Author: Crooked Arrow

Canoe trip on the Red Deer River

“On May 17 2020, a catastrophic failure of the St. Mary canal occurred in the state of Montana […] this canal diverts water into the Milk River […] greatly reduced water volume […] river levels are now insufficient for canoeing and kayaking”.

The one year that we had finally committed to canoeing a stretch of the Milk River in Southern Alberta, East of where most people paddle, there was no water. We’d been ignoring this message for a few weeks, but hours before our intended departure the flow meters on the river showed the sorry reality: we needed 18-20 m3/h, and we had 2.8. Now what?

Some quick thinking (mostly by my family), brought us to the Red Deer River. A whirlwind of Youtube videos and a phone call to our hair person’s husband later (who had done a stretch just a week earlier), and the decision was made: we’d float down the Red Deer River, from the Content Bridge to Bleriot Ferry, or a little further if we were quicker than expected. The latter stretch is mostly done in four days, but we saw a lot of leisure time and beer drinking in the videos, and we figured we could do it in three.

We ended up doing that stretch, plus some 35 bonus kilometers in exactly 48 hours; from Thursday noon till Saturday noon. The water was high; we drifted between 4 and 7 km per hour, and any paddling was extra. On average we moved a little over 7.5 km/h. The weather was perfect, not too warm, not too much wind, and though the high water limited the camping opportunities we managed to find spots along the river with some searching and perseverance. We need to do this again soon!

Moose shanks – the best cut?

When I posted a photo of a cross-cut moose shank, someone commented that it looked about as thick as the neck of a whitetail deer. I suppose that depends on where you hunt, but the shanks of a moose surely supply a few decent meals; delicious meals, if done right. Now you can grind them all into burger, but frankly, I think that’s a sin. Read on to learn my simple recipe for melt-in-your-mouth moose shank meat.

Granted, it’s not too difficult to turn the shanks into an inedible, tasteless chunk of hard rubber. The three key ingredients to beautiful, succulent shanks are:  moisture, low heat, and time. All the rest is optional, though I do not recommend skipping on some spices.

It doesn’t matter if you cut the shanks bone-in, or if you strip them and tie them into a roast, or you just process them as they come off the bone. Take the meat, dry it with some paper towel and rub it generously with course salt, pepper (black, cayenne, or chili flakes), garlic powder, smoked paprika powder, and regular paprika powder. Brown the meat (like really nicely browned) in oil in a Dutch oven, or another pot that can go into the oven.

Take out the meat, put it aside and brown a couple of onions, and a handful of chopped garlic cloves in the residual oil (or add more if necessary). Add a generous amount of chili powder and brown that along with the onions. Throw in a small can of tomato paste and brown that for a bit too.

Return the meat to the pot, throw in two (or more) bouillon cubes, and add (Key Ingredient #1) hot water (recently boiled) to the pot to cover about 80% of the meat (or more). Put the lid on and put the pot into the oven that was preheated to (Key Ingredient #2) 280 oF. Keep it in there for  7 hours (Key Ingredient #3). Have a peak after 4 hours or so. The shank muscles tend to contract and bunch up and rise above the liquid. Turn the meat over so the other side sits in liquid for the remainder of the time.

When done, the meat should be fork tender like this:

All the nasty tissue has dissolved or turned gelatinous, and the meat is soft, and flavourful.

Now, if you have time, and are so inclined, you could take the meat out, and cool the liquid in the pot. The fats will solidify so you can scoop them off. Or you can just skip that step. Depending on how thick you want your gravy and the amount of liquid you used, you may want to take a heaping table spoon of cornstarch, mix it with some of the liquid and stir it through the gravy. A few minutes of simmering will thicken it.

Serve with whatever you feel like.

Cheers!

FD

 

The Great Divide Trail – Section B-ish: The Plan

 

Hiking Section B of the Great Divide Trail; the commitment was quickly made, the plan is taking a little longer.

Somewhere along the GDT - 2013

My daughter Rianne brought it up first, and she mentioned doing it alone. Her mom volunteered my participation. And that was it. A week in July was quickly picked, working around some plans with visitors from the old country. Leave on Saturday morning, get picked up on Sunday a week later. About 200km, some 8 hiking days, 25km per day therefore; sounds doable.

Rianne has done a few mini through-hikes by herself on the island (that is Vancouver Island); four nights on coastal trails here, a loop in the mountains there, and a brutal inland trip that ended in a death march out, when, after days of rain and mud, the snow on the high trail had become more than hip-deep. She can be pretty tough when she wants to. But she’s not a big girl, and heavy packs grind her down.

My experience lies more in multi-day hunting and scouting trips. Nothing too onerous, and very few with the sustained higher mileage for longer periods of time (mountain hunting requires a lot of sitting around, using binoculars to find animals). Recent accolades include one finished 51km mountain ultra, and one 55km non-race mountain run, but I’m not a big guy, not very strong, and heavy packs grind me down too.

So we have lots to figure out before we embark on an 8-night trip, where we have to carry all supplies from the start.

Here are some topics that immediately sprang to mind:

Food:
What are we going to eat? I can eat Heather’s Choice breakfasts everyday without tiring of it, and Rianne can eat our home-dehydrated chilli pretty much every night and still want more the next day. But I’m kinda picky with dinners, and she’s very picky with breakfast, and the prospect of 8 days of bars for lunch is enough to make me nauseated.

Pack weight:
Neither of us has ever invested in super-light gear. I’ve been whittling down the amount of stuff that I take, but not to the extent that it makes a big difference. Rianne tends to take the kitchen sink, plus utensils for cleaning it, so she will be even more challenged. Just the food will probably run 15lbs per person for 9 days.

