadow, but then jumped the fence into the neighbors property, where we did not have permission to hunt. Elk were close, but not in the right place.

Movement to my right caught my attention. It was a doe mule deer, then another, and another. I could see six grey forms ghosting through the trees. A seventh caught my eye. It was a buck. High and heavy. I dropped into a sitting position and rolled the dial on my scope up to 9. The buck was interested in the girls and little else. I had the wind. It was perfect. He was a dandy. If I’d taken him he’d have been the biggest I’d killed. But, I was hunting elk. I watched him a few minutes more, then returned my scope to 3, and shouldered my rifle.

I stalked my way up the ridge, past where Jim had filled his tag the previous evening and down the ridge to where I’d sat against a tree until Jim’s shots prompted me to move. The entire morning had been filled with heart pounding moments as sight or sound would reveal something. The something always turned out to be deer. Does, fawns, and small bucks. Alone or in groups of two or three. I tried not to push too hard and spook them. Most just gave me a glance and went on about their business. A couple of old does pogo sticked off, as only a mulie can do. It was good to be on the mountain.

Big Sky Country, God’s country.

Please
I met with Jim and Chris. Same as me, they’d seen a few deer also but no elk. We left that draw to see if there was any sign around the hayfields across the road. Then Chris and I hunted up the last coulee on his place. Elk often bedded there after a night of feasting on his hay, but not today.

Since no elk were to be found, we set off to hunt pheasants that afternoon. Chris had gotten permission to hunt a nice corner of a hay field along the edge of the Musselshell River. We took along waders so we could hunt the farthest corner. These pheasants too where wild and launched way out of range. Chip did find a big fox squirrel that I added to my bag. I was in need of some more dubbing and siezed the opportunity to shoot my first one.

Jim, Chris, and the dog worked the far corner of the parcel, across the river. I stayed on the edge of the field to shoot any birds they drove out. At least that was the plan. I heard shots, then I heard splashing, then the cackle of a rooster. He was coming my way. I mounted my trusty Model 12, led him what I thought was right, added a bit more and pulled the trigger. Click. I’d forgotten to chamber a round after I’d crossed the river. I pumped the slide and got off a hurried shot as the pheasant sailed to safety. I shook my head.

Bird hunting was a fruitless and momentary distraction. We came to hunt elk. A front was coming so we drove back to see what we might find moving on the ranch. Jim wanted a nap, so Chris and I set out to explore another isolated state section. It was a very “deery” looking spot with a couple of hairy draws on the backside that were “elky.” Sure enough, as we peeked over the top a small 3×3 mulie was harassing a group of eight does. They weren’t interested in his advances but he didn’t care. He knew if he kept it up one would succumb to his charm, maybe. We watched him and glassed the far reaches for elk that weren’t there. We left the deer to their business and headed for supper.

Back at the ranch, Chris’ mom, Jean, had come to cook. She is an amazing lady who is the quintessential western woman. She usually stops by the ranch to check in on whatever boys are there. Bob, her husband, doesn’t hunt, but tinkers around the shop when they come. He’s a pilot who builds his own planes. They are great people to share a meal with. After dinner, I fell asleep on the floor while everyone watched Monday Night Football. Never been a fan. I woke up from my nap to go into bed and wasted no time in falling back asleep. It has been a long day and tomorrow was full of promise with an overnight snow storm in the works. With luck we’d have several inches of fresh snow when we woke.

Long before dawn, I awoke and heard Chris in the kitchen. Like a kid at Christmas I dashed to the window only to be deflated when I saw our snow was in the form of rain. I trudged into the kitchen where our camp cook shared my disappointment. As he cooked eggs, from the chickens at his house, I went in to raise Jim. That is a process that goes back 35 years. I’d show up at Jim’s house at the appointed hour and nine times out of ten he’d be sound asleep. I’d have to roust him and our trip would be anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour delayed. Eventually I wised up and added that time into the plan. As we’ve aged, I won’t daresay matured, he’s gotten better but is still slow moving in the wee hours. After breakfast, I opened the door to gauge the temperature. Lo and behold, our rain had transformed into big fluffy flakes of snow! It was coming down so thick I could not make out the trucks parked 30 feet away. My hope returned in that moment and my Christmas Day like anticipation grew like the layer of snow on the grass.

