In life, there are moments that will overtake and overwhelm us. Like a surprise desert thunderstorm in early August, sudden, powerful, and without warning or regard for your level of preparation, these unplanned moments have the power to both haunt and define you. These are the moments we as hunters and sportsmen live for - the unexpected, the challenging, the surprising, and the unforgettable. In late September of 2017, I found myself engulfed by such a moment. It is a scene that will forever remain fresh in my memory. My hands were shaking, I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, and I held my breath as I watched my 79-year-old great uncle slowly approach the last big game animal of his lifetime. This was to be his final hunt. The last rays of daylight shone over the White Rocks mountain range, across Hamlin Valley, and illuminated the scene in front of me as Dale eased up to the bull he had shot just minutes before. The smell of black powder still hung in the air. For 15 minutes, the bull had not moved, but as Dale came to within 10 yards of the old bull, he raised his head and the entire world stood still.
I was raised in a household ruled by hunting and fishing. Vacations, holidays, birthdays, and weekends revolved around hunting season as my father was the local game warden. He was very passionate about this job as he was his family. My sisters and I were raised to not only respect the law, but to also respect life, whether it be a Western-Eared Grebe, which crash landed on a snowy street, mistaking it for water in the early winter time, or an elk or deer, which we used to practice our counting skills as small children during our classification trips, bouncing around the nastiest dirt roads all over southern Utah. Though we were raised with a very solid understanding of the law, biology, and ethics of hunting, it was the tradition that drew me in. Tall tales were always told at family gatherings, and stories of my great grandfather, grandfather, and his brothers at “deer camp” were always revisited. As my late grandfather told the story many times, his father used to leave a box of 30-30 shells on a stump for “grandpa deer” to load them into his antlers and protect himself against the other hunters. Sadly, I never got to go to deer camp. The tradition went to the wayside as both my great grandfather and grandfather passed away, tags became harder to obtain, and the family scattered throughout the West. Though I was to never see a deer camp in it’s traditional form, my heart skipped a beat when my great uncle Dale, my grandfather’s brother, called me in March. He had drawn a Southwest Desert limited-entry muzzleloader bull elk tag. At 79 years of age, he asked that I take him on the final hunt of his lifetime.
Hot, desolate, lonely, and challenging, the desert of southwestern Utah owns my soul. Classic elk hunters arrive in southwestern Utah with limited-entry tags in their pockets and are shocked when they see the landscape dominated by thick pinion/juniper, sagebrush, expansive flats, and jagged shale rock-crusted peaks. I was taught to love the desert by the man who would be accompanying me on my task to get Uncle Dale a bull - my father. We were going to conquer the desert come hell or high water, but as fate would have it, it would indeed be a freak July thunderstorm and September snowstorm that came instead.
As the weeks slowly passed b, between March and the opening of the muzzleloader hunt in late September, I made sure to stay in touch with Dale to make sure he was doing his pool exercises, taking a daily walk around the block, and building his stamina up. Dale’s no slouch. He has the nose of a prizefighter as proof of his gritty demeanor. I was excited to finally go hunting with the man whom I used to hear stories about, carrying giant mule deer out of the deepest, darkest holes on his back in one piece. That was before the quadruple bypass surgery, but Dale, to this moment, would be quick to remind you that he could do it again if he had to.
My father took the lead on our summer scouting as he lives close to the unit and is the Ansel Adams of trail camera photos. He would make a trip to the desert every Sunday to swap cards from his cameras, while we would spend Sunday nights talking on the phone about what was in the area, both knowing full well that whatever we were seeing in July and early August would be long gone in search of cows and good feed by late September. Sometimes our practices as hunters aren’t always about results, intel, or gaining an advantage. Sometimes, our practices as hunters are about the process. As our summer scouting was coming along nicely, plans became more interesting as my father broke his leg in late July. Dad would just barely be transitioning from a cast to a walking boot when the hunt started. The pressure was suddenly on me.
