Story By: Denton Keys
Hunting has been a passion of mine since childhood. From the first year I could start putting in for big game animals, my dad applied for sheep, goat, and moose for my brother and me. The odds for residents to draw any of these three tags is less than five percent. Fast forward to May 2023. I already knew that I hadn’t drawn sheep or goat, but there was still some anticipation for the moose tag drawing. I was not feeling optimistic, and after numerous text messages from all my hunting buddies that they had not drawn any big game animals either, my doubt grew. I received an email, and it read, “YOUR APPLICATION WAS SUCCESSFUL.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was going moose hunting. The next three months flew by in a blur. I made multiple trips to Northern Colorado and saw the occasional moose, but none were worth hanging my tag on. After talking with past hunters, Division of Wildlife officers, and wildlife biologists, I put together a plan for my hunting location. The tag I drew was a season choice tag, giving me the choice to hunt muzzloader, archery, or rifle during their respective seasons. I decided to go with archery and, if unsuccessful, to then use rifle for the last week of the season.
September had finally arrived. I loaded up my truck and traveled north to my most-scouted area with nothing but eagerness and excitement. I reached my destination about mid-day. The rest of my buddies would be coming up later that night. I went out the first night to a couple glassing points where I had seen some cows a few weeks before. With the rut going, I was hoping that if I had success finding cows there would be a bull close by. After a few hours of not seeing a single moose, it was starting to get dark, so I packed up and headed back to camp. I meet up with my dad, who was also glassing but in a different area. Walking up, I could tell by the look on his face that he had seen something. Up over the hill, a very nice bull and two cows were grazing. The plan was simple: with the guys arriving that night, we would be pursuing that bull come dawn and getting into archery range.
As the sun was rising and shooting light was approaching, we could hear the bull grunting. My adrenaline was ramping up. We saw the cows working up the hill. If we could get between them, the bull should start working toward them, giving us the chance to come into archery range. Our plan could not have worked more perfectly. I set myself up, and the bull walked by at 45 yards. After a well-placed arrow, the moose I’d dreamed of and been applying for since I was twelve years old was down in front of me. Shouts of excitement rang out, high-fives were given, beers were cheered, and seven loads of meat, two sizeable horns, and a cape were packed out.
Then came April 2024. My Colorado once-in-a-lifetime moose tag was mounted on the wall, and the focus was back to drawing sheep, goat, deer, or elk. I’m not able to hunt most big game seasons because of my guiding commitments, and it seemed I would be behind the spotting scope and not the gun this year. Little did I know, lightning would strike the same place twice, and I drew an archery bighorn sheep tag.
At this point, the guys who’d been on my moose hunt were extremely jealous but started the preparations alongside me again. My brother, who missed the moose hunt due to a medical emergency, was healthy enough to join us—which made this hunt all the better. The unit was not a typical bighorn sheep unit for Colorado. The summer scouting trips were miserably hot; I was watching my every step for snakes, and there was hardly any movement from the rams, which made it very challenging.
In the days leading up to season, I saw a few good sheep and finally spotted a ram I wanted to go after come opening morning. Three days before the season, I headed up alone; the rest of the group showed up the night before season. As the sun came up on the first morning of opening day, the guys were spread out glassing, trying to find the sheep we put to bed the night before. It didn’t take long to find him since he hadn’t moved much during the night. It was a long trek across a river to where he was located, but we patiently watched him for the morning and, once he bedded under a tree for the day, took the opportunity to make a move and get into archery range.
After a four-hour stalk, we were standing 100 yards above the band of rams needing to get closer. We were stuck on a cliff, and our only option of getting closer was to circle about a mile around the peak and back down the other side. We left three guys on the cliff to watch the rams’ movements while my buddy, who is a videographer, and I took off towards the rams. We got lucky on the stalk, and, as we were coming over the last hill, the sheep stood up and lined out, ready to leave the basin. I got into position, scanned to find the ram I was after, and let the arrow fly. The shot was a little back, and the ram took off down the hill. We were able to follow and shoot another arrow to finish him.
April 2025 rolled around and, after previously drawing two of the three hardest animals to draw in Colorado, I felt there was not a chance I would ever draw my mountain goat tag. I knew I had been fortunate to draw and harvest those big game animals before I turned thirty. My luck was gone.
But low and behold, there must have been a little luck left in the tank because I received an email stating I had drawn a fourth season mountain goat tag. At this point, I was a little bit worried to tell my friends we were heading back out AGAIN, since they have an amusing way of telling you they’re excited for you that involves a few choice words.
Another summer came. With new country, we needed a different approach. Due to the late season tag, I wasn’t going to be one of the first hunters there like I had been on my previous hunts, so we covered multiple areas and studied as much country as possible.
As soon as third season ended, I packed up the truck once again and made my way to some tough Colorado backcountry. After three days of scouting, which mostly consisted of fog, rain, and snow, I questioned if this might be where my luck would finally run out. You can’t hunt where you can’t see.
The day before season, my brother and I got a small break in the weather, and we took full advantage by practically running to a vantage point to locate a goat. We needed a game plan for opening morning. After about an hour, we spotted one lone billy. The terrain was too steep for a human, and he seemed content to live there forever. With about two hours of daylight left, however, the lone billy got up and walked over the peak into the next basin.
The rest of the guys arrived that night, and we discussed a plan. At daylight, we would glass to be sure the billy hadn’t returned to his original spot and then start hiking into the next basin to hopefully find him. Opening morning, we spent an hour glassing with no sight of the billy, so the steep hike into the next basin began. After about a mile of hiking, we pinpointed the billy rather quicky. We got set up, noting impending weather beyond the peak, and my brother called out a range of 468 yards.
While patiently waiting for a shot, all I could think about was the three-year streak of memorable hunting stories that had occurred. Whether I hit or missed, those memories would last a lifetime. The goat finally turned; two perfect shots later, he rolled down the mountain. My brother and friend both said, “Dead goat,” and the trifecta was complete.
Not one of these hunts would have been possible without the group of friends who made the long road trips and helped pack the animals out. There is one thing I can promise in 2026: I will be happily sitting behind the spotting scope, paying it forward to the guys that helped me.