I just returned from a hunt with my two sons, and it was, in many ways, "the hunt of a lifetime": laughter, plenty of elk, bonding, and memories to last forever. However, the hunt itself did not meet our expectations. My youngest son drew the same tag the previous year, and it was incredibly successful. He was at full draw multiple times on different bulls, passed up bulls at point-blank bow range, and we were surrounded by elk nearly every day. For some reason, this year was different. This time, the tag was in my oldest son's pocket, and we entered the hunt with immense confidence. We had recent intel from the previous year, a plethora of equipment tailored to the hunt's needs, and ample time to make it happen.
However, hardships began before we even reached the unit. My relatively new side-by-side wouldn't start at the gas station when we topped off the fuel about 50 miles from the hunt unit. After a jump-start with the car, it would run but immediately die when the cables were removed. With the help of YouTube and years of experience with vehicle trouble, we determined it was either a completely dead battery, a voltage regulator, or both. Instead of camping in the unit, listening to the sweet music of bugling bulls, we ended up in a motel so we could be at the local ATV dealership at 9 a.m. when it opened the next morning. We all took it in stride, but it was disappointing to miss the entire first day of the hunt. By the time we bought a new aftermarket battery that didn't fit in the battery box, redneck rigged it to keep the battery from bouncing out, fixed our cameraman's flat tire, and drove to the jump-off point, daylight was fading fast on day one. After hauling the first load into base camp and repairing another flat tire on the side-by-side during trip number two, the sun set on day one without a single arrow launched, except at the archery target in camp.
Day two started strong. Bulls were bugling from camp, and we slipped in close in the darkness with eager anticipation. As elk typically do, shortly after daylight, they began moving to their bedding area, and the chase was on. Just as they settled into a timbered bowl miles later, we encountered a man glassing from his side-by-side right in front of us. We had a quick chat, and he informed us that he had a disabled veteran hunting the elk we were pursuing. Out of respect, we pivoted and headed toward a bull we'd heard in the distance. By the time we arrived, the hot morning sun, combined with a nearly full moon the previous night, had quieted the elk, and the hunt stalled. We were 1.5 days into our hunt and felt like it hadn't truly begun. Worse yet, I still had to drive the side-by-side out and make a long trip to the nearest town to ensure we had a spare tire. By the time we returned, the evening hunt was essentially lost too. Two days down: two flat tires, a dead battery, and a promising hunt we abandoned out of respect for another hunter.
The following days felt like Groundhog Day. Hot weather, excessive moonlight, no bugling at all in the afternoons and evenings, and, worst of all, crowds of people. Everywhere we turned, we ran into other hunters, both on the road system and, more frustratingly, on the same ridge we were on. The number of times we got far enough from roads to feel excited, only to glance left or right and see another hunter, was uncanny. Furthermore, most of them couldn't resist overusing their calls, even when the elk were vocalizing naturally.
Desperate, we pulled out all the stops and left camp at 12:30 a.m. one night to spend the moonlit hours locating elk. We heard four faint bugles in the distance, all near other camps. Day after day of waking up extremely early, covering ground in the darkness, and bumping into other hunters wore on us all. Spirits were low, and although no one said it, as the days dwindled, I think we were all ready to call it quits.
It's in moments like these that I'm reminded the last 10 minutes of a hunt are just as valuable as the first 10 minutes. Thankfully, my sons and our cameraman are resilient and optimistic, and we continued to laugh through it all. I'm constantly reminded that hunts rarely go according to plan. From Alaska to Mexico and across the globe, hunting is just that: hunting. I've learned to embrace the chaos and smile through it, even when nothing seems to go right. This holds true whether you're on a do-it-yourself hunt or a fully guided one. Weather, logistics, and other factors are always ready to turn your daydream into the reality of hunting, which rarely follows the script.
On one particular hunt, we heard a bull bugle at 1 p.m. in a stalkable spot. We excitedly grabbed our gear and were treated to a mid-afternoon romp with the elk, smiling all the way. As the elk moved around a knob above us, we shadowed them, waiting for them to settle in a bedding area, one of my favorite tactics for a midday bull. However, we heard the unmistakable sound of a pickup truck grinding up the ridge ahead. I checked my onX Hunt app and couldn't find any roads or trails. Shockingly, the herd spooked further around the knob, and as we followed in their wake, we stumbled upon the culprit. Someone had driven off-road about 1.5 miles to retrieve a bull they'd killed the previous night. Their abandoned truck and the sound of bugles not far around the ridge confirmed what we suspected: they had driven into the bull we were chasing and were now ahead of us, blowing their bugle relentlessly. We tried to maneuver around them to reconnect with our elk, but they pushed too hard and scattered the herd. We last saw the beautiful bull and his harem trotting across a flat a mile away.
I could go on about the bad luck, including another flat tire on the side-by-side on the way out with our final load. Yes, that's three flat tires on one trip. But the point I'd like to make is that our best hunt came on the last day. Bulls were bugling around our camp all night, so close that we couldn't leave until nearly gray light. As usual, the elk headed for bedding cover as the sun rose, and other hunters descended with their calls. After nearly five miles of dogging the herd and finally outpacing a hunter who was incessantly tooting his bugle, we found an ideal position. The wind was perfect, and the elk were moving right into our laps without us making a single call. However, as elk often do, a few cows changed course and pushed through the thick trees right toward us. They got so close I could hear their breathing. When they finally sensed that the three bumps on the ground weren't right, they bolted, leaving us with that heart-pounding adrenaline rush only hunters understand. It's what keeps us coming back. It's what drives us to put ourselves in uncomfortable situations. Most importantly, it's what bonds us to our hunting companions and the beauty of nature.
My takeaways:
I hope our Huntin' Fool family is out making memories in the woods this fall. I'm grateful to be part of a community where grit and passion shine through long before anyone mentions their membership. It's that same grit that delivers above-average results, carries us to the final buzzer, and often turns a tough hunt into a grin behind a beautiful animal, the kind of moment that keeps us returning year after year.
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