This story is one that will resonate with me for my lifetime. The story that seems controversial to the non-hunters and hits close to home to a lot of hunters. The story that makes me sick to my stomach. The story that keeps me going harder and harder each year. The story that lurks in the back of my mind each hunting season. The story that keeps me coming back. The comeback story of a lifetime in fact.
Steven and I started Way Up West Outdoors in April of 2019, we wanted to share our burning passion for the pursuit of wild things with the world. We vowed to each other and to our consumers that we would be transparent in our hunting endeavors. Sharing the good, the bad, the ugly, and the inevitable – failure. Sharing this story of the “6.5 Bull” is hard to relive and put out there for the world to see. But here it is…
September 3, 2017:
On my second solo hunt of the season I arrowed my first animal. After 1,000s of practice arrows and years of shooting my bow consistently, the repetitive work finally seemed to pay off. My bow and body appeared to mesh as one, running like a well-oiled machine.
I was patiently waiting for an elk - any elk - to give me an opportunity to put my hard-earned skills to the test. I was more than willing to settle for just about anything in elk form to not only notch my belt for my first archery harvest, but also my first elk. I went from rifle deer hunting with my dad when I was a teenager, to now my second year archery elk hunting on a general OTC Idaho tag. I had essentially gone from tee ball to the big leagues.
Solo archery hunting for elk is a difficult task all by itself. Add another ailment of only having one unsuccessful season under my belt and now you’ve got a tall order. Steven has a crazy rotating schedule and I work 3 days during the week, I wasn’t going to let the silly fact that he is at work stop me from trying to get my first elk. You can’t kill them from the couch! I had been tagging along on hunting trips my entire life, so I understood game habits and had engrained “where to shoot” from a young age. Feeling confident in my skillset I stepped out of my comfort zone and ventured out on my own.
September in SE Idaho can have extremely temperamental weather. This particular year it was scorching hot at the beginning of the season. So, I chose to sit on water in a tree stand since I wasn’t confident with calls or navigating our new area quite yet.
They say a watched pot never boils, this seems to trend true for me and elk hunting. After watching and listening intently as the golden hour of morning seemed to fade away, I was kindly reminded by my stomach that I hadn’t eaten much yet. Digging around in my pack I scored a Cliffbar, I quickly and loudly unwrapped it. Taking a bite and cramming the loudest wrapper on planet Earth into my cargo pocket, I heard something cracking and popping directly in front of me. A roughly 600lb animal gracefully making its way towards me looking for a drink.
A beautiful bull emerged from the tree line, making a B line to the water I was sitting above presenting no shot opportunity. He drank, drank, drank, and drank. Minutes of drinking which in turn meant minutes of me gazing at him and all of his beauty. Bow in hand I waited, it had to be perfect. I had decided he was a 6 ½ point bull. I couldn’t tell what had happened to his left side, but I didn’t care, I wanted him. He was unique, different, and incredibly majestic. I imagined he would exit the way he entered which wouldn’t present a shot for me.
Making an audible after his long drink, he walked himself directly into my shooting lane. In the moments of hearing this bull just above me in the trees to having him under 20 yards within minutes I found myself calm, cool, and collected at full draw. Patiently waiting for my perfect opportunity, I picked my shot placement and waited for what felt like an eternity.
As I let my arrow rip through the morning air it was all over in the blink of an eye. Spinning around after my arrow had made a complete pass through - the exit hole was money. He vanished in a second running through the thick aspen trees breaking every branch along the way.
Alone in the woods my bow dropped to my side in relief as I listened for only a few seconds to finally hear my bull crash to the earth. All I could think was - I did it. I hadn’t harvested an animal in 8 years. The long awaited anticipation of this moment poured out of me like a faucet. Something I had been dreaming of since my teenage years.
