Forty yards
By David Rogers
April 2013: I learned that I was successful in the State Lottery for elk permits. I was one of a very limited number of archers selected to bow-hunt an exceptional unit for elk. I know this is a coveted tag. I know the unit promises average numbers of game but more important, has the potential for holding book class wapiti.
On that day in April, when I read my lottery results, my hands went into the air in the same fashion they do when I successfully harvest an animal. I was elated, to say the least. Then and there, I knew this was my ?Super Bowl?. This would be the time where all my training, everything I have worked so hard to build, would come into play.
I immediately contacted my bow-hunting brother only to learn that he was unsuccessful in the State lottery. I would go it alone.
My first order of business in preparing for the super bowl was to scout the field in which I would be playing. I loaded up my newly purchased 1988 fifth wheel and headed south. I brought my wife, 11 year old and eight year old daughters with me. Together, with our dogs, we set out to scout. I worked my team to exhaustion with hike after hike but had the success I had hoped to achieve. I knew, by the size of the trees that were broken in half and shredded to pieces, that a giant was harboured in these hills. Did he survive last year?s hunts? I hope. The future would tell.
I begin training. My body must be in championship shape. I cut out the beer and fine tune my diet. I am in the hills hiking, weekly/daily. Driven by my passion to be a champion, I don't let up. I lose all the weight I need to be able to make all the right decisions in the field. I make it down to 168 pounds. I can fly up the hills and the miles feel like they have been reduced to hundreds of yards.
Simultaneously, I turn my attention towards my arrow setup. Am I in championship shape with my arrows? I don't think I am. Shooting speedy arrows, I arrowed a good bull two years ago only to get lousy penetration, and not recover a bull that surely lied down and died where only the ravens would be successful.
After much study and research, I make the decision to go heavy. I change arrows, inserts, fletching, and heads. Nothing is even remotely similar. I have three months to learn, adapt, and become competent. It has now become, at the very most, a forty yard game. Forty yards is my new maximum effective range. I can consistently punch the kill zone at forty yards, even though it took me weeks to get there. The setup change is dramatic and is somewhat sobering. My confidence with this change is not in top form but? I do feel competent? on paper.
Suddenly my bow becomes out of tune. My paper tear is inconsistent. To rule out human error, I have somebody else shoot my bow. Again, inconsistent paper tears. Something is wrong with my bow. The spring in my rest had worn out to the point as to give inconsistent results. I buy a new rest. I tune everything out beautifully. My giant two blade heads shoot exactly as my field points. I have done well. My setup is in championship form.
Mid-August 2013: The day is nearing. I load my gear and head south again. This scouting trip proved difficult. I didn't see the sign I wanted. It rained hard day and night and I felt lucky just to have gotten out. It was standing water, unit wide. Every tank would be full. A major play in my play book had just been eliminated. Something like an NFL team being informed that their running back suffered an ACL tear and would be out the rest of the season. I would implement and lean heavy upon the other more difficult plays in my play book. It's a big loss but not catastrophic. I have two weeks to insure all preparation is taken to fully and successfully implement my amended game plan. It's only a slight tweak but still takes much attention to run it successfully.
August 31st 2013: Camp is set. One day left to scout. Hunt is on the eve. My staple play is ?Get high. Glass far? I load my pack with the essentials and set out to hike the highest point. Achieving my goal, I set a mini base. Snickers bars and my hydrate/recover drink are in great supply. I set up my spotting scope on a sturdy foundation then settle in with my binoculars.
It wasn?t immediately that I saw what would eventually become a life changing experience, but, it wasn?t long. At first, it was the classic moo cow sightings. ?Ope!-Nope!? This went on for about an hour, when, in the distance (3 miles), I see the tell-tale tan patches. I switch from binocs to spotting scope.
Suddenly he appeared! Even though I was three miles out, I began to shake as if he had just crashed into a water tank I was sitting. OMG! Not my exact words, but for this exercise, close enough. This is the biggest bull I had ever seen, not on a San Carlos video. He HAD made it through the 2012 season. The Hall of Fame is in sight for me. What had started out as my ?super Bowl? had now become my chance to enter the hall that so few before me have entered.
