After winning the Mystery Ranch 6500 in the BAYED contest on On Your Own Adventures Forum – Hunt Talk, I’ve been trying to give this pack the workout it deserves.

Immediately, this pack became my go-to pack while shed hunting and bear hunting in the spring and carrying the spotting scope and other goodies.

Over the summer I took it everywhere with me.  The 6500 carried my gear deep into trail-less areas several times, on quests for cutthroat and golden trout.

Trying to get away from the crowds while paddle-fishing on the Missouri, I got a chance to haul out my first critter for the pack.

The pack even got to come to work with me a few times. Working on the Charles M. Russell NWR, I helped dig out a 75 million year old Elasmosaur fossil.  I packed in bags of plaster and five gallon water jugs for the crew using the NICE Frame and Load Sling.  I even packed out the skull of the beast encased in rock and plaster. It was the heaviest load I’ve ever carried.  The pack did great!

August through November the pack never went more than a few of days without getting sweat on it.  From bowhunting antelope in the breaks to chasing elk up high in the Gallatin Range, the pack came with.  After having many close calls during archery season, I ended up empty handed for elk with a bow.

I was, however, able to harvest a six-point bull as soon as rifle season began.  The bull came out pretty easy with the NICE Frame and Load Sling.  Help from my friends was an added benefit!

Although my buck from this year didn’t require packing, the 6500 was still there carrying my gear on our float trip in which we accessed land-locked public land via river.

Throughout the year, the NICE 6500 accompanied me on many adventures.  It’s the best pack I’ve ever used.  I am planning to add more MR’s to my collection for day hunting and skiing as soon as funds allow.

Thanks Mystery Ranch Backpacks and On Your Own Adventures for the amazing pack!

On the evening of September 23, all that success sparked against a bit of luck, which sent my arrow flying. And so I harvested a gorgeous Montana archery bull.

Despite the lack of a tag, Kyle has devoted himself to following me around in the woods with over twenty pounds of camera and video equipment in an attempt to capture the experience.  Props to a solid elk hunting partner and friend!

Let’s hear about your hunting partner!?

The secret spot was discovered the third spring.  Snowmobiles and four-wheelers had scavenged the place.  I witnessed two individuals chase down a six point bull on their four-wheelers, hooting and hollering, trying to get him to drop his antlers.  Their arrogance and lack of respect disgusted me.  Ethics should play a role in all types of hunting.

I’ve been shed hunting for eight years now.  After the grandeur of the first two years, I’ve come to value the antlers I find a whole lot more.  The sentimental value of each one, even if it’s chewed up, has more worth than the money they fetch.  Although the chewed up sheds usually do become dog bones.

My house is loaded with deer and elk antlers.  They are the primary decorative piece, despite my family’s and roommate’s objection.  In my kitchen alone there are twenty two sheds on top of the cupboards.

During the fall archery season I’ve learned there are still abundant opportunities to find antlers.

Opening morning of my first day ever archery hunting, my dad and I were sneaking through the timber when he abruptly whispered, “STOP!”  I froze, peering through the timber for what I presumed was an elk.  My dad then said, in a normal voice, “No, look down.”  One more step and I would have tripped on the most unique elk shed my dad or I has found to date – A huge split G2 seven point.  That evening we called in a six and a seven point bull.  It was quite an opening day, one that would hook most anyone on archery or shed hunting.

My version of a perfect antler hunt was realized this spring.  I spotted what I initially thought was a pine branch in a distant coulee – my binoculars proved otherwise.  Despite having just eaten an entire Hamburger Helper, I sprinted wholeheartedly to lay my hands on a beautiful mature bull elk shed.  I was in the middle of nowhere, no one was there but me, and I still sprinted.  The reaction was uncontrollable.

No matter how often it’s done, the experience of putting your hands on the byproduct of a game animal that shapes many of our lives remains gratifying.  When rewarded with such a treasure, gas money, miles put on foot, and the opportunity costs associated with pursuing such a passion are forgotten.

With a strong wind straight out of the west I headed to my destination, a family cabin and acreage, in eastern Montana. A lengthy drive brought me to a blockage in the road, a massive snow drift, where I must ski the remaining two miles into the cabin. I parked right up next to the drift overlooking the possibility the road blowing shut behind me.  Overlooking the high wind warning was my first mistake. Parking where I did was my second.