Beaming back to reality I remembered I was alone, and I was going to need some help. Steven and I had made hypothetical plans if I were to harvest an elk while I was solo, all of it depending on time of day and where about I was on the mountain. Knowing the temperature was climbing as the minutes went on, I had to make the call and make it fast. I crawled out of the stand, shaking with adrenaline I decided to make my own audible. Instead of hiking 25-30 minutes back to the truck, driving 20 minutes to cell service, making a phone call, waiting at least an hour to an hour and a half for help, hike back into where I shot him and THEN begin tracking, I set out to make the time frame of recovery shorter. I hiked out of the canyon and went straight up the ridgeline until I got enough service to get a phone call out.
After a few phone calls, I rallied my troop of one amazing brother in law! He was just as excited as I was and on his way to help. We both agreed with the rising temps, and it being 40 minutes since I had arrowed the bull that I should hike back in and begin tracking – alone. If I found him, I needed to open him up to begin cooling the meat. If I ran into a snag or lost blood I would hike out and wait for him at the truck.
Recovering my arrow exactly where the bull spun, I started down the dual sided blood trail snaking through the thick trees. I had never tracked an animal on my own before, but it seemed too easy until the blood completely shut off. Running into a dead end I followed the plan, hiking out and getting back to the truck just as Earl pulled in. Hustling back into the canyon, racing the clock I took him back to where it all went down. We quickly celebrated my “dead bull” and ran through the blood trail. Winding up back at the dead end, it was still just that.
The dead end blood trail shut off at the edge of an enormous clearing. This clearing had waist to chest high sagebrush covering it. With one short antler on his left side it would make it nearly impossible to see antlers sticking up. Travel routes out of the clearing were endless which was daunting. After spending hours on our hands and knees to turn leaves and twigs we were finally heading back in the right direction. More help including my sister, in-laws, and one of our great friends showed up to help with the pack out. We searched high and low with no elk to show for it. A series of unfortunate events lead us back to camp at dark - empty handed.
Trying to remain positive in this situation was nearly impossible. With the peak heat of the day being around the mid 80s I knew my meat was just spoiling. Sleep that night was also difficult. Replays of the shot streamed through my head until the next morning. I picked everything I could think of apart - what failed, where did it fail, did I fail, or was it a fluke? I shot my bow at camp to ensure nothing had happened to my bow or sight, it was dead on. Unable to blame equipment I directed it right at myself. They say we are our toughest critic; this couldn’t be truer in these dark hours of guilt and blame.
CONTINUED IN COMMENTS
Steven and I started Way Up West Outdoors in April of 2019, we wanted to share our burning passion for the pursuit of wild things with the world. We vowed to each other and to our consumers that we would be transparent in our hunting endeavors. Sharing the good, the bad, the ugly, and the inevitable – failure. Sharing this story of the “6.5 Bull” is hard to relive and put out there for the world to see. But here it is…
September 3, 2017:
On my second solo hunt of the season I arrowed my first animal. After 1,000s of practice arrows and years of shooting my bow consistently, the repetitive work finally seemed to pay off. My bow and body appeared to mesh as one, running like a well-oiled machine.
I was patiently waiting for an elk - any elk - to give me an opportunity to put my hard-earned skills to the test. I was more than willing to settle for just about anything in elk form to not only notch my belt for my first archery harvest, but also my first elk. I went from rifle deer hunting with my dad when I was a teenager, to now my second year archery elk hunting on a general OTC Idaho tag. I had essentially gone from tee ball to the big leagues.
Solo archery hunting for elk is a difficult task all by itself. Add another ailment of only having one unsuccessful season under my belt and now you’ve got a tall order. Steven has a crazy rotating schedule and I work 3 days during the week, I wasn’t going to let the silly fact that he is at work stop me from trying to get my first elk. You can’t kill them from the couch! I had been tagging along on hunting trips my entire life, so I understood game habits and had engrained “where to shoot” from a young age. Feeling confident in my skillset I stepped out of my comfort zone and ventured out on my own.
September in SE Idaho can have extremely temperamental weather. This particular year it was scorching hot at the beginning of the season. So, I chose to sit on water in a tree stand since I wasn’t confident with calls or navigating our new area quite yet.
