Mescalero Reservation Elk: An Old New Mexico Hunt to Remember

The rutted track was thick with mud from yesterday’s showers; we’d left the truck far behind and were making slow going on foot. The dawn sky was still heavily overcast, but the clouds were moving quickly and would soon disappear behind snowcapped Sierra Blanca.

We checked a stock tank for tracks—the big, heart-shaped marks were there, but they were full of rain. Probably yesterday evening. Then from far up the canyon came nature’s eeriest sound—the bugle of a rutting bull elk. The hair on my neck stood up as the banshee wail sounded again, then faded away slowly. My partner and I looked at each other and grinned. Then we chugged up the ridge after our guide to take a closer look.

From the topside we heard the bugle again, going away from us. We were in an old burn, and the elk seemed to be headed for the untouched timber a thousand yards away. Paul and I both used our Zeiss binoculars. First there was nothing, and then the buff-and-chocolate forms appeared one by one. Our guide smiled slightly—he’d already seen them.

I looked at my watch and shook my head in amazement. Thirty minutes into the first hunting day and already a couple of dozen elk in sight—this wasn’t like any elk hunt I remembered!

Elk Are Tough to Hunt

In fact, the last time I’d chased these big deer, I’d spent ten of my toughest hunting days ever following tracks without even seeing an elk. And that’s not too unusual these days. Some people may disagree, but most folks who have done a lot of North American hunting will rate a big bull elk as one of our toughest trophies. For one thing, in many of the more popular northern ranges, elk travel vast distances as weather and food supplies dictate. An area full of elk one week may be empty the next.

For another, most elk herds today are subject to heavy hunting pressure, with the result that modern elk are “educated,” much like whitetail deer. In many areas where bugling seasons are held, hunting pressure has caused the bulls to change their habits, so they often bugle only at night or not at all. Worse yet, while overall elk populations are very healthy or even increasing, the bull-to-cow ratio is down in much of the prime range, and the percentage of mature, trophy-class bulls is very low.

The end result is that in many areas any bull elk is a tough customer, and immature spikes and three or four-pointers make up the vast majority of the bull harvest.
A member of the Cervus, or round-antlered, deer family, the elk has antlers that have a main beam that goes up and back, with additional points coming off that beam. Six points per side is the norm for a mature bull, with the points becoming longer and the mass increasing until the decline of old age. A heavy six-by-six is the goal of most hunters, but seven points per side is not too unusual.

Although called elk by most of us, this is a misnomer—that word originally described the moose of Scandinavia, and the early settlers applied it to our Cervus elaphus. Wapiti is a more proper name, but you’ll forgive me if I stick with elk—it’s shorter and easier to say. Whatever you call it, it’s a tough customer. In past years, I had collected a couple of five-pointers from Montana’s jack-pine jungles, but I had never laid my sights on a six-by-six.

Earned Through Sweat

Elk hunting means hard work, usually. Days and days of riding, climbing, and following tracks, and the knowledge that you’ll probably be beaten. And yet these big deer are among our greatest trophies—majestic, imposing, elusive. And they live in beautiful high country. When Remington Arms’ Paul Spenard called and asked me to join him for a bugling elk hunt on the Mescalero Apache Reservation in New Mexico, needless to say I jumped at the chance, but I didn’t hold out much hope for a big bull—I’d hunted elk before!

At the appointed time in late September, I flew to Paul’s home in Amarillo, Texas, to be met by Paul and Joe Roberts of American Rifleman. The fourth member of our party, George Rockwell of Remington, would meet us at the Mescalero.

It was blazing hot in Amarillo, not the kind of weather for a crisp fall hunt. From the airport, we went straight to the rifle range to recheck our rifles one last time. George and Joe would be using 7mm Remington Magnums, while Paul and I were both using Model 700s in 8mm Remington Magnum.

This would be my first hunt with this cartridge, although I’d spent quite a bit of time on the range with that particular rifle. Elk are big, tough animals—a large bull may weigh in excess of 800 pounds, and a rutting bull can be charged with adrenaline and hard to put down. I know many hunters swear by a .270 for elk, and it will do the job. But I prefer a bit more gun. For my money, the 7mm magnums or .30-06 should be minimum, and I’d done most of my previous elk hunting with a .375 H&H. But the new (to me, anyway) 8mm Remington Magnum seemed to have the makings of an ideal elk cartridge. Using Remington factory loads with the heavier 220-grain Core-Lokt bullet at about 2,830 feet per second, the “Big Eight” churns up almost 4,000 foot-pounds of muzzle energy, yet shoots plenty flat enough for the occasional long shots common in elk hunting. Like most Model 700s, this rifle was quite accurate. Topped with a 3-9X Lyman scope, it would consistently group under 1 1/2 inches, and after the plane ride it was still just where I wanted it—2 inches high at 100 yards. I figured I was ready.

