This story is a measure of miles and years and dreams, not points nor inches. It is a measure of friendships, places visited, and views that could only be painted by God himself. It is a compilation of memories, elk and mule deer encounters, animals harvested, and disappointment of returning home with tags in my pocket. I had been going out west big game hunting since 2015 and had been successful with antelope and mule deer but had always been eluded by elk. However, in October of 2022, that changed.
“Get outside!” was something I often heard from my parents in our rural northern Indiana home. So, I did. I hunted, I shot, and I roamed the woods. This led to whitetail pursuits in Carhartt coveralls, cheap binos, and a .50 caliber traditional muzzleloader. Those whitetail excursions taught me to hunt and allowed my imagination to take me out west on mountain hunts. Little did I know that my childhood dreams would lead me to New Mexico some 30 years later.
Like many other hunters, I put in for New Mexico elk tags in the spring of 2022. Being my first ever application to the New Mexico draw, I consulted with Huntin’ Fool to develop a strategy for elk. I swung for the fences on my first choice and became more realistic for choices two and three. April 20th proved to be an interesting day with an email from New Mexico Game and Fish. I had to look up the hunt code to see what unit I drew, and then realized I had my first choice! I called my wife, trying to figure out why I drew one of five non-resident rifle tags for an elk unit in the Gila National Forest. It was surreal. I was in, and it was one of the best units in the state.
My second call was to Huntin’ Fool to help mold a plan. Logan suggested I use a guide because it was a five-day season and New Mexico was a long way from my Upper Peninsula of Michigan cattle farm. I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to take an elk in such a great unit. Logan recommended a guide he had successfully hunted elk with himself in New Mexico.
The third call that day was to the guide. Arrangements were made, and I was going to the Gila in late October for an awesome elk hunt. The summer resulted in getting into even better shape than the farm put me in. It was a lot of scraping together money, handloading, shooting, and checking zeros. Gear was packed, unpacked, sorted, and resorted because it was a 1,900+ mile drive from up north to the Gila. The theme in the back of my mind was, “Don’t screw this up.”
It took three days of driving to get from the land of the Chippewa to the lands of the Apache. I planned on getting there early to adjust to elevation and scout. I arrived in the Gila on the Tuesday before the second rifle season and spent the next several days glassing and exploring. It had rained so much the week before that all but the main roads were impassible because of the mud. Most of my endeavors were on foot. Every hunter I ran into from the first rifle season was less than optimistic about elk. The rain and weather had kept them from hunting or had kept the elk holed up.
By Friday, I was ready for the opener. About noon, an F-150 pulled in with a 1978 Coachman camper. Soon, another guide pulled in as well. I met Joe Bell and Daryl Hall of High Five Guide Service for the first time. We discussed where I had been and what I had seen. They said let’s go look for some big bulls. We spent the rest of Friday scouting up plenty of cows and one small bull. Sleep came easy Friday night because multiple bulls had bugled around camp most of Thursday night.
Opening day met us with high winds as a cold front was coming through over the next several days. We were up early and on top of the mountain to start glassing for big bulls. The wind was howling so hard it rocked the truck. At daylight, the fog rolled in, making the visibility horrible. It was time to go down lower to keep searching for elk. This was not quite the opening morning I had dreamed of, but I was still optimistic.
As we were coming down the road from the top, Joe stopped the truck. He and Daryl saw elk in a burn below us. Daryl set up a spotting scope and began to look for a bull. I took a prone position behind my .300 Win Mag in case there was a bull and started to scan the herd. Daryl found the herd bull and said I had better come look at it. I did, but only to get a location. I didn’t want to get buck fever by staring at antlers and ultimately ruining the shot. A 30-second conference ensued. It was suggested that I had better take this bull. It was a decent herd bull that I would desperately love to have on the last day. With the bad weather coming in over the next three days, neither guide was optimistic about passing this bull or about finding a larger bull in the balance of the five-day season. Fear of another unfilled tag made the decision prompt. I settled back on the rifle and centered the bull. I zoomed in and dialed an additional 1.5 minutes of elevation. 310 yards. There he was. The bull was walking from right to left. His antlers were a bit hazy in the scope because of the early morning light dimmed by fog. Six previous elk hunts of anticipation were there with me. As the scope settled, reflex took over. Crosshair on the center shoulder, breath half out, steady pressure on the trigger. There was a muzzle flash and a 6x6 bull elk dropped in my field of vision all at once. The bull was down. Joe and Daryl were surprised that I had shot. They were going to video it, but I didn’t wait. I stayed on the bull for five minutes, expecting him to stand back up and take off. No movement. Then a horrible case of buck fever hit me. My knees went rubbery, and I was shaking. Handshakes all around. I double checked to make sure the bull was still down. What the heck? The bull had stood up and started to walk away up the side of the mountain through the burn! That’s when the circus started.
Several adrenaline-filled shots followed to no avail. We relocated twice and never lost sight of the 6-point bull. He was walking steadily uphill at a 45-degree angle. Finally, he went down behind a large burnt log. We could see he was still breathing. I was directly below the bull and could only see four or five inches of his back. I tried a couple of shots to spine him but kept grazing the log in front of him. Finally, we decided to walk up the burn for a different angle. On the way up, we intersected a blood trail and pieces of lung. By the time we reached the bull, he was down for good. There is no other feeling like seeing your first elk down. The feel of his hair, the heft of the antlers, and the strong bull elk smell that surrounded him. He was 4.5 years old and a very active bull with battle scarred antlers.
As a side note, the first shot was perfect through the front shoulder and took out both lungs. The exit wound was the size of my fist. Elk are just that tough.
From daylight to downed elk was only 30 minutes. I’m usually never fortunate enough to shoot anything opening morning. I spent an enjoyable morning skinning and quartering my first elk. The guides thought I was nuts for wanting to do it myself. We had a blast and took our time. To top the day off, we had elk tenderloin, fried potatoes and onions, ranch beans, and pineapple pop for supper. What an awesome day. Thanks, Joe and Daryl!
Returning to Michigan gave me three days to relive the trip. Second guesses of what if I would have held out for a bigger bull? I knew there were much larger bulls in the unit, and I was disappointed the hunt had ended so quickly. Thousands of different scenarios played through my mind; however, there were no regrets by the time I returned home. At home, we cut steaks and roasts and made chorizo and breakfast sausage out of the bull. At the end of the day, I only get one first elk and it was fitting to punch my first tag on a once-in-a-lifetime Gila bull.
Login