I’m not even sure how to begin this story. It seemed so long ago that this hunt had started. I guess I can start by noting this is the first hunt I started hunting this season as well as the last hunt of the year…
I convinced Brady into applying for this hunt with me this year. The odds of drawing this tag are fairly low, as it’s a one month archery (September) and two-month rifle hunt (October and November). Like a fine wine, this hunt gets better with time, as its prime wintering ground for a pile of bulls that move in from as far as the “Parks”.
Well, as luck would have it, we drew the tags and it seemed immediately summer season was waning and hunting season was right around the corner! I made multiple trips up to the mountain to learn each road, glassing point, and see if there were any solid resident bulls living in the unit.
Summer scouting taught me much about the mountain and I even got my eye on a few solid bulls, but I had decided I was going to shoot for the stars on this hunt. I was going big or not kill a bull. I knew there was big potential but it would take much time, energy, and self control on passing on some great bulls that I’d typically kill, no question. Little did I know how accurate this last statement would be…
September
Summer faded into September and the time had finally come. Typically, I’d spend my September’s solely high country deer hunting, but I never found a buck in western Wyoming that got me excited enough to archery hunt, so I took advantage of archery elk hunting the rut. What a blast! On Sept. 1, I climbed high into National Forest and before noon had already called in a couple bulls within bow range.
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| Nothing like grabbing a handful of huckleberry and raspberries while on the run |
One particular bull played hard to get and I spent a good portion of the first afternoon getting closer and closer calling back and forth. The timber was so thick that I eventually closed the distance to 90 yards before the bull finally broke and came in to 8 yards. I videod the event and even questioned killing the solid 6-point. But then the hunt would be over.
What other adventures could I experience if I pass on these beautiful bulls and continue hunting ? This is a legitimate question that would cloud my decision-making every time I had a mature bull within range.
The days turned into weeks. The area is close enough to home I can run up before or after work for a quick hunt, which gave me a lot of time to be on the mountain. I ran up on the mountain every chance I had.
One trip that meant the world to me was when Hunter ran up for a full day in late September. We put on the miles and although the day started a bit slow, by afternoon, not only did we get within shooting distance of 8 different bulls, including a beautiful 340” dark-antlered bull, we also found an absolute giant mule deer buck living on his own in a well hidden basin. We named the ol’ boy “Avalanche”.
Although we didn’t get any video of the buck (we were too busy glued to our optics), we both knew where we’d be on opening day of deer rifle season.
September came and left with more bull call-ins and sightings than I can remember. I still hadn’t found the bull thy really revved my engine, but was having a blast sorting through those in the area. I had looked over 50 bulls by this point.
There is, no doubt, something special about the elk woods in September and early October, but when you are hunting a tag that rolls into the end of November, at times you wonder if you’re wasting your time in the earlier season when there are less bulls on the landscape. I’ve come to the conclusion that there isn’t such thing as wasting time in such country. The early season allows you to comfortably get to places you’d otherwise never explore and see.
October
I placed the bow back in it’s case and buckled Molly to my backpack for the rest of the season. The bulls had mostly come out of the higher timber and dropped elevation to where the cows were herded up. The first week of October was rut madness and from different lookouts, I was able to glass over vast country and look over bull after bull, from long distances.
Mixed in with this hunt, I spent a week general elk hunting with friends and family in another part of Wyoming, and a week in Colorado, so there were some breaks throughout this elk hunt. On Oct. 13, a massive snowfall hit the elk mountains. The valley received 3.5” of rain, this translated into 3’ of snow at about 8,000’!
My plans were foiled getting back to where Avalanche called home. I was found stuck on the deer opener in my Honda UTV on a mountain road still 9 miles from where I’d take off on foot. I would never get the chance to see that buck again the rest of the hunt.
The heavy snow as well delayed access into good elk country for a week or so before Brady pounded out the roads and spent a full week in his wall tent hunting elk on his own.
I figured in October, I was able to look at an additional 100 bulls as the rut wound down and they started a “late season” behavioral shift, spilling in from the south and west.
November
The last month of the hunt. The month of gratitude and giving thanks. How appropriate.
Snow levels had begun receding in much of the area besides the north faces and bulls began using the upper stretches of elevation bands where yellow grass was now exposed. It was obvious that everyday a few more bulls would show up and I learned the best pinch points and staging areas where I could find new bulls.
