It was our seventh year applying in Wyoming, and we were hot on the tracks of a 7-point bull. “Hold on, I think I’ve got elk in that bottom.” These words from my dad were about to change the trajectory of our afternoon, making an already great day something more monumental. Our guide, Randy, put his foot back on the brake pedal and lifted his binoculars again. Seconds later, he reached for his spotter as he said, “That’s a huge bull!”
Rewind approximately 20 hours when we’d just come up from Colorado where we’d spent some time rifle antelope hunting and archery elk/deer hunting with the crew. The hunting was a challenge, and after beating feet for days, the impact of the winter in the northwest part of the state was eerily apparent. We managed four antelope and passed on several deer and cows, never getting within bow range of a legal bull. After getting to the Table Mountain Outfitters bunk house outside of Cheyenne, we’d unpacked, checked zeroes on our rifles, and were having dinner in the bunk house kitchen on Saturday evening when our guide, Randy, came over and simply said, “We leave at 5:30 tomorrow morning.” He walked away, and just before getting to the door, he turned around with a half-smile and said, “Two shots, two elk. That’s how we do business.” The precedent had been set.
We pulled out of the driveway the next morning at around 5:25 and down the road we scurried. We made it to the ranch and started glassing. I must have opened and shut about 862 gates that day. We were about to time this elk hunt absolutely perfectly. Randy knew it, but we were just about to find out that these bulls were bugling like crazy and still stuck in the rut. At around 7 a.m. after seeing a couple raghorns and a decent 5x5, we glassed up a pretty 6x6. Randy said he was one we needed to go after, and the chase was on. I’m in decent shape, and generally, this is the time of the year I’m chasing antelope, averaging 12-13 miles a day on foot, but Randy has the feet, stamina, and agility of an Olympic level mountain goat in his prime. UP a ridge, down a valley, repeat, repeat, repeat. Heaven forbid we maintain the elevation we’d just gained, but Randy had done this many times before and something about him told me that he was more than worthy of my complete trust.
After peeking over the next knoll, we saw two more raghorns less than 100 yards out. We weren’t sure where our bull was, but if these two youngsters busted, it was probably the end of our stalk. A quick standoff and they went on about their business, now moving slowly away from us, which birthed the opportunity for us to descend into an adjacent low point while we approached the next ridge from a little different angle. As we crested that one, Randy quickly knelt down and I followed suit. I crawled up a few feet to get right behind him and he pointed down. On the next ridge, maybe 70 feet lower than us and 256 yards out, stood two nice 6-point bulls. They were making that awkward sideways semicircle around one another, and I knew what was about to happen. It was like a window had been smashed right beside us when they locked up. Randy and I were already standing, and he’d set up the Primos Trigger Sticks as tall as they would go to get over the brush that surrounded us. They were still locked up when I took the first decent shot opportunity I had at the bigger of the two, and the Red Rock 7SAUM did its job. A couple steps backwards and to the mountain floor he crashed. It was a special moment, and as long as that seven-year wait had been, by 8 a.m. on opening day, my quest had come to an end. Randy snapped a few quick pictures, the knifework began, and the pack out followed.
As we got back to the truck with pack #2, we wasted little time before hitting the road and getting my bull into a freezer at the bunk house. My dad made us a few sandwiches, and a millisecond after the truck doors were shut, Randy stomped on the gas. That Toyota Tundra launched like the Bandit fleeing from ol’ Smokey. Randy’s style was surgical but aggressive, quick but quiet. It was odd to have these elk still in their current state in October, and Randy wasn’t about to kick up his feet and celebrate the first bull with an unnotched tag still present. He was eager to capitalize and see this through.
By 3 p.m., we were glassing again, and before long, Randy had turned up what he thought was the same group he and I had pursued that morning. There were more solid bulls in there if that were the case, but they were a long way off and in a tough spot to approach, so we continued on. This is where I left you at the beginning of this story. We were all glassing a huge north-south canyon in between two steep ridges and had just started to pull away when Dad spotted him. A solid game plan quickly morphed into action, and the quest to anchor this giant bull had begun.
Down we went, sidehilling it to approach the bull from the west with the evening rays slowly getting lower on our backs. When Randy relocated him, he’d worked his way up about one-fourth of the next ridge. He was bedded, a mountain legend with his harem. The shot was going to be about 360 yards cross canyon with a steady crosswind left to right. This was as good as it was going to get, though. My dad settled in and steadied his Red Rock 300PRC on the tripod. Randy cow called over and over again. After each call, this old gnarly 7x6 would crank his head to the left, look right through us, and rip an epic bugle. We were hidden away, nicely tucked into some brush with Dad’s tripod set up, just clearing the limbs in front of us. Finally, the bull got up and the rest is history. He fell where he stood, and an opening day double up was complete. My dad and I have a history of doubles, but none crazier than this.
We walked the rim of our ridge until we came to a safe spot to make our way down into the canyon and up the other side. When we made contact, the depth of this reality started to sink in. What a bull! This bruiser was in head-high buck brush and on a steep slope, so pictures were a challenge, but Randy made the best of it and proved to be a great photographer in addition to being one hell of a guide.
On our first pack trip to the truck, Randy looked over at me and with a smile, told me that this was a place he’d called “no man’s land” for many years. No explanation necessary. I felt like we were stuck in a scene from “Honey I Shrunk the Kids.” We were in the very bottom of what looked and felt like a continent-sized bowl. There were rocks beneath our boots every step of the way, and aside from a couple hundred yards downhill from the bull to the canyon floor, our only steps down were after we’d dropped a load off at the truck and were headed back in. There is joy that stems from the misery, and after two of these trips (which made four round-trip pack outs for the day), we’d been served a healthy dose of both.
This was an incredible trip for the two of us. Table Mountain Outfitters had a great setup. We’d planned and expected to hunt the full week, but after a single day of getting after it in full send mode, we’d tagged out. Selfishly, I wish we’d hunted a little longer so we could soak up a bit more of Randy’s knowledge. He really made the trip for us, and if you find yourself considering TMO, go ahead and pull the trigger. Do yourself the biggest favor of all, ask for Randy if he’s available.
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