As a cool autumn wind swept in from the west, we settled near a levy, scoured the marsh fields, and glassed up 14 total good bulls rutting hard. The air was filled with their cries – bugles, chuckles, glunking, and the like. Hordes of elk drifted across peat moss expanses. Cows and calves who flitted around the periphery of large groups did not escape the rutting wrath of errant bulls hellbent on gathering and maintaining a harem. Jealous spikes seemed poised to dart in at even the first sign of a herd bull’s distraction.
I was skimming emails in the doldrums of June when I read that the California Department of Fish and Wildlife (CDFW) draw results were available. On my second year putting in for it, I drew one of the most sought-after big game tags in California – a bull Tule elk tag.
As this was my first elk hunt and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I felt compelled to lean in and make the most of it. I hired Jonnie Kellogg as my guide because he’s been hunting and guiding elk for the entirety of his adult life. Moreover, he’s helped guide GIWA for eight years through a combination of fundraiser tags, auction hunts, and random draw clients. While doing my due diligence, it became more pronounced to me just how unique the hunt would be.
Upon pulling up to elk camp, the resident biologist, Orlando, and wildlife officer, Eric, gave us lucky handful of winners a safety briefing and an overview of the wildlife area. They provided much of the historical context for Tule elk as well as property-specific background information for Grizzly Island. When the orientation wrapped up, we were turned loose to scout for the remainder of the evening. Jonnie and I felt one another out. I was impressed by his keen eye and ability to field judge bulls. On the outskirts of the fields, far removed from the hotly-contended harems jealously guarded by smaller bulls, we spied a nice 7x7 far off on his own and carefully marked his location. As the sun fell, my spirits rose.
At 03:56, moonlight fell across my pillow through the open tent bug screen while I wriggled into layers of camouflage just before Jonnie’s truck pulled up and we drove east. As daylight slowly filtered in and we pulled off the road, we found ourselves in the company of another pair of hunters. After a brief chat on target bull goals and strategy, we opted to give them a respectful distance and hang back as they arrived first. Given the wide-open, grassy expanses, we had a clear view of them as they decisively picked a herd bull and crept forward with a Miss September decoy in tow. They cut the distance to 100 yards, using the bedlam of a nearby harem to conceal their approach. There was a moment’s hesitation and then a shot. The target bull ran 60 yards and piled up, ending their hunt at first light on the first day.
With the death of the herd bull, the harem scattered, so we studied the surrounding country. Although the marsh was full of undulation and dips in the topography, there was no real high ground to glass from. Stories of challenging elk hunts abound, but only a select few hunters get the opportunity to chase them in swamplands, and the privilege comes with some nuance. Johnny came prepared to perch atop his truck with a sturdy tripod and giant two-eyepiece spotting scope. Together, we took a lap around the unit and took stock of our competition and the quality of bulls.
Near a thicket of trees, we spotted the 7x7 and quietly stalked along a brushy levy using the slope pitch and tussock grasses to conceal our movement. The herd stayed vigilant as they fed up to and then across a neck-deep slough. Johnny was in the lead route-finding and letting loose the occasional hot cow call. I quickly closed the distance with my Hoyt bow in hand but could not catch up to the herd. They quickly fed across the water and out of my life, along with the 7x7. Before pursuing them further into deeper waters and risking blowing them out, we elected to check the western end of the unit where we’d spotted a large bachelor group the day before.
Sure enough, a few miles away, we spied two stout pairs of antlers bedded in thick tules on the fringe of a dried and open field. I readied my nerves and set out at a brisk pace with Jonnie as we closed the distance. Soon, I was crawling on hands and knees through sticky, salty undergrowth awash with a shiny glint in the mid-morning sun. It had a sheen-like oil and was clearly brackish. When we got to 70 yards or so, we stopped. One of the two bulls was looking in our direction, and they weren’t budging. Slowly at first and then all at once, the bulls stood, walked, and then ran to the far north, leaving me with another blown bow stalk. Something stopped the two bulls and gave us pause as well. It was another pair of hunters.
Carefully, we worked our way over to the hunters’ position and conferred. While we talked from a distance, the bulls relaxed and inadvertently revealed another group of bedded bulls. Incredulously, we counted at least 12 bulls hidden out on the plains. Several were dandy, but Jonnie had his eye set on one in particular, a real specimen emblematic of the Tule subspecies. We made an accord then and there with the other pair and agreed they’d shoot a closer bull first and I’d target the bull in the back. He was missing whole patches on his hide and had a few broken tines but was an all-around stud. This time, however, I felt pressure to bag this bull and opted to go with my Savage Axis II chambered in a .308 Winchester. With two quick shots (one more for security than necessity), the gentlemen downed their quarry while Jonnie and I advanced. I quickly set up on a tripod, found the bull in my scope, made doubly sure of my target and his backdrop, and fired. I watched through the scope all the while and saw nothing. A clean miss. There was no indication whatsoever of a gunshot wound on the bull. Every hunter strives for a quick, clean kill, but it was my confidence and not the bull that took a hit. Knowing how tough these animals are, I quickly racked another round and fired again. Nothing. No mule kick, no stutter step. This time, though, the herd bolted from about 130 yards to 160. In the heat of the moment, I had completely failed to dial the magnification on my scope and zoom in from 4x power to 16x. Too many days spent practicing at the range with a rock solid benchrest and fully dialed zoom had given me errant muscle memory and a false sense of confidence in my shot process. I murmured something about my scope’s zero and am painfully certain the doubt and disappointment played across my face. For a moment, this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and the fate of this majestic beast seemed to be slipping out from my span of control.
With the issue still undiagnosed, the other hunter, Steve, came running up, unslung his rifle, and offered me his weapon as a tried-and-true option. It was a thing of beauty, chambered in a .300 Remington Ultra Magnum and topped with a large objective lens scope. I don’t remember much of that stitch in time except that Jonnie gave it a once over and the bright blue of the Zeiss Optics logo popped out at me.
This time, I settled behind the rifle, settled my breathing, and felt the gaseous recoil punch my shoulder. The bull was at the furthest edge of the group some 168 yards away when I finally felt ready to shoot. Slowly, gently, I squeezed the trigger and watched the old bull take the round, curl his lip, drop his head, and charge the bull nearest him in a fit of hormone-addled rage. The other bachelor bull retreated in shock, and through muffled ears, I heard Jonnie urge me to take another shot. I connected again, and this time, I anchored the beast. As I walked up on him, a few spasmodic kicks and a groan signaled his death knell. A swirl of emotions, from self-contempt at my fumbled shots to elation at the outcome, overwhelmed me.
CDFW was gracious enough to help me recover the old bull and haul him to the shade in exchange for a tooth and hoof sample. Back in camp, we scrambled to skin and quarter the bull using the gutless method in the warm, eastward September wind. Even playing expert level Tetris, the skull would not fit in the confines of my hatchback. Instead, I let it ride in the open air atop my trailer hitch rack. As I checked my rearview camera to reverse out of elk camp, the bull’s skull stared back at me in a surreal moment I’ll cherish long after the meat is gone.
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