just_a_hunter
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Here is a write up of my 2023 limited entry bull hunt. This pretty much only covers the last 24 hours of my hunt. It truly was an amazing experience….
The Wake-up Call……
My eyes shot open in the darkness of the camper as unexpectedly as the bugle I had just heard. The subtle blue light emanating from the kitchen area digital clock was drowned out as a rose-colored flash of lightning lit the interior room as brightly as the aforementioned bugle lit my spirit. The crash of thunder which followed was a booming reminder of where I was and what I was doing. I shivered in my bag. Not from the cold of the 9000 feet high quaky ridden camp site that seemed next of kin to the storm clouds that were nourishing the land, but from the excitement of what I had been waiting for. This was the 14th day of my 16-day hunt. I had been trying to manifest that bugle while hunting many hot and dry miles of these high mountain hills the last 14 days. Furthermore, I’d been waiting for this hunt for the last 18 years. That’s how long it took to draw the limited entry archery elk tag that was now cradled in my wallet.
Since I was awake, I figured it was a good time to take care of the nightly middle aged male chores, and to check that digital clock in the kitchen. 11:33. “Dang….” “It’s gonna be a long night.”
I decided to crack the windows a little. I was very aware this was going to let in some mountain chill, but it was also going to allow in a big dose of that fresh, humid, clean, and crisp high-country air. More importantly though, it was going to let in the divinely provided mountain orchestra that was happening all around me. I don’t know why my mind appreciates these types of situations so much, but I’m thankful it does. “There he goes again! He's got a unique bugle.” I thought as the bull I heard a minute ago let it go again. The 2023 rut was finally here!
I nestled back in my bag knowing good and well the rest of this night wasn’t going to be spent sleeping. No sir, the rest of this night was going to be spent in reflection and anticipation of tomorrow’s hunt. “27 more minutes until tomorrow.” I thought.
As I lay there, I figured the bull I was initially hearing that had his own unique, dual pitched tone was within 1/2 mile of my camp. I suspect he was a bit further as I think about it now. In between the booms of thunder as the storm rolled through, I counted 4 different bulls bugling all within ear shot of my little camp.
I started reflecting on all my past elk hunts as the calming serenade soothed my soul. I remembered hunting this mountain before it was a limited entry spike only unit. I was 14 years old when on my first big game archery hunt, just across the valley from my current bed. I had accidentally stumbled into some elk in thick oak brush. I was hunting with my father, but we were separated by a hundred yards as we worked our way down the ridge. Next thing I knew, I looked up from my feet to find myself mostly surrounded by a herd. The only direction that didn’t have elk was exactly down wind of me. In this thick oak, there was a natural shooting lane 25 to 30 yards away. At the end of this shooting lane was a raghorn bull elk. It was feeding and had no clue I was anywhere around. I remembered being so overcome with the situation that getting an arrow knocked was the hardest task I had so far experienced in my young life. So unnerving in fact, I knew better than to even try. I simply couldn’t do it. Later, when showing my father the scene after the wind switched and the elk blew out, he asked “why didn’t you get a shot?!” I replied with the only logical and honest answer there was. “I don’t know.”
As I lay in my bunk being caressed by the cool mountain air, I mentally worked through all my past hunts on this mountain. I reminisced from 1996 through 2022 and all the heirloom moments in between and I wondered how this hunt would end. I decided it didn’t matter as this sleepless, humid night, along with the wonderful music present, and the experiences of the previous 13 days were worth all the waiting and all the years invested.
The storm rolled through, the chill sunk deeper, and the bulls kept bugling. The night was passing at a snail’s pace. In a weird way, I loved it.
My best friend Ray was camping a few miles down the road hunting his own general season archery tags. The conversations I’d had with Ray all summer about scouting, areas, gear, past hunts, future hunts, our fathers, our forefathers and our families were as welcome as the coming dawn. “You want help?” he asked sincerely during the pre-season, fully knowing the answer. “Ray, I don’t know why I feel called to do this hunt as much solo as possible, but I do. No thanks buddy.” Ray replied, “I don’t know why we feel that way either, Todd, but I’m thankful we do. I get it buddy.”
I woke up too early, of course. Got dressed, made a small breakfast, and continued to enjoy the testosterone filled lyrics provided by “my” bulls. I really looked forward to listening to the unique dual toned screamer.
