As a kid growing up in Central Maine, the stories and taxidermy of the successful hunters I knew always captivated me. In part, it was because hunting success in Maine is extremely hard to come by, but also because I was in close proximity to some amazing hunters. One of my uncles had bagged several large Northern Maine bucks and had an endless number of “big woods” whitetail stories to tell. My best friend’s grandfather hunted Africa dozens of times and had an incredible trophy room in which we would spend hours staring at all the amazing animals he had taken. One of my dad’s coworkers, Sandy Mosher, and his best friend, Rick Labbe, were (and still are) some of the best hunters alive in my home state. They have shot numerous impressive whitetail, almost always by tracking them in snow, run dozens of coyotes and bobcats every winter, and taken a number of big bears and moose from the thick Maine woods. These guys were legends in my mind, and their grandeur was only magnified by the fact that Dad and I rarely found hunting success.
Fast forward a couple decades and I had become a Huntin’ Fool. I had just finished college in Georgia and began traveling west every year to chase elk in addition to the months spent each fall whitetail hunting in the southeast. One morning after a Thanksgiving trip to Maine, I ran into Rick in the airport. We discussed our elk hunting adventures, and he invited me to join him in Wyoming the following year. I excitedly accepted this offer from one of my hunting heroes.
Midway through the following summer, I had a Wyoming elk tag in my pocket and my dad asked to join me on the hunt. Following a family vacation to the Tetons, Dad wanted to spend more time in the mountains and see this elk hunting thing I had fallen in love with. Rick was happy to have Dad join, so he booked his flight, but not before convincing Sandy, who hadn’t drawn that year, to join as well. I couldn’t believe I was going on an elk hunt with my dad and two of my hunting icons.
The hunt was amazing. Rick took a nice 6x6, and I took a 5x5. We found sheds, caught trout, and listened to Rick and Sandy tell story after story in the wall tent. It truly was the best hunting adventure I had ever experienced with my dad. As soon as we left the woods, Dad was asking what he needed to do to return with a tag of his own. A few years later, we were headed back to Wyoming with Rick, and this time, both Dad and I had tags. My brother, Ryan, and one of my best friends, Steve, joined us on the hunt as well. It was shaping up to be another great elk camp.
I was set on getting Dad a crack at a bull. He turned 60 just two days before we started our hunt, and he was so excited about this opportunity. Dad wanted a 6-point bull and worked all summer practicing elk calls, listening to hours of elk-focused podcasts, and calling to ensure he had the strategy and gear dialed in. Now we just had to execute our plan.
Rick had taken a bull before we arrived in Wyoming but warned us it would be a tough hunt. On my previous hunt, we had snow and screaming bulls. This time, however, Wyoming was warm and dry as a bone. I managed to call one bull in close for Dad on the second day, but he never spotted the bull in the dense timber. Following that encounter, we didn’t see or hear an elk for two straight days. We spent the early mornings locate bugling and the remaining daylight still hunting.
Finally, on the fifth day of the hunt, my locate bugle elicited a response. After that initial bugle, an hour-long rut fest ensued. We chased after the raspy herd bull we dubbed “The Growler” and several satellite bulls near his harem, but The Growler stopped talking shortly after sunrise and was silent the rest of the day. The next day felt like de´ja` vu as the bulls bugled hard the first hour of light but shut off shortly after the sun rose.
On day seven, we decided to mix things up and stick exclusively to cow calling. Right away, the change seemed to work. The Growler responded to my first cow call and allowed us to sneak in close. I even got a quick glimpse of him pushing a cow through the timber but was unable to get a shot. Once again, we left the woods that day empty-handed, but at least I had laid eyes on the beast we were after.
Unfortunately, it was time for Ryan and Steve to leave, and I was disappointed that I was unable to show them a successful hunt after the amazing first experience I had in Wyoming. They reassured me they had a great time and had learned a lot, but after dropping them off, Dad said, “Dude, we have got to get a bull on the ground.” I agreed! I had come into this hunt hoping we would both fill our tags, but with only four days left, I was starting to doubt that was possible. I decided right then that if we could get on the same herd again the next morning, we would focus on getting Dad one of the satellite bulls we had been pushing past the last several days.
As we hiked up the trail early the next morning, I spotted several cows in a small, open aspen stand and got Dad positioned ahead of me as we slowly worked toward them. “They aren’t alone,” Dad whispered as we spotted a spike feeding with the cows. Just then, The Growler ripped off a mean bugle a couple hundred yards away. “Go get him, and I’ll stay here!” Dad insisted.
Although I wanted to go stalk The Growler, I was determined to stick to our plan. I believed there was likely another bull right in front of us. Sure enough, I spotted a bull working toward us over a rocky ledge and he let off a bugle of his own. Dad lined up for a shot and was waiting for the bull to present a better angle when The Growler ripped off again right on top of us. I spotted him 80 yards away with only one tree between us, and after two quick steps to my left, I fired. At the crack of the rifle, I saw him whirl and run. I sprinted to the closest ridge and arrived just in time to see him already trying to make it over the next one. I rapidly worked the bolt on my rifle as I fired three more shots into his chest and dropped him just as he crested the top.
I was ecstatic to take the bull we had been after, but I also felt guilty for taking a shot when Dad had an opportunity in front of him. “You did the right thing, Jordan,” he assured me. As we cut up my bull, I told him how I had developed a “make it happen” mentality, especially when hunting from the ground with a rifle. “Opportunities don’t always line up perfectly,” I explained. “A lot of times, the only way you get an opportunity in those close situations is by being aggressive and making the shot happen.”
We packed meat the rest of the day and took the next day off to rest. On day 10, we awoke to snow on the ground and aggressively pursued the elk again. We covered 12 miles but barely cut any tracks. The next two days, Rick and Dad hunted together while I cut meat. They located elk both days, yet as light faded on the last day, Dad missed a steep, off-hand shot at a big bull. He was disappointed he was unable to accomplish his goal of tagging his first bull after more than 100 miles in 11 days of hunting, but before we left Wyoming, Rick proposed that he and Dad come back a week later and give it one last go before the season ended. Dad was all in!
After landing in Wyoming, Dad and Rick were back at it. As they glassed three cows feeding, Dad spotted a 6-point bull bedded nearby. The elk had spotted them, and the bull stood from his bed as Dad quickly set up for a shot. He steadied his crosshairs and made the shot from 275 yards.
When they got to the bull, he was everything Dad had hoped for. He was flooded with emotions as he looked at the beautiful 6-point he had taken on his 60th trip around the sun. He called me that evening to tell me the story, and I couldn’t help but be proud of all the effort he had invested in the hunt. “I finally made it happen, buddy,” he said as we hung up the phone. Yes you did, Dad.
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