One was a forkhorn, the other a straight spike. As I closed the gap on the duo, two more yearlings were revealed, bedded about 10 paces on the up and downhill sides of the pair. A truly mature bull isn’t likely to keep company with a band of spikes, but young 4 and 5-points may. Off-limits for harvest, I nonetheless snuck toward the unsuspecting yearlings. Scrutiny with a handy set of compact binoculars revealed a pair of spike bulls standing idly among the lodgepoles. In an expanse of hunter-friendly timber where my visual field lengthened to around 80 yards, I spied two telltale, tawny patches ahead in the sylvan mosaic of gray and green. In “any bull” seasons, spikes typically account for most of the elk shot. This vintage photo shows a hunter with a Montana spike elk in the early 1960s. The atmosphere was unusually calm, save for the slight movement of air upslope. An ideal day for stillhunting, several inches of wet snow had melted into the thin soil, dampening the sound of footfalls and providing elasticity to the brittle twigs and small branches prone to breaking with a noisy snap. On a pleasant October morning, I once hunted a large tract of dense timber on a north-facing slope where elk congregated to escape hunting pressure. It’s perhaps unfair to label spikes as “dumb,” but they are typically possessed of a more naive and curious nature than their elders. The morose youngsters may hang about the periphery of the harems or team up into small herds of yearling bulls. Spikes are supremely content to rejoin cow herds in late summer but are forcefully ejected by dominant bulls shortly thereafter. Currently, the definition is “brow-tined bull” which means at least one tine on the lower one-third of at least one antler. In my favored hunting district, the regulation evolution went from “any bull” to “branch-antlered bull,” first defined as an animal with any visible fork, to “branch-antlered bull,” refined to those having at least a 4-inch fork on one antler. Regulation changes designed to protect yearling bulls from hunters were intended to increase conception rates among cows as two-year-old bulls are more reproductively capable than spikes.Ī yearling bull is roughly the same size as a young cow. Hunting districts experiencing high pressure routinely found very low bull-to-cow ratios by winter’s end, requiring spikes to accomplish the majority of the breeding in the subsequent autumn. In Montana, my state of residence, elk hunting regulations were modified to protect spikes in most regions around the early 1980s. In a few states, some hunting units are “spike only.” These are normally trophy areas where the hunting of brow-tined bulls is restricted to holders of a special tag. Hunting districts across the West allowing the take of any antlered bull typically find a high percentage of the harvest comprised of spikes. Only on one occasion have I observed a bull elk of some age with yearling-esque antlers, an oddball with a spike on one side and a forkhorn on the other with beams at least as long as an average 5-point. Among mule deer, though, outlandish forkhorns are more frequently observed among mature males and are not particularly uncommon in some populations. A bull elk might retain the antler configuration of the normal yearling (spike or forkhorn) in subsequent antler development, but such cases are exceptionally rare. But whereas spike antlers are the norm for elk and forkhorns are the exception, the opposite is true for the majority of Rocky Mountain mule deer and generally the case for healthy whitetails in productive habitat. The spike bull’s counterpart in the cervid duo of slighter species is the mule deer or whitetail forkhorn. “Hmph,” he concluded, “just a glorified spike.” Observing the diminutive rack back at camp an elder relative appraised the antlers. Mine was a legal forkhorn on both sides but not by much. Hunting regulations at the time required the harvest of a “branch-antlered” bull which meant the animal had to have a 4-inch fork on at least one of its antlers. 300 Savage high on the point of its shoulder dropped my first bull like the legendary ton of bricks. The yearling bull passed within slingshot range downslope on the faint spit of a game trail. An elk, modest in stature with more yellowed flanks than its company, was ambling behind several cows. Severely outnumbered and practically surrounded, I was more worried about being detected than trampled, though the latter seemed at least a remote possibility.Īfter several long minutes in hiding, fortune turned my way. Here they were, so close I might have whacked the light brown ribs of a matronly cow with a stone on an underhanded toss. I had dropped into a forest of squatty evergreens from above treeline and almost immediately encountered elk. Spike bulls are among the most curious elk.The procession of elk on the contour of a steep slope just below me was unnerving.
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