I left camp earlier than necessary, of course. I couldn’t help it. I had to get out there. I left on foot right from camp and walked off the hill into the hole I figured the elk would shelter in as soon as daylight broke. I was prepared to have wet pants as I knew the grass would be soaked, but I wasn’t prepared for how fast my well-worn elk hunting boots allowed the water through. I wasn’t a few hundred yards from the camper when I really started wishing I would have remembered to re-apply some boot water-proofer before season. “Oh well…. Get used to it, Todd. No way am I missing this mornings hunt.”
I worked my way far to the north hoping the prevailing winds would hold. That would allow me to hunt most of the elk I had heard last night and would put me in position for the best chance at calling in “two tone”. I am not a target animal namer, but in this case, it came naturally, and as far as I knew I had never actually laid eyes on this bull. I had no clue of his size, I just knew he was mature enough to bugle all night, and that was plenty good enough for me.
I’m a big advocate of the cow call. In past years I had called in many a bull on this mountain with nothing but my single reed cow call, and I’d seen enough ruined hunts on this hill to strongly oppose the bugle tube. My personal strategy is to get the fellas worked up enough, they’ll do the required bugling for me.
It was hard staying quiet until shooting light, but I knew getting aggressive with the cow call while the bulls were this worked up might bring them in before it was light enough to shoot. All those previous bull encounters had also taught me that the bulls that come into archery range usually only offer strong quartering-to shots. That can be an absolutely lethal shot, but the placement must be perfect, and your ethics must be unwavering. The only way to guarantee a perfectly placed and ethical archery shot on a quartering-to animal as tough as an elk is to get them in close. I mean real close. Much closer than 20 yards.
As dawn finally broke, the bugles intensified. Much to my chagrin however, Two Tone went quiet. I started calling. The bulls went crazy but they must’ve all had a sufficient number of cows as none of them appeared to be working closer to me, so I worked towards them. I slowly and methodically called as I advanced, trying my hardest to not overdo it and never for a second allowing my wits to relax in regard to wind direction.
When I got to within a couple hundred yards from what I figured was the herd bull, I really lit up the cow call. I allowed a several minute break between the crazy and intense responses. I found a dead oak limb and went to work rubbing and raking all the nearby vegetation and trees. No matter what I did I couldn’t get any of the bulls to start coming in. Just when I thought my morning was going to end with no sightings, a two-toned scream came directly from 6 o'clock and it sounded like the screamer was closing fast. My ears started to ring from the adrenaline dump.
Elk by nature come in downwind. If this one circled to the north, which I knew he would if I stayed put, he’d wind me long before I could get a shot. I immediately took off to the north to get more distance between me and that incredible nose, all the while hoping he’d come in to where he last heard me cow call, which would position him directly up wind and offer me a good chance of calling him directly in to me. For once in my elk hunting career, my designed plans were actually falling into place.
I don’t know why but when I took off north, I kept the dead oak limb in one hand and my bow in the other.
When I got a good distance from where I was when Two Tone first bugled, I called again. His frenzied response was immediate, aggressive, and located perfectly up-wind. I answered in turn with a few chirps and started aggressively raking a dead quaky that was just to my left. When I figured I’d stirred the pot enough, I dropped the limb, nocked an arrow, and attempted to control the fever that was setting in. I don’t know why these situations affect me so severely, but I’m thankful they do.
“There he is!” I thought very excitedly to myself. My first visual was his rack and the top of his head. He was just what I figured. There was no surprise. I knew he wasn’t a herd bull, but he was a dang nice 5x5 satellite bull and I knew I was going to try my hardest to disrupt his orbit and make him mine.
The bull screamed again. He was walking directly at me as designed. I was kneeling in the high grass at the base of the dead quaky I had just raked. Honestly, he was too rutty to care. I gave another chirp when his head was hidden, and he responded by urinating as he bugled. His head was momentarily concealed when he approached 20 yards; I drew my bow.
That was the moment when I first allowed the fever to really start entering my thoughts. When I pulled my bow back, I felt little resistance. My bow has a 70-pound draw weight, and my draw length is a full 31 inches. I had shot this bow a lot leading up to this, but the ease with which the bow came back panicked me. I visually looked at my cams and limbs to make sure everything was sound with my bow. I hadn’t felt a thing as I drew. It felt like my bow had a zero-pound draw weight. Keep in mind, while this was going on the bull was at approximately 18 yards and closing.