Late that night, after watching a few movies in the comfort of the cabin, I was starting to question the integrity of the roof above my head. The wind was howling! My dad called to report a 114 mph gust was recorded in Choteau just before it destroyed the wind-measuring equipment. 80 mph gusts were recorded in Red Lodge and Livingston.

The next morning I awoke to a strong breeze and pleasant temps. There was no new drifting at the cabin. I felt assured the road, two miles away where I had parked, was fine and didn’t drift in. I spent the remainder of the day exploring what the wind had done to the ridge line behind the place. The ridge resembled glacial terrain, not that of the plains of eastern Montana.

A strong wind blew the next night. The following morning I got up at sunrise, packed my gear and was off. It was time to leave this lonely place.

I took one last look at our garden sun flowers – a hardy plant to still be upright!

Wind can be a cruel thing. After reaching my truck it was obvious that I had parked in the wrong place. I was stuck between two monstrosities. The drift in front of my truck was bigger and a new drift had blown in behind my truck.  I had no chance of going out the way I came in. I found one potential way out. A six foot tall wall of snow lay between me and an open gate leading out onto the prairie. If I could dig through it I could link back up with the main road below.

The fear of abandoning my truck until spring led to frantic digging with my avalance shovel. In three and a half hours I had made it through and was off to what I hoped was freedom.

Two miles down the road my elation turned sour. The next stretch of road was littered with large drifts. I took my chances and careened over them praying I would not break through. Five miles of drift riding and my efforts were halted. The next one was too big to chance. On the other side I could see vehicle tracks. Although I knew I was fifty yards from freedom I had to turn around and take the alternate route.

To my surprise, a short way down the road, I was greeted to five wintering bull elk.

It was dawning on me that I might not get my truck out after all. The alternate route was drifted too. Fortunately the drifts were smooth and solid. My Tacoma glided right over the top. I soon ran into other tracks. No longer was I the one breaking trail. I had made it out!

The power of wind is a thing of beauty. It also sucks! Next time I’ll pay closer attention to the weather forecast.  Regardless, it was still a fun winter adventure!

Click here to view the embedded video.

This year I’ve been blessed with drawing a limited entry elk permit in a unit with high potential for big bulls.  I am able to archery hunt AND rifle hunt.  Previous years I’ve only been allowed to archery hunt.  Last September, I was fortunate enough to take a beautiful six point bull the third week of the bow season, in this unit. My success left me optimistic about this fall’s opportunities.  So far, that opportunity has been just out of reach.

Elk season started off with me walking up on another archer’s kill that was never recovered.  The meat was too far gone by the time I found him.  I left the bull hoping that the hunter would eventually find him and punch out their tag.

I hunted the low country the first two weeks of the season with a few chances on smaller bulls.  The rut was slow to start so I switched tactics and pursued a large whitetail on nearby creek bottom.

Seeking Refuge in a Limestone Cave

Big Whitetail Through the Netting of a Double Bull Blind

Although I had this deer patterned quite well, I struggled to sit in the blind more than 4 or 5 hunts. The mountains were calling, the elk had begun bugling, and I answered.

High Country Montana Bull

Co-worker, Kyle Christenson and I spent the next three weeks glassing and stalking bulls in both the high and low country.

Kyle Christenson Glassing from a Limestone Cliff Band

Our last evening hunting together in the bow season, while sprinting to cut off a good six point, I was stopped dead in my tracks by the sound of a very dominant bull.  Not 300 yards behind us, on an open hillside stood the largest elk I have ever seen on public land.  With shooting light quickly fading and no way to put a stock on this bull, I sat and admired the creature through my binoculars while Kyle put a sneak on the six point.  The final weeks of the season were focused on that elk in hopes that I could get a shot or pin point his whereabouts come rifle season.

Kyle Getting His Sneak On

Bow season passed on by as fast as it came.  My high expectations for the rifle opener were shut down as we never saw an elk.  The huge bull I saw late in the archery season, along with his companions, had all moved out of the mountains to their winter range.  Their winter range is dense low country timber.  I will have to get in close to get a shot.  My rifle gives me little advantage.

Longbow, Rifle, and a Great Skull Found While Tracking Elk

A recent snow storm dropped a few inches of snow in the unit I’ve been hunting. I tracked five different bulls in one day.  With luck, La Nina will provide more tracking snow and more opportunities.

