Elk hunting is hard. Elk hunting with a bow, even harder. Anyone who has chased these animals around the west with archery tackle can attest to that. Fully aware of the difficulties and low success rates that accompany our favorite pastime, my father and I were staring down the barrel of four archery elk tags when September 1st, 2024, finally rolled around. Living in Wyoming, I was lucky enough to draw a limited quota elk tag. Tag 1. My father, who lives in Minnesota, drew a non-resident elk tag for a different region. Tag 2. We had each bought Colorado non-resident over-the-counter archery tags. Tags 3 and 4.
Not only did dad and I have two elk tags a piece, but we had them spread across three different units in two different states. Our odds were not great. The harvest success for archery hunters in our over-the-counter Colorado unit was 4% in 2023. Dad’s Wyoming unit typically hovers around 20-30% for all hunters, with the vast majority of elk being taken during the October rifle season. My limited quota Wyoming unit enjoyed a higher success rate, but archery harvests remain low. With these odds (and the logistics of hunting different areas and states,) we agreed that filling three out of our four tags would be a massive success.
Tag 1
Our first elk camp consisted of a wall tent nestled in the high Wyoming desert. This was my resident Wyoming tag. Dad made the drive down from Minnesota and we officially started our archery elk season on September 3rd.
The weather was sweltering. Temperatures ranged from low thirties in the morning and soared into the high eighties by afternoon. After several days of sorting through smaller bulls, we decided to split up. Dad took off to scout another part of the unit and I hiked into a ravine that held several wallows. After several hours of sitting on the wallow, I decided to climb out of the ravine early, using the last bit of daylight to glass. Cresting the ridge, I spotted an elk in the sagebrush about 500 yards away. A quick look through the binoculars revealed a bull. A bull that was bigger than any we had seen. I let out several cow calls, watching the bull through the binoculars. Bugling, he immediately began trotting towards me.
Scrambling, I tucked myself into the edge of a tree line that ran perpendicular to the ridge. A bugle ripped from the trees below me; he was closing the distance, fast. His feet appeared first, flashing through the low pine branches. I drew back, hoping he would exit the tree line just below me. He did. A quick glance at his antlers qualified him as a shooter. Judging he was about 35 yards away, my thirty-yard pin settled high behind his front shoulder as I squeezed off the shot. He jolted, took two steps, and stopped. Seconds later he swayed, stumbled, and then crashed, falling just out of sight below me.
Giving him time to expire, I hiked out, found dad, and returned with empty packs. A beautiful 6x5 greeted us, laying right where he had crashed, not five yards from where he had been standing. Tag 1 was notched, September 6th.
Tag 2
After several days of rest, butchering elk, and checking in at the office, we pulled up stakes and relocated two hours south, trading the high desert sagebrush for the beautiful aspens of the high-country. Instead of a wall tent, we used our truck beds. Instead of enduring the sweltering temps of the high-desert, we enjoyed the cool breezes particular to fall in the high country. My father’s Wyoming tag was up next.
For the first two days we chased bugles up and down drainages, stumbled our way through deadfall-choked ravines, and lounged around camp during the midday lulls. Day three found us in a brand-new spot; a beautiful open-growth pine forest. The sun’s journey towards the western horizon was well underway, casting shadows across the pines and aspens. We had been cold-calling for the last several hours, but the mountainside remained deathly quiet. Stepping into a clear-cut, we let out several cow calls. Less than a second later, a bugle answered, echoing through the pines. Cutting the distance, we called again. Once again, the bull bugled, much closer and moving our way in a hurry.
Holding a quick council, I decided to run back to a small clump of aspens to call and dad would press up to the edge of the clearing. My dash to the clump of aspens took no longer than ten seconds, yet as I turned around, dad was already at full-draw. Standing directly in front of him, no more than eight yards away, was a beautiful 5x5, peering into the clearing trying to find the cow. A small pine was obstructing the bull’s vitals and dad was unable to shoot.
After what seemed like hours, dad finally had to let down. The bull jumped back in shock, trotting away as I let out a cow call. He disappeared back into the tree line as dad came to full draw again. There was no letting down this time. He let the arrow fly. A resounding “smack” echoed from the tree line. I ran up into him, my arms up in the universal “what happened?” gesture. Dad smiled. “Think I hit him good.” Darkness was falling rapidly, enveloping the woods around us. Nighttime temps were cool, so we left the tracking job for the daylight. Daybreak came, and with it, a blood trail that led to a long-tined 5x5. The pack out was smooth, the tailgate beers were cold, and our second bull was on the ground. Tag 2 was notched, September 14th.
