I choked on the big gulp of iced tea I’d just taken when I saw the trail camera picture. It showed a crowned out 7x7 Roosevelt bull. He had it all with mass to spare. My plans were definitely changing after seeing that picture. It was only six days away from the archery opener when that picture showed up.
On opening morning, I was in the stand before light, prepared for a long sit. Mid-morning, the snap of a branch put me on red alert. Soon, a raghorn 5x5 showed up accompanied by three cows. Between my love for elk meat and the fact that I primarily hunt public land, I had never passed a clear opportunity to harvest a branched-antlered Roosevelt bull before. The decision was pretty easy, though, with it being the first day of the season and the potential reward. Those elk meandered through and ended my excitement for the day. Many of the following days were similar. There were a couple days of absolutely nothing, and there were times that were very intense.
On the sixth day of archery season, I heard the familiar crack of a branch. The sound was loud enough that it had to be an elk. I stood in my stand and took my bow from the hook. Within seconds, I could see an elk through the brush. I had cleared a game trail through the incredibly thick bottomland to help funnel animals to me. It worked as planned, and a cow and her calf followed that trail and appeared in my little opening. My stand overlooked a small clearing that is covered in water for most of the year, only drying out in mid-summer, leaving bare dirt, free from brush, something that the elk seem to be attracted to. Just as I began to relax, I saw antlers through the brush. The moment I saw them, I knew it was him. My mind and heart raced, and blood pulsated through me. I had to calm myself down. I could not afford to make a mistake, not on this bull.
As he was about to step into the opening, his head went behind a tree. I drew my bow, and almost immediately, he reappeared. The top pin bounced on his chest. I was just about to touch the trigger when the bull turned and faced directly toward me. I held at full draw long enough that I began to consider letting down.
Then, as if on cue, the massive head swung to the left followed by his body. I still held, waiting for his right leg to move forward. When it did, I found a quarter-sized cowlick of hair that was a perfectly placed aiming point. The top pin found the tuft of hair, and the arrow was gone. The bull whirled and ran through the brush. The last I saw of him, he had an entire uprooted 15-foot maple vine hanging from his antlers. I quickly lost sight of him in the underbrush.
I listened and thought that I may have heard him go down but wasn’t sure. I replayed the shot in my mind. As the bull spun and lurched out of the opening, I saw the arrow pop back out the same side it went in. While still in the tree, I could see my arrow laying on the ground. I decided to give it some extra time just in case something had gone wrong. When I finally climbed down, I went and picked up my arrow. It was broken off. I held it up to another arrow, finding there was plenty of penetration.
I made the short trip back home to get my wife and daughter. The blood trail was present, but there wasn’t an overwhelming amount of it. I decided that due to the noise I would make pushing through the brush, I should first circle around the thick patch the bull went through and see if I could locate him or where he went by using the game trail. I had gone about 40 yards when I saw his tan hide hidden in the salmonberry bushes. As I gripped the heavy antlers, the failures of the past melted away, they now felt simply like lessons learned.
The backcountry is no doubt my favorite place to hunt, but a quality animal can come from anywhere. I am blessed with an entire family that loves hunting and the outdoors. Their inclusion is something I am eternally grateful for.
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