Fitness/injuries:
I will have to ramp up the strength training for sure, if I am to last nine days on the trail, carrying a big pack. I’m not worried about the cardio. I have a 32km race with over 9,000’ of elevation gain scheduled two weeks before departure, I will just about be rested up when we leave. But we will have to do a few prolonged training hikes with full packs to get at least some preparation for what lies ahead. I can only hope that all of the current aches and nags in foot, leg, back, and other parts of the body are mostly healed by then.

Rianne has a demanding day job, that cuts into her evenings and weekends, so she’ll be even more challenged to get back to her lean-tough self.

Footwear:
Normally I would grab my heavy hiking boots for any backpack trip, but I’m going to try using trail runners. Probably Hoka’s Speedgoat’s, but I’m eyeballing the new Altra Timp 2.0 as well, which has the nice wide toe box, but more cushioning than the Lone Peak’s that I use for runs. A shake-out trip will be required to see if I am willing to take that gamble.

I feel we are pretty good on all the rest. We’ve been on backcountry trips before, both alone and together. We know what to expect, the only surprises (hopefully) will be the beautiful views. I’ve been to one little piece of the trail in the past, a gorgeous spot, where my friend saw a wolverine a week after we were there together.


Flowers along the GDT - 2013

Ah, why Section B-ish? Well, we don’t know exactly where the start is, but it looks like a part of it may be on a road, about 10km or so, so we’ll drive that, and start where the road ends. And we have our eyes on a little detour towards the end, where it appears that the trail follows a forest road for long stretches. A well-chosen left turn will bring us to Cadorna Lake, and beyond that Coral Pass, before descending underneath a few glaciers to get to the finish line. Sounds a lot more attractive than slogging on a road.

And that’s the plan. Stay tuned for updates on the preparation.

Rockwall Trail – Kootenay National Park

After the Elk Valley Ultra was completed, inside my personal time goal, and therefore could be considered a success, I could not wait to do it again, and prove to myself that it wasn’t a fluke, that I really was an “ultrarunner”. One could argue that doing a little over 50K doesn’t look all that “ultra” given that a regular marathon is 42K, but generally those don’t climb over 9,000 feet in the process. So it felt pretty ultra to me.

I had my eye on a loop in Banff National Park, which appeared to be a little over 60K at first glance, but studying a paper map instead of the tiny screen of an iPhone app, it came out closer to 75K. Perhaps a little too ambitious. I decided on the Rockwall Trail in Kootenay National Park, a 55+K trail that crosses over 3 or 4 mountain passes, rivaling in elevation gain the Elk Valley Ultra.

Four weeks after the Elk Valley experience we drove into BC with two cars. Rockwall trail is not a loop, you end up about 13km from where you started, so you either hitch hike, or arrange a drop. My daughter was shanghaied into coming out early. She would do a part of the trail, taking the dogs, and drive home when done.

We started at the Floe Lake trailhead around 8:20AM. Right off the parking lot we dropped down to a bridge across the Kootenay River. A small group of runners was getting ready, but we were gone before they got organized. After crossing, I said goodbye to my daughter and the mutts and started a slow jog up a meandering trail that ran through a giant burn. Walking the steeper bits, jogging where I could, I made decent time, passing a few hikers, meeting some backpackers on their way out, and hearing for the first time about a group of runners ahead of me.

The last few kilometers up to Floe Lake were steep! No running here for me, just grind uphill. Weather was good, legs still felt OK, scenery was great. Floe Lake was rather bleak-looking, bordered by towering grey rock, jutting into a now overcast sky, a stark contrast from the lush, green, sun-filled valley below.

From Floe Lake it is less than 3K to the first pass of the day: Numa Pass. A short section of alpine meadows takes you to the scree-filled pass, after which you drop down quickly back into the trees. It had taken me about 2 hours and 40 minutes to reach Numa Pass; hard to imagine that there was still a marathon left to do.

After bottoming out, the next climb loomed: 5K up to Tumbling Pass. A large part of this trail run through willows and alder bush, at least 10 feet tall, restricting any kind of view other than a few glimpses. It’s just grind-grind-grind, until the terrain finally opens up, and you reach the pass, which is a little friendlier than Numa, with stunted trees and grassy patches. Good spot for lunch, if you are the lunch-having kind. Roughly 26K done, and 5 hours in, there still was about 30K to go. The view of the trail ahead was part exhilarating and part daunting.

The descent to Tumbling Creek took me through a larch forest, from which there were glimpses of the next obstacle: Rockwall Pass. Just before the Tumbling Creek campground I chatted briefly with a guy who was curious if we were “all” training for an upcoming race, and he mentioned the other group of runners, still ahead of me.

A much shorter climb brought on the Rockwall Pass area. Hugely open, alpine meadows, marmots, views, wide trail, a fellow could feel mighty good about himself having made it up here, and I did.

Rockwall Pass was glorious. After the high point the trail dropped down to a small lake, and a great view of the rock that gave the pass its name. About 35K in, 7 hours after leaving the trailhead, it started to drizzle. A short climb through flowery meadows took me up to the last view point of any significance of the day. Looking back to the Rockwall area certainly was a sight to remember.

After a brief chat with two backpackers, I started the long descent to the Paint Pots trailhead, where I had left the truck. The steady rain quickly turned the trail into mud, the larch forest that I crossed looked gloomy. Hard to fathom there were still over 18K to go. I was starting to feel worn out, and my feet were hurting. Where four weeks ago I found a second wind, there was no wind to be found in the body this time.