Tag 3
With our Wyoming elk season wrapped up, it was time to head south and cross the border into the rugged mountains of northern Colorado. Instead of a truck bed or a wall tent, we would be using an Airbnb rental as a base camp, with backpacking trips interspersed as needed.
The weather cooled as the days rolled by, nights and mornings were regularly in the high twenties and the days rarely crested sixty. Hunting solo, we covered a lot of ground, trying to find elk. The night of September 22nd found us strung out along a large mountainside, hunting different zones and enjoying the cool mountain evening. Settled in behind several lodgepole pines, I was cold-calling down the ridgeline when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Surprised that I had service, I pulled it out. A text message from dad flashed across the screen. “I think I just drilled a nice 5x5.” I smiled to myself and checked the time. 5:47. Nice. Enough time for me to finish my hunt and enough light for him to break the elk down. We had each hiked in on sperate trailheads earlier that afternoon. We were both a long way back and miles from each other, so rushing out to help him wasn’t in the cards.
As full dark enveloped the mountainside and the last glow of light faded from the sky, I started my descent to the trailhead. After getting down, I made the drive to the neighboring trailhead dad had parked at. It was late, and the only truck left was his. Parking next to it, I killed the lights and looked up at the dark mountainside. Two pinpricks of light were bouncing down the trail; two headlamps that I knew belonged to my dad and my cousin, Brad. I hiked up the trailhead and met them; both smiling, both weary, and both burdened with heavy packs. Dad had called the bull right into his lap, offering him a perfect quartering-away shot at ten yards.
We returned the next morning to grab the remaining quarters and antlers. He was a beautiful bull, with a tall, narrow rack. We high-fived and realized we were only one bull away from our perfect season. Our third tag had been notched, September 22nd.
Tag 4
It was up to me to fill our last tag and cap off a perfect archery elk season. I decided to strike out and backpack in, planning on spending two days hunting a ridgeline that had been productive in the past.
Heading out from the trailhead, I made the two-and-a-half-mile hike in. Reaching a bench near the top of the ridgeline, I set up my tarp and sleeping gear, not wanting to fumble with it in the dark. Satisfied with my handiwork, I continued the trek up the ridge, carrying just my bow.
Settling in on top of the ridge, I began cold calling. Several cow calls followed by stretches of silence, listening. It was not long before I caught a flash of shadow along the deadfall below me. Movement. Hunters, I thought, slightly disappointed that someone else was willing to hike in this far. Peering into the pines, I quickly realized I was wrong. An elk was picking its way through the downed timber, a flash of sunlight revealing a four-point rack; a legal bull.
Quietly I readied myself, silently urging the bull to get closer. He had stopped about 65 yards away, his vitals safely covered by the scattered pines. Slowly turning my head, I let out a quick cow call, facing away from the bull. It worked, and the bull resumed his slow journey, heading my direction. He cautiously made his way towards an opening about 30 yards away. Looking like he would emerge at any moment, I drew back.
Time trickled by as I held at full draw. The bull was perfectly content to take his time, eventually finding an alternate route that offered no shot. With no choice, I let down. Another ten minutes ticked by as the bull slowly wandered around, offering no shots.
Abruptly, he turned around and stopped behind a small cluster of pine trees. If he took two more steps, he would be in the clear. I drew back again. Slowly, he took one step. Then another. He emerged from the pine trees, facing directly towards me; a clear frontal shot. Judging the distance at 25 yards, I settled my thirty-yard pin low on the center of his chest. Squeezing slowly, the arrow released, burying itself in the bull. He whirled, crashing down the ridge, smashing into deadfall and making a ruckus that echoed across the mountainside.
Waiting fifteen minutes, I made my way down to where he had emerged from the pines. There was a splash of blood across a downed log. Another splash of blood followed the first. And then another. This continued for fifty yards before I came onto the bull. The shot had been quick and clean. The bull was a small 4x4. Smiling, I took a moment to take it all in. The evening was beautiful. The sunset, pristine. Everything was perfect.
I took my time breaking the bull down, trying to prolong the season as long as I could. Darkness settled into the pines as I enjoyed the bittersweet feeling that all hunters are familiar with; joyous success that sadly marks the end of another elk season. With the bull fully quartered, deboned, and hung, I shouldered a load of meat and started the slow trek down the mountain.
The lights were still on at our AirBnb when I finally pulled into the driveway a half-hour past midnight. Smiling, my dad greeted me at the door. We had done it.
Four tags. Two states. One month. Four archery bulls.
-Alex
BOWHUNTERS OF WYOMING