While a few chosen hunters are accustomed to pursuing elk in the fall, there is considerable hunting going on right now in Pennsylvania's Wilds.

This area, comprising Pennsylvania's wild elk range, covers around 3,750 square miles, including six northcentral counties, according to Anthony Ross, regional biologist for the Pennsylvania Game Commission's northcentral region.

I traveled to elk country a few weeks ago with Peter Aiken, former Wildlife Conservation Officer from Montour and upper Northumberland counties, who now serves as Wildlife Habitat Management Supervisor for the northcentral region.

On this particular hunt, we were armed with cameras rather than rifles, and its success solely depended on telemetry and keen eyesight.

Arriving in the Quehanna Wilds Area, we were met by Colleen Shannon, Land Management Group Supervisor for the northcentral region and her nephew, Justin Keen, along with Richard Kugel, Assistant District Forester at Sproul State Forest, and Tim Fenton, a maintenance repair manager.

"Jon has located a cow," Shannon said, "and we are waiting to hear word from him."

She was referring to Jon DeBerti, the agency's elk biologist, responsible for locating newborns and gathering biological information as part of the state's elk management program. We were there to assist him.

Shannon explained, "Jon takes one person into the woods with him to help locate the cow. Then, once the cow leaves the immediate area, then it's safe for us to join him."

"Generally, the calf is found within a 100-yard perimeter," she said as we traipsed through a level grassy field leading to forested land.

"Just watch for rattlesnakes," she warned.

Being a greenhorn, I didn't object to wearing snake protectors from my knees down.

Once inside the woods, DeBerti told the group to space out in a single lines. Walking in what he termed grids, he told the group, "Look all around you. The calf should be in this general area."

The understory was enveloped in ferns, downed branches, decaying logs and mountain stone. The six of us walked and walked, then turned and walked in other directions. We retraced our steps, but still no calf was located.

"They are really hard to find," said someone in the group. "They lie so flat to the ground that if you aren't right on them, they are impossible to see."

More than an hour passed with relentless black flies and constant walking. DeBerti finally gave up.

When the search ended, I finally met up with the elk biologist. He was the one carrying the telemetry equipment used to locate cows. Over his shoulder, he carried a device which resembled a car battery, only with knobs and dials. In his hands, he held up a radio antenna. "Each monitored cow has her own signal and number. I usually don't like to search for more than 45 minutes for one calf," he admitted."When I locate a cow, I check to see if her udders are full, and if she appears to have dropped a calf."

He continued, "We wait two days to allow mother and calf to bond before we disturb them."

Back once again in game commission vehicles, we drove countless miles in elk territory to an area known as Potterdales. Mark Gritzer, a biologist aide, whose main responsibility is to know the locations of more than 80 radio-collared elk, was certain that today he had located a cow who had dropped a calf. He had seen her in the same area for two days, and this was a sure sign she had a calf hidden nearby.

In this area, there were no woodlands. It was surprisingly an active mining operation. Steep hills and low valleys, which were reclaimed surface mine sites, stretched as far as the eye could see. Far into the valley below, the little settlement of Karthaus was visible.

Gritzer stood high atop the opposite bank, pointing toward the cow. Suddenly, she took off, and then it was up the group to again space out and search. Underfoot, trefoil and clover made luscious meals for elk. It was easy to understand why elk are present here.

Still searching, the group turned around at a crest and started coming down the steep embankment at a different angle. Aiken left the group and walked toward me. We met and chatted, and then continued going the opposite direction from the others. Just as I made a turn to cover more ground, Aiken stopped suddenly, and then he made the announcement we were all waiting for. "Here it is!" he said.

As the rest of the group approached, Aiken commented. "It's like fishing. You can fish all day, but suddenly you get that fish and it makes your whole day worthwhile. That's the way it is with finding elk calves. Finding one makes all the strenuous effort worthwhile."

I estimated the elk calf to be close to three times the size of a deer fawn. It lay motionless and made no gesture to escape its onlookers. Within minutes, DeBerti and Gritzer stooped down to start the biological process. The sex and age were immediately determined.

"How do you tell its age?" they were asked.

"We check the umbilical cord. If it's dry, the calf is more than two days old," said DeBerti.

The cord was still a little bloody so the biologists estimated it to be two days old. Blood samples were drawn to be later checked in the lab, and then it was weighed. An ear tag and radio monitor were put into place. It was a female elk calf weighing 37 pounds which is slightly smaller than the average. Other information was recorded as well.

Gritzer looked around, and said, "someone better be watching for that cow."

It was the day before that a 500-pound cow charged him when she heard her calf squeal.

Rattlesnakes, a charging cow, steep terrain complete with temperatures in the 80s and nagging bugs is all part of the fun in locating elk calves. Whoever thinks DeBerti's and Gritzer's work is an easy one needs to tag along.

Soon we were once again heading for the vehicles. "One thing you learn very quickly," noted Shannon. "When you come to elk country, you make sure you have a tank full of gas and lots of food," she said while we munched on snacks.

Elk country is remote and beautiful and endless mountains greeted us everywhere as we crisscrossed a maze of country roads.

Our final stop was Dents Run, and again we waited for DeBerti's call. A half hour later, he responded, "We found her halfway up the mountain," he said, referring to the cow. "Want to come up and join us in the search?"

I glanced up the mountainside, and knew instantly. I couldn't make the climb. As if he read our minds, DeBerti yelled to Aiken and me to check out the bottomland.

Again, we were forced to give up, and it was obvious DeBerti hated to quit. "We've only found one calf so far today; I wish we could find more."

He very well knew calving season would end, and to date he had found only six calves. He needed to tag 35.

As of June 19, DeBerti and volunteers had collared 24 elk calves and their goal was to reach 30.

"How many hours a day do you spend searching?" I asked, knowing that my body was telling me: I had done enough walking for one day.

He smiled before he responded, then said, "I am up at dawn and work till dark during the calving season."

As Aiken and I left for home, with continuous greenery surrounding us, I had such respect and appreciation for all the fieldwork being done to preserve and manage the biggest game animal in Pennsylvania.

n Connie Mertz is a hunter and nature enthusiast from Danville. Contact her at: owcam@verizon.net.