The next seven or eight kilometers I went too fast for the way I was feeling. I glanced at Helmet Falls, but couldn’t find the strength to take a side trip for a closer look. Somewhere past the campground I caught a glimpse of something moving up ahead on the trail, and with still about 10K to go I came up behind a young couple, who had started before me. They asked for a ride back to the Floe Lake trailhead, should we arrive at Paint Pots together.

For the next two hours we kept exchanging the lead. I tried to create some distance, but I was pretty much spent. With the rain now relentless, it became a mud slug, alternating between walking and running, with hardly a view to lift the spirit. The green, gloomy tunnel went on forever it seemed, but just as it all seemed to become a little too much, the ground turned a dark orange. I made it to the Paint Pots, and so had my on-and-off running partners.

The Coros watch app reminds me I took 10 hours, 42 minutes and 19 seconds to cover the 55.4K, climbing some 8,700 feet in the process. The other guys took 12 hours. Like for me, it was only their second time covering a distance longer than 50K. They were very happy with the ride back to their vehicle, I was happy to be able to help them. I always thought heated seats were for sissies, but I think I kept the heat cranked high all the way home, to sooth the aching muscles.

If I were to do this trail again, I’d start at Paint Pots, and get the less-inspiring bit in the trees done first.

FD

More moose hunting (Part 2)

Sunrise found me slipping through the willows and alders on the East side of the valley, staying out of sight, while glassing the opposite slopes. This was the last day of the trip. I was putting everything on red and decided to concentrate all efforts on one little area where we had seen a lot of moose, and the scene of our first close encounter (see “Your mother mated a donkey!”). Once I had climbed high enough, it didn’t take long to spot three moose in the aspens above the bottom meadow. It took a while longer to confirm that one was a bull; a small one, but a small bull tastes better than no bull.

The prevailing winds were doing their usual: swirl, switch, stop, and then gust, change direction, and then do it all over again. An approach from the bottom seemed ill-advised, so with a climb, a ridge walk and a short descent, I was across from the moose, about 200 yards away. The bull was small indeed, maybe on his second set of antlers, one of which he broke off, leaving a stub. With the above assessment about the taste of bulls in mind, I tried some cow calling. No reaction. Against better judgement I did some half-hearted raking, which made the little guy take off. So much for that plan.

But wait, there were still three moose in that cover. Must have missed one from afar. A medium-sized bull appeared, maybe 40″ in spread. Surely this one would be in for some sparring. More cow calling, more grunting and raking, trying to create a scene worthy of investigation. I don’t think he even blinked. I skirted the edges of various thickets to see if there was a way I could get closer. One hundred and eighty yards to their cover was about the best I could find.

That lone pine tree was not big enough to block the view of both the cow and bull moose that were bedded in the aspens behind, so I abandoned the idea of crawling closer along this route.

After picking up my pack that I had dropped on the first approach, ingestion of some food and water, and more fruitless calling sessions, and with this being the last day, I decided the situation required some courage on my part. The moose had bedded down, facing downhill (no approach), with the unpredictable wind mostly in their backs. The only way to get near was to cross the 180 yards of open hillside.

Two-step, glass, two-step, glass, move when the wind covers the noise, with their noses and ears out of the equation I only need to fool their eyes. When I started the stalk I couldn’t see any of the moose. About halfway through I spotted the cow. So I moved uphill, as I had seen the bull bed above her. About 50 yards from cover I spotted two moose: the bull another 50 yards into cover, and the calf in front of him but much closer to the edge.

After a lifetime of weighing options, I figured closer was the only way, keeping the trunks of two six-inch aspen trees between me and the bull’s eyes. I could see antlers sticking out left and right, but I could not see his eyes. Half an hour later I was 20 yards from cover, when the calf got up to feed. The stage was set, I couldn’t move now, so I settled in and hoped the bull would get up too at some point and feed the edges. A small chance, but a chance anyway.

Twenty yards from the cover where the bull was moving back and forth without presenting a shot.

Fast forward 90 minutes.  The calf had been within 30 yards but fed back into cover. The bull had been at 50 yards at best, but had now turned around and was feeding away. Six hours into this endeavour, I figured one more all-in gamble couldn’t hurt. I flattened out behind 6″ tall grass, and grunted. The bull stopped. Another grunt. He turned. This was going well! One more.

The bull was not buying it. He turned and walked away. A cow call then. He started trotting uphill! The cowardly bastard (or just a very smart bastard) was having nothing of it; he left his cow and her off-spring to face whatever was making those noises.

A little defeated but full of excitement of having spent so much time so close I hiked out, and drove back to camp to pack up. One more evening stalk around another ridge didn’t produce any moose, but a whitetail doe and her fawn dropped by to say hello as I was still hunting through the trees underneath the crest. They could just not figure out what I was. Wearing a plaid shirt for camo works.

The next day another snow storm pounded the hills. Prospects of finding a bull within longbow range are diminishing, as the rut winds down, but hopefully I can squeeze in a few more days before rifle season starts.

FD

More moose hunting (Part 1)

After our close encounter with the rutting moose, which honestly, had I possessed a little more experience, skill, confidence, and/or killer instinct would have resulted in a dead moose, meat on the table, and set of antlers too big to conveniently put on anywhere in my house, Kyle and I were eager to get going again. A record snowfall and work obligations kept us away till Thursday night. I managed to arrive with plenty light, finding the campground covered with wet, melting snow, the kind that gums up your tires (especially if you opted to put on the ones with less-aggressive tread, so you have a more cushioned drive on the roads). I paid for that desire for comfort instantly, as the truck slid off the gravel pad, into a foot of snow. Subsequent over-zealous application of the gas pedal, and city-driving skills got me out of the predicament, but not without ever so lightly clipping the little post that holds the camping permit, resulting in a busted tail light and bumper corner. I may have screamed and slammed some doors a little. There were no witnesses to that behaviour.

