For the two weeks I had to be at home while my elk hunting season ticked on—me with a once-in-a-lifetime tag in my pocket—I was basically pacing back and forth, and restless beyond words.
I’d finally found them, and I’d drawn on a bull, and I’d heard more bugles than ever before. It still gives me chills thinking about it. But I was still stuck behind my laptop, regardless. I did my best to be present while I was at home, being there for my kids and wife, and taking the dog on long walks and runs. I was shooting my bow even more and on weirder angles and yardages, as well as putting my energy into my work and home life.
But in my head, I was in those woods. I was chasing those elk.
The clock ticked by, and as the Friday before the season closed edged closer, I started getting ready. My first two excursions meant that I had some on-the-ground intel. A few issues with my gear, food, and water meant that I wanted to change a few things. One big thing I changed—which will be its own story soon—was with the Roofnest’s mattress. It’s fine for one or two nights, but not four. And definitely not four with all the hiking and rugged terrain that tends to cause cramps and sore muscles.
After dropping my kids off at the bus stop once more, I raced back to camp. I’d been nervous over those two weeks for a couple of reasons. First, I’d seen a few hunters back where I was looking for spike elk, and hunters have a tendency of making animals move. I should know, I was one of them. And second, elk can move country like no other animal. One day they can be right here. The next? Three states over. What if, sometime during the last two weeks, they’d been pushed out of the area? What if they were gone and I’d lost my chance? What if?
Worse yet, the forecast called for rain and possibly snow, and on my ride up in the Can-Am along those treacherous trails, the clouds looked ominous and dark. Luck, again, would give me the time to make it to camp, set up the Roofnest, and take a few quick shots with my bow to ensure everything was groovy before the heavens opened up and released a torrent of hail and rain.
And for two hours, I lay in the Roofnest, listening to the rain and hail bounce off the tent’s roof. Again, I contemplated the ‘what if’ of it all, as I hadn’t yet been able to explore anything, and I hadn’t seen any elk coming in, and I hadn’t so much as heard a single bugle.
But as the clouds parted, and the rain and hail stopped, the faintest bugle came to my ears on the wind. At first, I wasn’t sure if my brain was playing tricks on me. Then another bugle came through, and I knew all wasn’t lost. They were still here, and still fired up.
That evening, I left the confines of the Roofnest and set off toward where I’d see the bulls two weeks before: The burn. Along the way, however, as the light fell, bugles began going off above me on the ridge. I answered their cries with my own, and they responded in kind. Cow calls sounded off, too, and I laid eyes on a big 6x6 bull cruising the ridge above.
He was a couple hundred yards away, but I could see his big antlers, count the tines, and watch him through my binoculars as he bugled toward where I’d heard the cow calls emanating from.
He was magnificent, and I just watched him for awhile, remarking out loud on how cool he looked and sounded. There was no play on him, as he was moving away from me. While he echoed my challenge bugles, he was more interested in the lady elk than in me.
Again, however, my bugles were spot on, and I accidentally called in more cows. One in particular came right to me, checking me out as I lay still just inside the treeline. It was a very cool encounter, and funny in how she looked at me. But as the night stretched on, my only other bull experience was with a small spike bull whom I bumped into while walking back to camp.
That night, more bugles rang through the valleys, reverberating in my head. I got a prophetic text from a friend through my inReach after telling him about the day’s event. It read, “Damn! Tomorrow’s the day!”
Like the last morning before leaving, I’d heard bulls come down off the ridge and close to camp that night. And while I wasn’t at peak fitness during the prior occurrence, I was ready this time. My bow was ready, my Sitka pack was ready with water and food for a full day’s adventure, and my body even felt somewhat rested, even though I listened to every bugle that night.
Almost immediately upon stepping out of the tent that morning, a bull was bugling just along the ridge. And in the wee dawn hours, I could just make out that he was a big bull. I’d originally planned on heading back into near the burn, as the ridge was a 700-foot climb over maybe a quarter mile and would be hell if I got one.
But there was something calling me to that bull.
Well, he was.
So I set off from camp, slowly and methodically making my way up the ridge. I’d decided I wasn’t going to call and give away my position until I was all the way up, so I huffed and puffed through the climb, and when I got to the top, I let out a bugle.
He bugled right back, but was also further away than I anticipated, moving around the ridge toward the back of the mountain. I’d been up there before, and it was rocky from an avalanche, complete with downed trees and narrow gaps. I’d seen a few cow elk in there, but no bulls.
