Story by: Allen Natseway

My elk hunt began with a midsummer trip to the mailbox. My hunting partner Paul and I had put in our applications for Kaibab deer, elk and antelope. I opened the mailbox and saw the all too familiar pink card sitting on top and wondered why I bothered to put in at all. My question was answered a few seconds later when I spotted the envelope with a tag in it. A quick glance at the pink card revealed that an antelope hunt was not an option this year. My hopes lifted at the 50/50 chance of a Kaibab deer hunt or an elk hunt. Feverishly, I tore open the envelope and was overjoyed that my eight-year wait for an elk tag was finally over. We had been drawn for unit 8 (south of Williams AZ), a unit that neither of us had previously hunted. I called Paul to give him the good news and we made plans to begin scouting the unit. The AZ G&F website had a unit description and some places to look for elk and Paul called the game warden for our unit for some further information. The warden stated that the big variables would be access to water and the weather, which Paul and I had also thought about.

My wife Armida and I took a day trip in late August and drove through the unit, marking water sources and looking for elk sign. We saw deer and antelope, but no elk. A subsequent trip by Paul and his family, yielded similar results. Paul and I went up for a weekend scouting trip in late October. We were disappointed in the lack of fresh sign in the places we looked. We saw a few tracks that were made since the last rain, a couple of weeks earlier. We saw a black bear on Saturday and Paul remarked that we had seen every big game species in the unit except elk. Later that day, we saw our first elk, when a couple of cows with calves crossed the road we were traveling, near Whitehorse Lake. We were feeling quite disappointed in a unit with a 40% success rate during the 1999 season and were resigned to a tough hunt.

I went up three days before the hunt to do some last minute scouting and set up camp on the western side of the unit, near the town of Ash Fork. I scouted the juniper country near U.S. 89 on Wednesday morning with negative results. Where were the elk? I drove around Bill Williams Mtn., between sunset and full darkness, when I expected the elk to be moving. There was nearly a foot of snow on the ground and I saw plenty of tracks in the snow. I also saw that there were still numerous cattle in the area, so, I couldn’t tell if the tracks were made by elk or not. Compounding our hunt difficulty was a full moon, so the elk were feeding at night. I had also found most of the hunters and saw at least a dozen camps during my short excursion.

My hunting partner Paul showed up on Thursday afternoon. I relayed the scouting results and the scarcity of sign to him. We were completely baffled. On Thursday evening, Paul and I split up to cover more ground. I went East from camp, walking a couple of miles, to scout the country near the power lines that run from North to South, on the western side of our unit. After sunset, I glassed the North facing slopes of the mountains across the canyon I was sitting on. I saw tracks in the snow and was encouraged, because there were no cattle in our immediate vicinity. I waited until full dark, but I didn’t see the animals that had made the tracks. Walking back to camp in the dark, I heard a bull elk squeal to the North of me and I made plans to return on Friday morning, the opening day of the elk season. Paul had scouted the thick juniper hills near U.S. 89, where we had seen some elk sign during our pre-season scouting trip. He decided to hunt that area on opening morning. After a couple of bowls of steaming chili stew, that I had made earlier in the day, and cups of coffee with Irish Cream, we packed some lunch into our backpacks and checked out our equipment in preparation for opening day. I had my usual trouble sleeping on the night before the hunt and I awoke just about every hour beginning at 2:00 AM.

Paul and I rolled out of our sleeping bags just before 5:00 AM. I looked out of the trailer to a bright, moonlit landscape. We gulped down some hot tea and got ready to go. After wishing each other good luck, we walked out of camp, going our separate ways. As I walked in the direction of the Morning Star in the moonlight, I gave thanks for being a hunter, out in the woods on such a crisp and beautiful morning. Taking a bull elk, any bull elk, is always an honor, but I realized, as always, that it is the hunt that is special and the actual killing of such a noble adversary is a somewhat saddening event.