I hunt the Southwest Desert unit with my bow every fall, chasing frustratingly elusive mulies in the least productive deer hunting unit in the great state of Utah. I have a drawer full of un-notched deer tags, 15 of them to be exact, because as soon as I hear that first elk bugle, I’m completely destroyed. I’ve roamed the desert looking for strangers to help hunt elk on many occasions, leaving my bow in camp to chase bugles. Even more than the results, I love the process. I’ve learned the patterns of the elk on the desert and was able to pattern half a dozen bulls in a small area on the archery hunt as one of my best friends had drawn the archery tag and asked that I help him out. We overcame a ton of adversity with only one week to hunt. He made a fantastic shot on a great bull that resulted in a quick, clean kill and one of the craziest lightning, hail, and rain pack out storms I’ve ever seen, which is of course a whole other story all together. Suffice it to say, I had a pretty good idea where I’d be taking Dale when it was his chance. I even had a bull picked out and named.Wwe had chased him seven days in a row, and no one else knew about him. Though he eluded us, at least enough to stay out of ethical archery range, a muzzleloader would be “easy,” even though Dale could only walk about 60 yards at a time. “Floyd” the bull was going to be a wonderful trophy for Dale, and I had put in all of the work to make sure we had the perfect game plan.
Floyd was killed just a couple days before Dale's hunt was to start as were four more bulls that I had been watching during the archery hunt. As I drove my truck the 350 miles south to meet up with Dale and my father the night before opening day, I was secretly panicking. To add to my worries, a freak snowstorm had rolled across the state and the entire Southwest Desert unit had been blanketed in nearly a foot of snow.
My truck, trailer, wheeler, dog, and I slowly rolled into camp well after dark. For the thick coat of fresh mud covering my entire rig, my only vision of camp was through a one foot square of windshield that I could reach with my left hand out of my window while driving. My windshield wipers were nothing but mud. Though the snow was less than 12 hours old, the day had brought clear skies and sunshine, which turned the dusty, dirt roads into slick, muddy, sloppy, winding impressions on the landscape that looked like they could have been a road at some point in time. With a flat-nosed shovel, I scraped mud off my camp trailer and made camp. Huddled around the propane heater in my dad’s Jumping Jack, we discussed our plans for the morning hunt. My father and I spoke loud, just under a soft holler, back and forth across the trailer due to Uncle Dale’s failing ears. Years of gunfire, both with the military and throughout his hunting life, had taken their toll on Dale's hearing. A bull was going to have to be screaming very close for Dale to have the experience I had hoped for him. I wanted a bull to come in and put on a show like you see in the movies. If this was going to be the last hunt of his lifetime, I wanted it to be perfect.
Morning came quickly, and the hot desert was now a bitterly cold, frozen hell. Clinging to my coffee and wearing every layer I owned, the plan I had drawn up perfectly in my head had been crumpled, torched, and swept to the wayside by real life. The game had changed drastically. In my heart, I hate to admit, but though I remained enthusiastic outside, I was doubtful on the inside. It was 15 degrees, we were bundled like Eskimos, and our pace was very, very, slow. We drove a short distance from camp, parked our UTV, geared up, and started our hunt. Creeping through the snow, we stopped every 50 yards so Dale could rest and catch his breath. I carried his gun, chair, and shooting sticks to make hiking a little easier. Having hiked an average of 15 miles a day for the previous couple weeks, I was frustrated with our pace. The plan was to walk 1/4 mile to a line of trees around the edge of a clearing that the elk had been using to rut and feed. When we finally reached the tree line, I set up Dale’s canvas chair and shooting sticks so he could settle in with a 180 degree view of the clearing in front of us. During the archery hunt, the bulls had used the clearing heavily in the early mornings and late evenings. We were on time, and I feverishly glassed the first gray morning light, hoping to catch a flash of tan in my binoculars as the dawn quickly approached.
