bulgarbart
Member
- Joined
- Dec 19, 2018
- Messages
- 17
As a high school football coach, my hunting opportunities are at times limited. With that piece of knowledge in mind, I have changed my application strategy to applying for late-season hunt opportunities that allow me a chance to get out after our season has wrapped up. Up until this year, I had not had an overwhelming amount of luck with the drawing, but this past June that changed as I was lucky enough to draw my first choice late-season rifle elk hunt.
My dad, my brother, my son, and I were able to hunt for two days and look over a whole lot of bulls and elk as well as explore some new country. We had numerous opportunities to take long, hard looks at multiple beautiful animals. I even had the chance to view a few through the rifle scope, but could not find one that I wanted to put my tag on. On the morning of day two, we were able to put a stalk on a nice herd of bulls, as we stalked them they crested out onto the flat atop the mountain we were on.
One, two, three, four bulls. No shooter. Five, six, seven, eight bulls now trotted lightly across the plain stopping to look back every few seconds. Still nothing worth tagging out on. Nine and ten crested out. Nope, not them either. Eleven. “Now that’s a shooter,” my brother and I whispered nearly simultaneously as bull twelve (another small raghorn) crested behind him.
His body size, mass, beam length, tine length, and height stuck out so vividly against the white backdrop that the moment seemed to slow down like a movie scene. I steadied on him took my breaths, and squeezed off the first shot without accounting for the slight trot he was on. The 190-grain bullet hit powerfully with a deep “whop” but was slightly back of the desired point of impact. At the crack of the shot, the other herd-mates took haste across the top and off into the distance. The big bull’s body language changed immediately and he took a few quick steps forward then slowed, I settled my aim on his vitals again, this time waiting on him to pause his movement, breathed, and squeezed the trigger once again. This time despite the telltale “whop” of impact and what would later be revealed as perfect shot placement, the bull showed no physical signs of impact. He began a slow walk for another ten yards where he stopped once more, and, not wanting him to drop further in off the backside, I placed the final round that anchored the majestic bull right through the vitals. The bull lay his body and rested his head just beyond the edge of the sage line out on a white field with small, golden brush breaking up through the blanket of snow.
I walked up on him to confirm the kill with a sense of gratitude for the sacrifice of a truly majestic bull and the experience I had just shared with my brother and nature. We took a few photos and then set to the work of making use of the elk’s sacrifice. We moved the meat to the edge of the ridge top, loaded our packs with the first load, picked a line down the mountain towards the road, and headed down to celebrate with my dad and son.
The hunt was a great opportunity to share the hill with my son, dad, and brother. We were more than happy to go home with this fine bull and look forward to making many more hunting memories!
My dad, my brother, my son, and I were able to hunt for two days and look over a whole lot of bulls and elk as well as explore some new country. We had numerous opportunities to take long, hard looks at multiple beautiful animals. I even had the chance to view a few through the rifle scope, but could not find one that I wanted to put my tag on. On the morning of day two, we were able to put a stalk on a nice herd of bulls, as we stalked them they crested out onto the flat atop the mountain we were on.
One, two, three, four bulls. No shooter. Five, six, seven, eight bulls now trotted lightly across the plain stopping to look back every few seconds. Still nothing worth tagging out on. Nine and ten crested out. Nope, not them either. Eleven. “Now that’s a shooter,” my brother and I whispered nearly simultaneously as bull twelve (another small raghorn) crested behind him.
His body size, mass, beam length, tine length, and height stuck out so vividly against the white backdrop that the moment seemed to slow down like a movie scene. I steadied on him took my breaths, and squeezed off the first shot without accounting for the slight trot he was on. The 190-grain bullet hit powerfully with a deep “whop” but was slightly back of the desired point of impact. At the crack of the shot, the other herd-mates took haste across the top and off into the distance. The big bull’s body language changed immediately and he took a few quick steps forward then slowed, I settled my aim on his vitals again, this time waiting on him to pause his movement, breathed, and squeezed the trigger once again. This time despite the telltale “whop” of impact and what would later be revealed as perfect shot placement, the bull showed no physical signs of impact. He began a slow walk for another ten yards where he stopped once more, and, not wanting him to drop further in off the backside, I placed the final round that anchored the majestic bull right through the vitals. The bull lay his body and rested his head just beyond the edge of the sage line out on a white field with small, golden brush breaking up through the blanket of snow.
I walked up on him to confirm the kill with a sense of gratitude for the sacrifice of a truly majestic bull and the experience I had just shared with my brother and nature. We took a few photos and then set to the work of making use of the elk’s sacrifice. We moved the meat to the edge of the ridge top, loaded our packs with the first load, picked a line down the mountain towards the road, and headed down to celebrate with my dad and son.
The hunt was a great opportunity to share the hill with my son, dad, and brother. We were more than happy to go home with this fine bull and look forward to making many more hunting memories!
