Story By: Cody Paratore
I didn’t even realize I had drawn an Arizona elk tag until late February, when something as mundane as checking my credit card statement nearly made me fall out of my chair. There it was—an Arizona Game & Fish charge in the amount of a bull tag.
With a handful of points and odds in the single digits, drawing had seemed impossible. I jumped online immediately, heart pounding, flipping through the portal to figure out what tag I’d pulled. When the screen finally loaded, the shock hit all over again: Late Season Bull Elk—Unit 6A—Second Choice.
Just like that, my plans for the year changed.
After the initial excitement settled, I got to work. One of my first calls was to Huntin’ Fool to request the previous tag holder list. That ended up being one of the most valuable decisions of the entire hunt. Several past hunters were incredibly generous with their time, sharing detailed experiences, access points, and late-season elk patterns. Their information gave me a starting point, and, from that moment on, every spare evening was spent e-scouting: reading reports, analyzing drainages, studying slope angles, and doing everything possible to turn an unexpected tag into a successful hunt.
Day One: Headed South
Fast-forward to November. My camper was loaded, my family was bundled in, and the four-wheeler was strapped down for the long drive. I dropped my wife and kids in Flagstaff with my brother-in-law and met up with my hunting partner, Cody “Manzi” Manzi, and my dad.
By the afternoon of November 25th, we were rolling toward Unit 6A for the first time with two and a half days to scout before opening morning. Two things became apparent immediately: the roads were some of the worst I’d ever seen, and hunting pressure was going to be through the roof. Just finding a place to camp felt like a small victory.
Still, with a couple hours of daylight left, we hustled to a glassing knob and put eyes on the country. Right away, two massive herds spilled into the open, totaling well over 300 elk. Three and a half miles away, a bachelor group of bulls appeared as tiny specks in the fading light. Even at that distance, I could see frame—a very encouraging sight.
Day Two: Seven Bulls
The next morning, we climbed back to the same knob for a second look. We turned up most of the same animals and a few new additions, but nothing that screamed “target bull.”
Our afternoon goal was clear: get eyes on where that bachelor group had been the night before. It required another hour-long drive and a road so bad the truck couldn’t continue. We parked, made a plan, and split ways. My dad and Manzi hiked to one canyon overlook while I took the four-wheeler deeper in to reach a glassing point.
That evening was electric. I turned up seven bulls, all bedded or feeding in the shade of classic piñon-juniper (PJ) woodland. Six of the seven were shooters by late-season standards. For the first time, I felt like the hunt was coming together.
Day Three: More Intel, More Pressure
The next morning, Manzi and I decided to hike into a “no motorized access” area we had been curious about. With rough roads and high pressure, we needed backup plans that didn’t rely on vehicle access. We found multiple groups of cows and young bulls but nothing worth dedicating opening morning to. Still, the area felt like a transition zone—a place elk would move through under pressure—so we stored that in the back of our minds.
That evening, we pushed deep into the flats by our camp, climbing to a new vantage point where we met a local hunter simply hoping to fill his freezer. He told us a big bull had been seen near our current knob. I shared information about the massive herds we had seen on day one, and he was thrilled to chase them. We exchanged numbers and OnX pins, helping each other out as hunters should.
Not long after he left, we finally turned up the big bull—a tall, clean 5x6 feeding along the edge of the PJs. A great bull for a late-season rifle hunt but, after seeing the bachelor group of seven, we decided to return to the drainage I’d glassed the night before for opening morning. The odds of finding a mature bull there felt stronger.
Opening Morning: The War Zone
Alarms sounded at 3:40 a.m. We rolled out of our sleeping bags, loaded gear, and began the long journey into our chosen drainage. We drove some, then leapfrogged with the four-wheeler to cross the brutal terrain. A side-by-side would have been perfect, but this was what we had—and we were determined.
As the sun rose over our glassing knob, anticipation ran high… But nothing happened. There wasn’t a single elk in sight.
Then the gunshots began—first one, then several more, until it sounded like a full-blown war zone around us. With pressure coming from multiple directions, the elk were scattering long before reaching us.
Eventually, a bull stepped out below at 2000 yards. I prepared to make a move, but two hunters (whom we jokingly named “Tweedledee and Tweedledum”) walked directly through our setup, spotted the bull, and took their shot. There was nothing we could do but watch.
After regrouping, we made the tough decision to sit the knob all day. In hindsight, it was the wrong call. Only one other bull was spotted: three miles away and running like he was late for an appointment.
Day Two of the Hunt: Frozen but Hopeful
The next morning, we decided to head into the “no motorized access zone” Manzi and I had scouted earlier. It was easily the coldest sit of the trip. A small 5-point slipped over a ridge just before I could get set up. He bugled twice, which felt surreal in late November. A few minutes later, a shot rang out in the direction he’d gone—someone else had been ready.
That afternoon, I knew it was time to head back to the flats where we had seen the big 5x6. I fully expected other hunters to be there, but I hoped, with enough effort, I could get into a position no one else wanted to hike to.
The Final Push
We parked, unloaded the four-wheeler, and made our plan. Dad and Manzi would glass from below while I climbed the steep, 700-foot ascent to where the bull had been two nights prior. I wanted to be in place before he fed out again.
When I crested the ridge and began glassing the shaded PJ hillside, my heart jumped. Below me, at 1,650 yards, was a group of bulls feeding into a small drainage.
With less than 45 minutes of daylight left, I didn’t think—I just moved. I marked their position, dropped elevation as fast as my legs would allow, and cut across the basin.
By the time I hit the bottom, there were ten minutes of legal light left. I crossed the road behind a side-by-side, hoping not to be noticed, and slipped into the trees. I accidentally bumped a spike and another bull but couldn’t see him clearly. I thought the whole opportunity had evaporated.
Then, I heard another elk across the small creek.
I scanned the shadows of the PJ cover and finally found him—broadside, alert, but unaware of me. No time to range; he was sub-300 yards. My 6.5 PRC is dead-on to that distance, so I settled in using my Tricer-RP bipod and pack as a rear rest.
Branches blocked my shot. For a moment, I nearly forced it—but I knew better. I waited. He took a few steps, clearing dead branches. I whistled. He stopped. I pressed the trigger.
I watched him lunge, then disappear into the shadows. For a moment, I stood frozen, feeling everything all at once. Then I heard the unmistakable crash.
I called my dad immediately. “I got one,” I said. They were already on their way. With the last sliver of daylight, I found the bull—he hadn’t made it fifty yards.
He was my first rifle elk. My first Arizona tag, punched. I called my wife next and choked up: “I did it, babe. I got one.”
A Long Night
The celebration was short. I had a two-mile hike back to the four-wheeler, then a nasty ride to pick up Dad and Manzi. We returned to the bull, took photos, quartered him, and packed out all the meat. Thankfully, he was only 500 yards off a “road”—if you can call it that—and we could shuttle him out.
This hunt had everything—highs, lows, frustration, and luck. Access was brutal. Pressure was intense. But persistence won out. Arizona left its mark on me, and I already can’t wait to return.