The first morning we glassed hard but could not find a bull moose. Early afternoon we tried a new property, a little further to the North, and a little higher. Reportedly teeming with moose. Perhaps it does; we never found out. After battling waist-deep snow for an hour, and not even having reached the ridge behind which said moose would be teeming, we decided that we really wanted no part of having to haul hundreds of pounds of meat that far.

Back at the Plan A area, we decided to explore the next valley over, and found it equally empty, until, closer to dark, one of my wailing cow moose calls was instantly answered by a grunt! Another wail, and we could see and hear a bull come down the other side of the valley, wasting no time doing so. Excited we got ready for an encounter, but instead of coming right into our trap, the bull appeared to hang up in the willows at the bottom. Emboldened by our success with using the rake-and-shake technique last week, we hit the surrounding bushes hard with the elk shoulder blade, and ended it all with resounding grunt. That did the trick! We could hear the bull smash bush as he approached the two-track mud slide  behind which we had set up (some would call it a trail, but that would be too much honour to bestow upon what melting snow, cow hoofs and tractor tires had made of it).

We raked some more ourselves, and after demolishing the foliage of one more willow bush, the bull emerged, looking for love and a fight. Unfortunately, as bulls do, he started to get down wind of us, and I tried to bring him around with one more wail. He froze in his tracks, 35-40 yard away, with his on-side leg stretched backwards, and slightly quartering to us. I had fingers on the string but could see a double-lung shot only if I managed to place the arrow ever so tightly behind the shoulder. A little left and I might miss the off-side lung, a little right and the arrow would have to deal with the shoulder. Since my set-up is probably on the lighter end of the spectrum for hunting moose, I declined the shot. The moose continued on his way, and never presented another opportunity.

In this video I am to the right of Kyle making the angle a little different. In retrospect, I stick with my decision to not shoot, but I think I should have either called at him later, with the intent to stop him and shoot, or, have Kyle create a ruckus with the shoulder blade, while I snuck off to my right trying to get an open shooting lane there. In which case the bull would probably have turned broadside on the road, with me not in position. What do you think? How could we have played this differently?

The next morning we went back to the same spot, and called for a bit, but no moose answered. Once we hiked over a ridge into another valley and started glassing, it didn’t take long before we saw a cow moose climb out of the bottom, followed by a fairly agitated bull. He shadowed her, cut her off, pressured her, leading to the odd distressed wail by the cow. They moved up and over rather quickly, and the one or two cow calls I produced got duly ignored.

A little later, a smaller bull appeared and seemed to be following the same invisible trail. With a nothing ventured nothing gained attitude I started sending the neediest cow calls across the valley that I could conjure up. The bull was probably half a mile away, but once the sounds reached him he stopped and turned. A few more calls and he hesitantly started moving down hill. Two more, and he was running! Not counting on this success, we had to run too, to reach some cover, once the bull’s line of sight was blocked by a stand of poplars. We set up with arrow nocked, shoulder blade at the ready, and hopes high.

The bull never revealed himself. We don’t know what happened, or where he went. In the afternoon we spotted one other hunter below us and a small bull that we tried to intercept, but his long legs propelled him much faster and with seemingly a lot less effort than our stubby legs could bring us to the edge of cover from where we’d hoped to call him in.

On Sunday we hunted another property, saw lots of moose sign, and found a cow and two calves bedded under some aspens. Once they noticed us, they looked at us for the longest time before moving off down into the timber. Unfortunately we found no  bull moose there. Kyle had to return to work in the morning, so he left after the evening’s hunt, allowing me all the living space in the tent, which I utilized by putting up a chair close to the heater, and reading Adam Shoalts’ latest book “Beyond the Trees” on his travels in Arctic Canada.

Read on: More moose hunting (Part 2)

“Your mother mated a donkey!”

After 12 years of accumulating priority points, I finally drew a bull moose tag in an area South of here, consisting of a mixture of private ranches, grazing leases and crown land. Here is the account of our first attempt outsmarting a moose.

 

Back from a short moose hunt. Kyle (whose trailer we were using) fell rather ill with a cold/flu, and he’d have more fun on his couch while his wife brought him cold beverages and cough syrup, than lying in his sleeping bag, wondering if I was finding any big bulls.

The first night, with Kyle still semi-spiffy, we saw a few moose, nothing particularly big (I’m not opposed to shooting a small one), and didn’t really have time to make a play on any of them. This is ranching country in the foothills. Rolling hills covered with mostly aspen and some evergreens, with willows in the bottoms, where oftentimes there is a trickle of water, augmented by beaver, or turned to mud by cattle. Elk, moose, mule deer and whitetail, coyotes, some bears, cougars inhabit these hills. You can spot animals a long way off at times,and light may not permit an approach that same day.

In the morning, we bumped a sizeable bull right before first light. Rookie mistake, and the bull acted like we were rookies too, only reluctantly leaving his favourite browsing bush. But the cow he was keeping company left, therefore so did he. I checked my watch: 9 min before legal. Would have been a hell of a trick shot with so little light.

We made two attempts to call in bulls with love songs. It didn’t work. After a quick dash to the trailer for coffee and lunch, we were back in business, this time headed towards a sizeable clump of willows across from a decent mixed aspen/pine grove, separated by a secluded little meadow, all situated above a little creek. A little piece of moose heaven.

