Huntin_GI
WKR
The Story:
This summer I managed to scout the area five separate times for which I had drawn a muzzleloader tag. I talked to CPW, USFS, and every Rokslide member who was interested. I hung cameras, checked cameras, moved cameras, and started to get an idea of the area. Then two days after my last scouting trip, the Cameron Peak Fire melted my southernmost pair of cameras to a tree and shut down the entire area I had spent all summer scouting.
I began to scramble. I was calling CPW trying to prod the tag exchange process along as this trip is not only mine but a family member's from back east. After the tag exchange became official, I immediately went back to the drawing board. It is mid-August at this point.
Step one: Forget the muzzleloader, break out the archery tackle. The problem being, I hadn't shot my bow at all as I was planning on the ol' smoke pole. To top it off, end of last season I adjusted my draw weight down to 55ish lbs after a shoulder injury. I had zero confidence in my equipment. Not to be deterred, I hit the range at Lon Hagler religiously. After a few weeks, I was back on the wagon. Four to six-inch groups out to 75 yards. I still didn't know where we were going to hunt.
Again, phone calls to all the agencies regarding areas of interest. Hours upon hours pouring over maps. After bouncing a few ideas off a good buddy, my partner and I settle on an area.
This area doesn't have any trails depicted with several chunks of private along the road to deter anyone not willing to put in the work. Upon arrival, we realize we were incredibly wrong and find multiple trucks and camps scattered about. We decide to press on with our plan and get packed in. The camp is 4 miles deep. Day one becomes what will always be remembered as the day that water on the map is a damn lie and now we are feeling screwed.
After a 10 mile day, we manage to find aqua, load up with almost 10 liters, and head back to camp. The next day we will try something new.
Wake up, cut out of camp with what's left of our water in our packs. Decide to head in deeper, cross a 600yard rockslide, and find our first fresh wallow. It is 10am. Decide to rip a bugle and to my surprise, we get a response. Not the I am gonna whip your ass response but the yeah I hear ya, shut up type of response. The bull is above us several hundred vertical feet and has limited space due to a rock field behind the nearest bench. I turn to my cousin and tell him we can kill this bull because that's what I learned on the internet.
I break into the best @ElkNut1 breeding sequence I can muster and remain patient. An hour later, I am realizing that I am no Paul Medel. Our thermals are beginning to shift so we decide to swing out and around the point and climb up to the bench the bull is on, hoping the sunny side of the point will keep our wind pointed in the right direction.
We finish the climb through the thickest vegetation we have seen during our trip. Upon arriving at the bench, I give a clean location bugle. Nothing happens. As I sit there on a log, feeling like Hilary Clinton on Nov 3, 2016, I decide I am gonna give it a nasty roar and see what happens. As I finish my bugle and look at my cousin, less than 100 yards away, the bull begins chuckling.
I start shitting myself, while my cousin is saying knock a damn arrow! We slowly stand up as Corey begin's to lift his binos and says "I see him, he looks good." At this point, we have moved 20 yards in the direction of the bull. Corey hits his range finder and says 80 yards. I channeled my inner @Aron Snyder and whispered if there is carbon in the air there is hope and dialed my Tommy Hog to 80 yards. I then realize that if I tell anyone I killed a bull from 80yards with a 55lb bow, I will be banned from Rokslide and have to start using some other shitty forum. So I start sneaking up.
Sneaking would imply I was quiet. I felt like each step managed to be the loudest steps of all time. A blind man riding an electric Walmart cart with a squeaky wheel would have been making less noise. Either way, Im moving forward.
Corey has remained in place and I can hear him saying he is still at 80... After what feels like 700 steps I turn and ask Corey how many yards I am in front of him, only to find out I had made it 5 yards. WTF! He keeps calling my yardage I move up, 7 yards, 9 yards, 12 yards, 15 yards, I freeze. I can do this. I dial my sight down to 65. I go to draw my bow and I am shaking like a dog shitting razor blades. Bull starts chuckling. I see him moving into an open lane. I attempt to look through my peep. Where the hell is my peep, what is going on, is this a stroke? Ooppp there it is. Peep check, grip check, pin check. At this point the bull is broadside. His head is to the right and rump to the left. I can see from 3 inches behind the front shoulder and up. It feels tight. Pin settles. Corey says he moved up, he's at 74. Too late. Brain cannot compute. Punch. Arrow sails. Looks good. Damn 55lb throws a slow arrow. Is it every gonna get there? Thump!
I drilled him! 12 ring. Golden triangle. 30 seconds later big crash. Corey is asking what happened, apparently, my power fists into the sky failed to relay I smashed him.
500 grain arrow with an @ironwill riding on front had blown through. By the time I run up to the arrow I can see the bull dead not 40 yards away.
This was my first elk. The second-year chasing them. Archery. OTC. 8 miles from the car... Butchered for 6 hours. We now have 4oz and 6oz of water respectively. Packed the first load of meat to the tent once again crossing the rockslide bridge dubbed "bridge to Narnia". We arrive back at our tent thankful to find a group setup 100 yards away. After we approach and inform them of our water situation that let us know we both look like shit and gabe us each a bottle of water that I am convinced saved my life. We spent the entire next day packing to get everything to the coolers before 10 PM.
Now I can never cut my mullet as I give it all the credit for my success.
