horstgraben
FNG
- Joined
- Oct 2, 2024
- Messages
- 8
Prior to this hunt I had only ever shot one 4x4 raghorn bull back in 2018 when I lived in Montana. That was a proud moment for me and a memorable hunt in its own right, complete with an exciting mountain lion sighting, a frigid fog-enshrouded ambush, a solo butcherfest in a foot of snow, and my first time gaping at the size of a wapiti backstrap.
This year, this hunt, was more than I ever could have imagined. With just five bonus points I was fortunate to pull a late-season rifle tag in one of the most acclaimed units in my home state of Nevada. A chaotic and busy summer/fall filled with professional and personal travel left me no time or energy to drive over seven hours away to scout in person, and as the season approached a dichotomous sense of dread and eagerness consumed me. Whenever I had a free minute I poured over satellite imagery, OnX, and various topos. I crammed in time drawing and redrawing hiking routes, calculating viewsheds, and gleaning what information I could from various forums (including this one). Two good friends had generously pledged their own vacation days to join me, alas one had to bail a week prior due to a bout of achilles tendonitis. For my part, I had dialed back my daily sporting pursuits, terrified by the idea of getting injured as the hunt neared.
Friday night I wandered into a smokey bar in Eastern NV, my buddy sat alone finishing his meal amidst the din of revelry and vice. He had arrived only an hour prior having made the drive all the way from Western MT, a good friend indeed. We caravanned into the mountains, darkness and dust our companions. A hasty camp made beneath a Nevada starry sky, alarms set for 4am.
Morning came and we wove through spacious stands of pinyon pine and open sage flats, our dim red headlamps barely necessary. A couple of miles into the wilderness we set up on a boulder-studded gumdrop hill. It was my friend's first time in true Basin & Range country, and I couldn't wait for his reaction once the sun rose. It didn't disappoint. Rich reds and oranges spattered across the landscape as we began glassing in earnest.
It seemed my e-scouting had paid off. At 8:30am I spotted the unmistakable swing and swagger of a giant bull a mile further up in the mountains. We took our time watching him as he lazily fed and named him the 'Fortress Bull' after his seemingly impregnable position. I suppose they don't get that big by hanging out anywhere else. We leapfrogged each other, slowly closing the distance while maintaining a visual the entire time. The bull had bedded and remained so for quite a while. We came up with a rough plan to go after him, I would drop down beneath the bull's citadel and then back up on a slightly opposing slope with a patch of low mahogany we hoped would provide a clear line of sight.
Unsurprisingly, scale and perspective immediately went out the window once I began to ascend the complex and densely timbered mountainside. Vegetation altered my route more than I would have liked, and I ended up climbing a steep snowy gully directly beneath his last known location. Not five minutes later I almost gasped aloud when a mere 30 yards away the massive head of a bull elk swiveled to stare right at me from behind a screen of branches. In a matter of seconds he had crashed upwards and out of my life to the north. Tail between my legs I clumsily slid and tromped back down the slope to meet up with my buddy. We began comparing notes on the incident and realized we had conflicting accounts. As it turns out, I had stumbled upon a second bull our hours of glassing had not discovered, and in the midst of the encounter the Fortress Bull had calmly slipped out of sight to the south. We made a halfhearted attempt to follow his trajectory before commencing our long walk back to camp. An amazing first day.
Given the success of our first glassing spot, we decided to head a few drainages over and try another zone I had mapped out. Same recipe as the day before, 4am wakeup, two miles of hiking by headlamp, nestled between boulders on a lofty rise well before shooting light. After no more than five minutes of glassing through the dull pre-dawn haze my vision settled on a herd of fifteen cow elk feeding a half mile off. No bulls present, but always enjoyable to watch them from afar. The youngest in the group prancing and nipping about like puppy dogs. We turned our attention back to the west where more elky terrain demanded our eyes. My friend glassed up a lone spike and another small group of cows. I then caught a glimpse of yet another herd of cows with a raghorn bull in tow. We were certainly in the thick of it!
However, what really had us excited was the occasional bugle that came ripping out of a stand of far off pinyon-juniper. We only heard it every half hour or so, but every time we did we would look away from our binos and make eye contact, the implicit question, is that a bugling bull in late November? I was skeptical and thought it had to be some desperate hunter hoping to stir things up, but we hadn't seen anyone since leaving town, and my friend wisely counseled that there was no harm in treating it as an elk regardless. As the morning progressed we began to notice something. All three of the separate cow herds and the lone spike began to move towards the same place, drawn across the wilderness by these mysterious bugles as if on a string. This bull had a name now too, the 'Pied Piper'.
