A violent thunderstorm chased me off the mountain, and this bull's bugling drew me back. In taking this beautiful trophy, I regained something in myself.

I WAS EXHAUSTED, drenched, and embarrassed. The first two conditions are not uncommon to elk hunting. The third...

Well, that was a new one for me. I was sitting in the front seat of my truck, parked on a steep, rocky road in northern New Mexico, letting my heart calm down. I'd been through many storms while hunting but never one as intense, or as scary, as this one.

It had begun as a few clouds blocking out the sun, and then it quickly turned into a bucket-dumping torrent that pounded me with marble-sized hail and high winds. When the storm hit, I was at the top of the ridge above my truck. Immediately, I buttoned down my raingear and crawled under some thick spruce trees, planning to sit it out, as I'd done numerous times before.

But then the lightning started, marching down the ridge toward me, and when one bolt hit about 100 yards away, I scrambled down the steep slope like a flushed rabbit -- slipping and falling several times as thunder shook the ground. The storm lasted for almost an hour, but minutes after I dived into the cab of my truck, panting like a marathon runner, the rain subsided. Soon after that, the clouds broke, and there I was, cowering in my truck and berating myself for coming out of the woods.

Then I heard the bugle.

It was the same bugle I'd heard most of the morning, as I'd traded taunts with that bull and a couple of others farther down the ridge. During this, the first week of September, the bulls seemed more interested in singing than in dancing. They had responded well to my calling all morning, but when I'd tried to get a little aggressive and move in, they wandered off or shut up. Several times this happened, and all I accomplished was to cover a lot of ground.

However, I had finally pinned down one bull -- the one I was listening to from the sanctuary of my truck -- to a small area. Studying my topographic map for some time, I had identified a small, flat bench about midway up the ridge. The bull was hanging out there.

He bugled again. I checked the time -- a little after 5 p.m. While sitting in the truck, I'd been trying to figure out what to do with the remaining hour of hunting light. This area was new to me, and my maps showed lots of enticing terrain. Maybe I should do a little exploring. One option was to check an area I'd seen on the way in at the base of the canyon. Another was to hunt around a small meadow a mile or so down the road. However, both involved driving, not hunting, so I dismissed them.

A third option was to sit and rest. After all, the storm had pretty well sapped my energy and psyche.

The bull bugled once more, and I looked up at the ridge. It seemed a lot steeper than it had earlier that morning. Still, an inner voice said, You're here to hunt elk. So get after it!

Quickly donning my gear again, I bugled back at the bull. He responded immediately.

Figuring he was a little more than a quarter-mile away, I put the bugle tube down and began climbing the ridge, gaining elevation to what I hoped was the bull's level. Then I started traversing the hillside toward the bench. The wind was cool and persistent, right in my face. The ground was damp and spongy. The elk was bugling every few minutes now, keeping me zeroed on his position. Conditions were perfect for a stalk, and my confidence grew with each step.