“Wake up, Todd! Your bow is fine! This is the fever buddy. Don’t let it overcome you!” I took a slow full breath in through my nose. With the bull being directly up wind and close, I got a lung and a nose full of his musk. “Trust your bow, trust yourself and when that small kill zone is perfect as he’s coming, squeeze your release and let your equipment do its work! If it isn’t perfect, let him walk!”
I switched my focus from my bow to the bull. Oddly, the first thing I noticed was that the bull was swabbing out his nostrils with his tongue. His eyes were wide and glazed. I switched my focus to my 2nd pin and when his port side shoulder was back and his starboard shoulder was forward in his natural gait opening the window on that perfect kill zone at a distance of 10ish paces, I loosed the 200 spined heavy arrow tipped with a 200 grain, 2 blade, single bevel head. The bull was in the middle of his two-toned bugle. Upon impact, his beautiful bugle ended with a completely different tone. It was a wet gurgling sound as he spun and tried his best to retreat.
I’m glad there were no witnesses to the emotions that followed. The hour-long wait after the shot flew by at the speed of light, yet the thoughts and reflections which had caused the sleepless night before were nothing to what I was experiencing as I waited.
I took up the trail. The spoor was obvious. The violence of the situation and the scene brought a somber tone that accompanied the sorrow. I do not know how to put into words how I could have so much respect for an animal and then be able to end its life all in the same breath. I don’t know how to put into words about experiencing so much guilt and so much joy over the same situation. Because I can’t find the words, I’m going to keep pretending the words required to describe such a feeling are so pure, so innocent, and so unforgivingly sincere, man hasn’t been allowed to know them yet so as to prevent the natural man from being able to corrupt them.
The day passed calmly yet tiring. I butchered and packed my bull solo. I had plenty of help available from my best friend down the road, but this was my bull and my hunt. I needed to go it alone for nobody but me. It hurt, my feet were blistered from the soggy socks, and my body didn’t have full range of motion for a few days after, but I wouldn’t have had this awesome experience any other way.
I do not know why I feel so connected to a place and time that is so long ago and so far away, but I’m grateful I do. I hope the forefathers I talked with Ray about know how much I appreciate them. Until those pure, innocent, and sincere words come to me or are invented, I hope this story suffices in describing my wake-up call. I owe it to my bull and I’m sorrowful nobody else will ever be able to lay awake and listen to his two-toned bugle all night, and I’m grateful he chose me.
Thanks for reading!
Todd
The Wake-up Call……
My eyes shot open in the darkness of the camper as unexpectedly as the bugle I had just heard. The subtle blue light emanating from the kitchen area digital clock was drowned out as a rose-colored flash of lightning lit the interior room as brightly as the aforementioned bugle lit my spirit. The crash of thunder which followed was a booming reminder of where I was and what I was doing. I shivered in my bag. Not from the cold of the 9000 feet high quaky ridden camp site that seemed next of kin to the storm clouds that were nourishing the land, but from the excitement of what I had been waiting for. This was the 14th day of my 16-day hunt. I had been trying to manifest that bugle while hunting many hot and dry miles of these high mountain hills the last 14 days. Furthermore, I’d been waiting for this hunt for the last 18 years. That’s how long it took to draw the limited entry archery elk tag that was now cradled in my wallet.
Since I was awake, I figured it was a good time to take care of the nightly middle aged male chores, and to check that digital clock in the kitchen. 11:33. “Dang….” “It’s gonna be a long night.”
I decided to crack the windows a little. I was very aware this was going to let in some mountain chill, but it was also going to allow in a big dose of that fresh, humid, clean, and crisp high-country air. More importantly though, it was going to let in the divinely provided mountain orchestra that was happening all around me. I don’t know why my mind appreciates these types of situations so much, but I’m thankful it does. “There he goes again! He's got a unique bugle.” I thought as the bull I heard a minute ago let it go again. The 2023 rut was finally here!
I nestled back in my bag knowing good and well the rest of this night wasn’t going to be spent sleeping. No sir, the rest of this night was going to be spent in reflection and anticipation of tomorrow’s hunt. “27 more minutes until tomorrow.” I thought.
As I lay there, I figured the bull I was initially hearing that had his own unique, dual pitched tone was within 1/2 mile of my camp. I suspect he was a bit further as I think about it now. In between the booms of thunder as the storm rolled through, I counted 4 different bulls bugling all within ear shot of my little camp.
