A Little Luck Goes A Long Way: A Hunting Story

“Hunter Bags Record Buck While Mowing His Lawn.”“Twelve-Year-Old Wakes from Nap in Dad’s Truck and Shoots Trophy Elk.”“Man Harvests Largest-Ever Elk After Magical Misfired Bullet First Ricochets Off Rock.”

These are the stories hunters always hear about, although never seem to experience themselves. Some hunters dedicate hours to bettering their skills, spend days scouting new areas, and stay weeks afield only to come home empty-handed, or at the very least, tag small-horned animals. Hunters constantly question their skills and ask themselves why luck has never caught up with them after so many hours meticulously scouring the woods for the trophies many seek. They believe the simple law of large numbers should be at play, and the trophy of a lifetime should have literally crawled into their freezer. These are the questions and ideas I have pondered for years!

For the past 18 years, I have had the opportunity to hunt elk in some of the best places the West has to offer, both on private and public land. Having never harvested a bull larger than 280”, last season finally proved fruitful when I bagged my first trophy animal scoring 353”. Although luck ultimately plays a part in every successful hunt, I attribute last year’s success to scouting, preparing my body physically for the demands of backcountry hunting, using knowledge learned from past experiences, and overall dedication to the sport. Never have I had a true “caught with my pants down” dumb-luck experience at harvesting a trophy animal that seems to permeate the headlines season after season.

It was opening week rifle season in Montana. After shooting the trophy bull last season, I decided to spend the week helping my friends harvest their first elk, passing on any opportunities for myself unless the bull’s size surpassed the previous. The first two days of the season were spent unsuccessfully stalking healthy representative bulls. Both mornings I was convinced that my friends would tag an elk, but the week-old snow was crunchy, making stalking extremely challenging and slow. On all occasions, the bulls retreated from their nightly feeding grounds before we could even get into range.

On the third morning, we arrived at our hunting spot to find that no bulls occupied the grassy openings as they had before. After glassing a few hours, I surmised that the pressure from the previous day’s stalks had changed their habits. Having spent a few years scouting this area, I knew mature trophy bulls consistently graced these alpine meadows during the summer months. However, hunting season always produced a different result. I thought of no better time than now for some mid-season scouting. I could see a high rocky outcropping that pierced the horizon on a distant ridge. The vantage from its peak would surely offer an opportunity to scout, but its distance would require base camps deeper in the backcountry, and as a result, any findings would be irrelevant to the week’s hunt.

I headed in the direction of the outcropping, up a narrow creek bottom graced with a collection of long-forgotten waterfalls. As I left my hunting party behind, I jokingly told them, “If you hear me shoot, it will be worth the pack out. 380” or bust.” My priority was still to help my friends fill their tags, but I was skeptical about the day’s prospects and thought more about future opportunities. The morning was cold and gave way to rolling fog. A light mist glided across the few inches of pristine, untracked snow. I worked my way up the small creek bed. The way was void of any sign, as if the wilderness was barren. A skull of a small raghorn from years gone by, nearly buried by the sands of the eroding waterfalls, provided the only proof of wildlife’s existence.

I left the creek bottom in the direction of the rocky perch above. My path took me up an impossibly steep face littered with debris and fallen trees. Even though my focus remained on scouting for future hunts, I was careful to remain vigilant and silent as I trudged up the mountainside. After some distance under my boots, I had a welcome surprise. I came across a few sets of slightly faded bull tracks on the edge of a large clearing created by the massive boulders that had fallen from the crumbling cliffs above. I wondered if I had stumbled across the tracks of a mature bull hiding in solitude, resting from a hard-fought rut. With my aim unchanged by the newfound sign, I looked for a way to the top of the cliff. I could see a steep narrow path amongst the sheer faces of rock that would provide the quickest route. However, I would still need to navigate the icy boulder field without much disturbance or injury.