I regain my composure. It was time to check my emotions and game plan. I spent the next hour of daylight watching him and his 19 cows. With topography stained in memory, I pack up and head back to camp.
The night is not restless. I am excited but calm. I have a solid hold on my emotions. I am a true professional staring greatness in the eyes. I slowly give in to slumber.
Sept 1st: Opening Morning finds me listening to the roars of Rhinos and clacks of Dodges blaze past, I decide to hike from camp. And remove myself from any road. I knew something they didn't and I knew it. I would proceed with quiet confidence.
The hike proved un-eventful. Not the slightest hint of tan hide that didn't have fertilizer all over his arse and moo?d. I make the reverse trek and return to camp.
This afternoon I am back to my staple play ?Get high, Glass far?. Again, it produces the desired result. But, this time I am closer to him and can fine tune my game plan.
I go in. About the time I go in, the thunder begins. As lightning streaks across an angry sky, I am content, as the thunder masks any mistakes I may make with my foot falls. As I work into the herd I find it increasingly difficult to maintain my course. This herd is dead silent and my ability to read the topography is becoming hindered. I am now unsure of the whereabouts of this herd. I am forced to punt but felt solid with a good drive. I ease out.
Sept 2nd: AM, ?Get high Glass far? There he is. I go in. As with the previous evening, it proves difficult to maintain a safe course into the herd. This herd, this bull, seems to understand self-preservation very well. He doesn't make mistakes. His nose always to the wind. His movements seem to be dictated by his shyness. Ambushing would be impossible. Just as yesterday proved out, I am stifled by angry skies and traitor winds. Again? I ease out.
This bull just earned a name. From this point forward, this bull shall be named thunder bull.
Sept 3rd, 4th, 5th, I head north. Back to work. All I can do, well, besides work, is architect a game plan which gives me thunder bull. I consult a friend and expert hunter. It is agreed that all I can do is be close but not familiar and wait for him to slip up. My current strategy is the best strategy that can be played. Together, we review maps and imagery that will give me the best opportunity to find that place where thunder will be most likely be when he makes that crucial mistake. Revised strategy and game plan in place, I head south.
Sept 6th, PM, I'm on the field. Didn?t think that would come soon enough after the longest three working days of my life.
Something is different, today. It is quiet. No sign of people, whatsoever. No roars of Rhinos no clacks of Dodges. Had Thunder bull proved elusive and maintained his coat, sending ego bruised hunters to other nooks of this checker boarded unit or had this giant been slain? Thunder had come nowhere even remotely close to any road in the days I pursued him. I know it takes a grand effort and much tread off the boots to glimpse his glory. The rhino and dodge driving hunters that I had witnessed, up until my departure, had not put in the duty needed to even glimpse this bull. I will surmise that thunder is alive and well.
?Get high Glass far? I set up. As per the ?playbook?, unload, Remove pack, and get spotting scope established on a steady foundation. I direct my scope towards what I now call Thunder Bay. Settling in with binoculars I begin my search for Thunder. With about an hour and a half of hunting light remaining, I hear the first bugle of the hunt. It's a single, deep, throaty, two note scream. It is unique, unlike the typical four note music that Primos and Wayne Carlton try so hard to emulate. My attention and game plan immediately alter. The bugle truly does change everything. My play book expands. This generates an excitement within me. Maintaining my calm and conservative demeanour, I shift my position and begin my attempt to locate the source of this bugle. Through the dense trees, I see nothing but the bugling is intensifying and three others had joined in the harmony. It was time!
I pack up my gear and proceed to negotiate my way down the steep slope. The bugles driving my will, I lay quick tracks. Like a panther, all senses are in top form. I am laser focused. Hear bugle? proceed. Stop? listen? hear bugle? proceed. This goes on for about an hour. I'm losing light.
