Elk encounters in western Kentucky

Anyone who stops at Land Between the Lakes’ bison and elk prairie should always take second trip on the loop road. The results will vary, but there’s always a chance for better wildlife encounters.

The prairie hearkens to a time when Kentucky was the west. Bison and elk were extirpated as settlement exploded in the 19th century. It’s a small nod to the native landscape, a time capsule of a few hundred acres on an inland peninsula 40 miles long.

Even with random rifle shots, Land Between the Lakes is a quiet place. No one lives on the peninsula since its conversion to a national recreation area after the construction of dams forming Lake Barkley (Cumberland River) and Kentucky Lake (Tennessee River). Turning the peninsula into a national recreation area uprooted 3,000 families and led the leveling of two towns. Along with several historic homesteads, more than 200 cemeteries dot the peninsula.

A huge improvement

Every LBL venture brings a few surprises. Three years ago, a new bridge across Barkley Lake was in its early stages. The  bridge, which had crossed the Cumberland River and later Barkley Lake since 1932, had been replaced by a modern span. The old bridge, with exceptionally narrow lanes, had much of its deck removed in preparation for an early April demolition. After passing Cadiz, I began to dread crossing that narrow bridge. Instead I found lanes open on the new bridge, which presented none of the claustrophobia of the old span.

At a series of gates, I drove into the LBL bison and elk prairie, one of my favorite day-trip destinations. Along with trails and a nature center, the prairie restores an ecosystem prevalent across Kentucky before it was colonized. Portions of the prairie were scorched from a controlled burn to preserve the prairie. The prairie seemed abandoned at first, a lonely road through a rolling landscape.

No roaming on this day

The bison herd appeared as a series of lumps on a small hilltop. Larger members sat closest to the road. On the last three visits, the bison went easy on visitors. They didn’t move much, but they clustered feet from the pavement. Their winter hides were tan, easily blending into the pale grasses of the prairie. The slow intrusion of spring had not stopped them from shedding those hides, with many missing large patches.

Sleepy bison

The lack of juveniles was noticeable but not unexpected. In late March, several cow bison were probably pregnant, but no little red dogs romped among the herd. Most bison still bore pieces of their winter coats, ragged parches struggling to wear away. Staring at those massive creatures, so gentle and drowsy, I wondered if the herd included the baby bison we viewed three years ago. Called “little red dogs” because of the reddish fur they are born with, the babies’ fur turns brown several months later, so they would be indistinguishable from the rest.

After getting caught up in taking pictures, another car has crept up, so I proceeded up the road and found surprisingly little wildlife. I spotted a male turkey pulling worms and insects from the ground near a copse of spindly trees.

Elk grazing

On this visit, the elk played a starring role.

Elk had been elusive in previous trips. We spotted them in the trees, usually resting or observing quietly from the prairie ridges. The first time, we spotted two. The second time, we again spotted two, although these were easier to photograph. Other times their secretive nature made them secondary to the bison.

At first, this trip presented the same distance issues – the few visible elk sat several hundred yards off the road, visible only because the trees had not filled out with leaves yet and the sun brightened their golden coats. Winter kept its claws in the mid-South, and the temperatures stayed in the low 50s.

I took the prairie road a second time to observe the bison, hoping another round of pictures who produce better exposures. They did improve, but I ended up chasing elk. I again watched the distant bull elk among the trees, expecting I would not earn any closer views. Atop the next hill, I was proven wrong. Four elk, including at least one bull, grazed in a field. They grew skittish after a series of gunshots. While the prairie is protected territory, much of LBL allows hunting, mainly for deer. The elk moved briskly across the rolling landscape, grazing at times then heading in spurts toward the protected forests beyond the road.

Bull elk sans antlers

I crossed them four separate times, the pictures improving with each encounter. Further salvos of gunshots pushed them beyond the prairie’s open meadows. Males shed their antlers by this time of year, and I could see flat stumps where the bull lost his antlers. One of the females had a prominent set of lower teeth. They noted my car, each of them delivered a hard stare at me when crossing the prairie. Like the bison, the elk often had patchy coats.

In the car, the restrictions on approaching elk and bison imposed at national parks (75 yards, a frequently ignored distance) slip away. The dangers do not – when a bull bison rose suddenly, I lifted my foot off the brake and moved on. If he charged, his bony skull could cripple my car. Bison can be unpredictable, and an elk turn fierce quickly. During the elk rut, when mature bulls sport massive pointed racks, elk can strike a car or a tourist standing too close. On a morning when few cars traversed the 3-mile prairie loop, risks were lower from the ungulates. In fairness, I never got that close, relying on a long camera lens to preserve the encounter.

I rolled down all the windows as the last elk entered the woods and disappeared down a creek bed. I figured that would be the last evidence of their presence.

Then I heard the noise, the one I thought exclusive to the autumn elk rut. A series of bugles echoed across the prairie, breaking into the shimmering chorus of frog chirps. The tom turkey continued his lonely pecks through the tall grasses.

Had I not reached their meadow at that moment, the encounter would have passed. Catching wildlife in action requires patience or just dumb luck. I leaned toward the latter, since I spent an hour on the LBL prairie. Nothing else would top the chances crossings already on my camera.

Western Kentucky dealt a wildlife experience close to the diverse national parks of the Mountain West. It’s not quite the same, yet worthy of many returns. Catching wildlife at dramatic moments might require many years and visits. The chance to lock eyes with an elk or bison on lands where they once freely roamed will keep luring me back.

They looked hard before crossing.