When Everything Aligns!

Rocky Mountain Elk Hunting | Oregon

Story By: Randy Yow

Sometimes, everything just works out perfectly. My father, Don Yow, turned 85 in 2025 and has been a trapper, hunter, fisherman, and true outdoorsman his entire life. Since I was three years old, he’s been taking me along on his adventures. Dad and his good friend, Stan Thomas, were outfitters, primarily for bear hunts, throughout my childhood. They offered "Guaranteed Hunts" for $300—if you didn’t get a bear, you didn’t pay. In all those years, I believe only one hunter went home empty-handed! These men were tougher than boot leather and true legends. But, as with us all, age eventually catches up.

This past fall, at 85, Dad was convinced his elk hunting days were over. His knees and heart made getting around nearly impossible. He loved hunting anything, but chasing elk was always his greatest passion—a passion I share. Despite his limitations, he drew a local tag near our home for early November 2025. It wasn’t a prime tag, but it allowed him to drive around and spend time in the elk woods. He spent many days scouting, dreaming of one last chance. My nephew, Tyler Williams, drove him around for days, searching for sign and hoping to position him for a shot. As the season wore on, it seemed his fears were coming true—nothing was happening.

I was away on a hunt but returned with a couple of days left in the season, hoping to join Dad and Tyler. By then, Dad was exhausted and nearly ready to give up. On the last night of the season, I got up at 1 a.m. to use the restroom and glanced out our front window. We often see big bucks migrating through at that time of year, and with a bright moon illuminating the yard, I spotted a large animal near our feeder. Thinking it was a buck, I grabbed my binoculars—only to realize it was an elk! A bull elk! A very impressive bull elk!

I could hardly wait until morning to tell Dad, my good friend and neighbor Neal Russell, and Bud Collins, who also had a tag. At 4 a.m., I shared the news of the bull’s visit and we made a plan. A light snow had fallen overnight, perfect for tracking. I sent Neal to follow the bull’s tracks up the ridge behind our place while I took Dad and Bud to the top, setting them up on stands overlooking the basin on the other side, hoping the bull stayed close. After dropping Bud off, I helped Dad hike to a spot where we could see the basin. A cold wind blew, and light snow fell as we waited, hoping the bull would appear—and not at a full sprint.

After about 30 minutes, Dad was getting chilled as the wind cut through us on that exposed point. Then, I spotted something out of place among the junipers. I raised my binoculars and saw the unmistakable yellow of elk hair! I pointed it out to Dad, who located the spot and got ready on his shooting sticks. The bull was feeding down our side through the trees, just 160 yards away. As it moved toward an opening, I asked Dad, “Are you on him?” He replied, “Yes, I’m ready!” The bull stepped out, paused with just its head visible, and stared directly at us for what felt like an eternity. Dad’s adrenaline was through the roof, and the cold and wind weren’t helping. Finally, the bull decided we were no threat and moved through a 10-foot clearing. As it disappeared from my view, Dad’s rifle boomed!

I was startled, as I couldn’t see the bull from my angle. Expecting it to come barreling down the hillside, I prepared Dad for a running shot, but everything was silent—no movement. Quietly, I asked, “Could you see the bull when you shot?” His reply was priceless: “Yes, I could see him, and I damned sure hit him too!” Dad’s never been shy about sharing his thoughts, and knowing he’s an incredible marksman, I had no doubt the bull was hit.

A couple of minutes later, we heard the bull let out a sigh. Neal joined us shortly after, and leaving Dad in place in case the bull bolted, Neal and I followed its tracks. Right where I’d seen it disappear behind the juniper, there lay Dad’s bull—a magnificent animal, down for good. We returned for Dad and Bud, and together we took Dad to his bull. He had no idea how big it was. As he walked up to it, emotions ran high, and Dad was in tears—as were we all.

At 85 years old, Dad had harvested his largest bull to date! God had a hand in this from start to finish—from me spotting the bull at night to every moment of the hunt. We even managed to get my 85-year-old mother, June Yow, to the bull to celebrate the moment. Thanks to Tyler, Neal, Bud, and everyone who helped Dad harvest the bull of a lifetime! The bull scored 320” as a 5x6, with a 56-inch main beam on one side and 55 inches on the other. It was a warrior, carrying a broadhead in one shoulder blade and a healed, previously broken shoulder blade, as seen in photos. Tough animals!

An incredible bull in a non-trophy unit! God bless!