Wait! What is this? Horses??? And, they're running right at me. OMG! Again, not my exact words. This is not good. What in gods name are there horses running at me for. And to compound the situation, just like that, it happened. I found myself in the middle of four rutting bulls and the desired harem. I have heavy concerns about these horses. Are they going to ruin this for me. Quick! Think! I mean my gawd! WHY! Horses?? Really?? Talk about a unique situation. All I can figure is free ranging horses happy to see me.
Never mind the horses. Regain focus. I'm in the middle of an amazing show and I've front row seats. I will not deal with these horses; rather, put them out of my focus. This works and the horses are gone, at least from my concentration.
Oddly and coincidentally, it sounds like churchill downs, the way these bulls are running each other and I have a seat in the infield. Simply awe struck, I maintain my focus and keep tight. Don?t want to punt but don't want to throw it away. I'm very conservative and while trying to outlast the sun I close to sixty yards on a bull that shall be called Lightning. Lightning is forty inches or so smaller than Thunder but boy is he one mean s.o.b. Where there's Lightning, so should there be Thunder. Right?
The darkness caves in on me. That's all that would be accomplished. I would have to ease out. No glimpse of Thunder tonight.
Sept 7th, AM I'm back on the field. A two mile hike puts me near where I left Lightning bull and company. Could Thunder be one of the bulls in concert with Lightning, last night? The bugles are raging like the hormones from which they came. It was solid gold. My first close look at Thunder. What do you know, he has about a six inch 7th point growing between the right whale tail. Despite that, he is everything I ever dreamed of. Laser focused, I work in. No cows around, wind is right, he is demolishing a pinion. He has slipped up and I AM there. My approach is conservative.
Sixty yards? ease up. Fifty yards? ease up. He blasts a deep two note scream. Aha, he was in attendance, last night. Heart racing, adrenaline coursing, I'm solid. I feel like a cat crouched, ready to pounce. Forty yards!
WHY AM I NOT DRAWN? His head is in a tree, broad side, FORTY YARDS!! This is a frigging chip shot, right?
I'm not ok. Suddenly, I'm not comfortable at forty. My previous concern on my targets was tenfold in the field. Not to be swayed, I maintain my concentration. All Pro, I Proceed to thirty. Thirty five yards? ease up.
Just five yards from glory and Thunder pulls his head out of the tree and walks right at me. He rips off a bugle that could put you to your knees. Thirty yards? aaaaand?. BUSTED!!!
The stare he gives is crippling. It's at this point I go from All Pro and age in reverse at the speed of light. Just like that, I'm a twelve year old. I draw my bow. Thunder turns and begins to trot. Meeuw. He stops at around forty. I draw.
Now, because I shoot giant heads and I do not grip my bow, but rather splay my four fingers out in front and far from being in a controlled environment, My giant head damn near slices my index finger off from my grip hand, as I draw. Thunder runs. I stay drawn while blood runs from my hand.
I surrender and Let down. It's over. Thunder is gone. 8 days after my introduction to him, I have blown it.
I'm pretty far from ok. In fact, I'm a disaster. Forty yards. Forty yards. Forty yards.
I make the hike out. The adrenaline now absent, I feel like a meth addict a day from his last use. I shake. My body is torn. My mind is torn. My emotions jarred. My soul is ripped in half. I make it back to camp and sit in silence. Forty yards. It overwhelms me. I break and begin to cry. Then I start throwing up. The tears last an hour and a half. The disappointment I feel is indescribable. The rain starts to fall.
The Hunt has 15 days remaining but I need a day. And, a day I take. Laying down, mostly. I don't hunt that evening, nor do I hunt the next morning. I take a full twenty four hours. I pray some. I think a lot. I understand that I have been bruised and need to heal.
The remainder of ?my day? is spent dusting off, putting a band aid on it, and breaking out my maps. Time to learn a little bit more about my prey and his habitat.
I would see Thunder once again and once again, he would see me. He is a glorious animal but he is not mine. He moved on. I heard him once more, though. His bugle lit up the morning. I saluted and turned my back. He had found safety. I wish him well.
I took nothing this hunt but a bruised pride and wonderful memories. I'm truly blessed to have made it to forty yards. If lucky, I WILL hunt him again.
