Cameraman Steven Jones and me in a treestand.

THE NEXT MORNING, however, our first back in spike camp, the high mountain meadows were surprisingly silent, maybe fittingly so because it was September 11. Feeling a bit desperate, we pushed on over the highest ridge and dropped down toward a marshy meadow in the creek bottom. It was a long way down.

"Well," Dwight mused, knowing my feet were hurting, "should we keep going?" There was no easy way down and no easy way out. And we might not find elk. At this point, we had no clue where they were.

I waved him on. I'm not sure who wanted me to get my first bull more, Dwight or me. And I really wanted another chance.

Steven and I followed Dwight as he still-hunted along, reading the terrain, stopping frequently to cow-call or bugle. We soon picked up fresh sign, got on a well-traveled trail, and angled down toward the big meadow. As we hurried along, chirping and bugling, whispering back and forth about various things we'd seen, we were content, lost in the process.

Suddenly a cow elk barked, startling us into awareness, and a raghorn bull appeared in front of us. Pointing and gasping for me to shoot, Dwight dropped to the ground, but I couldn't get a shot before the bull turned and ran off. Dwight cow-called in a desperate attempt to draw the young bull back, but he'd obviously seen enough. Dwight was probably thinking, There goes another opportunity up in smoke! What do I have to do to get this guy an elk?

For a moment, the frustration returned. But it could not control us. Short memories! Dwight got up and dusted himself off, and we continued on down toward the big meadow.

ONLY MINUTES LATER, we climbed onto a rock promontory and Dwight bugled. Immediately a bull answered enthusiastically.

"Okay," said Dwight, after the bull had responded several more times. "This is our bull." We moved quickly toward the bull, and when we came to a small bench on the steep hillside, Dwight and Steven helped me get into position. A large, lone boulder stuck up out of the ground about 20 yards in front of me.

"If the bull comes down behind that boulder," Steven said, "watch the tops of his antlers and draw before he steps out."

Quickly I ranged several shooting lanes and settled on my knees. Steven hunkered behind me with the camera, and Dwight hid behind some fir trees 30 yards down the hill to call and rake tree branches with a big stick. He planned on starting a fight.

The vocal sparring lasted only a few minutes before Steven whispered, "He's coming." Then I saw the bull walk into the sunlight above us and then stroll down the gentle slope - right behind the big boulder. If he turned to the left, it would be very difficult for me to get a shot; if he came down to the right, he'd pop out in front of me. I would shoot as soon as his chest appeared.

When the antler tops turned, I drew, anchored, and waited for him to step into the clear. I wasn't going to let him get through the shooting lane, because then I'd have to let down, and he'd be at pointblank range and possibly by me and between Dwight and me in no time at all. As he sauntered around the boulder, I held tight to his slightly quartering shoulder and released.

As the bull lunged backward around the boulder and ran off to my left, I saw the back of the arrow break and fall out. The bull ran about 50 yards, stopped, wavered, and then crashed to the ground. It was literally over in seconds.

Simultaneously, Dwight and I jumped up and ran toward each other. We'd done it, together! The rush of joy was tempered by the humbling experience of having taken such a perfect animal on such a somber morning. But, he had no idea. It was just our day. He was our bull. Finally, one that did not go up in smoke.

My bull.

Continued -- click on page link below.