Hardcore Rock Climber Develops Elk Obsession

I didn’t grow up in a hunting family, and frankly didn’t have much interest in it as a kid. Instead, I learned how to fly fish at a young age and could generally be found ditching class my senior year of high school to chase trout in the New Mexico mountains. I have always enjoyed the mountains, and I started rock climbing when I was 19. It consumed my life like nothing before. I moved around the country to climb, and eventually customized a Dodge van and moved into it so I could live on the road. It was quite an experience and allowed me to visit a plethora of cool places.

The summer of 2022, I was supposed to work at a small-town brewery in Wyoming to continue my climbing obsession, but a finger injury wrecked those plans. I couldn’t spend the whole summer pouting over an injured finger, so I decided to start hiking in hopes of finding an elk antler. I spent my days hiking up and down ridges and my nights watching YouTube videos about shed hunting.

I found my first elk shed on June 3, 2022. As I was scanning ahead through cheap binoculars, I saw the unmistakable shine of sunlight on ivory antler tips. It was a beautiful 6-point antler, and I was hooked. By the end of my time in Wyoming, I had found six more elk antlers, a handful of deer antlers and I had hiked more than 200 miles. I also had my first experience with a bugling bull elk. After that encounter, I knew I wanted to hunt elk. And I wanted to do it with a bow.

Man On A Mission

I spent the winter of 2022 in southern New Mexico, working and saving to buy a bow. I hadn’t shot a bow since middle school gym class, except one time a few years back in Tennessee, where I shot a friend’s bow with no instruction and smacked my arm so badly with the string I considered going to the hospital. Confident I could figure it out this time, I went to a local bow shop and left with a budget-priced bow, a target, and half a dozen arrows. I loved it. I shot every day. It was meditative. Just a few shots before dinner would turn into 50-plus arrows and hours of time.

I was gaining confidence in my shooting and decided to throw my name in the New Mexico big-game lottery in hopes of drawing a 2023 deer or elk tag. I was fortunate enough to meet some new friends who were willing to give me a few tips. Derek, a hunting guide, and I became fast friends. While out cruising the mountains in his side by side looking for elk sheds, I would pepper him with questions about elk hunting. One of Derek’s more memorable remarks was, “Elk hunting isn’t that complicated. You’ve just gotta run in there and kill them.”

Come April, when the New Mexico draw results came out, Derek and I learned we had both drawn archery elk tags in the Gila Wilderness. He drew a first-season archery tag, and I drew a second-season archery tag. I couldn’t believe my luck; I had drawn a tag and become friends with a guide who wanted to call a bull in for me! We couldn’t wait for September.

Since I live in a van, I relocated to the closest town of reasonable size, got a job and dedicated three days a week to exploring my hunt unit. Every week, I would check out different trailheads in the Gila Wilderness. I would backpack in eight or 10 miles, set up camp and then explore. I was able to keep eyes on elk all summer, and somewhere along the line, I decided I wanted to upgrade my bow. With that goal in mind, I started picking up antlers. I hiked more than 600 miles and found 116 elk and 61 deer antlers — and I was able to sell them for enough cash to buy my dream bow.

I special-ordered the 2023 Hoyt VTM 34 with 80-pound limbs and outfitted it with a slick new Spot-Hogg Fast Eddie Triple Stack bowsight. After more than 2,000 arrows on the practice range, I felt dialed-in. September couldn’t get here fast enough.

The night of Sept. 14, I barely slept. The next morning was the opener of my hunt, and I was beyond excited. Derek and I worked hard during his hunt, and he had filled his tag the previous week, despite having recently broken his ankle.

Hard Work Pays Off

Opening morning found us following a bugling bull in the pre-dawn darkness, and as light started to illuminate the landscape, we were getting close to the herd. We had the wind in our favor, and we weren’t even moving when out of nowhere, the whole herd spooked. There was no opening-morning bull for me. Days two and three were no more successful. We moved base camp, gained some serious elevation, put in lots of miles, passed on a small 6x6 bull, cursed the swirling winds and opted to move again.

Three miles into our new area, we hadn’t seen or heard anything of interest, except another hunter and some looming clouds. As we continued our hike, we kept our eyes to the sky. When the sky finally opened and rain fell, we set up my tarp shelter between some trees and took a much-needed nap. We woke a few hours later to clearing skies and a ripping bugle from somewhere just down the canyon; then another bugle from the next ridge, and another from somewhere below us. The cooling effect of the passing storm was just what was needed to get the bugle party started. Giddy, we left the tarp set up and headed toward the closest bugle.