We hung back and tried to mirror their movements as the multiple groups coalesced into a single herd filing between the pines. We debated trying to line up a shot on the 5x5 raghorn, but put little effort towards making it happen. I found myself grappling with a novel personal conundrum. I have, and always will be, a meat-priority hunter. I abide by the adage "don't pass up on the first day what you would love to have on the last day" if for no other reason than the fact that I lack the experience, confidence, and skill to turn down a present opportunity for an unpromised future. But, with prehistoric bugles resonating from the forest and memories of the Fortress Bull fresh in my mind, I couldn't bring myself to commit to the raghorn that was filling my binos. Trying to keep the herd in view, we worked our way up to the top of a bald knob. At this point we were now almost four miles from the truck, the Pied Piper's bugling had fallen quiet, and our conversation turned to strategizing our exit. As the final beige cow rumps vanished in the distance I put my eye to the spotter one last time...and there he was.
In full glory, stomping up the ridgeline, the Pied Piper finally made himself known. His antlers, scimitars of bone, lurched and stirred through the air, and my brain just about broke. I probably sounded crazy as I turned to my buddy, "big bull, big bull!" I did not handle it coolly. The wind was right, the terrain was right, I could make it happen. My friend didn't even bother to look through the scope, he knew from my incoherent babbling it was a bull to make a move on. I went ahead, leaving my pack, practically running down from our glassing spot and traversing on a contour. I quickly covered a half mile, gaining the same ridge feature where I had last seen the bull. From a quarter mile behind me my buddy began to cow call. The response was immediate and shocking for so late in the season. The Pied Piper, in the midst of chasing a cow, turned and let loose with a bugle. For the next several minutes it was amazing to witness my friend cow calling, the bull vigorously responding, one-for-one with no delay. While the rest of the herd had continued further across the mountain, my partner's cow calling not only kept the bull present, but began to draw him back in our direction. I heard the distinct crack and smash of his antlers defiling some poor tree and caught glimpses of his tawny side and legs as he sauntered up the ridge. At about 50 yards he noticed my presence, turned and belted out a bugle straight into my face. With no wind, sound, or movement to convince him of danger his curiosity got the better of him and he fatefully stepped a bit closer and out from behind cover. I put two rounds into him within three seconds at a distance of 44 yards. The first garnered little reaction even though it ravaged his heart. My second shot, a hair lower, opened up his blood-filled body cavity and it poured out of him in a scene that would have made Quentin Tarantino queasy. He fell almost instantly, and a wave of adrenaline, relief, sorrow, and pride washed over me.
The evening was spent parting and bagging the meat before trudging the long way 7.5 miles back to camp. Sore and tired, but overwhelmed with the wondrousness of the day. The following morning we awoke to thick fog and wet snow, glad to have gotten it done when we did. Back home now, the comedown from such a memorable trip has been heavy. Once in a lifetime, I suppose.
This year, this hunt, was more than I ever could have imagined. With just five bonus points I was fortunate to pull a late-season rifle tag in one of the most acclaimed units in my home state of Nevada. A chaotic and busy summer/fall filled with professional and personal travel left me no time or energy to drive over seven hours away to scout in person, and as the season approached a dichotomous sense of dread and eagerness consumed me. Whenever I had a free minute I poured over satellite imagery, OnX, and various topos. I crammed in time drawing and redrawing hiking routes, calculating viewsheds, and gleaning what information I could from various forums (including this one). Two good friends had generously pledged their own vacation days to join me, alas one had to bail a week prior due to a bout of achilles tendonitis. For my part, I had dialed back my daily sporting pursuits, terrified by the idea of getting injured as the hunt neared.
Friday night I wandered into a smokey bar in Eastern NV, my buddy sat alone finishing his meal amidst the din of revelry and vice. He had arrived only an hour prior having made the drive all the way from Western MT, a good friend indeed. We caravanned into the mountains, darkness and dust our companions. A hasty camp made beneath a Nevada starry sky, alarms set for 4am.
Morning came and we wove through spacious stands of pinyon pine and open sage flats, our dim red headlamps barely necessary. A couple of miles into the wilderness we set up on a boulder-studded gumdrop hill. It was my friend's first time in true Basin & Range country, and I couldn't wait for his reaction once the sun rose. It didn't disappoint. Rich reds and oranges spattered across the landscape as we began glassing in earnest.
It seemed my e-scouting had paid off. At 8:30am I spotted the unmistakable swing and swagger of a giant bull a mile further up in the mountains. We took our time watching him as he lazily fed and named him the 'Fortress Bull' after his seemingly impregnable position. I suppose they don't get that big by hanging out anywhere else. We leapfrogged each other, slowly closing the distance while maintaining a visual the entire time. The bull had bedded and remained so for quite a while. We came up with a rough plan to go after him, I would drop down beneath the bull's citadel and then back up on a slightly opposing slope with a patch of low mahogany we hoped would provide a clear line of sight.
