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Long Read! 40 Years, Zero Kills. We Spent a Weekend with Colorado's Least-Successful Elk Hunter
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This episode of the Outside Podcast is brought to you by Arkansas the Natural State the thing that separates an adventure from just a standard issue. Outing outside is surprise, and there may not be a more surprising outdoor locale than Arkansas. A temperate climate means playing outside year round. And let me tell you, can you ever play from kayaking at Two Rivers park in Little Rock to the famed mountain biking in Bentonville or afloat on the Caddo river or the Buffalo National River? Oh, by the way, was America's first national river to tromping around Mount Nebo State park for unbelievable views of the Arkansas River Valley in the Natural State, you're never far away from fun lakes, rivers, mountains, woods, trails, canoeing, boating, mountain biking, hiking, fishing. Whatever you want, whatever your skill level. Your next surprise Outside is in Arkansas. Plan your Next adventure@arkansas.com Foreign. This is the Outside Podcast with Patio.
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Hey everybody, Fred Dreier here. I'm the Features Editor at Outside. You're listening to another long read on the Outside Podcast where I read one of our classic long form stories about adventure, survival, true crime, and noteworthy people from the world of outdoor culture. Thank you so much for listening and subscribing to the Outside Podcast. Please rate and review us on the podcast platform of your choice. If your favorite way to read is with your ears, I encourage you to join Outside Plus. It gives you unlimited access to everything in the Outside network, including more audio stories from outside, backpacker, climbing, ski, and more. Plus you get mapping apps like trailforks and Gaia GPS and Map My Fitness. This week we have a story titled 40 Years Zero Kills. We spent a weekend with Colorado's least successful elk hunter by Devin O'. Neill. This story profiles a guy named Carl Cucciorella, a dedicated Colorado bow hunter who, despite his best efforts, hasn't ever killed an elk with a bow and arrow. Devin pitched us this idea to write about a regular guy who's wildly passionate about his outdoor sport, yet hasn't had any real success at it, and we immediately knew it was an outside story. Carl's story is pretty relatable to anyone who's ever raced a bicycle, competed in a marathon, or tried to set a PR and ultimately has come up short. So without further ado, 40 years zero kills we spent a weekend with Colorado's least successful elk hunter by Devin O' Neill when I located Carl Cocchiarella on a hillside at 10,500ft after hiking for hours towards a blue dot on my phone, he was eating lunch in the shade of a large spruce blended with the terrain like the savvy hunter he is. His $2,000 compound bow rested in the dirt and he chomped into a flour tortilla slathered in peanut butter while reclined next to his hunting partner, Tig Olson. I would give you a rough idea of where we were, except Carl insisted I refer to the location only as the high country of Colorado. He explained why hunters are territorial and they have guns. So did he, a Glock strapped to his hip in case a large predator tried to move in on his kill. The prospect of him killing something, however, constituted a mighty if, considering this was Carl's 40th year as an archery hunter and he had never harvested an animal with an arrow. It was early September 2024, the second day of Colorado's bow season. Carl, a 65 year old house painter from Vail, held elk and deer tags good for both sexes, but so far had not seen any animals. The sun's heat felt like it does in July. Carl had dark, greasy smudges on his cheeks to avoid detection by his targets, and was dressed in a camouflage long sleeve hoodie and beige pants. He would have been nearly impossible to spot if not for his 75 liter Azure backpack, which could only be camouflaged in an ocean. Carl started hunting with A rifle in 1983, drawn by the idea of filling his freezer with meat. He harvested a large buck his first day out down valley from Vail. Then he got a bow and never went back to bullets. He still owns a very nice rifle and knows it would improve his chances, but harvesting on its own is no longer worth the concessions in style and pride and hasn't been for decades. Tige, a local electrician 24 years younger than Carl, has no problem making such concessions, even if his heart, like Carl's, belongs to his bow resting in the shade. Tig was camouflaged from his ball cap, a brown flat brim that read elk hunter to his boots, all six feet and three inches of him. He spoke only in whispers. Sometimes Carl and Tig hunt with other people, but mostly they go with each other. Their relationship