That evening, we were able to get to 200 yards on a mature 6x6 but didn’t have enough light left to make a stalk. We headed back to the truck and decided to move base camp to this new spot. The next morning, we set off in the direction we had seen the bull the night before. This time, I was able to get within 50 yards, but a big swirl of wind sent cows running before I had a clean shot. We decided to back out and hike back to the truck. With only three days remaining in my season and multiple bugling bulls in the area, we decided to go all in. We packed our tents and three days of food and started our hike. If we hurried, we would be set up in time for an evening hunt.

We never bothered to set up camp, choosing to drop all our gear and worry about it later. We found a ridge overlooking lots of terrain, and Derek let a locator bugle rip. Within seconds, there were three distinct responses. One was too far to worry about, but two were quite close. From what we could tell, there was a bull in the drainage below us, to the south, and a bull on top of the next ridge to the west. We ran down the ridge, listening to the bulls bugle back and forth.

Occasionally, Derek would let out his own bugle, which only seemed to further enrage the bulls.

Once down in the bottom, we had to pick a bull. We hadn’t seen either, but they were both clearly coming our way. I decided to try for the west bull, because the terrain was more open, but a screaming bugle to the south quickly changed my mind. That bull had closed the distance significantly and seemed to be right on top of us.

Derek and I exchanged excited glances, and he let out a short, throaty, challenge bugle. He even added a nice little chuckle at the end and was immediately met with an angry response. I asked Derek to stay back and keep the bull talking while I tried to close the distance.

The next five minutes are mostly a blur, but I clearly remember Derek saying, “You’ve just gotta run in there and kill them.” Every time the bull would bugle, I sprinted to the next patch of good cover, glassed ahead of me and sprinted again. Derek was destroying a tree well behind me, and our bull was not very happy about it. As I got to the edge of a small clearing, I paused. He had to be somewhere right here. A bugle confirmed he was just beyond some thick brush. I pulled out my rangefinder and ranged every tree and bush in the clearing. There was nothing beyond 40 yards; game time!

Holding my breath and willing myself to be as still as possible, I soon caught sight of elk legs through the brush. The bull was coming straight to me. Praying my camo would do its job, I stood steady, drawing my bow at the last possible second. The bull came to the edge of the clearing, still semi-covered by brush, looked directly through me and screamed a soul-shaking bugle straight at my face. Then the sound of breaking branches behind me caught his attention and he walked into the clearing. After a few steps, he paused.

Despite having been at full draw for almost a minute and feeling a bit shaky, my pins were clear and seemed to be rock solid. I focused on not over gripping my bow, finding my anchor point, and most importantly, I focused all my energy where I wanted my arrow to go.

Just like I practiced all summer, I loaded the trigger and started pulling. It was a shock when the shot broke. All I remember is hearing a shallow thump and seeing the green and white fletching on my arrow disappear into the bull. He turned and ran back in the direction he had come from. I cow-called and felt an instant flush of panic. Was it a good hit? Did I wound him? What if there isn’t any blood?

The crashing sound and visible dust on the next hill a mere 40 yards away confirmed it was a good hit. Derek came sprinting up the hill with his hands in the air, silently screaming. I had dropped to my knees and set my bow on the ground, also silently screaming. I fist pumped the air until he got to me. We hugged and he whispered that he never saw the bull but saw me draw and heard the hiss of the arrow and a solid thump. He asked me if the bull was big. I told him it was a mature bull, but I wasn’t sure how big.

We walked over to confirm what I hoped and worked so hard for. My arrow had pierced the bull’s heart, and he expired within seconds of the shot. He was also a giant. We had found our very own Gila Monster!

I sent my dad an InReach satellite message and asked him to bring ice, since we had run out. Then, we started butchering. We worked until after midnight, and the entire time the second bull on the hillside was screaming down the canyon. It was unreal.

We got back to camp at 1:30 a.m. with two packs full of meat. We slept in the next morning until 7 but had meat hanging in the woods and needed to get it out. We went back for the rest of the meat, and Derek started the daunting process of moving it toward the truck and the waiting ice. My last trip was for the head and hide. It was a soul-crushing load, well over 100 pounds, and I gratefully relished every painful second.

I arrived at our spike camp to my dad’s smiling face, a big hug and a bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. We talked briefly about the hunt and started packing another load of meat the several miles to the truck. On our third load, my dad acquired a pack from another hunter and helped us by packing our entire camp out. We were so grateful for his help, and it was really cool to have my dad play a role in my success.

With elk on ice, we celebrated that evening with beer and quesadillas. The next morning, we woke up, cleaned up camp and headed back to civilization with 240 pounds of meat to process. All in all, I hiked 148 miles in 19 days of elk hunting. I packed half of Derek’s bull out and half of my own as well. I learned a ton about public-land hunting and calling elk, and I gained a greater respect for the sport of bowhunting.

Next time you’re out there chasing a bull, just remember one thing: “Elk hunting isn’t that complicated. You’ve just gotta run in there and kill them.”

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