They say a watched pot never boils, this seems to trend true for me and elk hunting. After watching and listening intently as the golden hour of morning seemed to fade away, I was kindly reminded by my stomach that I hadn’t eaten much yet. Digging around in my pack I scored a Cliffbar, I quickly and loudly unwrapped it. Taking a bite and cramming the loudest wrapper on planet Earth into my cargo pocket, I heard something cracking and popping directly in front of me. A roughly 600lb animal gracefully making its way towards me looking for a drink.
A beautiful bull emerged from the tree line, making a B line to the water I was sitting above presenting no shot opportunity. He drank, drank, drank, and drank. Minutes of drinking which in turn meant minutes of me gazing at him and all of his beauty. Bow in hand I waited, it had to be perfect. I had decided he was a 6 ½ point bull. I couldn’t tell what had happened to his left side, but I didn’t care, I wanted him. He was unique, different, and incredibly majestic. I imagined he would exit the way he entered which wouldn’t present a shot for me.
Making an audible after his long drink, he walked himself directly into my shooting lane. In the moments of hearing this bull just above me in the trees to having him under 20 yards within minutes I found myself calm, cool, and collected at full draw. Patiently waiting for my perfect opportunity, I picked my shot placement and waited for what felt like an eternity.
As I let my arrow rip through the morning air it was all over in the blink of an eye. Spinning around after my arrow had made a complete pass through - the exit hole was money. He vanished in a second running through the thick aspen trees breaking every branch along the way.
Alone in the woods my bow dropped to my side in relief as I listened for only a few seconds to finally hear my bull crash to the earth. All I could think was - I did it. I hadn’t harvested an animal in 8 years. The long awaited anticipation of this moment poured out of me like a faucet. Something I had been dreaming of since my teenage years.
Beaming back to reality I remembered I was alone, and I was going to need some help. Steven and I had made hypothetical plans if I were to harvest an elk while I was solo, all of it depending on time of day and where about I was on the mountain. Knowing the temperature was climbing as the minutes went on, I had to make the call and make it fast. I crawled out of the stand, shaking with adrenaline I decided to make my own audible. Instead of hiking 25-30 minutes back to the truck, driving 20 minutes to cell service, making a phone call, waiting at least an hour to an hour and a half for help, hike back into where I shot him and THEN begin tracking, I set out to make the time frame of recovery shorter. I hiked out of the canyon and went straight up the ridgeline until I got enough service to get a phone call out.
After a few phone calls, I rallied my troop of one amazing brother in law! He was just as excited as I was and on his way to help. We both agreed with the rising temps, and it being 40 minutes since I had arrowed the bull that I should hike back in and begin tracking – alone. If I found him, I needed to open him up to begin cooling the meat. If I ran into a snag or lost blood I would hike out and wait for him at the truck.
Recovering my arrow exactly where the bull spun, I started down the dual sided blood trail snaking through the thick trees. I had never tracked an animal on my own before, but it seemed too easy until the blood completely shut off. Running into a dead end I followed the plan, hiking out and getting back to the truck just as Earl pulled in. Hustling back into the canyon, racing the clock I took him back to where it all went down. We quickly celebrated my “dead bull” and ran through the blood trail. Winding up back at the dead end, it was still just that.
The dead end blood trail shut off at the edge of an enormous clearing. This clearing had waist to chest high sagebrush covering it. With one short antler on his left side it would make it nearly impossible to see antlers sticking up. Travel routes out of the clearing were endless which was daunting. After spending hours on our hands and knees to turn leaves and twigs we were finally heading back in the right direction. More help including my sister, in-laws, and one of our great friends showed up to help with the pack out. We searched high and low with no elk to show for it. A series of unfortunate events lead us back to camp at dark - empty handed.
Trying to remain positive in this situation was nearly impossible. With the peak heat of the day being around the mid 80s I knew my meat was just spoiling. Sleep that night was also difficult. Replays of the shot streamed through my head until the next morning. I picked everything I could think of apart - what failed, where did it fail, did I fail, or was it a fluke? I shot my bow at camp to ensure nothing had happened to my bow or sight, it was dead on. Unable to blame equipment I directed it right at myself. They say we are our toughest critic; this couldn’t be truer in these dark hours of guilt and blame.
CONTINUED IN COMMENTS