In Transit

It took half a day to drive from Amarillo to the Mescalero Reservation at Ruidoso, New Mexico. And no, not one inch of that drive looked like elk country. First farmland, then flat ranch country, and finally broken sagebrush hills.

We passed through Ruidoso and were into the pines and mountains of the Mescalero. Now, this was more like it! I had been told we would stay at the lodge, but I wasn’t exactly prepared. The Inn of the Mountain Gods is a huge facility, actually more of a five-star resort, looking out over a beautiful trout lake. Between horse racing in the summer, skiing in the winter, and hunting in the fall, it remains filled to capacity most of the year. And if that isn’t enough, there are golf courses, riding stables, trap and skeet ranges—you name it.

Thinking back on spike camps in the snow, I realized this would be a most unusual hunt—whether there were any elk or not!

A number of years ago, the Mescalero tribal council determined that tourism would be a good business for the tribe. At that time the deer herd was extremely healthy, and some guided hunts were being conducted. The native Merriam’s elk had been wiped out by the turn of the century, but the reservation was still prime elk country. Between 1966 and 1967, the tribe purchased and released 157 Rocky Mountain elk from Yellowstone Park. The small herd took to the country, no doubt preferring the mild winters to those of their native Wyoming, and soon began to spread over the 460,000-acre reservation.

Herd Population (1982)

Today there are an estimated 4,000-plus elk on the Mescalero, and the very limited hunting over the years has resulted in a superb bull-to-cow ratio. The first elk hunts were conducted in 1973. For 1981, there were 40 bull permits authorized for all-inclusive package hunts and 20 more for general hunts. Additionally, the tribal members were allocated a very few permits by drawing, and 200 cow permits were authorized. From a herd of 4,000 elk, that isn’t very many!

The Mescalero Reservation is a separate entity from the state of New Mexico, and as such, sets its own hunting season; no New Mexico hunting license is required. The package elk hunts are scheduled during the September bugling time, and success has run near 100 percent, with a strict five-point minimum imposed.

Bob Thompson, the hunt director, and the tribal council hosted a barbecue and orientation the evening we arrived. We were on the second package hunt, during which a total of 26 hunters would be in the field. Bob gave us the rundown on the Mescalero elk and the conduct of the hunt. George Rockwell and Joe Roberts would hunt together, while Paul and I were paired up. We were introduced to our guide, Arlys Kanseah, a veteran conservation officer for the reservation. Paul won the toss for first shot on the first day, and after that we would trade off for the five-day hunt.

Many of the hunters we spoke with that night had been on more than one unsuccessful elk hunt in the northern Rockies. Like me, they were hopeful but skeptical. It couldn’t really be that good, could it?

A.M. Action

The next morning, as we watched elk fade into the distant timber, I reckoned maybe it could be that good!

There were several bulls bugling back and forth, and at least one deserved a closer look. The timber appeared fairly open, so after long deliberation we decided to try a stalk. Arlys is a big man and had 20 years on Paul and me, but we scrambled to keep up as we went across the wide valley and circled up through the timber.

Mid-morning had come and gone by now, and the bulls had ceased bugling. Paul eased into the lead as we moved through the patchy timber, and then we all froze as a spot of chestnut went into motion in the trees. A wild horse, common on the reservation, and he didn’t want anything to do with us! He galloped ahead through the timber, and we saw flashes of buff moving as he passed. I put my binoculars on the spot and saw the great antlers as a bull rose from his bed. He trotted in the clear for an instant, then followed his cows over the rise and into the thicker timber. Off to my left Paul had been screened by brush; all he caught was a flash of antlers.
We moved slowly, circling the ridgetop, but there had been too much commotion; all we found was plenty of fresh tracks.

Toward mid-afternoon, Arlys took us to a hidden spring he knew of, a place where he had heard bulls bugling a few days before. We settled into some brush overlooking a pothole, muddy from wallowing bulls, and waited. An hour of silence passed, then another. I was just easing a cramp in my leg when a bull’s wild, lilting call drifted through the trees.

