Before European settlement, elk roamed nearly all of North America, including Michigan. Heavy hunting pressure by early settlers eradicated Michigan’s herd by 1877. For several years, conservation officials made several attempts to reestablish an elk herd in the state, but without success. In 1918, seven Rocky Mountain elk were released near Wolverine and survived, then flourished. Those elk became the foundation for today’s herd. Soon, as the herd grew, the animals expanded their range.
By the 1960s, a tourism industry had grown up around viewing the approximately 1,200-1,500 animals in the herd. However, habitat conflicts with farmers, foresters and deer hunters indicated the growing numbers of elk were having a negative impact on the northeast region of the state. As a result, the state legislature authorized the Conservation Department (Now the Department of Natural Resources) to hold a limited, controlled elk hunt for two years. The first hunt was authorized for December 5–13, 1964.
The state’s deer hunters were crazy with anticipation. A chance to hunt elk in their home state? Anybody who was anybody sent in their application, with more than 23,000 hunters entering the lottery for 300 licenses.
The author’s father, Bourke Lodewyk, was one of the first elk hunt lottery winners and took this trophy Michigan elk!
Bourke Lodewyk was one of the lucky lottery winners, and this is his story, as told to his son, me, Wade Lodewyk, in November 2017. I am a lifelong resident of Michigan, an avid hunter and fisherman. Years ago, as my father’s health began to wane, I began to videotape and then transcribe my father’s stories of growing up hunting and fishing in Michigan. I never intended those stories for publication, but this story is his recollection of his elk hunt. These are my father’s words. I recorded them as accurately as possible, without fact-checking. I wanted my father’s story, just the way he remembered it. It’s a good story…
When the news of the hunt was announced, every deer hunter I knew had applied to the elk hunt. I believe there were over 27,000 applications submitted, and only 300 licenses were to be issued. When I received the letter telling me I had been selected, I was excited. Each permit was numbered, and my permit was #276, if I recall correctly, so I was one of the last permits pulled from the hat. The license was for an elk, bull or cow, it made no difference. They just wanted to thin the herd.
The reaction from people was odd. The sentiment among a lot of the hunters was that the vast majority of the licenses had been given to hunters in the lower part of the state and you had to be politically connected to get a license. So there was some resentment from some folk, not necessarily towards me, but at what was perceived to be a corrupt lottery system. As far as I was concerned, it was all sour grapes and there was nothing I could do about that. I was just a small businessman from a small town, and I had drawn a permit.
My first call was to my best friend Bill (Bill Nelson, Bourke’s deer hunting partner since high school) and he was excited for me. I think my Dad (Bourke “Dutch” Lodewyk, original owner of Lodewyk Lodge and founder of the Lodewyk family deer camp) may have been more excited than I was. He sure was proud and couldn’t help but tell anyone that his son had pulled an elk license. I remember we were going pheasant hunting just a few weeks before the elk hunt. We were on a farmer’s property, we had permission to hunt, and, of course, Dad couldn’t help but tell the farmer about my good fortune. The farmer got a little steamed and ranted a bit about politicians getting all the permits, but Dad didn’t seem to notice. He just kept telling the guy about the great hunt I was going to have, and the guy just got madder. Finally, I had to coax Dad out of there before the farmer’s temper boiled over. I still don’t believe Dad realized the farmer was pissed off.
There were no seminars or classes the license holders had to attend back then. We just got that letter telling us where and when we could hunt. So I started reading anything I could about elk hunting and elk behavior. Some of that information came in really handy during the hunt. A week before the hunt, I drove up to the Vanderbilt/Wolverine area and spent the day scouting for elk sign and listening for bulls bugling. I saw some elk sign but never heard a bugle. That was all the preparation I had time for before the hunt. The hunt would stretch across two weekends and I had taken off the entire nine days from work to hunt. I thought I was ready to go.
The only other hunter from around Bay City that had gotten a permit was Mark Meeks from Munger. Mark owned a cabin in the middle of the hunt area and invited me to stay there, which was fortunate for me. We decided we would hunt separately and share hunting reports if one of us was seeing elk and the other was not. In the event one of us needed help tracking or dragging an elk, we would help each other out. We both wanted to take bulls and were both committed to doing so. Another friend of mine, Glenn, had grown up in Gaylord and was very familiar with the hunt area. Although Glenn didn’t have a license to hunt, he spent several days in our camp and was a big help. So we set up at Mark’s place, determined to make a good hunt.