Having gone from running and gunning in the heat and sweating through every layer to shivering crouched in the snow in the matter of a week was more than unexpected. The sun crested the mountains to the east and revealed a landscape void of elk. I glassed the ground for tracks. Nothing. The elk had to be there. They’d been there running circles around each other for almost a month. Maybe the rifle hunters had run them out of the country? Maybe the snow had changed their pattern? My mind ran through a host of scenarios as I wiggled my toes in my uninsulated boots in an effort to make sure they were still there. I had a pit in my stomach, and the thought of starting over in a new area weighed heavy in the back of my mind. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a bugle from the other side of the clearing into the northern tree line. My heart raced, and I looked to my left at Dale, who hadn’t heard the bugle and was still scanning the clearing through his scope. I tapped him on the shoulder and gestured ahead of us, pointing to my ears and then to the distant tree line. I raised both arms over my head like a set of antlers. The ice forming in his white beard from his frozen breath cracked, as did his lips, into a smile. Just as suddenly, another bull bugled east of the first bull. Both bulls were north of us across the clearing.
It has been my experience that if a bull is bugling, he can be killed. The trick is to keep them talking. A scenario where two bulls are bugling back and forth is sheer perfection. Pick a bugle and charge, or get in the middle and intercept. I quickly picked up Dale’s chair and shooting sticks as we skirted the tree line and slowly moved toward the bugles. Since we were limited in mobility, I decided that getting between the bulls would be our best bet. I love the muzzleloader hunt because bulls will typically come to cow calls, whereas the rest of the year, they’re quick to gather their cows and move away. Our only chance to get between the bulls was going to be slowly sneaking up a drainage that cut through the clearing, using some small brush and downed trees as cover. Earlier in the year, the BLM had gone through the area with “brush hogs,” shredding trees to clear land that was being dominated by thick pinion/juniper to encourage the growth of understory. The landscape was littered by shredded trees and upturned stumps and surrounded by a mosaic tree line left behind by the machines. The bulls continued to bugle back and forth, volleying challenges louder and louder as we inched closer, doing our best to muffle our footsteps as they crunched through the crust of snow. Our sneak up the small drainage was working. Although it was clear-cut on both sides, we were just low enough that it would be difficult for the bulls to see us from the trees.
Finally, we reached the middle of the clearing and slowly set up on the bank of the drainage. Dale sat against a large overturned stump on his chair, gun propped on his shooting sticks, ready to roll. The first bull bugled right away, and Dale shot me a wide-eyed look over his shoulder. This was the first time he’d heard the bugle. I grinned and thought, Now we are elk hunting. The second bull bugled, and Dale looked at me again. We were both wide eyed this time. This was all going to come together. My frozen toes were all but erased from my mind. Prior to leaving camp, Dale had let me know that he was comfortable shooting 100 yards but he’d prefer to get within 70. We worked out some hand signals so I could let him know if and when a bull was within our range. Knowing either bull was going to show himself any second, I reached for my rangefinder to start assigning ranges to landmarks.
Cold temperatures have a way of killing batteries, and mine was dead. My rangefinder, the one I’d used thousands of times without fail, was dead. I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. The steam curled out of my mouth and around the corners of my hat. Dale noticed me fiddling with the rangefinder and softly asked if it was working. I shook my head. He slid his backpack off and began digging for his rangefinder, a Bushnell Pinseeker he frequently used on the golf course. Just as quickly as the bulls had started bugling, they stopped. The world was silent again outside of our rustling around, looking for the rangefinder battery housing door we had dropped somewhere in the snow. My fingers were quickly as cold as my toes, and there were no bugling bulls injecting the adrenaline that had kept me warm for the last hour. The morning hunt was shot.
We made our way out of the clearing the same way we had come. I was both encouraged by the bugles we had heard and discouraged by the failure of my equipment. I laughed to myself and shook my head as I led us back to the road where Dale’s side-by-side and a thermos full of coffee would be waiting.