At this point, there is no doubt that I had passed on bulls that were mature, some as big or bigger than what I’ve killed. I would say I had seen an additional 100 bulls just in the month of November, with a handful in the 350” range and gobs of 330” bulls.
On Nov. 10th, at first light I spotted a bull that I immediately knew was big. I quickly videoed the bull and jumped in the rifle. With a cartridge loaded and my finger on the trigger, What other adventures could I experience if I pass on this beautiful bull and continue hunting ?
Ugh… what is wrong with me?! Clearly this bull surpasses 360” with beautiful long tines and a huge frame. I let him live another day but felt it was worth getting a better, closer look at him. I spent the rest of the day trying to glass him in his bed. I found some other bulls but never did get a closer look at this particular bull. Rather than regret, passing this bull kicked me into another gear.
November 12 was a special day as I hiked several miles along the rim of a creek, glassing into timber patches that I knew held groups of bedded bulls. As the afternoon warmth dropped along with the sun, the bulls started showing themselves.
Bulls came out of their haunts one after another and soaked up the last of the sun’s rays as nighttime brought single digit temperatures. One small group of bulls appeared on a meadow strip and right away I knew one was big. Brady was a couple miles behind me staring at some of the same country and we both confirmed this bull was a tank.
Where he was at, I would not be able to get on him so I videoed the rest of the evening, with hopes that in the following couple weeks I’d find a way to get in range of this timber bull.
I was mesmerized not only by his towering points, but by the length and girth of his body as well. He appeared a foot longer than his companions, and as girthy as I’ve ever seen an elk. I called him “Potbelly”. Potbelly was the first bull on this hunt that I considered an absolute target bull that I would kill the first chance I got. His beams stretched way out, each point was long, and he had solid mass throughout. He was the perfect 6-point bull.
A picture of Potbelly made it as my new phone screen image and while off the mountain I stared at him every chance I’d get. I made one more trip up the mtn before Thanksgiving but never got my eye on Potbelly. I did see a unique bull with crazy mass and a huge frame from 4 miles away, the muddled waves in the optics never let me see too much detail, I hiked to where I’d last seen the mystery bull for the evening but I never would see this bull again.
In the back of our minds, we had been waiting to hunt the last week of the season as most bull tags would be filled by then (less pressure), and theoretically, the most wintering bulls will have arrived onto this hunting unit. Brady and I both had planned on spending the last week of the hunt up there as he had already setup his wall tent at the end of the mountain road at 9,000.
As Thanksgiving approached, a looming snow storm in the forecast had me puckered a bit. The previous October snow storm had completely blocked our access. If this storm did the same, we would need snowmobiles and may likely not get Brady’s wall tent out of the high country until next June!
The storm came as promised and hit on Thanksgiving day, dumpin 5” in Cody and who knows how much on the mtn? Brady would spend the following day blading his 3 mile driveway back home and it was just me and my machine that were gonna blaze the trail to camp…hopefully!
I was loaded down on the machine with all I needed for the next week living in the winter backcountry. As I hit the forest boundary, the blanket of powder got deeper and deeper. It got difficult to differentiate the road bed from the shoulder and meadows, especially with snow coming over the hood and windshield. I kept her in 2nd gear and full throttle for miles eeking my way past known ravines and sluffs off the road.
A few times I would hit a shallow spot in the snow and stop to get rid of the snow piled up in the radiator. I didn’t care how hard it was, I was gonna make it to elk camp damnit. I’d worry about getting out at a later date!
Eventually, my machine tire caught the edge of a 2’ rut
and the rest of the machine followed. I remained stuck for an hour digging piles of snow out from under the machine’s carriage. I escaped the pit of despair and continued motoring along to find myself well off the road motoring through a meadow. Before I could correct and get back on the road base I sunk into another drift in a low spot.
I had to use a trap stake and my winch to free myself from the drift. That was the last time I allowed myself to get stuck as I throttled it over the summit and down the switchbacks. I rolled into camp exhausted, sweaty, wet, and cold! I quickly made a fire in the stove and dried myself out right on time for an evening glass.
Brady rolled into camp around 2 AM wondering how I managed to get 16 miles to camp in those snow levels. Fortunately for him, the broke-in trail and watching my meanderings off the road allowed him to make it with no problem.
The next morning, I was going to get above Potbelly’s nest, and Brady was headed for the lookout spot so we were miles apart. Brady sent me a text that he may have had a glimpse of Potbelly miles away heading into the deep timber below me.
