QELKhunter
Well-known member
There are hunts we dream of, and then there are hunts that find us—quietly, purposefully, like a memory whispered on the wind. My 2024 New Mexico 1st Rifle Season tag was just that. I had hunted this land before, but not since I moved out of state, at least not as a tag holder. This tag wasn’t just another notch on the calendar—it was a return to sacred ground, a place etched with footsteps and echoes from years past. The last time I walked these draws was in 2021, with my father at my side. It was our final hunt together. The last time I’d see him alive. That memory became the silent companion to every step I took this season.
This unit is usually a dry, unforgiving stretch of country—harsh hills and wind-scoured draws stitched together with piñon and juniper. But not this year. Rains had graced the land like a rare gift. Grasses bloomed thick, waterholes brimmed full, and the hills were painted in unseasonal green. It was as if the earth had softened, just enough, to let the past walk beside me.
In the weeks leading up to the season, I’d spent time scouting and had glassed up two bulls worth dreaming about—a strong, symmetrical 6x6 and a bruising 7x7 with a heavier frame and commanding presence. Either one would be an incredible gift, but this hunt wasn’t just about antlers. It never was. Not here.
Opening morning came shrouded in cloud cover, the sky painted in layers of gray and gold with streaks of red, pink, and violet stretching across the eastern horizon. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains stood tall beneath it, like old sentinels bearing witness. The air was heavy with moisture—rare for this part of the state—and yet still held the warmth of early fall. Piñon trees hung heavy with oversized, delicious nuts. Life pulsed across the land.
The first cracks of rifle fire echoed distantly, and I stood watching as the soft morning light revealed the scattered chaos of camps and vehicles below Pot Mountain. Many were likely there for the piñon, their presence an unusual density for this time of year. Still, I focused ahead, walking the same draws and arroyos my father and I once had, my eyes scanning the ground for signs, my ears tuned to the faint chirps and mews of elk hidden in the cool shadows of north-facing slopes. I could feel him with me in those moments, as I always had here—his voice in the wind, his lessons in my muscle memory.
I chose not to pressure the herd bedded deep in the thick timber. I knew where they were. Pushing them would mean pushing them into someone else’s crosshairs. So instead, I shifted. Northeast, two miles or so, to a waterhole I’d found full and undisturbed by boot prints. It was a sanctuary—both for the elk, and for me.
I settled under the shade of a broad piñon and pulled out the book I’d packed. As the clouds cleared near midday, I let my body rest while my mind wandered through its pages. Later, I ate a simple lunch—jerky, a bar, and water—and walked the edge of the pond, collecting a few mule deer sheds. One fresh matching set went into my pack; the rest I left for the mice and the mountain.
Back at the tree, with time still on my side, I opened a plastic grocery bag and began picking piñon, letting the rhythm of harvest take over. By late afternoon, I had a bag full and a peaceful mind. Then, as the sun began to slide westward, something changed.
A whisper on the wind—mews and chirps growing louder. A breath of elk-scented air rolled down the draw. I froze, listening. And then, slowly, shadows began to move. The cows came first, followed by playful calves. They filtered down to the water, tentative and thirsty. I watched, heart pounding but still, as the light drained from the sky and the first guttural grunt echoed from the trees. The herd bull.
He stayed hidden at first, sending his voice ahead like a challenge to the fading sun. Then, suddenly, a cow burst from the pinons, the bull in fast pursuit. He trailed her around the southern edge of the pond, his frame heavy, wide, commanding—my 6x6. He stopped broadside at just 80 yards, threw his head at a spike nearby, and began to step forward, preparing another bugle.
I shouldered my Knight Mountaineer, settled the sights, and squeezed. The muzzle erupted in smoke, the shot echoing through the valley. The herd scattered. The bull collapsed where he had stood.
I approached quietly. The San Juans held the last embers of sunlight on their peaks, while the distant San Antonio Mountain loomed in solemn watch over the valley. When I reached him, the thrashing had stopped. His spirit had gone, and all that remained was his body—and his legacy.
There, in the twilight, I knelt and gave thanks. The work that followed was silent but not lonely. I skinned and quartered him beneath the stars, surrounded by the smells of piñon sap, wet dirt, and elk hide. As my hands moved through the motions, the emotion washed over me. Grief. Gratitude. Closure.
This bull gave me something I didn’t know I still needed—peace in a loss I was never ready for, a reconnection to a man who taught me to walk softly on this land, to listen more than speak, and to hunt not just for meat, but for meaning.
I took no pictures. I didn’t share it online. I wasn’t sure I ever would. But some stories ask to be told—not for likes, not for praise—but because someone else might be walking with grief in their boots and need a reminder that connection can live in the places we return to, and that healing sometimes shows up wearing antlers.