When we got back to camp, the sun was shining, my dad was hopping around on one foot, the fire was lit, and the smell of bacon poured out of his Dutch oven. Dale and I plopped down near the fire and warmed our freezing feet. I told my dad the story of the morning, and we had a few good laughs when discussing Murphy’s Law. He’s a very optimistic guy and sensed the small amount of frustration in my voice when I described our slow rate of travel both in and out of the clearing.
“Patience, Matt. Enjoy the process. You’re here to hunt. Remember that and you’ll be happy,” my dad said.
After breakfast, I went for a walk and thought about those words. Here I was, finally getting a chance at the “deer camp” experience I had always heard about and wished for. Three generations were in the same camp, working toward the same goal. We weren’t running and gunning, we didn’t have spotters, and the conditions were less than perfect, but I was going to enjoy our time, regardless. God willing, a bull with any size antlers would present himself within the next week.
Dad and Dale were catching a quick nap when I got back to camp. Their Jumping Jack tent walls were almost shaking from the deep-snoring roar. I decided to hop on my four-wheeler and go for a quick ride to glass for elk tracks in the quickly disappearing snow. The sun was high in the sky, and the snow was disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. I had shed my layers and long-sleeve T-shirt was more than enough to keep me comfortable. The desert is a strange place. My ride was productive, and having glassed the trees from a different direction, I could see where the elk had been that morning. I rode back to camp, energized by both the sunshine and the formation of a new plan. In just a couple hours, we’d move to a small patch of trees in the middle of the brush-hogged opening, set up, wait for the bulls to sound off, and hopefully call one in. From the vantage point I’d picked, we would have 360 degrees of shooting if I could get one of the bulls to come give us a look.
When I pulled into camp, a familiar face was waiting. My good friend, Cody, was seated by the fire with my dad and Dale. He smiled at me as I climbed off my four-wheeler and said, “Hey, I saw you guys make a move up that clearing this morning. Dale here gets along pretty good for an old timer!” Cody is not only the best Don Williams karaoke singer I know, but he is also an outstanding elk hunter and guide. He loves the desert the same way I do, and it was a great lift to my spirits to see him in camp. We joked about the morning, and he left camp with some encouraging words, “Enjoy your time out here with your pops and your uncle, Matt. This is what it’s all about, buddy.”
The next hour was spent drawing maps in the dirt with a broken piece of sagebrush stalk, using rocks and twigs to represent landmarks while making our new plan of attack. We would move early, leaving camp in plenty of time to make our move well before the elk got up from their beds to start their evening ritual. Time was crucial as we’d be completely exposed for roughly 600 yards until we reached the one remaining island of trees within the 1,200 yard clearing.
My dad wished us luck, slapped me on the back, and said he’d be waiting with his radio handy should we need anything. We loaded up and left camp at 3:30 p.m. It was my hope to be to the tree island and set up at 4:30 p.m., giving us almost three hours to sit and wait. The elk had been most active right at 7:30 p.m. in the weeks prior. Sunset was around 8:00 p.m., so we would have 30 minutes to seal the deal.
As Dale and I unloaded our gear from the side-by-side to head to the clearing and through the drainage to the small island of trees, Dale realized he had forgotten his stool and shooting sticks in camp. He said he'd be fine and lean up against a tree. Murphy and his laws were not going to be denied. I reminded Dale that we would be sitting for a couple hours, so he climbed back in for a quick trip to camp. When he returned, we were finally good to go with a chair, shooting sticks, and functioning Pinseeker rangefinder. I doused myself with elk urine from a colorful pink bottle as we made our way to the entrance of the drainage we’d be sneaking up. I’ve had great luck with the stinky stuff, and my friends would tell you I might go a bit overboard in my effort to get close to elk. Most of them won’t let me ride in their trucks from the months of August until October due to the pungent smell.
As we inched past a small cedar tree that had been recently destroyed by a rutty bull, Dale quickly grabbed my pack from behind and brought me to a sudden stop. “Matt, I can smell 'em!” he said as he flared his nostrils. “We are close!”
The sweet smell of Rocky Mountain elk urine flooded my nostrils, rising from my freshly-doused boots and pants. I smiled, nodded, and replied, “We are going to be right on ‘em.”
