Calling White Mountain Elk

Creaking Shoes and Bugling Elk Can a city girl get close to a lovesick bull?

Turns out, the first rule in elk-calling is to wear quiet shoes. Although I'd abandoned my lipgloss, jingling jewelry and poignant perfume, my blatantly urban Doc Martens boots creak with every step as I drudge through the Sipe White Mountain Wildlife Area near Springerville, at the unholy hour of 5 A.M. I am obviously out of my element. Bruce Sitko of the Arizona Game and Fish Department is not amused. "Watch the noise and avoid any brush," he whispers. "If they hear us, we won't get very close." I nod, knowing my squeaky shoes have made me the elk-calling equivalent of the gym class nerd. Bruce presses finger to lips. "Listen." At first, I can hear nothing but my heart hammering against my ribs. Suddenly, I hear the haunting sounds of elk floating through the thick trees, deep as whale calls-each mournful moan punctuated by low grunts. It sounds soothing and hypnotic, secrets shared. The siren songs engulf us, coming from everywhere and nowhere. "It's the bugle of the bulls," Bruce whis-pers. "They're rounding up the cows." I tiptoe as first light glows behind the shoulders of the White Mountains. No use. As the precious morning minutes slip away, doubt dawns. I need to see at least one elk, recompense for the dawn and the drive and my foolish shoes. Just one glimpse and justice will prevail, the universe will bal-ance and the yin will yang. Bruce stops us near the top of a small mesa. Finger to lips, he points to a clear-ing below as he hands me his binoculars. I squint two blurs into the shape of elk. "I don't know if we'll see any much closer than this," he says. I feel responsible; Godzilla-girl, crash-ing through the forest with thunder-ous boots, scattering the wildlife like Japanese school kids. "There's a herd just over the top there," says Bruce. "We'll use the cover of those trees to try to move in." I drop back as the others move for-ward, resigned to gym class nerd status. As my three camera-clad companions creep through the brush on hands and knees, I succumb to a pang of envy. But then Bruce motions excitedly for me to join him. I tiptoe toward him, avoiding every twig, breath abated. I look ridicu-lous, like a certain cartoon character lisp-ing, "Shhh, I'm hunting wabbits." Somehow, I make it without squeak-ing, creaking, screaming or knocking down any trees. Gently, Bruce positions me behind the brush. "There's a satellite bull right over there," he whispers. "Satellite?" I ask. "Bulls too small to have their own harem that follow the groups of the bigger bulls." Elk, like ancient kings, maintain har-ems of up to 20 cows each. Suddenly, I spot the satellite bull, rub-bing my eyes to be sure I haven't invented him. Sure enough, he is still there, lying in the mud, enjoying his morning. "I think he's staring at me," I say. "Yeah, he knows something's up," Bruce says. "They get wary during hunting sea-son. Let's see if we can get him to come closer," he adds, unwrapping the elk whistle from his neck. "Quiet now," he whispers. "Don't move a muscle.' Asking me not to move is like asking a bull elk not to mate in late September. Immediately, my palms sweat, my knees shake and I feel light-headed. As Bruce blows his whistle, I nearly choke on a laugh, for the mimic call of the cow sounds like a lascivious duck. "Quack-quack-quack." The bull turns and heads toward us. Bruce quacks again. The bull trots away. "That's it for the day," says Bruce. But as we head back toward the ranger station, my squeaky step has a skip in it. I've seen an elk, the yin has yanged. I am no longer the gym class reject, Godzilla-girl or Elmer Fudd. Still, next time, I'll wear moccasins.

Jayme Cook is a freelance writer and a former intern at Arizona Highways magazine. She lives in Phoenix.Morey Milbradt of Phoenix says the bulls didn't see him in the early morning "because I looked like a walking tree!"

► when you go

Location: Sipe White Mountain Wildlife Area, 10 miles southeast of Springerville. Getting There: From Springerville, head south on U.S. Route 180/191. Look for a sign on the right (west) side of the highway where it splits at Mile Marker 405, 2.5 miles south of the intersection with State Route 260. Drive 5.2 miles on a dirt road to the headquarters. Additional Information: Arizona Game and Fish, Pinetop office, (928) 367-4281; www.gf.state.az.us/outdoor_recreation/ wildlife_area_sipe.shtml.

Bus Stop Blues Flagstaff jug band Thunderbird, with nary a paying gig to their name, jams on October 1 at the bus stop outside the Orpheum Theater. From left (barely seen) are John Taylor on guitar, Fred Phillips on drums, Mammoth on guitar and Jim Marzolf on bongos. GEOFF GOURLEY