Aesthetic Deer Skull I was led to by a Traveling Bull

Click here to view the embedded video.

Sockeye Salmon on Lake Creek

21 years ago in April, while my mother was in labor with me, my dad was out fly fishing the Missouri River. Perhaps I was born to fish. When I turned 21, I held my dad to a ten year 21st birthday promise – we’d go to Alaska for a fishing trip.

Fairweather Range near Juneau from 36,000 ft cruising altitude

Growing up, my hunting and fishing buddies were my Dad, Paul, and my Dad’s two friends, Phil and Denny. Every summer Phil, Denny, and my Dad, would go on a fly fishing trip into Yellowstone Park. I was never invited. They said that when I turned 21 I’d be of age to join them on such a trip.

Recently, in the first week of August, I found myself along with Phil, Denny and my Dad, in Alaska in pursuit of big fish and an unforgettable experience.

We started our trip in the small town of Hope, on the Resurrection River, catching Humpies on fly rods. Humpy is the nickname for a pink salmon. The Humpies were running hard. We had no problem hooking and inadvertently snagging dozens of these fish with our fly rods. Male pink salmon have enormous hump backs, hence the name. Their humps make them very susceptible to being snagged on the drift.

Phil landing a Humpy on the Resurrection River near Hope, Alaska

After a successful day in Hope we drove down to Seward where we’d spend the next three nights. Our first day in Seward started at 5:30 in the morning.  I dropped the guys off at the marina for an all day halibut and salmon deep sea fishing trip with Captain Larry. I was more than happy not to join them in the ocean due to a traumatic deep sea fishing charter out of Homer, about 10 years ago. The charter with Captain Larry ended up being a bust. The seas were too rough to get out into the open ocean where the halibut were. The guys caught rock fish and ling cod in the bay – none of which they could keep. The additional coolers we had packed became excess baggage.

Over the next two days, the rain in Seward permeated my rain coat. It was time to ditch the coast and move inland. We spent the next two days on the Russian and Kenai rivers fishing for Sockeyes. Here I learned the slap, jerk and pull method of fishing. This involves slapping the water with your split shot weighted line, drifting the line down stream near the fishes mouth, and pulling hard hoping to snag one in the mouth. Sockeye salmon, when they are moving up the rivers to spawn are in their last stages of life and don’t have eating on their mind. To catch and legally keep one of these fish you have to snag them in the mouth – literally!

My dad, Paul, drifting an egg pattern on the Russian River

The fly fishing I have grown accustom to is very aesthetic and pure. Snagging fish, at first glance, seems like a cheap and lame way to fish. After attempting to snag sockeyes in the mouth for two days straight, I realized that it takes a lot of talent – which I lacked. There were about 100 people fishing the confluence of the Russian and Kenai River, and distinguishing a local from an out-of-state fisherman was easy. Locals had their three fish limit – which were all snagged in the mouth – in less than an hour. In the two days we were there I only snagged two fish in the mouth. I have a new found respect for this kind of fishing.

Phil attempting to land a big Sockeye after forgetting to set his drag

Next stop on the trip was the largest float plane sea base in the world, Lake Hood. From there, we took a Dehavilland DHC-2 Beaver 80 miles northwest of Anchorage and into Black Eagle Lodge on Bulchitna Lake. We spent the next three days, from 6am to 10pm, fly fishing nearby Lake Creek.

Mystery Ranch proto on the shore of Lake Creek

As predicted, a large wave of Humpies was moving up the river. Sockeyes, Kings, Rainbows, Grayling, Chum, and Silvers were also in the river. Our goal of filling coolers with sockeyes and silvers was nearly impossible with the amount of pinks. Every time we hooked a pink we’d intentionally try to lose the fish. I eventually gave in. Why fight it?

Denny with a Pink Salmon on Lake Creek

Between the four of us, we caught eight different species of fish on Lake Creek: pinks, kings, silvers, sockeyes, chums, dolly varden, rainbows, and grayling. Oddly enough, I snagged my first ever grayling – a five incher!