We made it to the tree island at 5:00 p.m., a little after I had planned but still in great shape. We picked a spot on the northeastern side of the island and set up Dale's chair and shooting sticks under a cedar tree. I dragged a few fallen branches from within the island and laid them in front of Dale to provide some more cover. Dale was comfortable, and it was time to wait for bugles. I’ve learned that it’s best to wait for the bulls to make the first sound, giving their location away before I give mine. We waited patiently for two and half hours as I glassed the tree lines north and east of us for any kind of movement. I glanced at my GPS, and at 7:30 p.m., my enthusiasm took a punch to the gut. The “magic hour” was upon us, and we hadn’t heard or seen anything. I decided I’d break my own rule and throw a raspy bugle to the wind that was softly blowing right into our faces. I pulled my diaphragm from my chest pocket, wet it, and did my best raghorn impression through my dusty bugle tube. I was answered with silence. Five minutes of silence ensued but was shattered by a thunderous bugle 500 yards east of our location. I quickly raised my head, which had been resting in my open hand in quiet frustration. My heart was racing as I scrambled to grab my binoculars and glass the tree line. Before I could spot the bull, he bugled again, and it was obvious that he was getting closer. I looked at Dale, and he was still staring patiently across the meadow. The butt of his gun was on the ground, and his hand was around the barrel. He hadn’t heard the bugles yet, and I decided to wait to tell him about them until I was sure the bull was coming our direction. With yet another thunderous, deep, raspy bugle, the bull hit the tree line to the east, directly in front of us. We were facing the bull, and his coat shone like gold as he made his entrance into the clearing, reflecting the direct rays of the quickly setting sun. I tapped Dale on the shoulder, pointed to the bull, and whispered directly into his ear, “There he is, Dale. I’m going to bring that bull right to you.”
According to the Pinseeker, he was 550 yards away. I chirped on my cow call, and the bull responded immediately. It was clear that love was on his mind. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The bull was heading directly at us across a wide open meadow. We were protected by the wind, and he was heading directly into the setting sun and the shadows of the trees we were sitting in and against. I was directly behind Dale and leaned forward once again to tell him I’d tap him on the shoulder four times when the bull was within 400 yards, three times within 300 yards, twice within 200 yards, once within 100 yards, and I’d squeeze his shoulder when he was within 70 yards. At 400 yards, I tapped Dale on the shoulder and he raised his muzzleloader, resting the barrel on his shooting sticks. At 300 yards, the bull screamed at the same time I tapped Dale’s shoulder. Dale heard that bugle loud and clear as he straightened his back and sat higher in his chair. I heard his breathing change. Slow, deep breaths turned to short, quick ones as the bull paraded across the opening. He was headed directly at us, licking his lips and shining even brighter now as the sun began to slip behind Rice Mountain. I chirped one last time on my cow call, and at 200 yards, the bull quickened his pace. Those 200 yards quickly became 100 yards as the bull’s pace was not slowing. Though we were ready to happily harvest any branch-antlered bull, we had a mature 350 class 5x7, quite literally, running at us.
When the bull hit 100 yards, I tapped Dale's shoulder. He was leaning his entire chair forward now, and I could see the barrel of his gun swaying back and forth as he centered the bull in his scope. At 70 yards, I squeezed his shoulder and made a soft “mew” to stop the bull. The bull threw his head back and bugled as he kept coming toward us. In complete disbelief, I watched as the bull closed to within 50 yards. Dale was either going to fall out his chair or I was going to have a heart attack when the first shot rang out. Smoke quickly enveloped our small blind, and the bull stood, stunned. Dale had hit him well. The bull stood in place at 50 yards.
“Reload and shoot again, Dale!” I urged.