Unsurprisingly, scale and perspective immediately went out the window once I began to ascend the complex and densely timbered mountainside. Vegetation altered my route more than I would have liked, and I ended up climbing a steep snowy gully directly beneath his last known location. Not five minutes later I almost gasped aloud when a mere 30 yards away the massive head of a bull elk swiveled to stare right at me from behind a screen of branches. In a matter of seconds he had crashed upwards and out of my life to the north. Tail between my legs I clumsily slid and tromped back down the slope to meet up with my buddy. We began comparing notes on the incident and realized we had conflicting accounts. As it turns out, I had stumbled upon a second bull our hours of glassing had not discovered, and in the midst of the encounter the Fortress Bull had calmly slipped out of sight to the south. We made a halfhearted attempt to follow his trajectory before commencing our long walk back to camp. An amazing first day.
Given the success of our first glassing spot, we decided to head a few drainages over and try another zone I had mapped out. Same recipe as the day before, 4am wakeup, two miles of hiking by headlamp, nestled between boulders on a lofty rise well before shooting light. After no more than five minutes of glassing through the dull pre-dawn haze my vision settled on a herd of fifteen cow elk feeding a half mile off. No bulls present, but always enjoyable to watch them from afar. The youngest in the group prancing and nipping about like puppy dogs. We turned our attention back to the west where more elky terrain demanded our eyes. My friend glassed up a lone spike and another small group of cows. I then caught a glimpse of yet another herd of cows with a raghorn bull in tow. We were certainly in the thick of it!
However, what really had us excited was the occasional bugle that came ripping out of a stand of far off pinyon-juniper. We only heard it every half hour or so, but every time we did we would look away from our binos and make eye contact, the implicit question, is that a bugling bull in late November? I was skeptical and thought it had to be some desperate hunter hoping to stir things up, but we hadn't seen anyone since leaving town, and my friend wisely counseled that there was no harm in treating it as an elk regardless. As the morning progressed we began to notice something. All three of the separate cow herds and the lone spike began to move towards the same place, drawn across the wilderness by these mysterious bugles as if on a string. This bull had a name now too, the 'Pied Piper'.
We hung back and tried to mirror their movements as the multiple groups coalesced into a single herd filing between the pines. We debated trying to line up a shot on the 5x5 raghorn, but put little effort towards making it happen. I found myself grappling with a novel personal conundrum. I have, and always will be, a meat-priority hunter. I abide by the adage "don't pass up on the first day what you would love to have on the last day" if for no other reason than the fact that I lack the experience, confidence, and skill to turn down a present opportunity for an unpromised future. But, with prehistoric bugles resonating from the forest and memories of the Fortress Bull fresh in my mind, I couldn't bring myself to commit to the raghorn that was filling my binos. Trying to keep the herd in view, we worked our way up to the top of a bald knob. At this point we were now almost four miles from the truck, the Pied Piper's bugling had fallen quiet, and our conversation turned to strategizing our exit. As the final beige cow rumps vanished in the distance I put my eye to the spotter one last time...and there he was.
In full glory, stomping up the ridgeline, the Pied Piper finally made himself known. His antlers, scimitars of bone, lurched and stirred through the air, and my brain just about broke. I probably sounded crazy as I turned to my buddy, "big bull, big bull!" I did not handle it coolly. The wind was right, the terrain was right, I could make it happen. My friend didn't even bother to look through the scope, he knew from my incoherent babbling it was a bull to make a move on. I went ahead, leaving my pack, practically running down from our glassing spot and traversing on a contour. I quickly covered a half mile, gaining the same ridge feature where I had last seen the bull. From a quarter mile behind me my buddy began to cow call. The response was immediate and shocking for so late in the season. The Pied Piper, in the midst of chasing a cow, turned and let loose with a bugle. For the next several minutes it was amazing to witness my friend cow calling, the bull vigorously responding, one-for-one with no delay. While the rest of the herd had continued further across the mountain, my partner's cow calling not only kept the bull present, but began to draw him back in our direction. I heard the distinct crack and smash of his antlers defiling some poor tree and caught glimpses of his tawny side and legs as he sauntered up the ridge. At about 50 yards he noticed my presence, turned and belted out a bugle straight into my face. With no wind, sound, or movement to convince him of danger his curiosity got the better of him and he fatefully stepped a bit closer and out from behind cover. I put two rounds into him within three seconds at a distance of 44 yards. The first garnered little reaction even though it ravaged his heart. My second shot, a hair lower, opened up his blood-filled body cavity and it poured out of him in a scene that would have made Quentin Tarantino queasy. He fell almost instantly, and a wave of adrenaline, relief, sorrow, and pride washed over me.
The evening was spent parting and bagging the meat before trudging the long way 7.5 miles back to camp. Sore and tired, but overwhelmed with the wondrousness of the day. The following morning we awoke to thick fog and wet snow, glad to have gotten it done when we did. Back home now, the comedown from such a memorable trip has been heavy. Once in a lifetime, I suppose.