skews towards mentor mentee Carl, the self deprecating sage Tag, the highly skilled understudy owing to Carl's experience in the mountains more than their respective hunting records. Quietly through the years, Carl has built an impressive list of conquests. He skied the Messner Couloir or on denali, riding out three nights in an ice cave at 17,000ft, climbed the east ridge of Mount Logan, North America's second tallest point, during a blizzard made a first descent in Patagonia, summited three peaks in a season in Peru's Cordillera Blanca and kayaked the Grand Canyon. He also survived a full avalanche burial on Vale Pass before transceivers were widely used a thunderous slab in British Columbia that nearly washed him over a cliff, saved by a sapling that he grabbed at the last second and a crevasse fall on Mont Blanc that left him dangling above death. Carl gets a lot of good days because he's not afraid of the bad days, says Scott Tepfer, a retired avalanche forecaster and one of his closest friends, summing up Carl's approach to adventure. Tig, meanwhile, grew up in the Vale Valley and started hunting as a Gromit, following his dad through the forest with a rubber band gun. He killed his first elk with a rifle when he was 12. As soon as he tried bow hunting, he says, I caught the fever. He found its intimacy. Most shots are taken within 40 yards. Addicting. You only get one chance. Over 16 seasons as an archery hunter heading into 2024, Tige had harvested four four elk, including a 600 pound bull that fed his family for two years. That success rate was about two and a half times the 2023 average, which hovers around 10% in Colorado and serves as one of the discipline's chief deterrents. Tig's father never got into bow hunting. He'd say, no, I'm not a vegetarian, tig recalls. I had backcountry skied with Carl for years and often heard stories about his huts tinged with hints of hilarity. I also knew he avoided attention. Allowing a reporter into his fold went against his ideology. He agreed to let me chronicle his season reluctantly, more than simply accompanying him through the forest. I was here to see how Carl, a proud outdoorsman, self made and successful, had lasted four decades in a sport built on results. How did he maintain his passion in the face of so much failure? And what life lessons might be buried within his futility? Just downhill from their lunch spot, Carl and Tige made a plan in hushed tones that would take them back to camp by sunset. I'm going to go slow, carl said. I might sit down. That's fine, Carl, tig replied. Carl smiled. They fist bumped and tiptoed in opposite directions. Part of Carl's mystique as a hunter comes from the lines he draws, indicating what a harvest is actually worth to him. Yesterday, for instance, was his first time ever hunting with a map. He prefers to scout land in person or with binoculars. Isn't it better to feel something, he said. Float the river, taste the chocolate. Plus I'm dyslexic. He prowled the forest like a cat, careful to avoid snapping twigs. He stabbed at a pile of elk dung with a ski pole, picked it up, broke it in half, and smelled it. Not quite warm, but within the hour, he said, scanning the forest, they're in here. If you didn't know Carl had survived treacherous adventures around the world, he could be easy to underestimate. I'm just not athletic. I can barely get my shoes on. I can't jump more than 4 inches in the air. I swear to you, he said. He used to stand 5 foot 7 but had shrunk to 5 foot 5, still mostly muscle with a lower half like a bobsled racer. I think if I had more height, I'd get more animals. We sat on the edge of a clearing and strained to examine each gap in the trees, each glint, Hoping something might stroll by. Carl plucked his lucky rock from his pocket and rubbed it. Nothing appeared. After about an hour, he concluded, the animals, I think, know I'm a good shot and they'd better not get in the way. By the time we hiked into camp, Carl had been out for 12 hours, his second full day without seeing an elk or a deer. If he was discouraged, however, he didn't show it. One of his trademarks is that every moment he's out there, he believes his streak is about to end. On the third morning, Carl woke up at 5am and decided not to hunt. Instead, we talked at camp before packing up and beginning the 30 minute hike out so he could get to work, wiping down the deck board boards on his hands and knees. This is very alky. The whole area is, carl said as we descended through an aspen meadow. He was 20ft in front of me when suddenly he dropped his ski pole and began moving in a crouch. I saw it too. A sturdy doe maybe 40 yards from Carl, all alone. He closed the gap. She kept eating grass. Head down, he notched an arrow. The the doe, standing broadside, stepped behind a spruce branch. Carl felt about 60% confident in