This summer I managed to scout the area five separate times for which I had drawn a muzzleloader tag. I talked to CPW, USFS, and every Rokslide member who was interested. I hung cameras, checked cameras, moved cameras, and started to get an idea of the area. Then two days after my last scouting trip, the Cameron Peak Fire melted my southernmost pair of cameras to a tree and shut down the entire area I had spent all summer scouting.
I began to scramble. I was calling CPW trying to prod the tag exchange process along as this trip is not only mine but a family member's from back east. After the tag exchange became official, I immediately went back to the drawing board. It is mid-August at this point.
Step one: Forget the muzzleloader, break out the archery tackle. The problem being, I hadn't shot my bow at all as I was planning on the ol' smoke pole. To top it off, end of last season I adjusted my draw weight down to 55ish lbs after a shoulder injury. I had zero confidence in my equipment. Not to be deterred, I hit the range at Lon Hagler religiously. After a few weeks, I was back on the wagon. Four to six-inch groups out to 75 yards. I still didn't know where we were going to hunt.
Again, phone calls to all the agencies regarding areas of interest. Hours upon hours pouring over maps. After bouncing a few ideas off a good buddy, my partner and I settle on an area.
This area doesn't have any trails depicted with several chunks of private along the road to deter anyone not willing to put in the work. Upon arrival, we realize we were incredibly wrong and find multiple trucks and camps scattered about. We decide to press on with our plan and get packed in. The camp is 4 miles deep. Day one becomes what will always be remembered as the day that water on the map is a damn lie and now we are feeling screwed.
After a 10 mile day, we manage to find aqua, load up with almost 10 liters, and head back to camp. The next day we will try something new.
Wake up, cut out of camp with what's left of our water in our packs. Decide to head in deeper, cross a 600yard rockslide, and find our first fresh wallow. It is 10am. Decide to rip a bugle and to my surprise, we get a response. Not the I am gonna whip your ass response but the yeah I hear ya, shut up type of response. The bull is above us several hundred vertical feet and has limited space due to a rock field behind the nearest bench. I turn to my cousin and tell him we can kill this bull because that's what I learned on the internet.
I break into the best @ElkNut1 breeding sequence I can muster and remain patient. An hour later, I am realizing that I am no Paul Medel. Our thermals are beginning to shift so we decide to swing out and around the point and climb up to the bench the bull is on, hoping the sunny side of the point will keep our wind pointed in the right direction.
We finish the climb through the thickest vegetation we have seen during our trip. Upon arriving at the bench, I give a clean location bugle. Nothing happens. As I sit there on a log, feeling like Hilary Clinton on Nov 3, 2016, I decide I am gonna give it a nasty roar and see what happens. As I finish my bugle and look at my cousin, less than 100 yards away, the bull begins chuckling.
I start shitting myself, while my cousin is saying knock a damn arrow! We slowly stand up as Corey begin's to lift his binos and says "I see him, he looks good." At this point, we have moved 20 yards in the direction of the bull. Corey hits his range finder and says 80 yards. I channeled my inner @Aron Snyder and whispered if there is carbon in the air there is hope and dialed my Tommy Hog to 80 yards. I then realize that if I tell anyone I killed a bull from 80yards with a 55lb bow, I will be banned from Rokslide and have to start using some other shitty forum. So I start sneaking up.
Sneaking would imply I was quiet. I felt like each step managed to be the loudest steps of all time. A blind man riding an electric Walmart cart with a squeaky wheel would have been making less noise. Either way, Im moving forward.
Corey has remained in place and I can hear him saying he is still at 80... After what feels like 700 steps I turn and ask Corey how many yards I am in front of him, only to find out I had made it 5 yards. WTF! He keeps calling my yardage I move up, 7 yards, 9 yards, 12 yards, 15 yards, I freeze. I can do this. I dial my sight down to 65. I go to draw my bow and I am shaking like a dog shitting razor blades. Bull starts chuckling. I see him moving into an open lane. I attempt to look through my peep. Where the hell is my peep, what is going on, is this a stroke? Ooppp there it is. Peep check, grip check, pin check. At this point the bull is broadside. His head is to the right and rump to the left. I can see from 3 inches behind the front shoulder and up. It feels tight. Pin settles. Corey says he moved up, he's at 74. Too late. Brain cannot compute. Punch. Arrow sails. Looks good. Damn 55lb throws a slow arrow. Is it every gonna get there? Thump!
I drilled him! 12 ring. Golden triangle. 30 seconds later big crash. Corey is asking what happened, apparently, my power fists into the sky failed to relay I smashed him.
500 grain arrow with an @ironwill riding on front had blown through. By the time I run up to the arrow I can see the bull dead not 40 yards away.
This was my first elk. The second-year chasing them. Archery. OTC. 8 miles from the car... Butchered for 6 hours. We now have 4oz and 6oz of water respectively. Packed the first load of meat to the tent once again crossing the rockslide bridge dubbed "bridge to Narnia". We arrive back at our tent thankful to find a group setup 100 yards away. After we approach and inform them of our water situation that let us know we both look like shit and gabe us each a bottle of water that I am convinced saved my life. We spent the entire next day packing to get everything to the coolers before 10 PM.
Now I can never cut my mullet as I give it all the credit for my success.
![IMG_8819[1].jpg](https://forumdata.rokslide.com/file/forumdata/data/attachments/190/190309-04013c378ca4591603e43d7050310ba4.jpg "IMG_8819[1].jpg")
