With a 330 P&Y-class bull slowly making his way toward my position, no calls were needed. In fact, my guide, Andy Valerio, never made a sound. With only 10 yards and a small tree separating the 6x6 from Andy, cameraman Mike Malley, and me, I drew my bow. The bull must have seen me draw, because he stopped and was now on full alert. With my knees firmly planted behind the tree, I waited at full draw for the bull to take one more step into the open.

What were the odds for my finding a horseshoe in the midst of 30,000 acres of prime elk habitat? Was this really the source for my change of fortune?

You guessed it -- the big 6x6 never took that step. He knew something was wrong.

As we watched the bull run off, Andy hissed, "Why in the world didn't you shoot?"

"Your viewpoint was different from mine," I explained. "I never had a clear shot at him."

For many of us, bowhunting is an emotional experience, and that seems especially true for those of us who pursue elk. When my first elk hunt concluded with my walking up to my first elk, a Colorado 5x5 I'd shot from a treestand overlooking a waterhole, I actually started to cry. Ever since that eventful day, the seed has been firmly planted in my heart to bowhunt these magnificent animals as often as possible.

My next challenge was to take a bull elk from the ground, which was what lured me to the 30,000-acre Cottonwood Ranch located near Cimarron, New Mexico. But after our initial encounters -- like the one with that 6x6 bull -- it seemed I needed a little luck to meet the challenge.

Although we dented only a small portion of the Cottonwood Ranch, my first impression was that the ranch hardly looked like good habitat. Could it even support elk? After all, in 2001, a forest fire that had destroyed nearly 100,000 acres in this region, including much of the ranch, had left little but burned-out, skeletonlike trees.

Time seemed to be running out until we heard this bull bugle across the valley. After taking this, my first Pope and Young-class bull, my smile reveals my heart.

However, a fresh carpet of lush undergrowth now flourished in the wake of the destruction from eight years ago, creating fantastic elk habitat. With a closer look on the ground at the rich vegetation, my hopes started to soar.

Our typical hunting scenario was to climb to the top of a mountain and listen for elk. If we heard a bugle, we would check the wind and then beat feet in the direction of the bull. Andy was an expert caller, and even though I pretended to know what I was doing, his patience while working with a treestand hunter from the East was nothing more than professional.

The first three days of the hunt were like all the TV hunting shows -- bulls bugling everywhere, elk within easy bow range, constant action. The only difference was that I didn't have an elk on the ground. I needed some luck to turn things my way.

And it seemed to come as the end of the hunt became a looming reality. We had stopped along a well-used elk trail to take a breather, and as I chugged down the last sip of my water, a familiar shape caught my eye -- a horseshoe that someone had hung over a branch. What are the chances of coming across something like this in the middle of nowhere? I thought.