by Joe Velasquez

Created on: August 30, 2009

A Little Help From The Other Side

My brother Greg had been one of my closest friends since we were boys. From the time he came home from his 2-year stint in the US Navy he was my best friend. We shared almost everything, from fishing equipment to guns and other boy-toys, to confidences, and even a lady friend or two. To say we were merely close would be a gross understatement.

One of the things we shared equally was a passion for hunting. Particularly elk hunting. We began our big game hunting careers in earnest in 1986, and hunted elk together nearly every year after that. While I have had my share of hunting successes and have always felt at home in the outdoors, Greg was a better hunter than I am, and a better woodsman too. He consistently took more game than I, although he would never boast about it.

Greg was successful more often than not, and it troubled him greatly when after a number of years I had still never killed an elk. Each year we'd plan and plot, and starting in early summer he'd scout the areas that we liked to hunt. He generally never had trouble finding animals, but luck and fate had so far conspired to see to it that I didn't bag an elk.

Greg took it as a personal failure that he was never able to put me onto a bull, despite him having been able to do so for a number of other people. I always tried to minimize it, telling him my time would come, but I knew it bothered him. He used to tease me, telling me to pay attention whenever he gutted and cleaned an animal because, "I may not be there to hold your hand when you finally shoot one." Little did we know.

When I left Denver for Idaho it was with the understanding that Greg would join me up here in Idaho when the project upon which had been working was completed in two, maybe three years. He anticipated a layoff and the impetus to make the move. I had already planned out our first elk hunt, securing permission and learning the lay of the land in advance of his arrival. I had a two-year head start, and planned to impress him with my local knowledge and contacts. I was ready for him.

It was the second week of September 2001, and the Colorado muzzle-loading rifle elk season was open. That's the season Greg and I usually hunted. He had been up to our favorite elk camp for the first weekend of the season. He called me on Sunday night when he got home. He had seen some elk, but none that presented an opportunity for a shot. His plan was to go up the following weekend and get one.

Of course that

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