his shot. Not good enough. He inched toward a better position. Just then, the doe saw him. She bolted before he could draw. Later, at the truck, still buzzing from the encounter, he said, that's to get you back. It's like golf. One good shot. I didn't even have to take a shot. I finally saw an animal. I actually got to hunt. He shook his head. Oh, I had her. If just that branch wasn't There, Carl's zeal for the outdoors began at an early age. Born in Manhattan to an Italian father and a Swiss mother, the family moved to Gloucester, Massachusetts, when Carl was eight. His parents took him and his two siblings camping or skiing every weekend. He maximized what he had fishing from shore while his friends fished from motorboats. After earning an accounting degree, he drove his van to Colorado in October 1982. It broke down in Vail, so that's where he stayed. Carl didn't just kill one buck the day he debuted as a hunter, he killed two. He finished off the first after four men had wounded it and began chasing it toward him, firing at will. His shot an act of self preservation. An hour later, in the midst of a blizzard, Carl took down a bigger buck at 150 yards across a ravine. Though he loved the quick results, he didn't appreciate having bullets whiz over his head. He had grown up shooting a wooden recurve bow in his backyard, and the simplicity appealed. He was stubborn, hardworking and tough, traits that aligned well with hunting's noblest form, even if it remained a hobby. Carl earned a reputation in Vail for his daring ski descents and vivacious personality. He met a fellow adventurer named Jimmy Kline, who became his best friend. They bought land together and built a cabin. In December 1994, however, Jimmy was climbing a frozen waterfall in Glenwood Canyon when the ice collapsed, killing him. Jimmy's son, Tucker, was three weeks old. Carl and Jimmy's widow, Kate, who grew up in Vail, subsequently fell in love and married. Carl adopted Tucker. He and Kate later welcomed a daughter, Rachel. Carl, who used to joke that none of the seas and Carl Cocciarilla stand for commitment, remembers the talk they had before Carl agreed to settle down. He was like, I can do this and be your partner, but I'm still a mountain man and I'm going to stay a mountain man, Kate says. And I said, yeah, that's what I love about you, and that's what you do. I'm not going to stop you from doing what you do. It's hard to find a place with better hunting opportunities than Colorado, even if the harvest statistics don't always show it. The state features more than 23 million acres of public land and is home to the largest elk herd in the country, an estimated 303,390 animals, according to Colorado Parks and Wildlife. That's in addition to 375,710 deer roaming the state. Carl has plenty of company in his quest, 186,000 hunters bought an elk tag in Colorado in 2023, including 50,000 bowhunters. A tag for residents cost $66.12, while non residents pay $803.39. Much like the house always wins in the end, you could argue, so does the herd. It took an average of 71 archery hunting days for each harvested elk in 2023. The odds are even longer where Carl hunts a zone known to hold thinner herds and rougher terrain. But he prefers to go on his terms in a familiar place with fewer people rather than chase a more likely kill. He could talk for hours about his near misses, like the time when he called in a bull from hundreds of yards away, listening to it crash through the forest ever nearer until it stood close enough to hear him whisper. He and the beast locked eyes. I had my arrow notched and I started pulling up just a little bit, carl recalled. I probably should have stayed still. There's always something you think you didn't do right. He just turned around and ran. Then it was quiet for 10 days. In 39 years, Carl had only taken one shot. He also skipped two seasons during that time. It happened three years ago while stalking a four point bull at 40 yards. He'd spent years honing his aim on a target in his backyard, but as soon as he fired, he watched the arrow graze a leaf soar over the bull and smack dirt. The elk let out an angry bugle, then took off uphill, spitting as it ran. Three weeks after I'd watched Karl opt not to draw on the doe, he and Tig were back in their favorite zone, hunting a few hundred yards apart, when all hell broke loose. Tige came upon piles of green scat, a telltale sign that an animal was close by. He spotted a tangled web of branches, then saw them move and realized he was staring at antlers. The six point bull turned broadside and Tig pulled his arrow back. Just as he was about to shoot, however, 10 cows sprinted past the bull, spooking it and likely saving its life. Carl had barely read Tike's text about the encounter when his own opportunity appeared. It was another doe, 30 yards away, gawking at