A decent rain shower has doused us on the way in, and we were standing there dripping, wondering about where to set up to watch proceedings, when suddenly we heard a bull grunt, and not too far off either. With hoods over the ears, we had trouble locating the direction at first. Then I saw an antler flash above the willows, heard more grunts, and the breaking of branches. He came in with attitude and was not 100 yards away.

Caught with our pants down, even though all layers of pants were firmly belted up, we scrambled. I pulled the cover off the arrows, removed gloves, dug for my tab, grabbed an arrow; Kyle pulled the elk shoulder blade from the back of my pack. While I threw the first insults at the bull (“Your mother mated a donkey!”), Kyle started demolishing an innocent willow shrub.

The bull needed little encouragement. More ruckus emerged from the willows, grunting, thrashing, breaking. We needed more visibility, he’d be in our lap in ten seconds! As we moved, the noise moved too it seems, and I told the bull some more of my thoughts (“Your girlfriend would rather have sex with a skunk!”). We broke through to the meadow, peeked ahead, and there he was.

This was like the Jim Shockey hunting show, only much faster. We didn’t have time to retreat or move as he already had his eyes fixed on us and came in swaying his head, ready to dole out some painful lessons to whomever said those things about his mama and his fiancée. Within seconds he was level with our position. Thirty yards, perfect distance, still slightly quartering towards, I moved to start the draw.

As if stuck by lightning, the bull stopped, looked me in the eye, and whirled. No chance for a shot. How the hell? After a few quick strides the bull slowed down, and retreated in the the aspens across the meadow, 80 yards out. We tried a mixtures of calls, but he would no longer respond. Ever so slowly he withdrew until we no longer saw him. Later that night we saw him again, now in the company of two cows, followed by a young bull, which he regularly drove away.

Fast forward to then next morning. Kyle being a little feverish, I went out alone, and quickly spotted a decent bull at the bottom, feeding on a willow. He was unapproachable, but perhaps he would respond to calls. At first, once I had reached the edge of cover, I thought he had vanished, but not much later the moaning of a moose cow drew my attention to a scene of sexual harassment, in a clearing between to bright-yellow aspen groves.

Once the bull figured out that his lady was not going to give it up any time soon, everybody went back to feeding. With an attitude of “death or glory” I hurried back down valley, crossed the treeless bottom out of sight, hopped the creek amidst the willows, and cruised up the opposite slope until I was just about level with, but still 400 yards from the moose. A slow approach brought me 30 feet from the edge of the last trees, with the moose suspected to be feeding right around the corner.

“Right around” could be anything from a long longbow shot, to not-in-this-lifetime number of yards. So the plan was to challenge the bull from here, lure him past the last trees, which would give me a 15-35 yard shot. All doable.

“I have seen street dogs in the slumps of India that had fewer fleas than you!” I yelled at the bull, following by some semi-impressive whacks of the elk shoulder blade. He must have taken that personally because he screamed something back that I didn’t quite catch, and he took it out on an unsuspecting bush near him. “Barbara Streisand’s nose looks better than that of your lady!” More grunting and raking. He grunted, I grunted, I raked, he raked. Grunt, rake, grunt, rake, together we created quite the spectacle.

But it didn’t last. The wind had been iffy all morning, and I think a swirl must have reached his nose, or his girlfriend felt insulted and was leaving or he just got fed up with it. Clearly he didn’t feel the need to come investigate. I tried closing in while grunting, but it was over.

The snow started falling, mostly wet, and the weekend forecast was for many inches of the white stuff. On the way out I picked up an impressive shed. Finding Kyle looking even worse upon my return, we decided to retreat. I will be back in the fight this Wednesday.

Read on: More moose hunting (Part 1)

Opening Day Blues

In a rare contribution from Kyle Steed we can read about his opening day, chasing big (and small... any size really) mule deer bucks in Southern Alberta. I'm surprised he did not smash his bow into a fence post.

Seven years ago when I started drawing for mule deer I had no intentions of bow hunting, much less with a recurve. I’ve held this tag 3 times before and shot decent bucks and the zone has potential for some big deer, but to get a deer with my bow has become somewhat of an obsession lately and size doesn’t seem to matter now. Opening day was coming soon and Frans was going to be busy scouting for his moose tag, so I got a hold of my buddy Derick Heggie and he was more then happy to come along. He’s recently started in archery hunting as well with a compound and was bringing his bow along too, in case we happened across any does; you can buy a general archery doe tag in this zone.

The day started early at 6:00 and it took about 45 minutes to get to our hunting area. Arriving at first light we started hiking in and the first coulee was only a few hundred yards from the truck. Right away we spotted a nice 4 point buck still in velvet feeding away from us up the opposite side. We made a plan and I started to head over for a stalk. Things went well and the wind cooperated and I got to within about 25 yards. I could see the deer’s rack just below me and I crouched down in the tall grass.

Then wind shifted slightly and suddenly I could see the deer’s horns turn towards me. I sat still and after what seemed like eternity he slowly lowered his head, and I thought he started to feed. I raised up to try and get a better look but couldn’t see him. Suddenly a quick snort to my right and he was gone. He’d circled around and winded me. Oh well I thouhgt, plenty of day left. We continued hiking and uncharacteristic of this area the wind was now blowing out of the north, but the deer started to bed like usual as if the predominate west wind was blowing, making for some great stalking opportunities.

