In the second installment of her family hunting camp stories, TRCP’s energy policy advisor McKay Fleck shares how the history of hunting camp expands with every shared season
It had been six years since my dad and brother came deer hunting with me in Wyoming, and the itch for another family hunting trip needed to be scratched. We decided to go for elk this time, so we needed to make sure that my family had their cow elk tags well in advance. Luckily, they drew, and the hunt was planned. But it wouldn’t just be the three of us this time. My partner, Irah, and his father would be in camp with us.
Irah also has a 10×12 foot wall tent with a wood stove, similar to the one we bought in 2018. As fate would have it, the tents fit together perfectly and could be conjoined by the awning that tied to my wall tent. Our camp was growing.

We chose a campsite on BLM land close to the end of the road. Because of the type of tags my dad and brother had drawn, they were only able to hunt “off forest service land.” We did not have access to hunt on the patchwork of private land that checkers the mountain, so they were relegated to hunting opportunities on BLM and state trust land.
My dad arrived a few days earlier than my brother, giving us time to finish setting up camp and allowing my dad to acclimate to the altitude. We hunted from the house for a few days until my partner and his dad could join us on the mountain.
Unlike our first hunting camp in Wyoming, it was unseasonably warm and dry. Wildfires had burned over half a million acres in Wyoming by hunting season, and there was a fire ban preventing us from evening campfires. We made do with propane heaters at night and hunted in t-shirts during the day.
Dad filled the first tag with a cow elk, and when my brother arrived at camp the next night, he was happy to see that we had already been successful. Packing the same rifle we had all hunted with in 2018, he was eager to head to the mountain the next day. It was going to be quite a hike: two miles along an easement through private land, bushwhacking up a steep slope, skirting the face of a cliff, and scrambling up a scree field just to stay on BLM land to reach a place that sometimes holds elk.
The elk weren’t there.
That evening in camp, with all five of us crammed around the propane heater of the wall-tent, we brainstormed strategies for the next day. Over our steaming bowls of chili, we cussed and discussed our options. My brother was surprisingly optimistic after the 12-mile hike, and our dad volunteered to take him on an easier hunt the next day. Irah and I would hunt on Forest Service land where our tags were legal. We squeezed past each other in the tent as we packed our lunches for the next day. It was crowded, but comfortable, as we filled it with new memories.

Because of the unusually hot and dry weather, tracks littered the pine needle duff of the forest, refusing to decay under the parched conditions. The tracks were unbothered by moisture, so it was difficult to identify a track as fresh or weeks old. Irritation grew as Irah and I followed spur trails that at first looked so promising, only to wither into obscurity. Combine our hunting frustration with being hungry and tired, and we were both ready to abandon the mission by noon.
We were walking back to the truck when I saw a pile of big, black nuggets shining in the duff.
“Poop!” I whispered excitedly to Irah as he walked around me.
“That’s the freshest thing we’ve seen all day,” he said as he continued walking.
“There could be a bull close by! We need to slow down!” All my weariness had dissipated with the possibility of elk.
“Well, good thing he’s headed back to the truck, because that’s where I’m going!” Irah said, not bothering to whisper.
Suddenly, he dropped to one knee and brought up his rifle. I dropped, too, not sure what he was seeing. I heard the crash of an elk running through the timber and we both ran for a short distance, listening for which direction it had gone.
Hunting isn’t just a hobby in our family. It pervades generations, providing food and bonding experiences across time. The tents that keep us warm and dry, the rifles that shoot straight, and the traditions we share nourish us like the meat from the animals we harvest.
“That was a big bull! All I saw was his butt, and then he turned his head,” Irah said.
“Why didn’t you take a shot?”
“Because I didn’t have a good target. I wasn’t going to take an unethical shot and risk losing a wounded animal,” he explained. My partner is one of the most careful hunters I’ve ever met.
“Well, then let’s go find him!” I urged excitedly.
“No way. He’s gone. I’m tired, hungry, and there’s no way we’re going to catch him now.”
I looked Irah square in the eyes and said, “Then don’t ruin it for me.”
“I won’t.” He turned and walked away.
I wasn’t about to let someone else’s attitude impact my hunt, so I turned and started to follow the elk’s tracks.
I tracked the bull for an hour and a half. He weaved in and out of the trees, up and down slopes, stopping and doubling back on his tracks, trying to lose me. His path was erratic, winding around the forest like Christmas lights in storage. It was exhausting, but I continued to follow out of sheer curiosity.
Tracking is one of my favorite things to do in the woods. Everywhere we went, my dad and grandad pointed out the different tracks we saw from the coast to the Cascades. Even outside of season, I practice following tracks. It’s a great way to learn about animal behavior. I decided that I wouldn’t give up until he walked on private land, or it grew too dark to see.
Eventually, he led me to a bold trail that contained a multitude of elk, deer, and hunter’s tracks. I feared I would lose him amid the myriad symbols in the sand, but sporadically I would see his track, large, round, and fresh in the dirt. I felt a sense of urgency as the bull entered this trail, and I quickened my pace. I was able to travel quietly on the path, but I was also more visible. The tracks suddenly veered off the trail, and that’s when I finally saw him.
We weren’t that far off the trail when I caught up to him, standing broadside looking at me about 50 yards away through the dense lodgepole pine forest. I couldn’t see how big he was, only that he was alone and had antlers. Kneeling, I waited for the split second when I had enough of a target between the trees. When I took my opportunity, he dropped.

I met Irah back at the truck, carrying my rifle and what I could of the elk. It was about 3:30 p.m. and there was still a lot of work to do and not much daylight left. I gave Irah the coordinates for where I had left the carcass so he could finish butchering the elk while I went back to camp to get my brother.
When I rolled into camp, everyone was excited to hear that I had a bull down, but now the real work had begun. My brother grabbed his pack, I refilled my water bottles, and our dad packed us snacks to bring back to Irah. As I pulled away, I leaned out of the truck window and shouted back to my dad.
“Don’t start worrying about us until after midnight!” As if I could ever convince him to quit worrying about us for any length of time. With that, my brother and I left in a cloud of dust.
Irah already had the elk completely boned out and in game bags by the time my brother and I reached him. His mood had greatly improved since he left me in the forest, but his penance was not fully paid until we put about 100 pounds of meat in his backpack and hiked three miles to the truck. We finally arrived back at camp at 9 p.m., hungry and exhausted. Our dads had dinner on the stove and drinks poured before we could unload the game bags. We settled back under the awning of the tent like we had the night before, this time celebrating a hard-earned success. The tent was filled with stories of elk that night as my brother and partner repacked their bags for another morning hunt.
The next day we looked at the bull’s antlers in the daylight. He had a tiny devil’s point on his right side, and a small whale-tail on the left, making him an atypical 7×7.
“That’s the biggest bull anyone in our family has ever harvested,” my dad told me the next day as we drank our coffee from tin cups. He spoke from 50 years of experience hunting Roosevelt elk in the Cascade Range of Oregon.

Hunting isn’t just a hobby in our family. It pervades generations, providing food and bonding experiences across time. The tents that keep us warm and dry, the rifles that shoot straight, and the traditions we share nourish us like the meat from the animals we harvest. They all have their histories, they all contain lessons, and those lessons teach us, generation after generation.
Read Part I of this story HERE.
Photo credits: McKay Fleck
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