September Bugles
Celebrating the spirit of the West through real stories from real people.
Ryan Benson is the first of six storytellers selected to be featured in our Pendleton Whisky Campfire Stories—a special collaboration between RMEF and Pendleton Whisky. Winners receive a custom Pendleton Whisky x YETI® 45 cooler, valued at $300.Now, pour yourself a glass of Pendleton Whisky, settle in by the fire, and join Ryan as he shares the story of his unforgettable 2023 archery elk hunt.
PHOTO: Robbie DeBernardi
Campfire Storyteller: Kyle S. Lipke
I jammed my truck in park and switched off the low beams. The sun had vanished beneath the towering ridgeline, leaving behind a spectacle of pink and orange glow, the colors tinting the pinon and ponderosa around us. Meadows filled with twisted sage lay below, its strong fragrance swept to our noses by the faintest breeze. The towering mountains to the north across the state line waited to be painted with snow. I grabbed my bugle tube and leaped out of the cab, hoping to hear a roaring bull in return. Before I even pressed the plastic tube to my lips, a bull bugled, then another, then a third let out a scream of mojo that filled the lake valley below. It was the tail end of September and there was no doubt the rut was in full swing.
I motioned for my grandpa to get out of the truck so he could hear the purest form of mountain music echoing before us. Another couple of bugles rang out in the distance before I softly let out a short bugle, mimicking a satellite bull. Distant bulls replied with steely aggression, then continued relaying challenges with each other.
I looked at Grandpa and he looked at me. If my smile was as big as his, it was smeared across my whole face. Neither of us had elk tags in our pockets. The Land of Enchantment hadn’t favored us in the draw lottery, but we were about as happy as if it had as we soaked up this time in the mountains simply listening. Elk country was the only place we wanted to be. Another throaty scream reverberated from a bull. Goal achieved.
My grandfather and I just sat quietly and still, under what had become a halo-lighted quarter moon. Fall had no doubt arrived as the evening chill seeped in. I bugled again, followed by a string of chuckles which only egged on the cluster of bulls surrounding us. As the elk symphony continued, we commented on what a joy it was to experience such sounds. While many were sitting at home or stuck at work, we were enthralled, reveling in the middle of September bugles.
While we sat there with our ears tuned into the singing of the bulls, we counted more than half a dozen going at it. A couple of the bulls had moved up from the valley and entered the tree line below our post. I let out another bugle and two bulls returned electrifying responses less than a hundred yards from us. If only there had been enough daylight to illuminate the herd masters pacing back and forth.
It could be said that we lost track of time, but the experience held much greater influence than the clock. As the bulls began to move away with fading bugles, Grandpa and I determined our spirits’ desire for the presence of elk had been satisfied, at least momentarily.
We completed the evening with mugs of hot chocolate while sitting on the back deck of our cabin. There was much to discuss, but the bugles that still rang in our ears were certainly the highlight of the day. We didn’t have to be hunting to get intermixed in the sounds of fall. We were at peace knowing that elk were nearby doing what elk do. That was good enough for us.