After the steep ascent up the mountain, the boulder field crossing was tiring and sweat-inducing as I hopped from rock to rock. I decided it best to strip a layer and remove my long johns, anticipating the difficult scramble up the steep narrow path ahead. I had just pulled my pants back on when my senses told me to turn and look below. “Holy S*%$!” I accidentally shouted as the shock of a massive rack filled my view. A large bull was walking in the open along the edge of the clearing only forty yards away. I spun in excitement and lost my balance in the rocks, falling wildly as I tried to save my gun and prevent the accompanying noise from the untimely crash. From the ground, twisted amongst the crevices of the boulders, I looked up expecting to see that the bull had vanished after such a foolish mistake... but there he was, slowly walking as if feeling arrogantly secure, protected in his high domain.

I put my gun to my shoulder and clicked off the safety… I hesitated… Remembering my half-hearted oath to only shoot a monster this far from camp, I wondered if he was big enough. I pondered the sacrifices my friends would have to make in helping me pack out this animal, knowing their hunt would surely be over. Could I somehow drive the elk in their direction, only to hope he would enter the meadow where they patiently hunted a few miles below? At this point, my rifle left my shoulder as I weighed the consequences of the decision at hand. I sat frustrated as I watched the bull slowly meander into the thick forest. By now I had already realized his mature size, noting a unique ticker that made him a legitimate 6 x 7. I considered fibbing about the size of the bull, for I would surely be grossly accused of passing up the bull of a lifetime.

I made a decision to take the shot should luck lead the bull’s path back into view. Once again, the bull emerged from the thick trees, still walking the trail that hugged the edge of the rocky field. My gun immediately went to my shoulder as I only had seconds to take the shot… Again I failed, as a mixture of guilt and insanity flooded my mind. This time the bull disappeared out of sight for what was surely the last time. Still in disbelief over my confused emotional state, I frantically scanned the trees for any movement. I noticed a small shooting lane, no wider than a few inches, that seemed to penetrate deep into the forest as if slashed with a large knife. This perhaps would present one last opportunity, as long as the bull hadn't changed course.

I raised my rifle and pointed the barrel toward the break in the woods and waited. I peered through the scope into the vast expanse of trees that lay beyond for what felt like an eternity, knowing my chances were now slim. Thoughts of remorse proliferated my mind for not shooting the magnificent animal. From the time I had initially laid eyes on the majestic bull, he had traveled at a slow but continuous speed. If I were to get a shot now, he was going to have to stop perfectly in the smallest shooting lane I have ever utilized. Suddenly, his tines flashed through my scope, followed by his neck and shoulder. He stopped… only his vitals lay unobstructed. Any split movement would ensure an unclean shot and allow him to continue on his journey never to be seen again.

This time, I didn't hesitate, as it seemed fate had determined this would be the bull’s last moments. In what all seemed like a blur, I barely realized I had pulled the trigger as I watched the bull fall softly onto the snow-covered ground. Regret instantly filled my mind knowing the sacrifices I had suddenly bestowed upon my friends. I immediately used my Delorme InReach GPS Messenger to apologize for ruining their hunt and prep them for the amount of work ahead.

It wasn't until I walked over to where the animal lay that I realized the gravity of my decision. Never have antlers appeared so much larger on the ground than on the hoof, and the sheer mass of this incredible creature came to light. I stood in shock, thinking how I almost let such an animal pass. Blatant injuries from this year’s rut were visible across the bull’s body, making it obvious the bull’s fate had already been sealed. The bull was later aged at 9 years and was in his final days, as his injuries were too great to overcome the impending winter’s sting. For me, with the excitement of the harvest comes the inevitable remorse of killing such an incredible part of creation, and I was greatly relieved my intervention had saved what surely would have been a brutal demise.

Beyond that, my goal was accomplished, I had beaten the score of last year’s harvest by exactly 1”. He wasn't the 380” monster I promised my hunting party as I parted ways earlier, but nonetheless, he was an unbelievable trophy that I am now ashamed to have almost passed up. It seems as though luck had finally caught up with me. When I least expected it, I literally stumbled my way into a “lucky” experience that will leave other hunters wondering, “Why doesn't this ever happen to me?”

Special thanks to Conner, Kia, and Justin for sacrificing their hunting days to help me, and using their years of Alaskan field dressing experience to quickly get us out of the freezing, damp forest.