Sunrise wasn’t too far off when I arrived at the canyon rim that I had visited the night before. I leaned my rifle, a 300 Winchester magnum that I have carried for 32 years, against a volcanic rock and sat down to glass the snow-covered slopes and basins across the canyon. I hoped that elk had made the tracks that I saw and that they would bed where I could see them. I was sitting directly across from a saddle between two mountains, a natural game crossing, and had an excellent view of the slopes. I had been glassing for about 20 minutes and had looked over the slopes half-dozen times. I put down my binoculars and ate an apple. I picked up my binoculars and was giving the slopes one more going over, when I spotted the unmistakable rump patch of a cow elk feeding on mountain mahogany just below the rim of the mountain on the west side of the saddle. With renewed interest, I began to dissect the basin and spotted another cow and a couple of calves. While I was looking below those elk, I spotted another cow and the rump of an elk that was behind a juniper tree. I watched the elk for about ten minutes before it turned its head and I saw the antlers of a bull. I set up my spotting scope and studied the bull for about five minutes. I saw that it was a 6 by 6 with heavy beams, long dagger points and the long, dropped brow tines that mark every herd bull that I have ever observed. I was ecstatic. After all of the unproductive scouting, to see a large bull like this was beyond my wildest dreams. Okay, settle down, how was I going to get to him. He was a half-mile away across a rugged canyon. I hadn’t seen any other hunters, but that didn’t mean that someone else hadn’t seen him. He stepped out into the open and was standing broadside, soaking up a little warmth from the rising sun.

I didn’t have a rangefinder, but I estimated that he was about 700 to 800 yards away. I set my backpack on a rock for a rest and laid my rifle across it, studying the bull in my scope at nine power magnification. My rifle was as steady as a bench rest and I decided to try a "hail Mary" shot. I held about ten feet over the bull, took a breath, let half of it out and squeezed the trigger in true military fashion. The rifle bellowed. I looked at the bull through my scope. Nope, I didn’t reach across that canyon and touch him. He was still standing there, totally unconcerned. Apparently the magnaported rifle wasn’t very loud to him and the clean miss didn’t hit close enough to scare him. I tried a couple more shots before I came to my senses. Even if I did manage to hit him at that range, I was far more likely to wound him than to drop him. I had taken Mule deer with some incredible shots from my trusty 300, but I wasn’t shooting my usual reloads and elk are much harder to bring down under the best of conditions. I had to get closer.

The canyon rim below me dropped about fifty feet and the rim looked unbroken for several hundred feet in both directions. I glassed the canyon to the East and spotted a rockslide that went almost to the bottom of the ravine about a quarter of a mile from my position. I studied the saddle across from me and decided to traverse the slide and cross the canyon. I put on my backpack, picked up my rifle and began the arduous trek. I looked at my watch and it was 7:30 AM. Moving slowly, I worked my way to the slide. The descent was nerve-wracking. The boulders were fairly loose and I had to move at a snails pace to keep from starting an avalanche. At the halfway point, I stopped to take a last look at the elk. This would be the last place from which I could observe them. They were still there and several of them were bedded. I made my way the rest of the way to the bottom of the canyon. There was a trickle of water in the bottom of the canyon and I could see several places where elk had come to drink. It was no wonder that the elk weren’t visiting any of the tanks out on the flats. I crossed the ravine and began the climb up the opposite side, through the saddle between the mountains. There were numerous elk, deer and coyote tracks in the saddle. I stopped briefly for a rest at the crest of the saddle and then worked my way around the opposite side of the mountain where the elk were bedded. Much to my dismay, the rim appeared to be unbroken, with no way up. I headed West on the sunny side of the mountain for about a quarter mile before I spotted a break in the rim. I climbed to the top of the hill just below the rim. I was able to clamber through the break and up on top of the mountain. I was dripping with sweat even though the morning was quite cool and breezy. I glanced at my watch and noted that it was now 9:35 AM. I dropped my backpack, sat down to rest and ate a can of fruit before looking for the elk. I was breathing hard from the exertion and I would never be able to steady my aim if I was lucky enough to spot the bull.

