The kind of quality time parents of teenagers yearn for, but with the adversity and common goal only hunting can provide. (Photo courtesy of Brian Lynne)
October 04, 2024
By Brian Lynne
“Here he comes,” I whispered to my 17-year-old son, Tucker, as he let out one last cow call. Moments later, the silhouetted bull emerged from the shadow of trees. The brute cautiously eased toward the open in search of wooing ladies and the challenger who threatened to steal them.
It was opening day of Washington State’s muzzleloader season, and after an uneventful morning sit, Tucker and I had decided to check this spot a couple miles down the road. We hit one trail-camera location we’d scouted before quietly slipping toward the second. It was about 11 a.m. and nearing 80 degrees, and we figured most of the deer and elk would be bedded in the deep timber.
And then the unmistakable thundering of hooves followed by the breaking of limbs and trampled brush told us just how wrong our assumptions were. We stopped and looked at each other in agony, as we realized that we’d just bumped an elk.
Tuck started cow-calling. The elk stopped and was holding in the ravine just across the property line. A bugle rang out. We cow-called. The bull bugled again and Tuck cut him off with a bugle of his own before we resumed cow-calling. He bugled and came in closer but was deep in the trees below us and still off the property. He tried to get downwind, so we moved away from him, spreading out a bit, both of us calling. The bull followed along for about 100 yards, pleading with bugles demanding we come into the timber.
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Suspense Strikes (Photo courtesy of Brian Lynne) Suddenly, a screaming bugle erupted in the distance opposite the begging bull. A challenger was crashing the party.
The timbered ravine he was in flattened out before dropping into a canyon. He’d have to come up to us and couldn’t get downwind if he wanted to play. We picked a copse of trees in which to make our stand, each sitting with our backs against the same tree like turkey hunters often do; Tuck facing toward the far-off challenger while I squared in the direction of the stalking bull.
Tuck kept calling, varying his cadence and pitch, freezing with fingers and lips on the call when I whispered the second warning — “There he is!”
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The bull eased through the timber, standing at the edge of the flat opening separating us. At 44 yards, I had the fiber-optic sight on my CVA Optima centered on the front of his chest. Waiting, he finally turned to the left, opening the side of his body, but his shoulder remained in the way. I kept the orange optic circle in the zone, waiting for the shot. With a step forward of his right leg and a twist of his body, the target zone opened. I tripped the trigger, and as the distinctive plume of muzzleloader smoke cleared, I watched the big bull run off.
Impact (Photo courtesy of Brian Lynne) We found a little blood, not a lot, but it looked good. And then we heard him bugle. Tuck answered with cow-calls. He bugled again and again. I was worried as we tracked him. Spotting him once, he bedded down quickly. We decided to back out and give it time.
We’d had two cameras in close proximity. Tuck’s bow blind was between them on one side of a hump close to #2, and as we reached the hump that day, the bull was on the other side. The natural obstacle I thought would help conceal Tuck in the blind worked against us and instead concealed the bull!
As we drove back to camp to eat, replays of the shot ran through my mind and self-doubt set in. Bad placement, jerked shot, shoulder, guts. All the possibilities.
And then my teenage son assumed the voice of reason. “What’s done is done,” Tuck said. “It’ll be okay. We’ll come back, take one thing at a time, and it will all work out."
Faith and Triumph Suddenly, a screaming bugle erupted in the distance opposite the begging bull. A challenger was crashing the party. (Photo courtesy of Brian Lynne) Indeed, upon our return, we picked up the blood trail, went to the last spot we saw the bull bedded and crept forward while scanning the trees and brush. Steps later, we spotted him 40 yards away, under some trees.
The rest of the day and well into the night, my son and I broke that big 5x6 down and packed him back to the truck in multiple trips — reliving the day, talking about life, and enjoying the dark woods and clear, starry night. The kind of quality time parents of teenagers yearn for, but with the adversity and common goal only hunting can provide.
