Hunters Are Only A Few Degrees From Hypothermia

Diane Tipton, Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks Statewide Information Officer

Print

I first encountered hypothermia, a stealthy foe, a few years ago on a ridge near the Continental Divide. This ever-present danger for hunters and others occurs when core body temperature drops from the normal 98.6 F to 95 degrees F or below.

My brother had tracked an elk all afternoon, after the stubborn but mortally wounded creature ran uphill and then disappeared. He found it on the far side of a mountain park, down a steep incline at nearly nightfall, so he returned the few miles to the ranch to get help.

I dressed in layers of silk and wool, with a wool cap and heavy boots. We had a snack and coffee so he could refuel and then headed out on his ATV at 5:30 p.m.

We’d already made mistakes—drinking coffee, a diuretic, and failing to refill the water jug. Within 20 minutes my brother had leg cramps—a sign of dehydration and a warning hypothermia was already stalking us.

I was sweating under my layers, but the outside air burned my face and penetrated my gloves. The temperature was quickly heading to zero.

Off the ATV now, it was an uphill hike to the moonlit dome of the park and down its backside into some dark underbrush to the elk.

It took hours to quarter the elk, drag it up out of the hole it was in to the ridge and then down to the forested trail.

In the silent, moonlit woods hypothermia was circling us.

Clueless, we loaded and reloaded the elk on the ATV. For some reason we couldn’t seem to get the load tied securely, it kept slipping, at one point pulling the ATV over on its side.

We shivered, fumbled and dropped ropes and clamps. We couldn’t seem to tie secure knots—warning signs that our core body temperature was dropping.

Hypothermia began to close in as we slogged through the deep snow—we stumbled often, felt deeply cold and it was hard to think straight. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

At this point, while adjusting the load, a hindquarter of the elk slipped off the ATV and hit me on the left shoulder, shoving me off the trail into some brush. It was all I could do to get back up.

"We need to get out of here now, we’re heading into trouble," I said. My brother agreed. We left the two front quarters of the elk along the trail to pick up the next morning and headed home. It wasn’t until later that we realized we’d also left a very dangerous situation behind us.

It was tempting but foolish to try to slog on and get the job done. No one in my family had ever left meat in the woods overnight during hunting season, but it was there the next morning, untouched.

Whether you are hunting or qualify as a hunter’s helper, this invisible, silent stalker can kill, so please be prepared.