By David Rogers
April 2013: I learned that I was successful in the State Lottery for elk permits. I was one of a very limited number of archers selected to bow-hunt an exceptional unit for elk. I know this is a coveted tag. I know the unit promises average numbers of game but more important, has the potential for holding book class wapiti.
On that day in April, when I read my lottery results, my hands went into the air in the same fashion they do when I successfully harvest an animal. I was elated, to say the least. Then and there, I knew this was my ?Super Bowl?. This would be the time where all my training, everything I have worked so hard to build, would come into play.
I immediately contacted my bow-hunting brother only to learn that he was unsuccessful in the State lottery. I would go it alone.
My first order of business in preparing for the super bowl was to scout the field in which I would be playing. I loaded up my newly purchased 1988 fifth wheel and headed south. I brought my wife, 11 year old and eight year old daughters with me. Together, with our dogs, we set out to scout. I worked my team to exhaustion with hike after hike but had the success I had hoped to achieve. I knew, by the size of the trees that were broken in half and shredded to pieces, that a giant was harboured in these hills. Did he survive last year?s hunts? I hope. The future would tell.
I begin training. My body must be in championship shape. I cut out the beer and fine tune my diet. I am in the hills hiking, weekly/daily. Driven by my passion to be a champion, I don't let up. I lose all the weight I need to be able to make all the right decisions in the field. I make it down to 168 pounds. I can fly up the hills and the miles feel like they have been reduced to hundreds of yards.
Simultaneously, I turn my attention towards my arrow setup. Am I in championship shape with my arrows? I don't think I am. Shooting speedy arrows, I arrowed a good bull two years ago only to get lousy penetration, and not recover a bull that surely lied down and died where only the ravens would be successful.
After much study and research, I make the decision to go heavy. I change arrows, inserts, fletching, and heads. Nothing is even remotely similar. I have three months to learn, adapt, and become competent. It has now become, at the very most, a forty yard game. Forty yards is my new maximum effective range. I can consistently punch the kill zone at forty yards, even though it took me weeks to get there. The setup change is dramatic and is somewhat sobering. My confidence with this change is not in top form but? I do feel competent? on paper.
Suddenly my bow becomes out of tune. My paper tear is inconsistent. To rule out human error, I have somebody else shoot my bow. Again, inconsistent paper tears. Something is wrong with my bow. The spring in my rest had worn out to the point as to give inconsistent results. I buy a new rest. I tune everything out beautifully. My giant two blade heads shoot exactly as my field points. I have done well. My setup is in championship form.
Mid-August 2013: The day is nearing. I load my gear and head south again. This scouting trip proved difficult. I didn't see the sign I wanted. It rained hard day and night and I felt lucky just to have gotten out. It was standing water, unit wide. Every tank would be full. A major play in my play book had just been eliminated. Something like an NFL team being informed that their running back suffered an ACL tear and would be out the rest of the season. I would implement and lean heavy upon the other more difficult plays in my play book. It's a big loss but not catastrophic. I have two weeks to insure all preparation is taken to fully and successfully implement my amended game plan. It's only a slight tweak but still takes much attention to run it successfully.
August 31st 2013: Camp is set. One day left to scout. Hunt is on the eve. My staple play is ?Get high. Glass far? I load my pack with the essentials and set out to hike the highest point. Achieving my goal, I set a mini base. Snickers bars and my hydrate/recover drink are in great supply. I set up my spotting scope on a sturdy foundation then settle in with my binoculars.
It wasn?t immediately that I saw what would eventually become a life changing experience, but, it wasn?t long. At first, it was the classic moo cow sightings. ?Ope!-Nope!? This went on for about an hour, when, in the distance (3 miles), I see the tell-tale tan patches. I switch from binocs to spotting scope.
Suddenly he appeared! Even though I was three miles out, I began to shake as if he had just crashed into a water tank I was sitting. OMG! Not my exact words, but for this exercise, close enough. This is the biggest bull I had ever seen, not on a San Carlos video. He HAD made it through the 2012 season. The Hall of Fame is in sight for me. What had started out as my ?super Bowl? had now become my chance to enter the hall that so few before me have entered.