Yet, this bull sounded like he was moving into it. So I moved a little closer, another few hundred yards—my wind was perfect—and called again. Once again, he responded. But like the last time, he was just that little bit further away.
So we played this cat-and-mouse game for the next hour, with me calling, and him calling back—but always just out of reach. He wasn’t scared, he wasn’t threatened; he just didn’t want to come in. He wanted to talk and tell me he was there, but just wouldn’t play ball. And so, after going deeper into this absolute hellhole of an area, and playing this game with him, I finally got fed up and sat down to regroup.
Honestly, I didn’t want to go further. I was five miles in, and I’d crossed so much deadfall and rocks. Getting him out of here would be tantamount to suicide, as I was by myself—something my friends would lambast me for later that night. And so, I unpacked an Uncrustable—the GOAT hunting, fishing, and anything snack—and I just relaxed along this beautiful triple-rolling meadowy hill, a spot where I could see the valley far below. It was gorgeous and serene, and it gave me a second to just take a second. But as you do when you finally relax, a thought came into my head. “You should cow call. Maybe there’s another bull around here that’d respond to that. One that’s closer to camp.”
So I pulled out a diaphragm, made a cow call, and waited. Maybe a few seconds later, the bull I’d been chasing let a bugle fly.
Curious as to what he’d do, I let out another cow call. To my surprise, he bugled again. But he was closer. Startled by the turn of events, I set down my half-eaten Uncrustable, grabbed my bow, nocked an arrow, and made another cow call. He bugled again; and again, he was closer. At this point, my heart began beating out of my chest.
This bull that I’d been chasing all morning was finally coming to me. It could all finally happen.
The hill I’d been sitting on and eating my lunch was covered in a few tall bushes and mostly lined with trees, apart from a few elk and deer trails that crisscrossed the face. It was also canted down and to the left, but the three rolls made for topography I could use to get closer to where I’d heard him calling from. Quickly but cautiously, I made my way to the second of these three rolls that overlooked a small, maybe 30-yard clearing, and stuck myself right next to a high enough bush to my left and the trees to my right that’d keep me out of sight if he walked in.
There was only a single thing in the clearing below, a lone pine tree which I ranged for 45 yards. I also ranged a small patch of dirt just past the pine tree to the right, this time for 50 yards. But the whole setup was that there was a patch of timbers to the left, a small gap between those and the pine tree, and then a larger gap to the right, followed by thick timbers and a trail leading lower down the mountain.
And from what I could hear, he was moving in from the left. So if he followed that contour, he’d go from those left timbers into the gap, go behind the pine, and then into the opening. I’ve played scenarios like this in my head countless times when shooting in my backyard, or seen them play out while watching YouTube hunting videos. So I told myself that if he did all that, I could draw while he passed behind the pine tree and couldn’t see me move, and then I'd be ready for him when he took a step out into the open.
A bunch of ifs, I know.
After setting up, though my butt was slightly sliding down the hill at first, only to cause me to anchor myself with my boots. I let out another cow call, and he was right in those timbers before the first opening. He was raking his antlers on the trees and throwing up leaves and dirt, all hot under the collar for my cow elk impression. I shook harder than ever had before, as it was all finally happening, and happening quickly.
And as I watched him take that first step out from the timbers, I remember thinking, “Oh god, he’s a monster…”
This huge, old 6x6 bull took the first two steps into that small clearing, and he turned his head right toward me, looking at me deep into what felt like right inside my soul, and bugled.
No, he screamed. And he made my blood run cold.
Honestly, I thought he had spotted me, and that he was about to turn and burn. I thought that this gnarly, awesomely giant bull was going to run right out of my life. That this would be the moment I would recall for the rest of the hunt, satisfied for getting so close—but that I’d ultimately end up with nothing.
But luck once again played its part, and for whatever reason, he instead turned his head. And then ducked behind the tree, bugling as he did.
I took my chance to draw unseen, and then waited for him to exit stage right. I remember still shaking as he walked out; my breathing uneven, the pins in my CBE sight dancing all over the place, and my heart racing as if I’d just done an 8-hour stint at Le Mans. But in the only moment that I don’t vividly recall, he stopped.
Whether I stopped him with a cow call or he just stopped on his own accord, I really can’t say, but he did. And in that moment, everything fell away. My breathing slowed, my heart calmed, and my pins steadied on his lungs. I pulled through the shot as I’ve done in the thousand arrows I’ve sent at 3D targets in my backyard, and the arrow broke perfectly.
