September 2026
Here He Comes, Dad… and He Is Huge! An Arizona Archery Elk Hunt
Hunter: Brandon Johnson
Species: Rocky Mountain Elk
Location: Arizona, Unit 23N
Method: Archery
My love for elk hunting goes back thirty years. Rewind to when my grandpa, Don Moss, walked into the house with a Primos archery elk hunting video. He said, “I want to start archery elk hunting. We better learn how to call bulls.” From that moment on, calling elk became part of who I was. I was lucky enough to spend the next twenty-eight archery seasons hunting with my grandpa before he passed in October of 2023. He always said he couldn’t imagine what a 400-inch bull would look like on the hoof. Growing up in southeast Oregon, where elk are limited and big bulls are rare, that kind of bull felt almost mythical. So when I drew an Arizona 23N archery bull tag—a tag I had less than one percent odds of drawing with 16 points—I thought, “This is my chance.”
Drawing a 23N Archery Bull Tag with 16 Points
The first thing I did was contact Huntin’ Fool to get the member draw list, and this ended up being incredibly helpful in understanding the unit and the odds. My wife Amanda, my son Moss, and I headed down four days before the opener to scout. The first couple of nights were unreal. Bulls were going absolutely nuts—bugling everywhere and even circling camp at night, keeping us awake. I turned to Amanda and said, “This is going to be easy.”
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Crowds, Drones and Bulls Gone Quiet
The day before the season opened, the people arrived. Outfitters rolled in with spotting crews ten deep, trucks lined the roads, and every camp seemed to have eight to ten people helping one tag holder. Folks were night-bugling and cow calling trying to locate bulls. It was like somebody flipped a light switch—and the elk got wise fast. The bugling shut down, and the bulls became ghosts.
The first week was slow. We spent most evenings sitting water and saw plenty of elk, passing on a few 300-class bulls. I kept waiting for the right one.
Week two, things finally heated back up.
On the evening of the eighteenth, Moss and I found ourselves between two screaming bulls. The bull on the left sounded like a good bull, so we moved in on him. We got within about forty yards and finally saw him—a heavy, palmated seven-by-eight that would probably measure in around 340, but his tines were short. I decided to pass and try to get a look at the other bull.
As we started moving toward him, what I thought Moss whispered was, “Draw! Draw!” I started to draw my bow. Then Moss said, “No! Drone!” I looked up, and sure enough—there was a drone hovering fifty feet above us. As soon as I saw it and looked back at the bull, he was already crashing off. We never even got a look at him. We walked off that ridge disappointed and shaking our heads.
Over the next few days, we had multiple encounters. I passed on another 340-inch bull. Then I had a 360-inch bull at sixty yards—and I missed him. That one hit hard. With only five days left, I honestly thought I had blown my chance.
A Bugle Fest After the Rain
The next morning was clear and sunny, with almost no bugling. My heart sank. “This is not good,” I told Moss. Then, that night, the rain rolled in.
The next morning, everything changed. Moss and I walked into an absolute bugle fest: five bulls below us and a herd bull above us. They were fired up, bugling every two to three minutes, their calls echoing off the ridges. It was the kind of morning you dream about.
We worked down the ridge, staying between the bulls, and found a huge dry wallow. I told Moss, “Let’s just sit here and see if these bulls work up the ridge.” We sat for about thirty minutes listening. One bull bugled from about 300 yards out. Next time he bugled, he was 200. I told Moss, “We better get over to that roll in the hill.” Then he bugled again—only 100 yards below us. A few minutes later, Moss whispered, “Here he comes, Dad…and he is huge.”
Thirty-Five Yards
The first thing I saw was the tips of his horns coming over the ridge at fifty yards. Instantly, I knew—this was the biggest bull I had ever seen. He was walking straight at us. I told myself, “Quit looking at the horns, and figure out where you’re going to put that arrow.” At forty-five yards, he walked behind a tree and I drew. He kept coming. Then a bull bugled off to our right. He stopped and looked. Just as he started to bugle, Moss whispered, “Thirty-five.”
I dropped my pin about two inches and released. Whack!
My arrow hit just in front of the shoulder. The big bull whirled and went straight over the ridge. Moss and I looked at each other in total shock. “Damn… That’s a big bull.”
A 400-Inch Bull for Grandpa
We stood silently for about five minutes, hearts pounding. Then we heard the sound every bowhunter loves—the death moan, followed by the crashing of brush.
We didn’t waste a second. Down the hill we went. About a hundred yards later, there he was: the biggest bull either of us had ever laid eyes on. The excitement was unreal. “Look at the size of that bull, Moss… He’s a beast!” We celebrated, and, in that moment, I couldn’t help but think about my grandpa. I thought, “We did it.” We finally killed a 400-inch bull. I knew just how excited he would’ve been.
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