The Outdoors and Ethics of Elk Hunting

It had been four seasons since I had shot my first and only elk. I was inching up a steep timber-covered hillside in the Mount St. Helen's National Monument in southwest Washington. I had been stalking a small herd of Roosevelt elk for nearly 20 minutes. A consistent rain, often associated with the 10-day modern rifle elk season in Washington, had soaked my hat and dripped down my face. It mixed with beads of sweat, evidence of the miles of distance and feet of elevation I had already covered this early November morning. A thick fog slowly moved through the trees as the elk milled around, engulfed in it, slowly feeding their way up the highest ridge of the miniature mountain I had ascended in pursuit of them.

The game management unit I was hunting in allows only the harvesting of bull elk, with a minimum of three antler points, and I was trying my best to determine if this herd had a legal animal in it, or not. The rain, fog, and a thick cover of timber and low vine maple made it difficult to see the elk most of the time. The moisture blurred my binoculars and threatened to fog my rifle scope, but eventually, I was able to pick out the bull from the herd of about 15 elk. He continued to feed and move amongst the cow elk he was with, and I repeatedly had to re-identify which elk had the antlers. I only had brief breaks in the trees and cover where I could make him out, and he continually moved.

I was having marked difficulty determining whether he had the required three points. I thought I saw forks on the upper part of his antlers, but they were darker than normal, and I could not make out the third and deciding point, which would typically extend from below his ears in eye guard form. He was an immature two and a half year-old bull, and I could tell you with 85% confidence he was a legally harvestable animal.

As I sat on the pine-needle and fern covered hillside with my crosshairs following his vital section I tried to sell myself on shooting him at that confidence level, but I simply was not 100%. Besides my heavy pack, filled with some of hunting and survival essentials plus some not-so-essentials, I also carry into the woods a set of ethics I dedicate myself to upholding. One of those ethics is not firing a round at anything, unless I am 100% sure of what it is - for the sake of safety, legality, and morality. In the end, instead of filling my freezer, the bull made his way up the ridge, me following him, until one of his cows busted me in my tracks and the herd took off back down the hill from where they had come with the bull following them, leaving me on the top of the ridge to collect my thoughts.

While sitting on a moss-covered log atop the ridge I began considering the costs of being an ethical sportsman. Truly, my ethics are something that I take great pride in, and will forever strive to uphold. However, at times, maintaining them clearly comes with a cost. Being an ethical sportsman is sometimes holding off on the shot when others might drop the hammer. Sometimes it is releasing a prize fish that is not legally hooked, even though nobody is watching. But being ethical is a key to becoming a steward of the outdoors, avoiding sleepless nights, becoming a model for new and young outdoorsmen and women, maintaining access to the resources and keeping outdoor sports enjoyable. Sometimes upholding your ethics means paying a price, but it is always worth it.