The mesa on top of the mountain was long and narrow. It appeared to be no more than 30 or 40 yards wide. After ten minutes of rest, I picked up my rifle, crept over to the North edge of the rim. When I peeked over, the cow elk were already up and moving East directly below me. Where was the bull? Was he in front of the cows, or did he sneak out the back way? I saw movement behind a juniper tree about 80 yards below me as an elk stood up. As the elk stepped out to follow the cows, I could see that it was the bull. He took a couple of steps nearly broadside as I raised my rifle. I saw a perfect sight picture as I steadied my aim, low and just behind his shoulder. The rifle bucked, the bull stumbled, turned and stopped, quartering away from me, to my right. The bull was swaying, but was still on his feet. My second shot broke his right shoulder and he fell, rolling down the steep hill, stopping about 20 yards further down the steep, snowy slope. I chambered another round watched him to be sure that he was down for keeps. I wasn’t taking any chances, as I said before, bull elk are tough. After watching him for about fifteen minutes, the enormity of what had just happened dawned on me. A long and difficult stalk, a brief flurry of activity and my hunt was over. The last Arizona elk that I had gotten, a spike bull, was in 1992. The long dry spell was over. The dry spell was over, but not the excitement.

To help me locate the bull from below, I tied a piece of flagging tape to a mountain mahogany bush that hung over the edge of the mesa rim, directly above him. I put on my backpack, picked up my rifle and binoculars and started the trip back around the mountain to the bull. I climbed down past the bad spot on the rim to the shoulder of the slope below. I placed my right foot on a rock that I had stepped on during the ascent and when I placed my weight on the rock, it began to roll. My right leg went out from under me twisting my knee. I hit the ground on my back, twisting to protect my rifle. I tumbled once and landed spread-eagle to stop myself. I looked up in time to see the dislodged boulder tumble once before it hit me in the back. The boulder hit hard enough to knock the wind out of me and if it weren’t for my jacket and the backpack that I had on softening the blow, it would have done some damage. I jumped up and took a deep breath to see if there was any rib damage. I passed that test. I had a sore left hip and a slightly sprained right knee. I picked up my rifle, it had landed in some brush and the composite stock wasn’t even scratched. My scope also survived and was none the worse for wear. I was able to walk out my aches and by the time I reached the bull, I was feeling pretty good. I gave thanks for the bull and for the protection from serious injury during my fall.

The bull had fallen so that his antlers had gotten caught in some small rocks and as he slid down the hill, his neck wrapped around a small tree. When I found him, he was on his back. I didn’t need to move him to remove his innards. It took the better part of an hour to finish cleaning him out. When I finished, I placed a stick to hold him open to cool and headed for camp.

Paul and I carry radios when we hunt together and we have worked out a system whereby we each turn our radio on for 30 minutes at 12:00 (noon) and at 6:00 PM. I had just started down the hill to camp when Paul called to report that he hadn’t seen any elk. I gave him the good news and would meet him at camp. I walked into camp about 1:30 PM. And Paul showed up a little later. Paul wanted to go back and get my elk, but I was starting to hurt again and we opted to go the next morning. There was no sun where the bull was and I knew that he would be fine overnight. Paul went back out on Friday evening and again on Saturday morning, hoping to spot the bull that I had heard on Thursday night.

I carried the pack frames and met Paul at my elk at 9:30AM on Saturday. I had driven my Jeep as close as I could and took a GPS position. The GPS said that I was .68 miles from the bull, but with all of the twists and turns, I estimated .75 miles actually traveled. Paul and I skinned the bull, boned out the meat and placed it in game bags and removed the antlers. We each made two trips, packing 60-75 pounds per trip. I packed the antlers out on my second trip. It took us almost four hours to get everything back to camp. I hung the game bags in a juniper tree and placed the antlers beneath the tree. It was cocktail time as far as I was concerned and my knee felt a whole lot better after a couple of shots of Tequila. I had taken the bull fair and square and I believe that I truly earned him. I have heard of huge bulls stumbling out on a road and getting shot where you can drive right up to them, but this has never happened to me. I always seem to bring my elk out in small pieces. I have never avoided a shot because I was too far from a road. I guess in the final analysis, I am resigned to the fact that "There ain’t no easy elk".

Paul had to cut his hunt short and we returned to Chandler on Monday. I took the meat to the butcher on Tuesday morning. I printed a copy of the B&C typical elk scoring sheets from the B&C website and proceeded to score my bull. I got a score of 306-7/8 gross, with 11-5/8 in deductions, resulting in a green score of 295-2/8. He wasn’t the largest bull in the woods, but I’ll take a 300 class bull anytime.