I started reflecting on all my past elk hunts as the calming serenade soothed my soul. I remembered hunting this mountain before it was a limited entry spike only unit. I was 14 years old when on my first big game archery hunt, just across the valley from my current bed. I had accidentally stumbled into some elk in thick oak brush. I was hunting with my father, but we were separated by a hundred yards as we worked our way down the ridge. Next thing I knew, I looked up from my feet to find myself mostly surrounded by a herd. The only direction that didn’t have elk was exactly down wind of me. In this thick oak, there was a natural shooting lane 25 to 30 yards away. At the end of this shooting lane was a raghorn bull elk. It was feeding and had no clue I was anywhere around. I remembered being so overcome with the situation that getting an arrow knocked was the hardest task I had so far experienced in my young life. So unnerving in fact, I knew better than to even try. I simply couldn’t do it. Later, when showing my father the scene after the wind switched and the elk blew out, he asked “why didn’t you get a shot?!” I replied with the only logical and honest answer there was. “I don’t know.”
As I lay in my bunk being caressed by the cool mountain air, I mentally worked through all my past hunts on this mountain. I reminisced from 1996 through 2022 and all the heirloom moments in between and I wondered how this hunt would end. I decided it didn’t matter as this sleepless, humid night, along with the wonderful music present, and the experiences of the previous 13 days were worth all the waiting and all the years invested.
The storm rolled through, the chill sunk deeper, and the bulls kept bugling. The night was passing at a snail’s pace. In a weird way, I loved it.
My best friend Ray was camping a few miles down the road hunting his own general season archery tags. The conversations I’d had with Ray all summer about scouting, areas, gear, past hunts, future hunts, our fathers, our forefathers and our families were as welcome as the coming dawn. “You want help?” he asked sincerely during the pre-season, fully knowing the answer. “Ray, I don’t know why I feel called to do this hunt as much solo as possible, but I do. No thanks buddy.” Ray replied, “I don’t know why we feel that way either, Todd, but I’m thankful we do. I get it buddy.”
I woke up too early, of course. Got dressed, made a small breakfast, and continued to enjoy the testosterone filled lyrics provided by “my” bulls. I really looked forward to listening to the unique dual toned screamer.
I left camp earlier than necessary, of course. I couldn’t help it. I had to get out there. I left on foot right from camp and walked off the hill into the hole I figured the elk would shelter in as soon as daylight broke. I was prepared to have wet pants as I knew the grass would be soaked, but I wasn’t prepared for how fast my well-worn elk hunting boots allowed the water through. I wasn’t a few hundred yards from the camper when I really started wishing I would have remembered to re-apply some boot water-proofer before season. “Oh well…. Get used to it, Todd. No way am I missing this mornings hunt.”
I worked my way far to the north hoping the prevailing winds would hold. That would allow me to hunt most of the elk I had heard last night and would put me in position for the best chance at calling in “two tone”. I am not a target animal namer, but in this case, it came naturally, and as far as I knew I had never actually laid eyes on this bull. I had no clue of his size, I just knew he was mature enough to bugle all night, and that was plenty good enough for me.
I’m a big advocate of the cow call. In past years I had called in many a bull on this mountain with nothing but my single reed cow call, and I’d seen enough ruined hunts on this hill to strongly oppose the bugle tube. My personal strategy is to get the fellas worked up enough, they’ll do the required bugling for me.
It was hard staying quiet until shooting light, but I knew getting aggressive with the cow call while the bulls were this worked up might bring them in before it was light enough to shoot. All those previous bull encounters had also taught me that the bulls that come into archery range usually only offer strong quartering-to shots. That can be an absolutely lethal shot, but the placement must be perfect, and your ethics must be unwavering. The only way to guarantee a perfectly placed and ethical archery shot on a quartering-to animal as tough as an elk is to get them in close. I mean real close. Much closer than 20 yards.
As dawn finally broke, the bugles intensified. Much to my chagrin however, Two Tone went quiet. I started calling. The bulls went crazy but they must’ve all had a sufficient number of cows as none of them appeared to be working closer to me, so I worked towards them. I slowly and methodically called as I advanced, trying my hardest to not overdo it and never for a second allowing my wits to relax in regard to wind direction.
When I got to within a couple hundred yards from what I figured was the herd bull, I really lit up the cow call. I allowed a several minute break between the crazy and intense responses. I found a dead oak limb and went to work rubbing and raking all the nearby vegetation and trees. No matter what I did I couldn’t get any of the bulls to start coming in. Just when I thought my morning was going to end with no sightings, a two-toned scream came directly from 6 o'clock and it sounded like the screamer was closing fast. My ears started to ring from the adrenaline dump.