On the first day, hunting conditions were ideal with good tracking snow and it was plenty cold. We both saw elk, several different herds of cows, on several occasions, but no bulls. Still, we were confident. The second day was much the same. There was fresh snow in the morning and a chill in the air, but still, no bulls. Day three of the hunt brought a drastic change, however.
The morning of the third day once again had a light covering of snow, but the temperature had dropped drastically. It was something like 20 degrees below zero. Nobody’s car or truck would start. I had the only manual transmission vehicle, so we put a work light on an extension cord under my car to try and thaw the engine and oil pan a bit. After a while, the guys pushed my car and I popped the clutch. The dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree. The oil light, temperature light, battery light, I mean, every light on my dashboard lit up. The car chugged for a while and then reluctantly started to run. Then we could jump-start the other cars. The hunt was on, but not for long. It was so cold Mark and I lasted only a couple hours and we all retreated to the relative warmth of the cabin. Our spirits were a little low, but we still had time. Unfortunately, Mother Nature was not done with us yet.
That night, it began to snow hard. By morning, 18 inches or more of snow had fallen and three to four-foot drifts were common. Mark and I had a conversation over breakfast. The hunt was nearly half over. We hadn’t seen sign of a single bull. The snow in the woods would make hunting very difficult. We decided that if one of us had a chance at a good cow, we should take it.
I hunted alone that morning and it was slow going. I trudged through the snow, sneaking over hills and glassing the openings for elk. It was a still morning, very quiet without much movement in the woods. Eventually, I cut across the track of a single elk, obvious in the deep snow. A sign the elk were moving and I decided to follow the track.
It was easy to follow through the timber and the snow sure helped me. Finally, I came to the edge of a clearing and glassed the area with my binoculars. (I didn’t have a scope on my rifle back in those days. I was hunting with my .300 Savage with standard iron sights.) I could not find the elk. I did not realize it then, but the elk was probably watching me at the very same time. I followed the track across the clearing and found where the elk had stood for some time, watching his back trail. Although I had not seen him, I suspected it was a bull and continued to track him. I came to a second clearing and again found where he had waited on the opposite side, watching his back trail. I mentally kicked myself in the butt. An elk stopping to watch its back trail was exactly one of the things I had read about when doing my research. I resolved it would not happen again.
About this time, I heard a rifle shot in the distance. I knew there were other hunters in the area, but I was really hoping and thought it could be Mark. Later on, I found out I was right.
By now, the elk had changed tactics. Rather than meandering through the timber, he made his way through some thickets of brush and saplings to try and lose me, I believe. At this point, I became convinced I was on a bull. As the elk slipped through the thickets, I noticed the tops of the brush were cleared of snow. This was another tip I had read about. He could slide between the saplings with a great deal of stealth, but his antlers were knocking the snow from the tops of the branches. I was following a bull. Again, he came to a clearing, this time on a power line. I had learned my lesson. Rather than cross the line, I backed off and decided to work my way downwind a couple hundred yards and then make my way up towards him. As I was doing so, some elk burst from the opposite side of the power line, all cows, on a dead run. Then, behind them, came a single bull.
He was kicking snow everywhere as he ran, steam blowing from his nose, head held high and looking as strong and graceful as any animal I had ever seen. I pulled my gun to my shoulder and put the irons on his chest, pulled them a little forward and squeezed off the shot. The bull was close, probably only 50 or 60 yards away, but he did not even flinch when I shot. I racked in another round and shot again. This time, he bucked when I shot and I knew I had hit him, but he continued to run. I thought I might be shooting low and a little behind him, so I led him a little more and shot a third time. Finally, the bull collapsed and did not get up.
As it turns out, all three shots had hit the bull. The first took him through both lungs. The second (When he bucked) was a heart shot and the third hit him in the neck. That was certainly a strong animal. I field dressed the bull and, since I was feeling pretty macho, decided to drag him out myself. That lasted about 10 feet. He was just too big and the snow too deep. I was more than a mile into the woods and started the walk out to the road to get help. Just as I reached the road, a truck pulled up. It was Mark, and he had a huge cow in the back of his truck. He was very excited and rightfully so. You better believe one hell of a celebration started right then.
Mark’s cow was indeed a monster. When we stopped at the check station, I believe it was aged at 8 years old and was easily twice the size of mine. Still, as a whitetail hunter, my bull was a monster to me. Field dressed, he probably weighed 270 pounds and the Conservation officers aged him at 1 and 1/2 years old. The 4-point bull certainly wasn’t the largest in Michigan’s elk herd, but that
made no difference to me. I had pulled a permit, and I had killed a bull.