him. He was surprised she didn't move. As he notched an arrow, he pulled it back. Still no movement. He aimed through a narrow hallway of lodgepole pine, slightly downhill, a perfect shooting corridor. I'm gonna get my first animal, he thought. The doe's eyes blinked on either side of a spindly trunk. Carl released his arrow and watched it whiz like a missile he heard it hit flesh or bone, he wasn't sure which, and for a moment the outcome didn't matter. He'd taken a shot and hit an animal. Then the doe took off and the gravity of his imprecision sank in. He started tracking her path through the forest, following drops of blood, feeling his anxiety rising. To wound an animal is not just unfortunate, it's the worst case scenario. He and Tig spent two hours on the does trail until eventually the droplets dried up. Carl later estimated he'd missed her heart by 6 inches. In the ensuing days, I would get the feeling the close call haunted Carl more than he let on. Fateful as it was in his bow hunting career. A source of exhilaration and distress, his internalized with time. But that night he espoused a more light hearted take. It would have been great if I took the shot and she just fell down the hill, he said. At camp I could have cut her throat and drunk the blood and put it on my face and cut the heart out. Knee knit with you killa killa. But I guess this is all part of the process. You can't bat a thousand. By the next morning, Carl's optimism seemed to have returned. We'd moved camp to a new drainage and he and Tige headed out at dawn, under a wispy sky that looked like an impressionist painting, Carl yielded the more favorable course to his partner through a wetland. I care about Tig's hunting more than mine, he said matter of factly. We started climbing a densely treed hillside that felt almost sheer, following a network of game trails that he seemed to know as well as the animals. The best thing about hunting is I can keep up with people, he observed, because the slower you are, the better you are. So I'm perfect and I still sweat. He took a sip from his water bottle, which he'd spiked with probiotic powder. Wow, that's fucking good. Why do you take probiotics? I asked. Chuck Norris, he replied. Carl aimed to complete 500 exercises a day. They push ups, sit ups, arm windmills or dance moves. Whenever we had a minute, which happened a lot during dawn to dusk hunt, he dropped to the ground and banged out a set of 20, taking care not to disturb his Glock. Suddenly the wind shifted and we smelled elk. Carl sent out two quick cow calls. We're catching up to him, he said. We never caught them. However, that evening, after scarfing a dehydrated meal that he'd purchased at Walmart, Carl donned camo slippers and cracked an ipa the next morning we would hike out empty handed again. The season's end drawing nearer, his mind wandered back to the wounded doe and the error he'd made when it was time to kill. That's what pulled my shot. I think I was looking in her eyes, he said. I asked why he still believed he would get an animal after so many empty seasons. For the first time, I sensed him recoil, as if his ethos had been challenged. I don't think it has anything to do with believing, he snapped. I mean, that's beyond what I'm trying to do out here. I love hunting. I've gotten what I really needed. He leaned back in his chair, legs extended in a cross, smiling like a king. I'm having the greatest time ever. The first bugle ripped through our campsite at 7:40pm it was Sunday, September 29, the night before archery closing day, and I joined Carl and Tig for their final hunt. They knew animals were in the area. Carl saw a huge bull at dusk wandering above camp, and Tige observed fresh signs all day hoofprints, scat and beds in the grass. A second bugle followed the first, kicking off a sequence that would last for 10 hours. After a month of chasing ghosts, suddenly it seemed we had landed in the magic circle, surrounded by targets. The wind drifted down from the animals towards camp, concealing our presence. We sat in the dark, enjoying the concert, unsure whether the vocalists were herd bulls calling to their harem or satellite bowls, basically smaller hangers on that wait for the sultan to drop his guard, then, as Taig explained, swoop in for a quick fuck. Tig sprayed cow piss, mist taken from the urine of an elk in heat, into the air for good measure. Carl, who spent much of the day photographing bark and woodpeckers, was savoring his twelfth night camping this season, a personal best. Tig had gotten 15. As we faded to sleep in our tents, I couldn't help but think destiny was in play. Carl's streak was finally, mercifully, about to end. The last bugle rang out at 5:30am Carl and Tig were huddled in the dark, strategizing. We're gonna pincer him, tige whispered, explaining that he would circle around