Six days into our annual elk hunt during second rifle season in 2012, the four of us (myself, my brother Brian Ross, his brother-in-law, and my son) decide to meet up around lunch at one of the middle-of-the-day spots we have in GMU 23, which we call “the log.”
All of us were hunting with rifles, except Brian. He traded in his .44 Smith & Wesson for a bigger and better .460 Smith & Wesson with a Burris 2x7 scope. He was getting somewhat disgruntled carrying the monstrous boat anchor around his neck and was itching to bag an elk with it.
From “the log,” we could see into a park and partially down into a draw. After sitting around for about an hour and a half, I stood up, ready to start walking. My rifle was laying against the log, my son was picking at a pinecone to entertain his teenage boredom, and the brother-in-law was two winks from sleep (maybe not, but it sounds good).
Brian says in whispered excitement, “Cow! Cow! Cow!” I slowly turn my head and see a cow standing no more than 50 yards away, chewing, with this look on her face like “Something isn’t right here.”
Brian — having the only legitimate shot — raises his “Bigger and Better pistol” about four feet away from me and hears me say, “Man, this is going to be loud.” And it was. But the cow never took another step. It was a perfect shot.
Story and photo by Bud Lewis