Rainbow Trout on Lake Creek

A poisionous Fly Agaric mushroom over the Russian River

Denny said, “Sitting on the deck hanging out with you guys.” My dad said, “Bonding with my son and the freshly caught sockeye we had for dinner in Seward.” I said, well, I can’t say, because certain memories are meant to stay in Alaska. As the saying goes, “What happens on the trip stays on the trip.”

Certain aspects of Alaska were different than I had expected and prepared for. The two spray bottles of Deet never left their packaging and the only mosquito that stuck me was in the Old Seward Cemetery. He must have been excited to see “live” meat.

Daisy in the Old Seward Cemetery

The .44 lever action never left its case.

Tracks of a sow with three cubs

The most productive fly was a bright red hook – the pinks hit it like it was bacon.

Phil with a Sockeye Salmon

Further, Phil caught fish with berries on a hook that had come from a brown bears intestinal tract. I wonder what we could call that fly pattern?

Wild cranberry bear scat

On our last day, as Denny was leaving the hotel for an early flight his parting remarks to me, or “Pearls of Wisdom” as he would put it, were this: Steve, when you’re our age I hope you have two great friends, like your Dad and Phil, to share these kinds of memories with.

Three stooges sniffing mushrooms, which really did smell like licorice

In large part, this trip wasn’t about the fishing. It was about bonding and sharing what is now a memory with three other people that have helped to shape my life.  I shot my first big game animal with help from Denny. I’ve learned from Phil that size doesn’t matter as he can drop goose after goose with his 28 gauge shot gun. As for my dad, in addition to what I’ve learned, I’ve been able to share and experience so many great things with him. Whether it be hunting pheasants, aiding a drunk woman on the Missouri who locked her keys in the car during a winter storm, or looking into his wide eyes while a cow elk came trotting down the trail on which he was lying – my dad has been there for it all. Fly fishing Alaska, for my 21st, was yet another adventure to add to the memory books.

Author, Steven Drake, arcing big GS turns down the Gardner Headwall

“We are having way more fun than they are,” said Jake. He wasn’t kidding!

On the 4th of July weekend, I found myself perusing through Yellowstone Park en-route to my family’s cabin just east of Cooke City. I had no expectations for the weekend and expected nothing more than a lackadaisical few days, all while enjoy the beautiful scenery that the Beartooths have to offer.

Pilot and Index Sunset

With that said, you’d be a fool to drive into the Beartooths not toting ski gear. I’m no fool! On the morning of the 4th I drove up to the Beartooth Plateau in search of snow. Things were looking grim at the Wyoming summit. After descending the last switchback before the Gardner Lake pull out, I turned around and was treated to a pleasurable sight. Gardner Headwall’s north and south lines were very skiable!

Gardner Headwall from Gardner Lake

With my gear on in minutes, I hitched a ride back up the switchbacks to the summit and then anxiously trekked across the plateau to the top of the southern aspect of the headwall. The line hadn’t been skied for at least a week – I was more than happy to track it up with some big GS turns. Smooth, steep, corn laden turns funneled into a tight dog leg; followed by big turns down to Gardner Lake.

At the shore of the lake were two guys who had just descended the north line. While sharing our enthusiasm I realized that one of the guys was none other than Paul Gleason, a Mystery Ranch pack designer. Paul was there skiing the headwall with his friend, Jake. We were all wearing Mystery Ranch packs. After a steep climb out from Gardner Lake we piled into a truck and hitched a ride back to the Wyoming summit. A smooth shot between a set of switchback, followed by a second descent of the headwall, awaited us.

Paul Gleason Skiing the Beartooth Plateau

At the top of the headwall, while preparing for our second descent, Jake looked across the drainage to the onlookers and said, “We are having way more fun than they are.” It was a very fitting comment. It was mid morning on the 4th of July, the sun was shining, the snow was perfect, and we were about to drop into one of the most aesthetic lines on the Beartooth Plateau.

Author, Steven Drake, navigating the dog leg on the south line of Gardner Headwall

Big grins were plastered across our faces.

Jake full of smiles after run #2 on Gardner Headwall

After a great day of skiing I headed down to Cooke City for the fireworks. The Cooke City Fire Department, while parading down Main Street on 4-wheelers and retro fire trucks, sure know how to entertain!

Cooke City fireworks over the 1988 Yellowstone Park burn area

The steep canyon walls that surround Cooke, made for an incredible light show. It is the loudest 4th you’ll ever experience.