Elk by nature come in downwind. If this one circled to the north, which I knew he would if I stayed put, he’d wind me long before I could get a shot. I immediately took off to the north to get more distance between me and that incredible nose, all the while hoping he’d come in to where he last heard me cow call, which would position him directly up wind and offer me a good chance of calling him directly in to me. For once in my elk hunting career, my designed plans were actually falling into place.
I don’t know why but when I took off north, I kept the dead oak limb in one hand and my bow in the other.
When I got a good distance from where I was when Two Tone first bugled, I called again. His frenzied response was immediate, aggressive, and located perfectly up-wind. I answered in turn with a few chirps and started aggressively raking a dead quaky that was just to my left. When I figured I’d stirred the pot enough, I dropped the limb, nocked an arrow, and attempted to control the fever that was setting in. I don’t know why these situations affect me so severely, but I’m thankful they do.
“There he is!” I thought very excitedly to myself. My first visual was his rack and the top of his head. He was just what I figured. There was no surprise. I knew he wasn’t a herd bull, but he was a dang nice 5x5 satellite bull and I knew I was going to try my hardest to disrupt his orbit and make him mine.
The bull screamed again. He was walking directly at me as designed. I was kneeling in the high grass at the base of the dead quaky I had just raked. Honestly, he was too rutty to care. I gave another chirp when his head was hidden, and he responded by urinating as he bugled. His head was momentarily concealed when he approached 20 yards; I drew my bow.
That was the moment when I first allowed the fever to really start entering my thoughts. When I pulled my bow back, I felt little resistance. My bow has a 70-pound draw weight, and my draw length is a full 31 inches. I had shot this bow a lot leading up to this, but the ease with which the bow came back panicked me. I visually looked at my cams and limbs to make sure everything was sound with my bow. I hadn’t felt a thing as I drew. It felt like my bow had a zero-pound draw weight. Keep in mind, while this was going on the bull was at approximately 18 yards and closing.
“Wake up, Todd! Your bow is fine! This is the fever buddy. Don’t let it overcome you!” I took a slow full breath in through my nose. With the bull being directly up wind and close, I got a lung and a nose full of his musk. “Trust your bow, trust yourself and when that small kill zone is perfect as he’s coming, squeeze your release and let your equipment do its work! If it isn’t perfect, let him walk!”
I switched my focus from my bow to the bull. Oddly, the first thing I noticed was that the bull was swabbing out his nostrils with his tongue. His eyes were wide and glazed. I switched my focus to my 2nd pin and when his port side shoulder was back and his starboard shoulder was forward in his natural gait opening the window on that perfect kill zone at a distance of 10ish paces, I loosed the 200 spined heavy arrow tipped with a 200 grain, 2 blade, single bevel head. The bull was in the middle of his two-toned bugle. Upon impact, his beautiful bugle ended with a completely different tone. It was a wet gurgling sound as he spun and tried his best to retreat.
I’m glad there were no witnesses to the emotions that followed. The hour-long wait after the shot flew by at the speed of light, yet the thoughts and reflections which had caused the sleepless night before were nothing to what I was experiencing as I waited.
I took up the trail. The spoor was obvious. The violence of the situation and the scene brought a somber tone that accompanied the sorrow. I do not know how to put into words how I could have so much respect for an animal and then be able to end its life all in the same breath. I don’t know how to put into words about experiencing so much guilt and so much joy over the same situation. Because I can’t find the words, I’m going to keep pretending the words required to describe such a feeling are so pure, so innocent, and so unforgivingly sincere, man hasn’t been allowed to know them yet so as to prevent the natural man from being able to corrupt them.
The day passed calmly yet tiring. I butchered and packed my bull solo. I had plenty of help available from my best friend down the road, but this was my bull and my hunt. I needed to go it alone for nobody but me. It hurt, my feet were blistered from the soggy socks, and my body didn’t have full range of motion for a few days after, but I wouldn’t have had this awesome experience any other way.
I do not know why I feel so connected to a place and time that is so long ago and so far away, but I’m grateful I do. I hope the forefathers I talked with Ray about know how much I appreciate them. Until those pure, innocent, and sincere words come to me or are invented, I hope this story suffices in describing my wake-up call. I owe it to my bull and I’m sorrowful nobody else will ever be able to lay awake and listen to his two-toned bugle all night, and I’m grateful he chose me.
Thanks for reading!
Todd