I regain my composure. It was time to check my emotions and game plan. I spent the next hour of daylight watching him and his 19 cows. With topography stained in memory, I pack up and head back to camp.
The night is not restless. I am excited but calm. I have a solid hold on my emotions. I am a true professional staring greatness in the eyes. I slowly give in to slumber.
Sept 1st: Opening Morning finds me listening to the roars of Rhinos and clacks of Dodges blaze past, I decide to hike from camp. And remove myself from any road. I knew something they didn't and I knew it. I would proceed with quiet confidence.
The hike proved un-eventful. Not the slightest hint of tan hide that didn't have fertilizer all over his arse and moo?d. I make the reverse trek and return to camp.
This afternoon I am back to my staple play ?Get high, Glass far?. Again, it produces the desired result. But, this time I am closer to him and can fine tune my game plan.
I go in. About the time I go in, the thunder begins. As lightning streaks across an angry sky, I am content, as the thunder masks any mistakes I may make with my foot falls. As I work into the herd I find it increasingly difficult to maintain my course. This herd is dead silent and my ability to read the topography is becoming hindered. I am now unsure of the whereabouts of this herd. I am forced to punt but felt solid with a good drive. I ease out.
Sept 2nd: AM, ?Get high Glass far? There he is. I go in. As with the previous evening, it proves difficult to maintain a safe course into the herd. This herd, this bull, seems to understand self-preservation very well. He doesn't make mistakes. His nose always to the wind. His movements seem to be dictated by his shyness. Ambushing would be impossible. Just as yesterday proved out, I am stifled by angry skies and traitor winds. Again? I ease out.
This bull just earned a name. From this point forward, this bull shall be named thunder bull.
Sept 3rd, 4th, 5th, I head north. Back to work. All I can do, well, besides work, is architect a game plan which gives me thunder bull. I consult a friend and expert hunter. It is agreed that all I can do is be close but not familiar and wait for him to slip up. My current strategy is the best strategy that can be played. Together, we review maps and imagery that will give me the best opportunity to find that place where thunder will be most likely be when he makes that crucial mistake. Revised strategy and game plan in place, I head south.
Sept 6th, PM, I'm on the field. Didn?t think that would come soon enough after the longest three working days of my life.
Something is different, today. It is quiet. No sign of people, whatsoever. No roars of Rhinos no clacks of Dodges. Had Thunder bull proved elusive and maintained his coat, sending ego bruised hunters to other nooks of this checker boarded unit or had this giant been slain? Thunder had come nowhere even remotely close to any road in the days I pursued him. I know it takes a grand effort and much tread off the boots to glimpse his glory. The rhino and dodge driving hunters that I had witnessed, up until my departure, had not put in the duty needed to even glimpse this bull. I will surmise that thunder is alive and well.
?Get high Glass far? I set up. As per the ?playbook?, unload, Remove pack, and get spotting scope established on a steady foundation. I direct my scope towards what I now call Thunder Bay. Settling in with binoculars I begin my search for Thunder. With about an hour and a half of hunting light remaining, I hear the first bugle of the hunt. It's a single, deep, throaty, two note scream. It is unique, unlike the typical four note music that Primos and Wayne Carlton try so hard to emulate. My attention and game plan immediately alter. The bugle truly does change everything. My play book expands. This generates an excitement within me. Maintaining my calm and conservative demeanour, I shift my position and begin my attempt to locate the source of this bugle. Through the dense trees, I see nothing but the bugling is intensifying and three others had joined in the harmony. It was time!
I pack up my gear and proceed to negotiate my way down the steep slope. The bugles driving my will, I lay quick tracks. Like a panther, all senses are in top form. I am laser focused. Hear bugle? proceed. Stop? listen? hear bugle? proceed. This goes on for about an hour. I'm losing light.
