ACHIEVING THE DREAM | ARIZONA ARCHERY ELK HUNT
Story By: Felicity Canter
My next goal was to hunt for an early archery bull elk in the highly sought-after Arizona Unit 1. After waiting an entire year to draw the tag, I was finally ready. While I've harvested several Arizona game animals with a rifle, it was time to embrace my archery equipment. With my husband, Kevin, and my two sons, Easton and Jack, all being professional guides, there was considerable pressure.
Despite having loved archery for twenty-five years, I had never had the courage to commit fully to hunting with a bow. Raising five kids left me unsure if I could dedicate the necessary time and discipline. I would only participate in family target practice and archery shoots. Yet, for the past eleven years, my husband had entered me in the draw year after year, hoping I would secure the coveted tag.
February brought a whirlwind of excitement. On the nineteenth, our account was charged for two elk tags, leading us into a guessing game about which tags we had drawn. My husband knew I had drawn my desired unit, as it was the only unit he had entered me for. Nervous butterflies danced in my stomach. By February 24, it was confirmed: I had drawn my first-choice early archery bull elk tag.
On May 9, it was time for an upgrade. I got the new Bowtech Eva Shockey Gen 3 set up with top-of-the-line equipment. I was in pure heaven, and things were starting to come together. The next day, I committed to shooting religiously every single day for one to two hours. I understood that it was all on me; I needed to get in shape, both mentally and physically. I experimented with different broadheads and practiced at various distances.
As August approached, scouting began. It was usually just my husband and me, though sometimes we brought family members along under the guise of sightseeing. August flew by, and it was time to set up camp. I felt fortunate that my two boys were guiding on the same hunt. In the back of my mind, I hoped they would tag out early and focus on me. After all, I could still hike, but my husband had suffered a pelvis injury from a horse accident two years prior, so the weather would be a factor for both his and my hunts.
The day before my hunt began, nerves kicked in. Our camp had three tags, which soon turned into four. The nurturing instinct of a mother of five took over, and I thought, “I’m fine; I hope all these boys kill big ones first, and I'll be last.” A week passed without a kill. The rut was nearly nonexistent. Bulls hung out in small groups, and there was little calling activity. It was nothing like I had imagined.
In the second week, one of the hunters left early, freeing up my eldest son, but two others still needed assistance. I assured them I was fine, but one night I cried hard, feeling disheartened that all my practice had led to only one opportunity to draw back my bow—and that had been at a bull obscured by heavy brush.
Three days before the hunt ended, the other two hunters scored early in the morning, leaving me as the last hunter standing. I felt a growing sense of urgency; this hunt was my dream, and I had waited so long for it. I urged my boys, both in their twenties, to take me to the canyons where the good bulls were. My oldest quickly agreed.
The next morning, the day before the hunt ended, we rose extra early to check areas of activity. Since the rut was so minimal, we needed to spot and stalk. My oldest son led us into the steepest canyon while my youngest scouted for other spots. Suddenly, we received word that he had found a promising bull in a canyon.
Thankfully, my husband had given each of our sons a GPS by the age of seven, so they knew how to communicate coordinates, elevations, and sight points. My boys had lived and breathed this mountain since birth, and they had been guiding and hunting it for over thirty days just this season—they were experts. Coordinating with my oldest and youngest, we chased the bull for four miles before finally getting ahead of him.
My boys seemed to read their dad’s mind after years of disciplined hunting. In slow motion, I took in the moment, breathing deeply and listening intently. Just as we spotted the herd, my youngest son let out a cow call, prompting the bull and his harem of twenty cows to run in like it was teatime. In awe, I watched as my husband ranged them and reminded me, “Do not draw until I say.” I have a habit of drawing early due to excitement.
But in this case, my husband nudged me: “Draw.” I drew back smoothly, my muscle memory kicking in, and I let the arrow fly. In a heartbeat, I knew I had a bull down! I couldn't believe it. We held off for an hour—which seemed like an eternity—before following a clear blood trail. My youngest son was the first to spot the antlers wedged between two trees.
Still in shock, I realized I had achieved what I once thought impossible despite the lack of rut activity and limited responses. With two sons, my husband, and a friend to help with quartering and packing, I felt like the luckiest mom and wife. My family and friends celebrated my harvest, and I can't wait to fling more arrows in the future.
A special thanks to my three boys (Easton, Jack, and Keihin), to Caleb (who is like a son), and to Bodie, a family friend who took off work just for me. I also want to congratulate Cody for the well-deserved harvest of his own bull. I appreciate all the friends and family that took the time to scout and spend these moments with me around the campfire. And a very special thanks to my husband of thirty-two years for teaching me and loving me in every saga of the hour—you are my everything. It's these memories that last and can be told over and over in a lifetime. The respect, the value of the harvest, is a legacy.
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