I live for the second week of September in Montana.
Why Montana? Its mountains are tailor made for bowhunting elk—gorgeous sprawling terrain with numerous open, grassy meadows for glassing, but still enough broken country to put a stalk on a bull.
Unlike many other bowhunters, I don’t call elk. In the area I hunt, I’ve found I only call in small, satellite bulls, not the herd bulls I’m after, and calling gives away my position. Instead of calling, I focus on getting the wind right and determining where the elk are headed. I move according to what the elk do. In this style of hunting you have to be mobile, move quickly, and be willing to change your plans in a split second.
On this hunt we hiked above a spot we call “hole in the wall,”—two big watering holes on the side of steep hill. Over the years we’ve had lots of success in this spot because the thermals are consistent and we can catch the elk moving to and from water.
As we surveyed the landscape, we could hear a bull bugling below us as the herd slowly worked closer. By the time the first cows appeared over the hillside, we had positioned ourselves where we thought they would pass within 30 yards. As the cows came closer, the bull popped over the hill 300 yards behind them. The cows were nearly on top of us now. As soon as they passed, they would likely catch our wind.
Thankfully, the lead cow stopped to feed and the others followed along. Now the big bull—a 6 by 5—was within 50 yards. I drew my bow as he moved behind a tree. When he emerged, I found a hole among the tangle of brush I was hidden in and settled my pin on him. Whack! As I released the arrow it sailed into a branch I hadn’t noticed, sending it sailing away as the bull ran off down the hill.
The next morning the elk were higher up the canyon. Hiking to the top of the ridge, we stopped as we heard soft mews and branches snapping ahead of us. We set up quickly and waited, but after an hour the sounds of elk slowly faded away and it seemed like they had changed course and moved off. We decided to follow in the direction where we thought they went, but hadn’t taken ten steps when a bull bugled from the meadow behind us.
When we caught sight of him, he was heading straight towards us—a bigger bull than the day before, a clean 6 by 6 with long beams. Later, we guessed he had caught our movement, assumed we were elk, and was just curious enough to come check us out. Regardless, we moved a short distance to get the wind in our favor.
When we saw him again, he was coming straight at us and fast. My heart pounded as he approached only a few yards away. As he stepped behind a tree I drew my bow, but he caught the movement and stopped, staring at me. I waited. After what seemed like an eternity at full draw, he took another step and I released the arrow. It sailed over his back, and stuck in a tree behind him.
Another miss, two mornings in a row. How the hell did I screw that up? I took another trophy photo with the tree I shot—matching the branch from the morning before. If you can’t laugh at yourself, then whom can you laugh at?
With just the evening left to hunt it was now the bottom of the ninth. With no idea where the elk would be, we headed back to the “hole in the wall.” Halfway there we got lucky and spotted elk moving north of us. To reach them, our only option was to cross a huge open meadow and go right at the herd. Somehow we made it and settled into a small stand of trees at the edge of the meadow right as the herd emerged from the timber. We had the wind in our faces. Now we just needed an opportunity.
I locked onto a bull moving on my right but was jarred from my focus when another bull screamed to my left. I slowly edged around the tree and saw a nice bull standing within shooting distance. When he put his head down to feed I drew, but as I drew he turned and started back towards the thick timber. Just before he reached the trees he stopped and offered a perfect broadside shot. I slowly squeezed the release.
The arrow found its mark and the bull stumbled off, stopping after about 20 yards. I quickly nocked another arrow, drew back, and let it fly. That second arrow also found its mark. This time when he ran off, we heard him crash in the timber just a few seconds later. Third time’s the charm. The sun was setting as we approached the fallen bull on that last, best night in Montana.
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