Passing down the tradition

It was a normal chaotic Saturday for my family, running around the house trying to get ready for my oldest daughter’s Elkhorn League basketball game. After the game, I had planned on taking my daughters, aged 4 and 7, north to see their cousins and get an evening and morning deer hunt in.

My daughters have spent time outdoors, but I have never taken them hunting for big game. I felt like a deer hunt would be the best fit for their age and attention span. But then, their cousins got sick and our plans were cancelled. Chatting with my dad throughout the game, I explained the situation, and we decided to take the girls hunting together. After the game we ran home, gathered our gear and loaded up the truck.

My father started taking me hunting when I was 5 years old. He got into hunting when he was in high school, but never had anyone shown him how to hunt. Everything he knows, he learned on his own or with his hunting buddies.

He moved to East Helena in 1985 to work at the ASARCO smelter and had to start hunting in a new area he knew nothing about. He spent countless hours exploring and looking at U.S. Forest Service maps, always trying to find elk. During that time, he came across an area that has produced for our family multiple hunting seasons and has come to be our go-to spot when hunting elk.

We decided to go to where we knew best and headed straight to our spot (apologies – I’ll take this one to my grave) after a quick stop at Town Pump to grab snacks. We started telling the girls stories of past hunts in this area and showing them different points of interest. Finally arriving at our destination, we threw on our packs and headed down the trail looking for elk.

I wasn’t sure how long my girls would last, but the hunt was already successful because I got them out. Right away we glassed a small herd, five cows and three bulls, but too far to take a shot. We got to our feet quickly and hustled to get into position to intercept the herd, but with one daughter on my shoulders and the other holding my hand my pace felt slower than a snail.

Time was dwindling, and as we entered the last park, I suggested that my dad and daughters stay there in hopes the elk would try to backdoor me and give my dad an opportunity at a shot. I sprinted around the ridge trying to get the wind in my favor.

I worked my way slowly through the trees and went to the spot I last saw them. Nothing. But I knew I was close, the musky scent of an elk was strong, and not hearing any shots from my dad I figured the elk must have taken another route.

Knowing the sun was setting soon, I called off the chase and made my way back to the park where my dad and daughters were sitting. My oldest asked if I had seen anything. No sign of them, I responded, and told them that’s how hunting goes sometimes.

We gathered our gear, I threw my youngest on my shoulders and had my oldest lead us back to the truck. As we marched on, my oldest spotted a white hare. We worked our way back to our parking spot, enjoying the colors of the sky and the scenery around us.

About halfway to the truck, I noticed some movement in the trees and there they were, that same group of elk from before. I tried to lift my daughter off my shoulders, but she kept getting her coat caught on my scope. Finally, I dropped to my knees, set her down, sprinted about 40 yards while making sure my scope power was turned down, loaded a bullet and aimed.

The elk seemed to line up on the ridge: cow, cow, cow, then legal five-point bull. I clicked off the safety and took a 30-yard shot: direct hit to the lungs. The bull spun 180-degrees, I reloaded my 7mm and took a second shot, another direct hit to the lungs. The bull keeled over and tumbled down a ridge about 80 yards before getting caught up in some trees.

I turned around to see my dad and daughters running toward me shouting with excitement. Three generations stood on a mountain together taking it all in, a moment I’ll cherish forever.

Thirty years ago, my dad brought me to this same place for my first hunt. This is where I harvested my first bull and where my dad poured all he could into making me the hunter I am today. Now it’s where my daughters’ hunting journey begins as well.

Of course, the real work started as my daughters watched their “Papa” and I prepare the elk to be packed out the next day. On the ride home we each took turns telling our personal point of view of what had just happened.

We all woke early the next day and ran up the mountain to get the bull out. We spent the next couple of evenings breaking down the elk and grinding it into around 100 pounds of venison to fill the freezer. Sunday evening my dad cooked some of the backstrap steaks. So fresh and delicious, nothing beats the taste of a well-earned meal.

I’m not sure my daughters will hunt when they grow up, but one thing is certain: they will never forget that moment. Whether they choose to hunt or not, they will take the hunters’ education course and read the book “Fair Chase,” just like we all did as kids.

I want them to be knowledgeable and safe around guns and understand the tradition of hunting public lands and what it means for the families of Montana. I will continue to introduce my daughters to new experiences and pass on the same knowledge I learned from my dad.

My hope is that one day they will pass on this tradition, and this knowledge, to my grandchildren and great grandchildren.

Ryan Fetherston is an East Helena native.