Alyssa Debnar of Blairsville laid the crosshairs behind the shoulder, controlled her breath and squeezed the trigger. A lifelong hunter from a family of hunters, she had downed many white-tailed deer and was experienced in scouting for sign, camouflaging her scent and appearance and firing from an elevated position.
But this hunt was different.
Debnar had won one of 187 elk hunting licenses available only through an annual lottery held by the Pennsylvania Game Commission. Hunting and dropping a 500-pound animal, she said, were the biggest thrills of her life.
Only 49 licenses were available in the 2021-22 late-season hunt, which opened for just seven days Jan. 1-8. Rather than risk blowing a chance at a truly big game animal, Debnar opted for one of the more plentiful antlerless elk licenses and, like most Pennsylvania elk hunters, hired a hunting guide to put her in the right place at the right time.
Rain had fallen over Sproul State Forest in Clinton County on a no-hunting Sunday, and during the predawn hours of Jan. 3 the temperature had dropped to 17 degrees. Frozen, fallen leaves were crunchy and loud. With Dave Cairns of Elk County Outfitters whispering instructions from behind, they maneuvered for position in a wooded area just outside a Game Commission food plot field where they had seen elk during a scouting run the night before. At about 8:30 a.m., Debnar was on the ground, her .300 Winchester Short Magnum rifle on shooting sticks, and squeezed off a shot at 150-175 yards.
"It hit a sapling and deflected," she said. "The elk ran, but not very far. We moved, got set up again and the second shot hit her right in the ribcage."
Still, the big elk didn't fall. It ran with the others and the hunters lost sight of them. Slowly pushing farther, they saw the cow standing alone.
"I got on her again. It was a lung shot from just over 100 yards," said Debnar. "She laid down and we waited for her to bleed out."
The native Seneca called them "wapiti," which roughly translates as "big white butt." In the 1870s, Eastern elk were extirpated from Pennsylvania. After several half-hearted stocking attempts in the early 1900s, the Game Commission and other state agencies, Penn State University and community stakeholders began planning a science-based reintroduction program in the 1970s. Habitat improvements were made, winter food plots planted, farmers were compensated for elk-related crop damage and residents were educated about the economic and conservation value of bringing free-range elk back to their former north-central range.
By 1981, 135 wild elk were counted in Pennsylvania. In 2000, with the herd estimated at 566, the General Assembly approved Act 111, which created an elk hunting license and set fees and procedures for applying for the special permit. The Game Commission started its lottery licensing program, and the first hunt was held a year later. Each season biologists modify the number of antlered and antlerless licenses available in each of 14 elk hunting zones. Using legal hunting as the primary management tool, Pennsylvania's free-range elk population has grown to more than 1,400 animals.
"It's a good program. They're on top of every detail," said Cairns, the hunting guide. "In recent years, they've noticed that compared to the elk out west, there should be more pregnancies. They want to know if they're getting pregnant during the rut and giving birth at the right time."
Once an elk is shot, the Game Commission requires successful hunters to tag the harvest, take blood samples, hang a kill-site card from a nearby tree and, in some hunt zones, collect samples for chronic wasting disease testing. When a cow is killed, the uterus must now be removed and given to researchers at a Game Commission weigh station, where biologists gather additional information for further research.
Debnar hunted well, said Cairns. Unlike most hunters on an Elk County Outfitters trip, she brought her whole family to the cabin to share the pre-hunt scouting experience.
"Elk hunting wasn't what I thought it would be," she said. "I'd seen the elk in people's backyards in Benezette and thought it would be that easy. But they're smart, they know the land and they don't act like the deer that I was used to hunting."
Deer have a daily routine and hunters can generally anticipate where they're likely to be. Elk have a radius, particularly this time of year, she said, and could be anywhere within their familiar area.
"Deer will wind you before they see you, and they'll hear you if you're walking sound, which is why it's better to be up in a tree stand," said Debnar. "I wasn't used to being on the ground, but elk don't follow daily patterns so you have to go find them and walk up on them. That was a challenge."
How do you drag 380 pounds of field-dressed elk out of the woods? You don't. Cairns said he sometimes calls in a tractor, but Debnar's cow fell at a spot with no motorized vehicle access. Five men were called to tie on straps and pull the elk 600 yards to a roadway.
Instead of going to a butcher, Debnar took it back to Blairsville, where her family routinely processes and vacuum-seals their deer. After two days work, they packaged about 40 steaks, neck roasts, shanks, ribs, sirloin tips, briskets, heart and liver, five hind roasts and 65 pounds of ground meat. In all, Debnar filled her freezer with 280 pounds of venison. She kept the head and cape, she said, for a future taxidermy project.
