Story By: Staiger Joyner
When I was a kid, Dad and I used to watch those old-school hunting shows together on VCR. Those guys on the screen were always shooting big bulls, and I’d go hunting with Dad thinking, “One of these days, I’m gonna get to do that.”
I’ve hunted a lot with Dad over the years. I’ve shot deer, antelope, elk, a billy goat, and a couple of mountain lions with him—but never that giant bull I dreamt of as a kid. So, this year, we put in for a party draw in one of Montana’s trophy elk hunting districts. One of our friends had drawn an elk tag in the same district a couple years ago and shot a big bull, so we started researching, using Huntin’ Fool’s magazine and member tools for information on the area. I had 17 points, Dad had 16, and this district was one of Huntin’ Fool’s top picks for trophy bulls.
I remember when we found out we drew the tag. I was at home sick as a dog—I was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy a couple years ago—but I was hopping around with excitement. Eric Bachofner, one of Huntin’ Fool’s Hunt Advisors, had recommended that we get in touch with one of his contacts as soon as the results were in to get permission to hunt with him, so that contact, Clint, was our first call. After planning our hunt, we spent the whole summer preparing. I was practicing with my bow after work every chance I got. The excitement was definitely building.
When the day finally came to get out there, I met Dad in Helena, and we drove to meet Clint in time for an evening hunt. It wasn’t a slow start. We’d both been under the impression it would be fairly easy hiking, but, that first night, we went straight up a face and did several miles right out of the gate.
There were elk everywhere. It was like the whole mountain was getting fumigated with their scent. We heard a bull start bugling in the bottom down below us, then a bunch of cows calling on the other side of the ridge. We peaked over and saw what had to have been close to a hundred head right there in the saddle below us. We didn’t really have a play on them out in the open like that, so we just sat on the ridge and watched for the rest of the night; the bulls were screaming and fighting like nothing I’ve ever seen.
The next morning, we went right back to the same area, and I passed on a smaller bull. Then we tried to put the sneak on another—a massive six-by-six—but got winded. There was elk sign everywhere. The willow brush down in the bottoms looked like someone had gone through it with a weedwhacker, and it seemed like there was a wallow every hundred yards or so. It felt like being in Yellowstone National Park—except we could hunt them.
We went back, took a nap, then tried hiking up the other side of that same drainage later that evening. It was a big, steep hike, but we got to sit up top there and watch all these elk feed out across the same saddle they’d been in the night before. There must have been well over a hundred and fifty that time, and the bulls were still screaming. At that point, we weren’t even worried about shooting one—it was just cool to watch that many elk be elk.
We went back to the lodge that night feeling even more positive about the whole situation. Dad and I could hardly sleep. We could hear bugling all night long through the windows.
The next morning, we got into a bunch of elk coming out of some hay fields. There was another giant bull in with them, and we got all set up to cut them off. I had an arrow knocked. The cows started filing through, and the bull came within 45 yards. I started to get the shakes, and right about then, a little rag horn came over the ridge behind us, caught our wind, and busted the whole thing with a bark.
We weren’t hearing or seeing as many elk after that, so Clint had us climb up this doozy of a ridge. I was huffing and puffing to get up to the top, but we got a good view of the basin where we’d been seeing those big wads of elk. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before we spotted a bull standing in the wide open, all by himself. He was way over there, maybe a mile and a half or two, but Clint was already saying, “That’s a shooter bull, for sure.”
We sat there and pondered it for a moment. I was gassed. We’d already hiked in about two miles, and with the health stuff I’ve got going on, I felt like I was starting to peak out. But Clint looked at me and he said, “I know you’re tired and everything, but this is one we should roll the dice on and leave it all on the field. Just dig deep.”
Dad stayed back on the knob while Clint and I dropped down. We got to the bottom of a big ravine, scrambled up the other side, and got on top of the next ridge. The bull was still out in the open. It was getting late in the morning, and the temperature was picking up. As we moved over into the next drainage, right below him, I was thinking, “He’s gonna come right down past us to get into the timber.”
I never would have done what we did next. The bull was just standing there, not making any big, obvious moves, but Clint said we needed to get over into the next drainage. We started hauling ass, and all I could think was, “Why?” My legs were burning, but Clint only stopped long enough to say, “I know you’re tiring out. We’re gonna get there, though. We’re really close.”
We got up to the top of another knob, peeked over, and there he was, moving up the hillside and away from the timber—just like Clint had anticipated. We started paralleling him on the other side of the ridge, and when we peeked over the next time, he was about 60 yards away. I’d shot out to sixty, but I didn’t like the angle of it.
He kept moving, making his way toward where the ridge faded out into a saddle, and Clint and I started running. We’d barely sat down before we saw the tops of his antlers coming right up through the saddle. I was lying flat on my back in the wide open, hiding as best I could in the grass. He came within 50 yards and stopped broadside, so I drew my bow back, sat up, settled the pin on him, and cut it loose.
All the emotions started to come in at that point. I’d hit him farther back than I wanted, but the angle was good. We watched him, wondering if it was good enough, and he ran about 40 yards before he stopped and just stood there. Twenty—maybe thirty—seconds elapsed, and all of a sudden, he was doing the stumble. He tipped over right there. Clint and I were rolling in the dirt, hugging, making a dust storm. I started crying and dry heaving a bit from the excitement. Dad made it over soon after and we shared a big hug.
Last spring, just before I found out we drew the tag, I learned my muscular dystrophy was starting to affect my heart. I’m down to maybe 45% function—and that’s been a big weight to carry. I started to wonder if I ever would get to be like those guys in those old shows, so drawing that tag, taking down the bull of my dreams, filling the freezer chest with good meat, getting to share all that with Dad and see how proud he was… It was the best feeling I think I’ve ever had.
I mean, my son Holden being born probably beats it, but it was up there. And someday down the road, when Holden’s older, he can look at this bull and say, “My dad shot that with his bow.” It makes me want to push to be in Dad’s shoes—to watch Holden get excited and chase the bull of his dreams.