We headed to the same meadow I’d hunted the previous day. Guns and gear weather proofed, we headed up the bottom of the draw. It was still snowing but visibility was now about 300 yards. No sooner were we through the gate than something moved in the timber up the ridge about 150 yards to our left. More deer. Another half dozen does with a nice buck. I was hunting elk. But this was also the last day I could hunt. A buck in sight is better than an elk unseen. I shouldered my gun. As the buck quartered towards me, I held on his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. At the rifle’s bark the buck jumped and every deer scattered. I was certain my aim was good but the buck was out of sight before I could get off a second shot.
Chris was worried the buck might make it to the fence and onto the next ranch, where the owner was not very neighborly. We quickly circled the tail of the ridge, in the deepening snow. I struggled to keep pace with Chris. Rounding the knoll we saw no sign of any deer. With no tracks heading out of bounds we climbed the ridge and found where the deer was when I shot. My buck was in a pile just a few feet from where I’d hit him. He was a wide and tall 3×3 with dark mahogany antlers. I was very pleased and thanked Chris for the opportunity. The buck I’d passed on the day before was bigger, but I had no regrets. This one was a beauty too. We each grabbed a horn and started him moving. It was the easiest drag I’ve ever made; the deer moved on top of the wet snow like a toboggan. While we were looking for it Jim had gotten the truck. We quickly slid the deer down the hill to where Jim was waiting and right into the box.

With the heavy snow, we knew the sound of my shot would not travel far. We drove up to the head of the coulee. We quietly left the truck looked for elk sign around the area. Nothing. We headed back down to try the ridges above the hayfields. On the way we spotted turkeys. Jim had advised me to get a turkey tag and some turkey loads for my shotgun. It was a flock of nine toms feeding across the coulee bottom. Getting close was as simple as slipping into the dry crickbed and slipping over the top. The birds were about 30 yards from the top of that cut. I lined up on the closest tom’s neck and boom! Every turkey instantly vanished except for the one flattened in the snow. I’d just killed my first turkey.

We checked for sign around the hayfields, for a nil result. We drove to the boneyard, took some pictures of my game, and then Chris gutted him for me. I’ve never had anyone else ever gut a kill for me. It was weird, but Chris is a master. He is a physician’s assistant, and treats it as a procedure. He has a very organized field dressing kit. He uses a scalpel with replaceable blades to dress animals. He wears disposable calving gloves that cover him to the shoulder. He has a super sharp pruning saw for bones. He usually has the kill dressed in 10 minutes with no mess to wash up. Despite his superior skills, it was still weird to have him do it for me. I did clean my own turkey though; thusly retaining my “man card.”

We got my deer hung and skinned back at the barn. Then Jim and I packed up for the trip back to Great Falls. A high school buddy of ours owns a game processing company, so we dropped off the carcasses there. Since I flew out the next day, I took the tenderloins and backstraps from both and got them in my Dad’s freezer. The rest Dad will ship later, after the Christmas rush.

I got home, spent a night in my own bed, then flew east to the Bahamas and the ship that I would ride back to the States. Back from sea, I spent two days in the office cleaning out my emails, and then hopped on another plane to New York to complete my travels, this time with my lovely and extremely understanding wife and daughter. It was worth every bit of travel stress but I was pretty happy to settle back into a routine.

It certainly was an adventure and I wouldn’t change a minute of it. Even the wind! Every moment added to an extraordinary experince. Montana is amazing. Having grown up there, I’m spoiled. I didn’t realize the rivers I learned to fish on were Blue Ribbon waters. They were just what was available. Now, I realize how good I had it. When I go back, which is about every other year or so, I have a much greater appreciation for the resources that make the place I call home the “Last Best Place.” The Treasure State is a national treasure. I hope it always remains so.