For father-son team, an elk hunt to remember

Editor’s note: With general hunting season starting this weekend, we thought this story from two Columbia Falls hunters would be an enjoyable read.

“Sept. 23rd. Tomorrow. That’s my day."

I said it casually to my friend Sean while we were standing on the sidelines of my youngest son Ayden’s football game in Bigfork.

“Why that day?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“I don’t know. It just feels like that day is consistent in my area for the rut. It feels lucky.”

The afternoon had been unusually warm for late September in Montana. We soaked up the sunshine while cheering on Ayden and talking about elk. The weather was beautiful, and I found myself telling stories about all the encounters Henry, my oldest son and I have had, and didn’t have, during the first few weeks of archery season.

It had already been an eventful year.

Opening weekend was the most active elk hunting opening weekends I can remember. Henry, a hunting and fishing fanatic, had opportunities most hunters only dream about. In three days, we called in three different bulls inside 60 yards. One was a heavy 6x6 that appeared out of nowhere and stood glaring at him from just 26 yards away. Despite the close encounters, none of those bulls ever offered a clean shot.

After that explosive start, things went silent.

Like most working hunters, Henry and I became weekend warriors. The elk seemed to disappear. Every trip ended with more miles on our boots than bugles in our ears. While Henry was stuck at work, I had finally started a week of vacation and intended to make the most of what many consider the best week of elk season.

I woke up hours before daylight on Sept. 23rd.

As I drove the winding gravel roads into the mountains, I found myself reflecting on the season. We had plenty of excitement, plenty of opportunity, but no elk on the ground. I was beginning to prepare myself mentally for another season that would be remembered more for the adventure than the harvest.

The moon hung high and bright, nearly full, casting enough light that a headlamp was hardly necessary. I stopped at several locations and bugled into the darkness.

Nothing.

Silence.

At my intended calling spot, I stepped out of the truck and tried again.

Still nothing.

Cold air and silence surrounded me.

Not wanting to become too frustrated, I decided to head back toward the truck and grabbed a short nap before daylight.

That’s when I heard it.

A faint bugle echoed from somewhere deep in a nasty draw.

At first, I thought I was imagining things.

I spun around and sent a high-pitched locator bugle into the darkness.

Before the last note left my tube, he cut me off.

Game on.

This bull was in a steep drainage where I’d heard elk many times before but never managed to lay eyes on.

I immediately messaged Henry on my satellite communicator.

“I’m on a bull. Going in after him.”

His reply came quickly.

“How far off does he sound? Are you headed in there now?”

“Yep.”

As daylight slowly crept over the mountains, I worked my way closer. Every cow call and bugle was answered instantly. The bull had a deep, growling bugle that sounded every bit as impressive as I hoped he was.

I slipped into a familiar setup where I had favorable wind and several shooting lanes.

For the next couple of hours, we talked back and forth.

The bull answered every call, but he refused to move.

Frustrated, I finally decided to challenge him. I raked brush, beat trees and threw an aggressive bugle his way.

The response was immediate.

Not only did the original bull roar back, but another bull exploded with a bugle from the ridge high above and to the right of me.

Suddenly there were three of us carrying on a conversation. Life could not be better at this moment.

Every time I called, one bull answered and then the other.

The newcomer closed distance quickly, not toward me but toward the first bull. I started imagining cows somewhere hidden in the timber. The tension escalated until the second bull suddenly went silent.

I became convinced he was sneaking in on me.

He never showed up.

Eventually I backed out, leaving both bulls to bed for the day and fully intending to return that evening with Henry.

I met Henry in town during his break and told him the story. His eyes lit up. We’d hunted these same bulls two years earlier and nearly got an opportunity. Last year the area felt empty. We never heard one bugle.

Henry got off work early, and by late afternoon we were headed back into the mountains.

The entire drive was spent building a game plan.

Henry would be the shooter.

I would do the calling.

That’s how we prefer it. I’ve always found more enjoyment in creating opportunities for my boys than pulling the trigger myself.

When we reached our morning setup, the wind was perfect.

After checking the wind for what felt like the 15th time, I made a soft cow call.

The mountain exploded.

A thunderous bugle ripped through the timber.

I looked at Henry.

He just grinned.

For the next couple of hours, the bull became increasingly agitated. Every call seemed to irritate him more. He crossed back and forth above us, sounding off continuously before eventually returning to what appeared to be a marshy bedding area.

We had seen this movie before, in the exact same spot and set up.

A stubborn bull refusing to leave his bedroom.

Frustration started creeping in.

I told Henry I was about to challenge him aggressively with calls and tree raking.

“Don’t,” he said. “Be patient.”

Henry was right.

Five minutes later the woods erupted.

A crashing roar barreled down the mountain directly toward us.

Two cows exploded out of the timber and into an opening below.

A bull was right behind them.

The cows skidded to a stop while staring at our decoy.

The bull piled into them from behind and reared up.

“Thirty-six yards,” I whispered.

I heard Henry’s Mathews bow release.

The arrow disappeared exactly where it needed to.

The cows bolted. The bull followed.

Then another bull came crashing down the mountain behind them.

Two bulls. Two cows.

Absolute chaos.

Forty-five seconds earlier, nothing was happening.

Now the entire mountain was alive.

We sat quietly and listened for Henry’s bull to go down and make sure he had a good shot.

Everything went silent. I cow called a few times to help continue the calm.

Then movement. To our right, the two cows reappeared. Following them was the second bull.

They were coming straight at us.

At first I was excited.

Then I became concerned.

The ridge was narrow, and there was nowhere to go.

Fifty yards became twenty. Twenty became twelve.

The cows stopped, locked onto the decoy and then suddenly caught movement or our scent. They bound into the meadow below, stopping right where Henry arrowed his bull.

The bull continued down the trail right at us and hot on the heels of his girls.

At twelve yards he stepped behind a spruce tree.

My Mathews bow came to full draw.

The moment he stepped clear, a cow call stopped him perfectly. My arrow flew. Perfect.

The bull disappeared downhill.

Just like that, it was over.

Two hunters. Two bulls. Two arrows. Two elk down.

When we walked up to Henry’s first bull, we were speechless.

He was enormous.

A crowned-top 7x7 that would later gross 351 inches, unquestionably the king of the timber. Just 80 yards away lay the second bull, a beautiful mature 6x6.

We sat there in disbelief.

I thought of standing on the football field the night before talking with my friend.

“Sept. 23rd.”

Why that day? I still don’t know. Maybe it was luck.

Maybe it was confidence. Maybe it was simply believing enough to wake up early and go.

What I do know is that Sept. 23rd delivered more excitement, adrenaline and gratitude than any hunting day I’ve ever experienced. Ever.

And for one unforgettable evening in the Montana mountains, everything came together better than any way we had dreamed it would.