The time had finally come that every elk hunter yearns for. At last, I had drawn a late rifle bull elk tag. The selected unit..well, let’s just say it’s notorious for leaving a sour taste in most hunters’ mouths. It’s one of the roughest, most rugged units in the state.
Still, I was beaming with excitement as this was the first bull tag with my name on it. When sharing the news with friends, their expressions quickly turned from excitement to sympathy.
They knew the challenges this unit presented. Having hunted this area successfully for the last 20 years, I knew the strenuous journey we were about to embark on and said, “Bring It On!”
The months of prep felt very short, as it often does. Opening morning was upon us. The alarm screamed at my husband and I at 3:30am. With large cups of coffee in hand, we started the drive to our coveted honey hole.
Upon arrival, we discovered our once secret and elusive spot had been made public with the unpleasant sight of four other vehicles. Forced to make a gut-wrenching decision, we abandoned our plan and chose to branch out in search of a bull elsewhere. In the days passing, we were informed that a youth hunter had taken a 400” bull in that exact location.
The days quickly vanished along with my expectations. Each day brought the same disappointment: numerous large hunting parties in the spots we previously scouted. The large unit started to feel increasingly crowded. If we were going to be successful, we needed to push the boundaries of our comfort zone.
On the 4th day, our hope was restored.
We were able to locate a group of bulls at last light nestled on the edge of a canyon surrounded by wilderness area. We made a plan that night knowing we would be the only ones in that country. No one would be crazy enough to do what we were about to.
As the sun began to rise through our binoculars the very next morning, the welcoming sight of tan hides appeared in our glass. It was time to make the stalk.
As we ascended 1,000 feet over the next 45 minutes, we realized the bulls had travelled further away. Once again, the two of us were on the move. We finally reached a spot where I could lie prone within 500 yards using our warmest clothing layers as a rest for my rifle.
With a bedded raghorn’s rear end in my sights, we waited in our thin base layers. One hour passed. Then two. A total of three hours went by with us foolishly thinking this bull must rise and switch to a shaded bed at any moment.
Filled with chilled air from the snowstorm that was brewing, I looked at my husband who was also on the verge of hypothermia. Between the chattering of my teeth I muttered, “Get that bull up so I can shoot.”
Cow calls blasted in my left ear as he whaled on his reed call. In desperation, the sound of a curious cow elk turned into a flailing dying animal. One by one, the bulls slowly rose in confusion.
Suddenly I hear, “Babe! Big bull is up!”. I slightly adjusted the crosshairs from the original, still bedded, raghorn to reveal a glorious six-by. Fifteen yards separated him and the crest of the hill. A quick “Please God” entered my prayers. Before my husband could put the bull back in his sights, BANG.
It was a difficult, hard quartering away shot—the only opportunity I had. His large frame launched forward from the impact, just enough to become out of sight.
The uncertainty of the bull’s location was mentally brutal. I wanted to celebrate. I felt very confident in my shot. However, the brain has a funny way of letting the “what ifs” flood in like a broken dam. One thing I knew for certain—I sure was excited to be able to put my warm layers back on.
We side-hilled the gorge that separated us and popped up over the ridge that he disappeared behind. Low and behold the first sight upon cresting the hill was his beautiful beams being illuminated by the setting sun.
Overwhelming relief ran through me as the tip of my rifle touched the animal’s eye confirming the harvest. Warm tears of joy streamed down my frozen cheeks as my husband wrapped me in a proud embrace. I had successfully harvested my first bull!
After a long night of field dressing, the risky decision was made to hang the quarters in a nearby tree knowing a resident mountain lion frequents that same ravine. With my bull’s rack in tow, we made the descent off the mountain. The trek was grueling—two hours of steep terrain, oak brush walls, and a constant eerie feeling of being watched. We persevered and made it back to the safety of our truck.
We were met by friendly faces the next morning to help retrieve the rest of my bull. Once the meat was loaded into our packs, we all stood in awe of the rugged yet beautiful vastness of the canyon that these bulls call home.
Snow flurries began gently falling and the chilling screeches of the mountain lion echoed at us from across the way. The experience was one that is unparalleled. The feeling of accomplishment and pride for what we endured to harvest this beautiful animal put the cherry on top to close out this hunt.
Although he wasn’t the biggest bull in the unit, this bull, along with the memories, will forever be one of my most prized possessions.
– Aimee Keppel
Aimee Keppel is an Arizona native outdoorswoman who, along side her husband, has immersed herself in the field for many years. Aimee takes pride in learning from each experience in the wilderness whether it be on her own hunt or assisting others on theirs. She hopes that one day her passed down knowledge and experiences will teach her three young children to become the next generation of ethical hunters.