The vantage points to look into Potbelly’s lair were extremely limited but patiently I waited till dark in hopes I’d catch a glimpse of the big bull Brady had seen. Instead, I saw a handful of nice bulls and decided I would need to find another vantage point if the bull follows the same pattern the following morning.
It was a long, miserable hike in the moonlight back to camp in knee-deep snow through log-jammed creek bottoms. This hunt was wearing on me…
The next morning found us both on the lookout. At first light, we had multiple groups of great bulls below us, when I spotted a giant bull in the same general area Brady had seen the bull the morning before. It didn’t take too long to verify we were looking at Potbelly! He was hanging with a group of bulls heading towards the timber. At the last moment, Potbelly stopped and stared at the other bulls in front of him and decided to make a 90 degree turn left into more formidable country, leaving his comrades on a more gentle timber bench.
I decided my only chance to kill this bull would be to drop well below where the bull’s exit the timber, there was one open knoll that allowed some visibility into the timbered slope. I might catch Potbelly in an opening among the timber or as he hits the edge of timber at last light to feed.
Brady made his own plan and we split ways. I hiked two miles down a creek bottom, through a large willow-aspen bog, and then climbed a steep, slick slope before finally getting into a position where I could see where the herd of bulls had headed to bed. I was 500-700 yards away but did not want to close the distance as occasionally the wind would blow from my back, and when there wasn’t wind, it was as still and quiet as could be. I did not want to be detected.
I picked up the younger bedded bulls immediately at 615 yards in the timber. For the next several hours I kept a close eye on these bulls as they’d move around a little within the timber and would find new beds in the deep snow. At 4:00, I noticed a couple bulls up and without thinking much I looked through the binos.
There was a solid 340-350 bull with the group and I thought to myself, he sure looks bigger from closer range.
I set up the phone to the binos to get some videos. The bull grew and grew but being convinced Potbelly had bedded further up the mountain, I was in disbelief that this bull could be Potbelly! He turned his head, and at that moment I knew I better jump into position and kill this bull…it’s Potbelly!
His stagger and confidence demands respect. I’m impressed how an old warrior bull can carry such swag and wisdom, and be so heavily persecuted all at once. Everybody and everything wants to kill him.
I ranged and dialed to 10.25 MOA. I slid a 210 Berger down the pipe and didn’t waste anytime as their open window in the timber was small and I knew they would soon be out of sight!
The shot felt solid and immediately Potbelly raced for the timber while the other bulls gathered alert, before running frantically in a line through the timber like an out-of-control freight train. I saw no sign of Potbelly heading out.
My mind immediately wondered if the monarch made his last run or was this night going to turn into a nightmare for both him and me. I’m confident in my firearm and with the conditions. I was almost certain the outcome would lean in my favor.
I finally made it to the timber, littered of elk beds and their musk still lingering in the air. Potbelly’s last run showed his strength as each lunge looked as if a painter had dipped a large paintbrush into an apple red bucket of paint and splashed it across the snow.
Finally, I crested a little knob to see the giant bull collapsed off the back side half-buried in a blanket of snow.
I caused this to happen, I thought. A brief moment where remorse and relief grapple with one another. Then a couple other emotions hit me hard; an overwhelming feeling of reverence and respect. What has this bull experienced in its lifetime? How has he survived into becoming such a monarch bull with so much working against him year after year? So many questions…
There’s a balance between admiring your prey and some level of proper time management. It was 4:30 and there is much lifting, cutting, hacking, bagging, and packing that would have to happen before I could rest. Night was upon me in grizzly country, I was alone, and I needed to get to work although spending more time in admiration seemed more appropriate.
I won’t go into detail on recovery of this bull, but I’m thankful for dependable friends like Brady. All the bull’s quarters, straps, and head were back at camp before midnight…barely.
So…that’s the short version of the longest elk hunt of my life. I doubt anyone wants to hear the long version but it’s best told around a woodstove around rugged individuals who finds pleasure in pain, cold weather, and giant bull elk.
As for Brady, his bull story is his to tell. But I will say, Brady is one of the toughest men I’ve had the pleasure to share camp with. His hard work and never-ending positive attitude (even after losing his phone on the second to the last day of season) rewarded him with a bull of a lifetime.
Brady and I both went back to our families with not only our biggest bulls, but a brotherhood that couldn’t be severed with any amount of force. And for that I am grateful.
