As a little boy, my brother and I would get excited just like we did Christmas morning when we heard my stepfather was coming back home after a week-long hunting trip. We would wake up and run to the garage to see if anything was hanging from the rafters. Sometimes we would see my father had been rewarded after a week’s worth of work that would provide our winter meat. Sometimes we saw nothing. I became mesmerized with the hope that one day I could go hunting and help provide meat for our family.
When I became 12 years of age, my stepdad enrolled me in hunter safety, and upon graduation, I was granted the right and privilege of hunting Idaho’s game. For Idaho boys, this was our first initiation to becoming a man. That fall, I was shown how to shoot a muzzleloader and was lucky to harvest my first big game animal, a mule deer doe.
As I got older, I graduated to more challenging game. I focused mostly on mature mule deer bucks. My love for hunting mule deer bucks shifted to hunting the toughest, most challenging animal to hunt in the West, the elk. I made a promise to myself that one day I would do whatever it took to shoot a trophy bull that would make any man jealous. This dream and goal burned like an everlasting winter bonfire. When I struggled with tough seasons of my life, I would often transport my mind to the high alpine country of Idaho and fantasize about hunting the king of the mountain. This hope and dream kept me alive through several dark periods of my life.
I certainly put in the effort to harvest a trophy bull elk but could never get the job done. Some bulls I missed because I came down with “bull fever.” The excitement overwhelmed my body, and I couldn’t make a shot. On another occasion, one magnificent bull was 750 yards away and I didn’t have the confidence in my shooting ability to make the shot with a 30-06 and admired the bull from a distance tending to his herd of receptive cow elk. This moment became the catalyst and fire to drive me to accomplish my dream. I was even more determined to go all out to make this dream a reality, the dream to shoot a magnificent, handsome bull elk with a rack to reach the heavens.
I studied the areas of the West that had the best genetics, and Arizona consistently came up as the place to harvest a trophy bull. I applied for a bull elk tag in Arizona 11 years in a row and finally drew. When my name was drawn, I was humbled and shocked. I had drawn what was considered by some men to be one of the best units to hunt trophy elk in the entire West.
I capitalized on this opportunity by immediately hiring the best hunting guide service in Arizona, A3 Trophy Hunts. These men knew the area I drew very well, and their reputation was legendary in harvesting mammoth-sized bulls. I also spent several days shooting my rifle and being consistent hitting 1,000-yard targets. Many days were also spent lifting heaving weights in the gym.
Jay Lopeman, one of A3’s owners, and I initially talked on the phone after drawing my tag.
“Are you in shape? Can you hike? Can you shoot?” Jay asked, matter of factly.
“Yes, I’ve been hunting my whole life.” He could hear the amusement in my voice as I somewhat joked in my response. I further stated, “I don’t care how nasty the area is, I’ll hike 20 miles a day if I have to to kill a 400-inch bull.”
“Good, because I’m going to see how serious you are to make that happen,” Jay stoically responded.
The hunt date finally came, and I travelled 12 hours to the hunting site. After sleeping three hours, Jay and I woke up at midnight and began our hunt at 1 a.m. on opening morning. He didn’t tell me how far we would be hiking, only that we needed to get to our hunting spot at first light. We kept up a good pace and hiked to our location right at daybreak. I’ll admit, I was pretty tired even before the hunt began and found out later that we knocked out eight miles.
Now, that’s not eight miles on a flat piece of ground or on a treadmill machine. That’s eight miles sometimes crawling on your hands and knees up steep rock scree slopes and slowly traversing boulders on elevation straight up or down. This is traversing cactus-filled cover that imposed its sharp needles into my soft flesh. I was on high alert because one of the old cowboy trails was littered with unforgiving loose rocks that were begging to sprain and break my ankles.
In the first five minutes at daybreak, Jay whispered to me, “I got him. I see your bull.” Across our canyon, the old bull slowly made his way feeding across the steep hillside. I told myself, “I’m going to kill this bull no matter what because I’m not doing that ball busting hike again!”
I took my time getting set up for the shot because the bull was 715 yards away and was unaware of our presence directly across the steep, treacherous canyon below. The first shot I took was high and to the right four feet, completely missing the bull. This told me I had strong crosswinds, and I adjusted my shot to account for this.
The bull made his way a little down the mountain, and I rushed a shot, trying to anchor him. I scolded myself, taking a stupid shot on a moving animal seven football fields away with 5-10 mile per hour crosswinds. The “bull fever” I felt shook my spirit. The shot ended up being lucky, and I anchored him after breaking his left hip. My “fever” resulted in missing him a few more times before I calmed myself down and took the final shot that harvested him.
The whole “10-minute hunt” was surreal and anti-climatic. I had just killed one of the biggest bulls to be taken in all of North America. It felt like I was dreaming. The adrenaline was racing in my veins, and I laid back on my pack to catch my breath and lower my racecar heart rate.
We took a healthy one-hour long break to marvel at what just happened. I was still in shock. We eventually made our way down the steep, treacherous canyon, sliding sometimes, and then began the hardest part, the ascent. I crawled on my hands and knees up the steep, scree-filled cactus slope, cursing plenty of four-letter words. By the time I made it to the bull, it had been two and a half hours.
I humbly approached the old bull while Jay filmed my reaction. The hike we just did across the canyon took every emotion out of me. I had nothing left, and the canyon took what it wanted from me, preventing a joyous response. Inside, I was full of gratitude and happiness.
As we sat around this magnificent animal and relaxed my shredded legs, my emotions came back and I profusely thanked Jay for his scouting and experience. I had just accomplished a lifelong dream of mine, and I had Jay to thank for it. We took several pictures with this mammoth bull, and the work began.
We hustled down the canyon and back up the other side by nightfall. My legs were shot, and I was welcomed to a roaring bonfire on the top of the mountain. We didn’t make it back to our final camp until 5 a.m. that morning because we had eight miles back, but the two- hour break we took sitting by the yucca bonfire resting our legs and warming our cold bodies was almost as nice as sitting in a hot tub after a hard day of skiing.
As I sat watching the crimson embers burn and the orange flames dance like two tango dancers, I felt the radiant bonfire heat calm my soul and warm my skin. I looked into the black onyx winter sky and saw constellations glitter like diamonds. My heart was filled with love. I took in deep breaths and released my mind of all of my worries as each breath slowly released from my mouth.
I lifted my head in humble gratitude toward my Maker. I had just accomplished one of my fondest dreams. And I thanked God for being alive.
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