The bull stood there, staring into the trees for what seemed like forever as Dale quickly reloaded his gun and struggled to apply another cap with his visibly shaking hands. He stood and abandoned his shooting sticks and instead chose a standing dead rest in the tree we had leaned against. His second shot missed completely, and “buck fever” was in full effect. Despite the miss, the bull only went 10 yards and stood bewildered. Dale reloaded once again, and we slowly made our way 20 yards north, hidden within the edge of our tree island, to get a better angle for a follow-up shot. As we settled in for another shot, the bull lay down. Stunned and in disbelief, I reacted by wrapping Dale in a bear hug and tumbling to the ground with him. I was completely engulfed by the emotion of the situation and still in disbelief about what I had just witnessed. I’d made a million stands on bugling bulls, and not one time had I ever seen one work to such perfection. We sat in excited silence, staring and waiting intently for the bull to fade. After 10 minutes without any movement, we decided it was time to approach the bull. He was only 50 yards away and in plain view. Dale took the lead with his muzzleloader shouldered, and I hung back 20 yards.
As memorable as this hunt had been and will always be, the next scene will forever be burned into my mind. As Dale was just 10 yards away, the old warrior bull slowly raised his head, stopping Dale in his tracks. I stood in disbelief 20 yards behind, taking in the entire scene as their eyes met. Though Dale’s gun was in his hands, he had lowered it from his shoulder and simply held it as he and the old bull stared at each other. My next move was completely out of my control as I dropped to my knees and took my hat off. I’d never witnessed a more powerful scene in the wild. From my knees, I instinctively reached for my camera in an effort to preserve the scene forever. Hunting is a spiritual practice for me, and this was iconic. It was as though the old bull was giving himself to Dale. The two looked into each other’s eyes as if to acknowledge that destiny, fate, or whatever you’d choose to believe in had brought them together in the moment. The two old warriors connected and I was lucky enough to witness the scene in its entirety - an old man on the last hunt of his lifetime, an old bull taking in his last few breaths, and a boy watching in disbelief as the sun faded quickly behind them all. In one slow, calculated movement, Dale shouldered his muzzleloader and fired one last perfectly-placed shot. The bull lowered his head and took his final breath. I heard Dale say, “Thank you, old friend. Thank you.”
I don’t remember taking the photo, but the image of the smoke hanging in the air from that final shot and Dale looking down the barrel of his gun at the bull is a powerful one. Sometimes it’s difficult to believe it all happened the way it did. That photo will always be what makes it real.
At this moment, one might have imagined a large celebration with hooting, hollering, and jumping around, but it was much more somber. What had just happened was nothing short of miraculous. The connection between man, beast, and the true meaning of what it is to be alive had been displayed in real time.
“I’ve been hunting for 65 years, Matt, and this might as well have been my first time out. My hands are still shaking,” Dale said as he stood with his hand on my shoulder, looking at the bull. I beamed. Somehow, someway, it had all worked out even better than I could have ever imagined.
An excited radio transmission to my dad was our next step. After pictures with the setting sun and celebration cigars, three generations spent the rest of the night quartering and transporting the bull back to camp. We reflected on our night at 4 a.m. around the campfire before we all went to bed happily, smelling of elk and smoke.
Weeks later, I received a call from Dale. “Hey kid, I just wanted to let you know my hands have finally stopped shaking.”
I fear the experience will never be topped, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. I believe to my core that everything happened the way it was somehow destined to. Looking back, it seems foolish that I was frustrated and worried by some of the small things - the weather, our slow pace, dead batteries, etc. In hindsight, the adversity made the memory. If everything happened as we planned, practiced, and expected, there would be no exhilaration and no challenge. This experience changed me. In a world and industry that are quickly becoming consumed by money and a thirst for recognition based on numbers, inches, status, likes, and follows, I can only hope for my fellow hunters and outdoorsmen that they all have the opportunity to reconnect with what hunting is all about. I believe that if we learn to appreciate the process and never take for granted the opportunity we have to spend time outdoors, regardless of a harvest, no hunt will ever be anything less than a success. Embrace adversity, welcome the storms, and be open to the idea that sometimes the greatest memories are made when nothing goes as planned.
Login