Wait! What is this? Horses??? And, they're running right at me. OMG! Again, not my exact words. This is not good. What in gods name are there horses running at me for. And to compound the situation, just like that, it happened. I found myself in the middle of four rutting bulls and the desired harem. I have heavy concerns about these horses. Are they going to ruin this for me. Quick! Think! I mean my gawd! WHY! Horses?? Really?? Talk about a unique situation. All I can figure is free ranging horses happy to see me.
Never mind the horses. Regain focus. I'm in the middle of an amazing show and I've front row seats. I will not deal with these horses; rather, put them out of my focus. This works and the horses are gone, at least from my concentration.
Oddly and coincidentally, it sounds like churchill downs, the way these bulls are running each other and I have a seat in the infield. Simply awe struck, I maintain my focus and keep tight. Don?t want to punt but don't want to throw it away. I'm very conservative and while trying to outlast the sun I close to sixty yards on a bull that shall be called Lightning. Lightning is forty inches or so smaller than Thunder but boy is he one mean s.o.b. Where there's Lightning, so should there be Thunder. Right?
The darkness caves in on me. That's all that would be accomplished. I would have to ease out. No glimpse of Thunder tonight.
Sept 7th, AM I'm back on the field. A two mile hike puts me near where I left Lightning bull and company. Could Thunder be one of the bulls in concert with Lightning, last night? The bugles are raging like the hormones from which they came. It was solid gold. My first close look at Thunder. What do you know, he has about a six inch 7th point growing between the right whale tail. Despite that, he is everything I ever dreamed of. Laser focused, I work in. No cows around, wind is right, he is demolishing a pinion. He has slipped up and I AM there. My approach is conservative.
Sixty yards? ease up. Fifty yards? ease up. He blasts a deep two note scream. Aha, he was in attendance, last night. Heart racing, adrenaline coursing, I'm solid. I feel like a cat crouched, ready to pounce. Forty yards!
WHY AM I NOT DRAWN? His head is in a tree, broad side, FORTY YARDS!! This is a frigging chip shot, right?
I'm not ok. Suddenly, I'm not comfortable at forty. My previous concern on my targets was tenfold in the field. Not to be swayed, I maintain my concentration. All Pro, I Proceed to thirty. Thirty five yards? ease up.
Just five yards from glory and Thunder pulls his head out of the tree and walks right at me. He rips off a bugle that could put you to your knees. Thirty yards? aaaaand?. BUSTED!!!
The stare he gives is crippling. It's at this point I go from All Pro and age in reverse at the speed of light. Just like that, I'm a twelve year old. I draw my bow. Thunder turns and begins to trot. Meeuw. He stops at around forty. I draw.
Now, because I shoot giant heads and I do not grip my bow, but rather splay my four fingers out in front and far from being in a controlled environment, My giant head damn near slices my index finger off from my grip hand, as I draw. Thunder runs. I stay drawn while blood runs from my hand.
I surrender and Let down. It's over. Thunder is gone. 8 days after my introduction to him, I have blown it.
I'm pretty far from ok. In fact, I'm a disaster. Forty yards. Forty yards. Forty yards.
I make the hike out. The adrenaline now absent, I feel like a meth addict a day from his last use. I shake. My body is torn. My mind is torn. My emotions jarred. My soul is ripped in half. I make it back to camp and sit in silence. Forty yards. It overwhelms me. I break and begin to cry. Then I start throwing up. The tears last an hour and a half. The disappointment I feel is indescribable. The rain starts to fall.
The Hunt has 15 days remaining but I need a day. And, a day I take. Laying down, mostly. I don't hunt that evening, nor do I hunt the next morning. I take a full twenty four hours. I pray some. I think a lot. I understand that I have been bruised and need to heal.
The remainder of ?my day? is spent dusting off, putting a band aid on it, and breaking out my maps. Time to learn a little bit more about my prey and his habitat.
I would see Thunder once again and once again, he would see me. He is a glorious animal but he is not mine. He moved on. I heard him once more, though. His bugle lit up the morning. I saluted and turned my back. He had found safety. I wish him well.
I took nothing this hunt but a bruised pride and wonderful memories. I'm truly blessed to have made it to forty yards. If lucky, I WILL hunt him again.