the bull and push the herd, however many it included, down towards Carl. Tige took off. Carl strained to catch a glimpse of brown fur through his binoculars. He texted Tige up 100 yards on hill. You're going to them. Then he saw more. Holy shit, he said. He counted four, then eight, then 12. Then the elk began to wander uphill away from us, and Carl blew a cow call, stopping them. They're moving, he texted Tig. They started again, and once more he stopped them. Oh, now they're running, he said. Shit. He scanned the hillside and spotted the culprit, a coyote, likely startled by Tig, trotting through the herd. They're gone, carl announced. He seemed dismayed, almost in disbelief. It's okay. There's going to be another herd. We sat on a log, pondering what had happened. I feel like we missed an opportunity, carl said. We should have called him in. Carl and I hiked up the mountain, defeated and cold, frost crunching under our boots. The disappointment oozed like a leaking tire. Silent and steady, Carl had always managed how much emotion he invested in hunting, content to be committed, not obsessed. Yet moments like these tested his endurance. He gazed at the earth as he walked for the first time, appearing sullen. Forty years is a very long time, but Carl's bull is out there, says famed former elk hunting guide Ethan Cohn, who lives in Vale and has known Carl since the early 90s, sometimes hunting with him. Cohn applies what he calls his romanticized view of Carl's quest. He's got to keep going on the journey. It's a journey, man, archery. Elk hunting is a good analogy for life. You can't let it kick your ass. You gotta take those ass kickings and learn from them. If you keep putting in the time and effort, it's gonna happen. And when it does, we'll have a big celebration. We'll eat the whole elk in one night. I had been wondering something about Carl, and after the herd split, it bubbled up again. Was hunting, as he insisted, merely about time spent outdoors, tuning into nature and his mind? Or did he actually care that he hadn't gotten an animal? For every claim of the former, he also declared himself the worst hunter or harped on his bringing down the harvest rate for everyone. He still carried big game bags in his blue backpack, which was adorned by a red and white patch from a fishing contest he'd won in 1971. So clearly Conquest mattered and was worth planning for. But Karl had also lived below his means. For much of his life. His definition of success differed from the mainstream's. Like a lot of mountain men and women, he had sacrificed traditional metrics for more abstract ones. As we trudged past hoofprints and dung piles down to the season's final hours, I could tell Karl was waffling. If I don't get an elk, I I'm okay with that. He said. To hear him all night, that was fucking amazing. Then he pointed to where he'd seen the bull the previous evening. Wistful, his body was dragging on the ground, waiting to be eaten. Carl bent to stretch his lower back under cotton ball clouds. He had two artificial hips, and when his back got tight, his legs went numb and he hobbled in obvious discomfort. The doctors want to operate, he said. I'm like, fuck that. If he could still hunt and ski and work and dance in the forest, his back was fine. I told him he gave the season all he had. No, he replied. I think I can give it more. I could live out in the woods the whole time, rub shit on myself, eat grubs. Don't even bring the tent. He sighed. But in reality, I can barely walk. Suddenly, as if dropped by a spaceship, two bucks appeared 50 yards out. They stared at Carl. He stared at them. They moved. We followed. Getting close enough to shoot, however, felt next to impossible, and eventually they bounded off through the trees. We arrived back at camp to find Tag in surprisingly good spirits, processing the season. Another TAG sandwich, eh, Carl? He ribbed his friend. We began to pack our gear. No more whispers. No more worrying about wind direction. Carl's mood perked up. As much as he'd wanted to harvest an animal, it was not essential, now or ever. The silver lining sparkled. For one more hour at least, he would be in the mountains, free to wander. Carl imagines the day when he serves his friends elk for dinner, regaling them over juicy steaks that he harvested with an arrow in a location he will keep to himself. Of course. That's what I can't wait for, he says, his eyes twinkling, telling the story about the journey. This season's futility is but another chapter before the happy ending. Okay, thanks so much for listening to this week's long read on the Outside Podcast. If your favorite way to read is with your ears, I encourage you to join Outside plus for our podcast listeners, we have a special offer for 25% off head to Outside Watch Listen to learn more. That's Outside Watch Listen. Thanks so much.