We spot a deer moving slowly near the bottom of a draw and we quickly hustle over to try and intercept. Somehow in the 30 seconds he completely disappears but Derick quickly finds two bucks bedded right below the top edge of a coulee. So I stalk again. With the wind blowing out of the north I can come right down on this deer. I walk in probably faster then I should have but it’s working. I follow Dericks hand signals and get lined up on the right hill. Slowly I start crawling closer to the edge. Right as I get there I see his horns, I range it and he’s 11 yards away! I can hardly believe it! I’ve never been able to stalk a deer this close before. I sit and wait. Problem is most 4 year olds have a longer attention span then I do and I can’t just sit here and wait for him.  [Edit FD: this is no lie] So I signal to Derrick to move over. Hoping that the deer will see him and stand up to look at him and give me a shot. Derick starts to move and after about 2 minutes the deer decides that’s close enough. He gets up and at the same I start to get up and draw. Just as I do my arrow falls off my rest and subsequently off my string! I can’t believe it, the deer suddenly sees me and whirls away before I can even gather my arrow. A perfect opportunity and I just made a rookie mistake.

I was so mad I fell over backwards and just laid there thinking that was my chance and I blew it. I eventually pull myself together and hike over to meet with Derick. He tries to be supportive saying things like if you shot a real bow instead of a recurve that probably would’ve been a dead deer. It’s hard not to agree with him. We eat a quick snack and take a break to evaluate where to go next as it’s getting close to mid day and heating up quick. We continue hiking south towards the top of the ridge and spot another couple bucks feeding on a side hill. We’re really exposed and there is no good way to get at them. We wait till they turn away and make a quick dash to get over unseen. It doesn’t work of course and they decide to leave. Derick once again somehow spots another deer bedded just below a ridge line and this is a big deer! I’m pretty excited and start making my way over. On the way I pinch the ends of my nock and make sure it clicks in tight on my string. The wind is perfect and I’m able to get right in on this deer again. This time I decide I’m gonna wait it out. Five minutes later I’m looking around for a rock to throw and think to myself, why not. I throw the rock and stand up and draw immediately. The deer stands at the same time and gives me a great quartering shot. I release my grip on the string and let the arrow fly.

A few things happen. My arrow doesn’t even go close to the intended target and my left hand is hurting. I look and my string has come almost completely off my limbs and pinned my hand to the riser. I pull my string of the limbs and can’t believe what’s happened. Last year at this same time Frans and I were bowhunting mulies in another area and my limbs had warped and did the same thing that just happened now, but I had sent them back and the bowyer had fixed them. And I had shot this limbs all spring and summer with no issues so I figured it probably somehow hit my bino harness and that’s what caused it to come off.

Of course I wasn’t anticipating any problems so I didn’t bring my stringer with me. So we hiked out and headed home. Once at home I strung the bow up and went outside to shoot. I would draw back then slowly let the tension off and watched the top of my limb. The string wasn’t coming down where it was supposed to and I was sure it was twisted. Only one way to tell so I drew back and let an arrow fly. String stayed on. Hmm ok maybe we’re good. I shoot 5 more and nothing. Great let’s go, string probably just hit my binos and that’s what caused it. We head back out and right away have another great stalk under 20 yards but no shot. Getting close to the end of the day and we’ve hiked just over 15km at this point so we decide to start making our way back. As we’re walking suddenly a badger pokes its head up less then 5 yards in front of us. I’d love to get a badger with my bow so I take a shot. Arrow misses and string is off again!! Crap I forgot to take my bino harness off and it happened again.

We start hiking again and now we spot a great buck a few hundred yards away feeding up the side of a hill. We quickly hike over to the adjacent hill and make a plan for an ambush. This time I drop my pack and bino harness and start heading over. I find myself quickly at the edge of the coulee in some sage brush no taller then about a foot and a half and that’s as far as I can go. So I sit and this time I really am going to wait. I’m waiting and starting to get worried because the wind is nearly blowing at my back and I’m worried I’ll get winded. But then a few minutes later I can hear him feeding just below me. I’m not sure how far so I wait for a signal from Derick. After a few minutes he gives me the signal to get up. I stand up slowly and see he’s facing away from me about 15 yards away! I’m standing at the ready waiting for him to turn. Slowly he turns and is still unaware that I’m there. I draw, and go through my shot sequence in my mind. I pick my spot and release. The arrow flies way off and there’s the all to familiar pain in my left hand again. The deer bounds off and this time I’m so mad I throw my bow on the ground. It wasn’t my bino harness, my limbs are twisted again. Derick comes over and we gather everything up and start the long walk back.

It is disappointing that there was an issue with the equipment but all we can talk about was how amazing that day was. We’ve never had so many stalks work out so perfectly. It gives us hope for the next time. When I got home that night I emailed my bowyer and he’s in the process of making new limbs. I have a spare set of 45# limbs I’ll use in the meantime. While I think that I could’ve killed any of those deer easily with the compound, I still have no desire to switch. I’ll master this trad bow game soon enough and can’t wait to have my hands on my first deer.

