Hunting has always been a part of life for my family. My dad and mom grew up in hunting families, so when it came time for their kids to tag along, they took us with them. Later, when it came time to apply for tags, being a girl with two brothers didn’t matter. Dad always told us, “Ya gotta throw a hook in the water if you’re going to catch a fish.” Applying for tags has been a family affair.
When the results of last year’s draw came out, I drew an archery buck deer tag and a September bull elk tag in a limited-entry unit. It was drawing that premium elk tag that had everyone shaking their heads in disbelief. I had just 2 points for a unit that my uncle couldn’t draw with 19 points. When Grampa Keisel heard the news, he told me, “Somebody had to draw that tag, might as well be you. Miracles do happen.”
With the archery deer hunt up first, Dad and I spent our free time honing our bows and shooting skills. We did some scouting, checking out waterholes and glassing. That was fun, but my mind was on the elk hunt, which seemed forever in the future.
When it came time to hunt deer, we were in the blind early and late, watching does and fawns and a spike and two-pointer come to drink. No way was I going to take one of those bucks. Dad always says, “They won’t get big if we take them when they’re young.” Besides, it was hard to concentrate on anything but that big bull tag locked in the gun cabinet.
With the coming of September and leaves turning yellow and red on the mountain, it was finally time to do some serious scouting. Both Mom and Dad had taken good bulls on this unit, so I wanted to do the same. My dad and his friend, Kelly Oppenheimer, had just retired from their jobs and were anxious to get on the mountain in search of a shooter bull. Kelly was there with his mules for Mom and Dad’s hunt and knows elk. He and Dad took on the scouting chores with passion. They were on the mountain early and stayed late glassing and listening for bull talk. They talked to friends and strangers, cowboys and other travelers met along the way. What they found was that severe drought conditions changed most of what their past experiences had revealed. Springs had dried up or had been reduced to a trickle. Six inch dust clogged some roads and cattle, and elk kicked up clouds of dust with each step. Bulls were, for the most part, alone. Bugling, if any, came after dark. The rut every hunter dreams of had yet to blossom.
A rancher friend who spends most of his summers on the mountain told Dad and Kelly of a bull he’d been seeing. “He will go a solid 350,” he advised. “If you get a chance, you’d better take him. Not a lot better,” he admonished.
As the hunt drew near, we had a target bull on trail camera, one that looked to be 370” or so. While everything on the mountain pointed to a tough hunt, we were cautiously optimistic. However, it was not for long. Two days before opening morning, the trail cam bull got wiped out crossing the freeway to water. Words can’t describe the disappointment that came with that discovery. “It Just wasn’t meant to be,” Kelly sympathized. With precious little time left for scouting, my brother, Cody, my grandpa, and Uncle Kurt brought more eyes to the search for “that bull.” Those extra eyes paid off. As night fell on the mountain just hours before I could hunt, Cody found and put to bed a lone bull. “I didn’t get a really good look, but he’s a six by seven worth checking out come morning,” Cody reported.
After what seemed like an endless night, we made our way quietly to the area where Cody had put the bull to bed. There was only silence on the mountain as the first light of the coming day began to reveal shadows, then shapes and objects in the forest before us. We had been searching the mountain for two or three minutes when Cody whispered, “I’ve got him.”
The bull stood motionless, eyes locked on us, as Cody quickly focused the spotting scope on him. “He’s high horned, good spread, but needs to give us a side look,” he cautioned. We took turns on the scope, checking him out and sharing what we were seeing. Still, the bull stood in the shadow of a tree and the side look we wanted was yet to come. We knew we had a 350” bull, but it was just minutes into day one of my hunt.
That’s when the bull stomped a nervous foot and stepped into the first rays of sunlight. Looking through the scope again, my dad exclaimed, “That’s a 365 inch to 370 inch bull. It’s your tag, your call,” he told me.
I looked in the scope again and immediately knew this was the bull I wanted to put my tag on. Turning to Dad and the others, I practically yelled, “I want him!”
Cody ranged the bull at 603 yards, and I set the scope on my 300 Mag for that range. Finding the bull in the scope was easy, but I couldn’t keep the crosshairs still. They were dancing all over the place. Dad could see what was happening and calmly said, “Let’s get some support for you.”
With that, I let go of the breath I’d been holding and stepped back. Dad calmly laid my backpack across a big rock and said, “You got him.” That was all I needed. Cradling the gun over the pack, I found the bull again, settled the crosshairs in the crease behind his shoulder, and sent the bullet to its target. I saw the bull shake his head and shoulders like he wanted to rid himself of a pesky fly and then disappear into some trees in front of him.
“Bull shot!” Cody exclaimed as I turned to smiling faces, hugs, and high fives.
Soaking it all in, I wanted to go find him, just to make sure. “Let’s just give him a little time, just in case,” Dad offered. That’s when Cody, who had been watching through the scope, assured me that, “He’s not going far. He’s hit good.”
We texted grandpa and Kurt, who were several miles away scouting, and then began to slowly make our way to where the bull had stood. Cody was right. My bull had gone less than 50 yards. Seeing this giant on the ground was overwhelming. I was happy and sad - sad that my hunt was over but grateful for this magnificent animal and the team that made it all possible.
Standing around the bull, we wondered about the encounter that had claimed the broken off third tine on the left side. There was laughter and reminiscing, picture taking and moments of silence as we took turns running a hand over the antlers and neck, connecting to the noble monarch of the mountain. That’s when Cody looked at his watch and warned, “It’s going to get hot; let’s get to work.”
It took most of an hour to process the butchering and caping chores. All the while, I kept thinking about all that had to happen to bring us to this point. There was that improbable miracle tag. There was anticipation and, let’s be honest, apprehension. There was teamwork. Dad took me to the rifle range where I shot again and again and wore out my shoulder and those paper targets. Dad and Kelly spent a week on the mountain scouting. Together, we shared hope and disappointment, memories and stories.
I’m grateful for all those who made my miracle hunt possible. If it is meant to be, it will find a way.
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