Archery Elk

We sat, excitedly waiting in anticipation. The bull ran along the steep hillside. It was densely covered in a mosaic of aspen trees; their golden leaves dancing on the breeze. He screamed a high-pitched bugle, as he slowed to a walk. He stopped, bellowed a throaty chuckle, and began thrashing a small aspen with his dark, chocolatey antlers. It seemed like he stood behind that aspen for an hour. Each of his breaths audible but nearly drowned out by the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. When he finally stepped out he was only 20 yards away. He was perfectly broadside. The squealing mew of a diaphragm call stopped him. The Mathews solo-cam sung out, thump. A sharp thwack echoed through the timber as the arrow found its mark. My brother and I jumped up and yelled in excitement as the bull ran off crashing through the aspens and down the hillside.

“What are y’all doing still awake?” my dad yelled. My bedroom door hadn’t even completely opened before he finished the question. “Y’all know what time it is don’t you?” he quickly added. “Y’all better go on to sleep or y’all won’t get up to hunt in the morning.” We climbed back into my bed. Dad turned the TV off, pulled the tape from the VHS, and said goodnight. We laid and talked about recreating that video when we grew up. Eventually, we drifted off to dream of bugling bulls in the September Rockies. The only thing that stood between us and that dream was the 1,500 miles from our central Virginia home to the closest wild elk that we could legally harvest.

Some 15 years later, my first year as a Montana resident, I opened my draw results to find I had drawn an archery elk permit. I spent the next 6 months scouting. By the time season rolled around, I had put upwards of 100 miles and 25,000 feet of elevation gain on my boots. My first elk hunt wasn’t going to end with tag soup, not for a lack of effort. I found copious amounts of sign, turned up plenty of elk, and before I knew it my dad and I were turning dreams into realities. We stood in a pocket of dark timber listening, as a bull ran the ridge line toward us, his frequent bugles the only thing allowing us to keep track of him. We decided to stay put. Let him keep coming. He’ll end up in our laps. Sure enough, we had him within 75 yards but not in time.

A storm that we had been watching on the horizon and the radar closed a 25 mile gap in a half hour’s time. The storm’s original path would have taken it just south of us, but as weather does, it changed. Between its speed and change of direction, it caught us completely off guard. I had hiked into this area a dozen or more times while scouting and knew it well. I was confident we would make it safely off of the mountain. That is until we were in the storm. Our 1,000 lumen headlamps didn’t stand a chance being engulfed in the clouds. Sheets of rain, dense timber, barricades of blowdown, 2 miles, and 1,500 feet of elevation stood between us and the pick-up. To say I was overwhelmed would be a vast understatement. Nonetheless, the trek back to the truck began. Between the abysmal darkness and confusion of climbing through dead fall, On X Hunt was the only thing steering us in the right direction. We were 15 pounds heavier from our waterlogged clothes within the hour. Two hours after that, we made it back to the truck. We were grateful, but we were just as exhausted and cold. We didn’t know it then, but the front pushing that storm was exactly what the elk needed. We had struck gold.

We were back on the same ridge line the next day, as any outdoorsman would have been. The elk hadn’t gone anywhere. It was a rutting frenzy. We had our first encounter that evening – a young six point bull at 35 yards. Broadside. My equipment failed. My limb-driven arrow rest wouldn’t move, despite my drawing, letting down, and redrawing three separate times. He eventually trotted off, unsure of the situation. I sat with the gut punch sensation that all hunters know too well, as he wandered off into the dense timber. I had the opportunity people wait decades for and failed to make it count. A few attempts at drawing and some rattling my arrow rest later, it started working again. We continued hunting and spent the entire evening within 200 yards of bugling bulls. Not one came into bow range. We hiked back out with far less incident than the night before and headed home.

With the first evening’s memory far too fresh in our minds, weather kept us out of the mountains the next morning. We waited, ready for the rain to break. As it did, we started hiking in, headed to where the elk had been. The herd we had been chasing was still there and still rut crazed. 

In two hours of hunting, we had three encounters: the first – a rag horn that hung up just out of range, the second – several young bulls milling around the outskirts of the herd, the third – a moment I had dreamed of since childhood. 

The herd was headed away from us, but they were vocal. The constant mews, bugles, and chuckles led us through an area littered with blowdown. As we crawled over the last of the downed pines, the cover gave way to a large meadow. Seconds felt like hours while we sat waiting for the meadow to be clear of elk. The wind was in our faces, steady and strong, so we pushed as fast and as far as we could. We sat and called after reaching the opposite side of the meadow. Elk answered but continued heading the other direction. We pushed on until we were amidst the satellite bulls and just outside of the herd.