KS

Chasing Ultra – Part II

The official course stats:

LEG 1: 20.5KM // 1,480M VERT

LEG 2: 16.5KM // 720M VERT

LEG 3A: 6KM // 125M VERT

LEG 3B: 7KM // 475M VERT

TOTAL: 50KM // 2800M VERT

I think these numbers are to be taken as indicative rather than absolute. My GPS watch logged 51.7KM and a little under 2800M.
Elk Valley Ultra
Three forty five in the morning came way too soon. Sleep had come surprisingly easy. I drank a tall glass of electrolyte mix, put the coffee on, and hopped in the shower. Breakfast consisted of a couple of home-made muffins, and a small yoghurt. Taping up various body parts, filling water bottles, double checking the race vest and lacing up the runners took up the rest of the time till five.
I found a parking spot not too far from the starting area, placed the drop bags into the vehicles that would take them to the aid stations, and waited for my wife and daughter to arrive. It was a chilly morning, and not many of the racers had arrived yet.
As I jogged towards the outhouse at the other side of the parking lot, I felt the adductor muscles in my left leg tighten up. That was one of the nags that I had not been able to get rid of since the last long run, and now it was giving me a painful reminder. Apart from that, I was feeling vaguely confident. Confidence stemming from ignorance probably. “Start slowly” I kept repeating to myself. With more areas in my legs hurting than I have fingers on one hand, this might be easier to accomplish than I had imagined.
The start signal was a very unassuming “3-2-1-off you go”. Some two hundred runners crossed the line and turned right onto the gravel path along the Elk River. Two and half kilometers later a good number of them had passed me. I was sticking to a leisurely pace, worried about my ever tightening groin muscle. If I could make it to where the climb started I might be OK. Some 7 or 8 km or non-runnable climbing awaited, lots of time for the body to warm up and get ready for a faster pace later.
As soon as we turned up the single track mountain trail, the pace was determined by whomever was leading the conga line up. Somewhere up ahead would be the fast starters, not burdened by the mass of runners behind them. We weren’t going up very rapidly, but I tried to embrace it as the slow start I told myself I needed. From time to time someone would step out of the line to take a breather. Not many were behind me. One rather heavy-set individual was breathing with an intensity not fitting the climb. I have to doubt he made it through the whole run.
About 2/3 up the climb the terrain got a little technical and people ahead of me in the conga line started having trouble. Now I was getting concerned about the delays and the slow pace, especially since we were in terrain where I was most at home. I couldn’t take it any longer, and with a few “Would you mind if I pass?” and some quick scrambles, I moved passed the bottle necks and fell into a quicker pace.
It still was a decent grind until the trail topped out, but the trees had all but vanished, the air was clear, it wasn’t too hot yet, and the grade didn’t phase me. Around 2 1/2 hours in I stood at Windy Pass, cheered on by a small crowd. Well, only four people really, but given that they probably also had to hike 2 1/2 hours or more to get there, I was impressed. In the weeks leading up to the event I had been telling everybody that wanted to hear that I would want to take three hours to do the initial climb, and that two and a half would be too fast. But I felt good, and started the long descent.
It felt long indeed, going down seemingly endless single track. Towards the bottom the pine trees gave way to beautiful old growth forest, and then just like that a cow bell sounded, and cheers erupted, and I found myself greeted by my daughter at the first aid station. She made sure I found the drop bag, filled up the hydration pack, and took some pictures. Right around four and a half hours I jumped back on the trail, a half hour ahead of my self-imposed schedule, in good spirits. And the groin pain had gone!
The first section of the second leg ran in between the creek and the road. Nice grass, flat dirt trail, easy to make good progress. Once the trail crossed back across the road, where my daughter cheered some more and took more pictures, the climbing started again. It would continue for quite some time, relentlessly going up on mountain bike trails and washed-out cutlines. I felt strong, and managed to overtake a few runners, without getting passed myself. In retrospect I figure I was at the tail end of the middle-of-the-pack.
The downhill was again a grind, and by now things started to hurt. I had to walk regularly now to let some knee pain subside before continuing the push. The second aid station was a welcome sight. Both my daughter and wife were there for moral support.
I ate a banana, by now the bacon-peanut butter wraps had become very unappealing, and drank the ginger ale, My daughter again refilled the bladder and added ice cubes, which was wonderfully cool on my back during the next section. I changed out of the Altra Lone Peaks and into the Hoka Speedgoats. My feet were feeling really flat and tired, and I hoped that the extra cushioning of the Hoka’s was going to help me keep a decent pace.
I don’t really remember leg 3a, only the friendly lady cheering my up the small hill back to the aid station, and meeting back up with my crew. I really didn’t need anything, other than some encouraging words. I looked better than some of the people that came through before me, who were cursing out loud the climb they had just done, so I was told.
A glance at my watch showed that I was eight hours and some forty five minutes in. Seven and a half-ish kilometer to go, and almost 500 meters of climbing. Suddenly I realized that the sub-ten hour goal was still achievable. Sent off with some stern words from my wife to not overdo it, I hobbled back across a parking lot and onto the mountain bike trails. The climb was steady, but not steep. I still felt strong going uphill, so I managed to jog some good sections. When I’m hurting I like to fall into a pattern. Count 60 double-steps running followed by 30 walking; back to sixty running, etcetera. The kilometers ticked off swiftly, and the time looked good. But there was still a lot of downhill to get through.
The downhill was painful. I had passed a runner on the uphill, who came barrelling by me not too long before I finally made it back to the river. The final few kilometers I exchanged places with a female runner that I had ran behind for a while on the first descent. We were both struggling to maintain a good pace, but once across the bridge and in the home stretch we managed to encourage each other that a sub-ten finish was still possible. I watched the kilometer counter go past 51km, and the time creep towards the ten hour mark. How long was this race anyway? No more walking breaks now, just grind grind grind along the river-side gravel path. Finally my daughter appeared from around the bend. The finish had to be really close!
With five minutes to go till the 10-hour mark I could relax. I chatted a bit with my daughter during the final few hundred meters, and managed to cross the finish line in a blistering 9 hours 57 minutes and 53 seconds!
I collected my medal, my free beer (Fernie Brewing Company Brown Ale), and a meal of pulled pork, beans and a salad, which mostly my daughter ate. One thing I had looked forward to was a dunk in the Elk River, but the water level was high, the current strong, and my feet too much in pain to move to a shallower spot across the rocky river bottom. I opted for a quick dash to the room for a shower, a snack and more fluids.
We were back at the finish area in time to witness the last two finishers come in minutes before the 13 hour cut-off and later one final runner about 30 minutes or so after. It was a great atmosphere, despite the thunderstorms and rain showers.
All in all this was a fantastic event, which I fear has unleashed the beast. I can’t wait to do it again.

