Rocky Mountain Elk Hunting | Arizona
Story By: Chad McKinney
For Eastern hunters like me, the West is a near-mythical place, its vast landscapes and big game the stuff of Saturday morning hunting shows and YouTube clips. Those make elk hunting look easy, as if anyone could cross the Continental Divide and bag a trophy bull in 20 minutes. But reality demands patience, perseverance, and luck to draw a prime tag in a state like Arizona. Starting in 2017 as a nonresident, I tested my luck in Arizona’s draw. After moving there in 2020, I used Arizona’s PointGuard system and, with nine points, drew a coveted late rifle tag for Unit 23 in 2024.
I contacted Hunter Weems at Arizona Custom Hunts, who recommended guide Preston Mercer. Preston’s son, Levi, and my friend Andy Goss joined the team. Scouting began in July, with Andy and me locating promising bulls. Levi and Preston scouted closer to the season, and by mid-November, Levi had eyes on a standout 6x6 bull. This old warrior bedded on a southern slope, barely moving 50 yards, surrounded by thick oak brush and manzanita in what Preston called Unit 23’s “jungle.” It would take a long shot with a high-powered rifle to bring him down.
After months of weight training, cardio, and range practice, I left for camp on Thanksgiving Day. Levi was briefly away, so Preston kept tabs on our bull. He spotted other bulls, but none matched our target’s caliber. On opening day, November 29, we left camp at 5:45 a.m. I had been awake since 3:00 a.m., listening to side-by-sides and trucks signaling the season’s start. I feared someone had beaten us to our bull, but the area was clear. Preston parked his RANGER a quarter mile from a glassing spot. He, Levi, and I crept through the brush, scanning the mountainside, while Andy glassed farther west in case the bull had moved.
At sunrise, we reached an opening with clear visibility. Levi quickly spotted a heavy-horned bull. “Most people would shoot that bull opening morning,” Preston said. “We’re not.” As I braced for a grind, Preston whispered, “I got him.” He had found our target, just 20 yards from his last known spot. Over the next 10 minutes, we set up, using a natural berm to angle the rifle uphill. Levi, on his spotting scope, guided me to the bull’s location.
“Do you see that tall pine tree, Chad?” Levi asked.
“Yeah.”
“See the dead juniper above it?”
“Yeah.”
“The bull’s just right of that juniper, eating oak brush. See his antlers? Head’s down.”
“I see him now.”
The pressure of a coveted tag weighed heavy. Levi’s calm, precise directions were invaluable, helping me locate the bull through my 20x scope at 879 yards. I couldn’t have done it alone. After back-and-forth with Preston and Levi on their spotters, the bull stepped into sunlight. I fired a 212-grain bullet from my 300 PRC, and it found its mark, dropping him instantly.
High-fives and hugs followed, despite my cracked phone screen from lying on a rock and the faint stench of old cow patties. I had bagged my first Arizona bull elk. Preston called the pack-out easy for unit 23, and we hauled everything in one trip, returning to camp for flank steak quesadillas by lunch.
Two weeks later, I’m still in awe of my 360-inch bull, my largest yet. This hunt, a dream realized, owed everything to Hunter’s guidance, Preston’s expertise, Levi’s sharp eyes, and Andy’s support. It’s a memory I’ll cherish forever.