I knelt, so I would be able to send an arrow beneath the low hanging branches. A growling challenge bugle rang from my bugle tube, but it was cut off halfway through by a bull’s response. My chuckle drowned out the second half of his bugle. I was doing everything I could to draw in a bull looking for a fight, and biggest satellite bull read the script. I laid eyes on him at 75 yards, as he crossed a small opening. He was coming straight toward me – 50, 35, then 20 yards. I did everything in my power to keep from looking at his antlers and losing my cool. At 15 yards, he ducked his head beneath a branch and locked eyes with me, as he did so. Full frontal was the only shot I had. The issue was his head was completely blocking his vitals. We sat staring at one another. Both waiting for the other to make their move.

At 15 yards, I knew all I needed was a clear path to his vitals, whether he knew I was there or not. A minute and a half passed before either of us moved. Those 90 seconds would have been my downfall any hunt prior to this. In this case, however, they saved me. I relaxed at full draw shifting the load from the small muscles of the arms and shoulders to larger more fatigue-resistant back muscles. I adjusted my grip. I allowed my pin to settle where I visualized his vitals, the place I intended to shoot. I reminded myself “expand through…clean break.”

He made his move and took a step, beginning to turn away from me. When he did, he opened the path I needed. My pin fell just in front of his nearside shoulder. Thump. The string on my Mathews Z2 sung out. Thwack. My arrow found its mark. The bull turned and ran down the mountain, breaking branches and kicking rocks loose as he went. My dad and I immediately started cow calling, trying to stop the bull. The wind drowned out the sounds of the bull running away nearly immediately. 

We decided to wait a while before trailing the bull, having heard stories of elk surviving with a single lung or running miles after being double lunged. To my surprise, I didn’t experience the overwhelming wave of anxiety that so often accompanies that wait. Rather, I felt a variety of emotions. I was excited, overwhelmingly so, but calm and resolute. I was disappointed that what was supposed to be a 12-day experience had ended in three days. I was thankful and grateful for the opportunity to pursue these beautiful animals in such breathtaking country. I knew the shot was lethal and the hunt was over. I knew the rest of the experience was tracking, recovering, and processing. I sat on that mountainside reveling in the moment and contemplating my relationship with the outdoors and hunting.

In my reverie, I came to the realization that those moments sitting and waiting would remain with me forever. Nearly twenty years separated the beginning of my life as a hunter from this experience: twenty years full of lessons taught by my grandfather about the camaraderie and connection created by hunting, two decades worth of tips and tricks from my father about everything from shooting to navigating different terrain, and a lifetime worth of shared memories of my brother’s and my best shots, most impressive harvests, and countless nights spent staying up way too late watching hunting films. Twenty years, full of learning and development, had taken me from dreaming of screaming bulls in the Rocky Mountains to experiencing it first hand.

My focus shifted dramatically over the course of those twenty years. I was well aware of this transition as it occurred, but those moments of reflection exposed the contrast in a glaring manner. What was once pursuit of the highest scoring whitetail possible became the pursuit of the serenity that can only be found in the outdoors. My purpose in studying animals and habitat shifted from aiming only to increase my odds of success to also doing it in effort to deepen my understanding of and connection with nature, therein making myself a better advocate for wildlife. I became less concerned with my opportunities and experiences and more interested in providing a meaningful contribution to the preservation of these places and animals to ensure future generations can experience what I have. I had grown from being simply a hunter to an outdoorsman and conservationist.

Through my reflection, it became exceptionally clear why archery elk is so widely considered the pinnacle of big game hunting amongst American outdoorsman. What draws people into the Rockies year after year in pursuit of elk is unattainable anywhere else and seems to draw people further and more consistently into the perspective and ideology of conservation than the chase of any other big game animal. It is the physical abuse of the rugged environment, that allows you to sympathize with the pure grit these animals possess to survive in it. It is the relationship and love between friends and family that is fostered by mutual suffering for a common goal. It is the practice of wildlife conservation that is timeless and spans generations that allows for these animals to continue thriving, despite the demise of their eastern counterparts. It is living the thoughts of early conservationists, the “God, I hope my children and grandchildren get to experience this” as grand landscapes or giant bulls leave you speechless. It is the meaning behind understanding the source of and having responsibility for the food on your table. It is the connection with the Creator that can only be felt through a Rocky Mountain sunrise. 

We tracked the bull. Initially, we found a speck of blood here and there. Then, we found the arrow. It was covered in pink blood with small bubbles speckled across the bright white fletchings. Slowly but surely, the trail opened up until we were no longer looking down but directed our gaze forward, following it at a brisk pace. After about 150 yards, we came into a clearing and saw the bull laying dead on the other side. My arrow entered just in front of the nearside shoulder and exited near the back of the rib cage on the opposite side. He had expired quickly.

He was a beautiful six point with a kicker off of his right brow tine. He yielded nearly 350 pounds of nature’s finest meat. The head will hang on my wall for years to come. The meat will feed my family and friends for months. The meaning behind this hunt, however, is immeasurable and will resonate with me for the remainder of my time on earth.