Chasing Ultra – Part I

“With your knees you should probably not be running”
The memory of the last time I ran a foot race has sunk so deep into the recesses of my brain, that the synapses connecting to it have long died off. I suspect it was in high school. Some Phys Ed teacher probably staged a running contest, or had us run around the soccer field, keeping track of who did the most loops. I’m sure it wasn’t me.
I ran a bit, on and off, here and there, but never liked it. It was hard, and it was hard on the knees. Too many squats during my university days, when six times a week I started off the day with a two to three hour gym session, before hitting the books. I ran on the beach, during lunch breaks at my first job, but not frequently. I didn’t run for a decade and a half after that. I tried again a few years ago, and worked up to a 10K, before the knees started acting up again. “With your knees you should probably not be running”, said the physiotherapist.
How I became aware that there was such a thing as an ultra-marathon, I don’t remember; and how I came to believe that I really needed to run one is a mystery. Being close to some amazing athletes during my biathlon days had changed my perspective on training. It only took a few decades for me to finally realize that there is a whole world of training out there beyond the 20 min mark. One of my former team mates, and later two up and comers in the Canadian biathlon world ran the Canmore Quad, a 50+ km, 15,500 feet underground ultrarunning challenge involving four mountains. I was beyond intrigued.
Then last year I just started running. And reading. Soon I found “Born to Run”. I devoured that book, barely able to put it down. I believed everything, because I wanted it to be true. Anybody can run dozens of kilometers through the mountains. Just proper technique and training. I got religious about toe striking, and started adding the miles. Eleven miles was the first mountain “run”, still in hiking boots. Bought runners, and shredded their soles on Grotto Mountain. Also duly blackened a toe nail on that descent. Soon I did a 19 mile run, including crossing the Elbow river. Running with wet feet is what ultrarunners do; I saw that on Youtube.
Rae Creek Hills – July 8, 2018. All is still well here.
One unhappy Saturday in July things took a turn. I had a big run: 22 miles and 7,000 feet of elevation gain, with some serious off-trail terrain (shredded the warranty-replacement runners’ soles on that trip). At some point if felt a sting in my back, but it went away. I forgot to mention that two years earlier I had received cortisone injections in my back to treat some joint issues. I finished the day, and felt OK. Until the next morning. Something was wrong. I could barely get out of bed, couldn’t stand, sit or walk. More injections, pills, and two weeks of agony ensued. I was done running.
 
Charlie – who could outrun the wind – having a cool down on a hot day in the mountains. I still miss him dearly.
A month later I bought a mountain bike, and before the fall weather hit I rode my first 100K. But mountain biking isn’t running. It doesn’t have the same freedom. And I still had a pair of barely used new runners, as the second warranty-replacement pair, a different brand this time. By Christmas I was doing short jogs again.
The back hurt, there was no denying. I was doing short 5K “runs”, and whatever was wrong with my bones made me pay every time. I have an extra tailbone, one rogue joint that refused to fuse with his buddies as he was supposed to, and some extra lateral bone growth coming off of it that joined up with the hip bone. That discovery explained the decades of stiffness on that side. But now that contact area is showing some “pseudo-arthritis” – I think it is called that anyway – and that was causing the pain.
Over Christmas I tested myself by running Prairie Mountain, or its equivalent on the hill behind the house) for twelve days in a row. I managed better than expected. (Twelve days of Prairie Mountain)
Then one day I bumped into a friend on the hill. We chatted a bit, and he mentioned a 50km race his wife had done the year before. Not just any 50km, but 50km including 2800m of elevation gain (and loss) in a big loop around Mount Fernie, and adjacent lower hills: the Elk Valley Ultra (Elk Valley Ultra) That sounded like me! Less running on flat terrain, more hiking and climbing, technical terrain, all things that I figured would work in my favour.
But my back still hurt during every run. I consulted with my chiropractor, who had discovered my back problem initially, and asked him if by running I would do more harm. He said no.
I signed up. And I started running. I made a schedule, I had time. Ten percent distance increase per week in for the long run; building in two rest weeks to give the aging body time to catch up to an ambitious mind.
The miracle was happening. As the weeks progressed, the moment that my back would start to protest would come later and later. My schedule had me do a long run of 40K two weeks from the race, and then taper down. A smart gradual increase in mileage, so the body had time to adjust. But I lost faith. I just had to prove to myself sooner that I could a distance like that. I started pushing the long runs, and ended up doing my first run past the marathon distance about 8 weeks before race day.
My body protested. I developed a nagging pain in my left foot. I had no choice but to tone it down a notch or two. As a result I did not do a long run over 12K in a month. The pain decreased but did not go away. With four weeks to go, it was time to gamble. I did a 21K run the one week, and a pretty gnarly 36K run with 1800m of climbing across an exposed ridge the week after.
After three more shorter runs suggested by a taper schedule I found on the net, and struggling through those, I pulled the emergency break. The long run had taken too much out of me, and too many body parts were aching. I needed rest bad, and probably more than I had time left. It wasn’t until Thursday before the race that I started feeling a little better; still too many nagging aches and tight muscles to be confident about a good outcome. But time was up. Time to leave for Fernie.