This hunt was mine. The memories and images will stay tucked in the folds of my heart. But the story—this story—is for anyone who’s ever walked into the wild with someone they’ve loved and lost, and found them again, whispering in the wind and watching from just beyond the trees.
This unit is usually a dry, unforgiving stretch of country—harsh hills and wind-scoured draws stitched together with piñon and juniper. But not this year. Rains had graced the land like a rare gift. Grasses bloomed thick, waterholes brimmed full, and the hills were painted in unseasonal green. It was as if the earth had softened, just enough, to let the past walk beside me.
In the weeks leading up to the season, I’d spent time scouting and had glassed up two bulls worth dreaming about—a strong, symmetrical 6x6 and a bruising 7x7 with a heavier frame and commanding presence. Either one would be an incredible gift, but this hunt wasn’t just about antlers. It never was. Not here.
Opening morning came shrouded in cloud cover, the sky painted in layers of gray and gold with streaks of red, pink, and violet stretching across the eastern horizon. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains stood tall beneath it, like old sentinels bearing witness. The air was heavy with moisture—rare for this part of the state—and yet still held the warmth of early fall. Piñon trees hung heavy with oversized, delicious nuts. Life pulsed across the land.
The first cracks of rifle fire echoed distantly, and I stood watching as the soft morning light revealed the scattered chaos of camps and vehicles below Pot Mountain. Many were likely there for the piñon, their presence an unusual density for this time of year. Still, I focused ahead, walking the same draws and arroyos my father and I once had, my eyes scanning the ground for signs, my ears tuned to the faint chirps and mews of elk hidden in the cool shadows of north-facing slopes. I could feel him with me in those moments, as I always had here—his voice in the wind, his lessons in my muscle memory.
I chose not to pressure the herd bedded deep in the thick timber. I knew where they were. Pushing them would mean pushing them into someone else’s crosshairs. So instead, I shifted. Northeast, two miles or so, to a waterhole I’d found full and undisturbed by boot prints. It was a sanctuary—both for the elk, and for me.
I settled under the shade of a broad piñon and pulled out the book I’d packed. As the clouds cleared near midday, I let my body rest while my mind wandered through its pages. Later, I ate a simple lunch—jerky, a bar, and water—and walked the edge of the pond, collecting a few mule deer sheds. One fresh matching set went into my pack; the rest I left for the mice and the mountain.
Back at the tree, with time still on my side, I opened a plastic grocery bag and began picking piñon, letting the rhythm of harvest take over. By late afternoon, I had a bag full and a peaceful mind. Then, as the sun began to slide westward, something changed.
A whisper on the wind—mews and chirps growing louder. A breath of elk-scented air rolled down the draw. I froze, listening. And then, slowly, shadows began to move. The cows came first, followed by playful calves. They filtered down to the water, tentative and thirsty. I watched, heart pounding but still, as the light drained from the sky and the first guttural grunt echoed from the trees. The herd bull.
He stayed hidden at first, sending his voice ahead like a challenge to the fading sun. Then, suddenly, a cow burst from the pinons, the bull in fast pursuit. He trailed her around the southern edge of the pond, his frame heavy, wide, commanding—my 6x6. He stopped broadside at just 80 yards, threw his head at a spike nearby, and began to step forward, preparing another bugle.
I shouldered my Knight Mountaineer, settled the sights, and squeezed. The muzzle erupted in smoke, the shot echoing through the valley. The herd scattered. The bull collapsed where he had stood.
I approached quietly. The San Juans held the last embers of sunlight on their peaks, while the distant San Antonio Mountain loomed in solemn watch over the valley. When I reached him, the thrashing had stopped. His spirit had gone, and all that remained was his body—and his legacy.
There, in the twilight, I knelt and gave thanks. The work that followed was silent but not lonely. I skinned and quartered him beneath the stars, surrounded by the smells of piñon sap, wet dirt, and elk hide. As my hands moved through the motions, the emotion washed over me. Grief. Gratitude. Closure.
This bull gave me something I didn’t know I still needed—peace in a loss I was never ready for, a reconnection to a man who taught me to walk softly on this land, to listen more than speak, and to hunt not just for meat, but for meaning.
I took no pictures. I didn’t share it online. I wasn’t sure I ever would. But some stories ask to be told—not for likes, not for praise—but because someone else might be walking with grief in their boots and need a reminder that connection can live in the places we return to, and that healing sometimes shows up wearing antlers.
This hunt was mine. The memories and images will stay tucked in the folds of my heart. But the story—this story—is for anyone who’s ever walked into the wild with someone they’ve loved and lost, and found them again, whispering in the wind and watching from just beyond the trees.