Now here’s where I want to call out a quick aside.
Hunting is final. You’re taking a life whenever you send an arrow or a bullet down range. There’s no taking it back. And to me, there’s a deep sense of pressure in that moment so that the animal doesn’t suffer, and you make the best shot you can. I did, and I knew I did from the jump.
But on this elk, as well as my deer from last year, there was a moment after the shot broke where I thought, “Oh no, what have I done?” Because, even knowing you did your best, even knowing that the arrow felt perfect or the bullet spun exactly how you wanted, the finality of the situation and the moment just after crept into my head both times. I think that’s good pressure, as you’ll do your damndest to ensure that—like right after this shot—you know you did your job to the best of your ability. And that’s what I did.
I watched my arrow fly, pink fletching and all, and hit its mark, right in the lungs of this great, big, hulking dinosaur of an animal. I watched the arrow work its way in, and start spilling the animal’s blood, and then watched the elk turn and run into the woods. It was a perfect shot to this animal’s vitals, and I knew he was dead.
But in the education I’ve gleaned from YouTube University, as well as learning from friends as to what to do, I wanted to give him a half hour to pass away quietly, as I didn’t want to start tracking him and bump him before he expired. That’d only lead to heartbreak and misery.
I, however, was shaking for the thirty minutes I waited—even as I was texting friends and family that I’d shot a giant bull.
But after those thirty long minutes, and with an impending storm rolling through, I started tracking him using onX. And like my deer last year, he made me work for it.
Small specks of blood here, smaller specks of blood there. Deer and elk trails that went nowhere with no dead bull at their ending, and thorn after thorn bush that scratched at every part of me. Then, after 150 yards and down another 100 feet in elevation, I saw his tines through the trees. Again, like my buck last year, I let out a holler of elation that probably was heard ten to twenty miles in radius—apologies to any hunters in the area.
My bull elk—nicknamed Ivan by my wife—is an old 6x6, and he had the war wounds to prove it, including an abscess above his left eye from a recent battle with a fellow bull. Beneath his hide, scar tissue abounded, as I saw the injuries left behind from years of fighting other bulls. He'd lived an amazing life. A long one, too, as he's an older bull. And he was beautiful. For a while, before ever touching his antlers or hide, I just stared at him.
I couldn’t believe he was real. I still sort of can’t.
Whenever I’ve been able to since that day—and also on the day a ton—I’ve touched his antlers and then told this story to folks who were willing to bend an ear for the next 10 minutes.
This elk is the culmination of three years of learning, growing, and failure after failure. He’s the result of hard days hiked, mountains climbed, endless practice in my backyard. During the following day, he also resulted in a 9-hour packout of the roughly 350 pounds of meat and bone I'd removed to fill my freezer that literally required me to take out my Life Straw and drink from a trickle of a stream’s headwaters. I previously broke my pack’s water bladder when I was lugging his head back to camp, and I only had a 32-ounce Nalgene to keep myself hydrated throughout the day. Also, going to and from camp was impossible with the terrain.
And while my buck was beautiful, too, and I’ll forever cherish his memory as my first big game animal, this elk, this magnificent dinosaur that hails from the Ice Age, feels like it’s the true beginning of a hunting career that started three years ago. Or that he at least caps the first part of my education. He’s my graduation to truly saying, “I’m a hunter.”
In the end, however, what made me successful was what I said above: persistence, patience, skill, and a heaping amount of luck. I had the latter with me when Utah’s DWR pulled my name out of a hat. I had it with me when I picked the spot way up high in the mountains. I had that when I went up the trail to get to my campsite and was able to get to it with my Can-Am, whereas others couldn’t. I had it with being able to stay right there thanks to my Roofnest. I had it in the amount of encounters I experienced. I had it when I first cow called while eating that Uncrustable.
And I had it when this big, beautiful beasty walked exactly how I imagined he would into the opening where I loosed that arrow.
Luck can’t be counted on; nor should it ever be. You should do your damndest to make it the smallest of variables within your stable of tricks. Practice. Learn. Ingrain yourself in whatever you choose to get good at. But I’m sure thankful that I had it on my side that weekend. Without it, I wouldn’t feel the way I do, I wouldn’t have the freezer full of meat I have, and I wouldn’t be able to look at this animal’s skull from now until forever and be able to remember this day in all its details, smells, and sounds.
I really can’t believe it finally happened.