Sounding Off

Paul winked at me, and all cramps were forgotten. Hands moving slowly, Paul reached for his bugle, but halted when the sound came again. The bull was closer and moving our way. We had guessed wrong—he was behind us and would pass close by in the heavy timber on his way to water. The light breeze was perfect, though, and his trumpeting grew nearer until it rang against our ears. He was answered now from far down the canyon, one bull, then another, and yet another.

Now I could hear his footsteps behind us and then a pause as he bugled not 20 yards from us.

More footsteps, and a twig cracked. And then the bull stood there, head and shoulders exposed, as he surveyed his waterhole. I counted one, two, three, four, five long points and knew that Paul would not shoot. Like me, he wanted a six-by-six. We watched the young bull for a time as he bugled, but darkness came before a bigger bull answered his challenge.

The next morning found us back at Arlys’s secret waterhole. This time it would be my shot, but there was no action. About 8:30 we headed back to the truck and, on a hunch, Arlys drove a few miles away to a long valley overlooked by two timbered ridges. In the bottom was a fenceline with a faint vehicle track and a dry watercourse with a few potholes.

Waterholes

We stopped at a muddy waterhole to check for tracks, and I glanced at my watch. 9:00 a.m. A moment later, a bugle sounded on the northern ridge, quickly answered by another, and yet another. We bugled and were replied to in chorus, but the bulls were moving away, probably into the dense timber to bed down.

The bulls were at least a mile away and still moving, their bugles coming only faintly on the breeze. From the tone and sequence, there were at least five bulls, not together but drifting in the same direction. The only option was to follow and hope they kept bugling until we located them, but with the sun warming up quickly, it was a long shot.

We moved quickly until the sound told us we were gaining and then moved ahead carefully, stopping to glass and listen. The top of the ridge was a long table covered with dense pines and undergrowth; visibility shrank to 40 or 50 yards.

Then Arlys froze. I peered into the brush and saw a bull looking at us, a strange young fellow with an odd-shaped five-point antler on one side and three or four points on the other. We stared each other down, and then he moved off to the right, bugling as he went. A few yards farther and another bull crossed in front, a spike with a mid-sized six-pointer in pursuit. We waited them out, then moved on ahead. Now, from the sound, we had three bulls to our right, one to our left, and one straight ahead. The bull to our front had a deep, guttural voice—if he wasn’t the biggest, he sure sounded like it!

Slow and Steady

We moved ahead another 50 yards. Things were getting mighty touchy now; the whole crew had to be within 100 yards of us. Arlys peered ahead with his binoculars, then eased into a crouch, his mouth forming words. “Cow watching us.” Slowly I searched the brush, then spotted her under a tree, a bare 40 yards from us. A bugle sounded from just behind her, echoing in the close timber. We looked closer. The big bull was behind the tree, the tip of his antlers visible on one side and his rump on the other. He bugled again, then scratched against the lower branches, and I could see his antlers.

This was the bull I wanted. No question about it, but no chance for a shot. He had the cow and the other bulls wanted her; we could hear them churning the underbrush around us. Paul stayed put while Arlys and I crawled one tree closer, hoping for a better angle. I got to one knee and put the crosshairs on the bull, but there was no shot.

He bugled again and one of the unseen bulls charged in closer, bellowing. Surely he would step out to do battle. But he wasn’t concerned. He bedded down while his rivals bugled all around him. The cow apparently liked Big Daddy—she bedded as well, and now all I could see was the very tip of one antler.

We waited while my bull did an unheard-of thing—he bugled from his bed every few minutes. I shifted position, hoping for a clear shot, and now lost sight of him altogether.

Patience Pays Off

A lot of time passed. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen—who knows? All I know is that it passed slowly. Then a bugle sounded from our right, very close. I focused on the spot where my bull must lie, on one knee with the rifle ready to bring up. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement as the smaller six-point charged up to within ten yards of us. That was too much for the old boy. He rose to his feet and trotted into the clear.

I swung with him quickly and shot just behind the shoulder. He shuddered, then trotted on and stood, looking. I shot again, for the shoulder this time, and he took a great leap and piled up. He was a fine, even, heavy-horned six-by-six, but I had to wait for my breathing to settle down before I could go forward and admire him.

There were plenty of bulls working that particular canyon, so the next dawn found us working our way along it on foot. We heard the first bugles long before shooting light, and this time it seemed we might catch elk in the open bottom.

We did. Bugles echoed along the canyon as we pussyfooted past a five-point bull and then a spike. Both were moving up into the timber to our right, but the deeper bugles ahead of us sounded like the elk were still in the bottom. I was behind a few paces, hoping for some pictures, and I saw the big bull first. He was 200 yards ahead of us, drifting through the trees.

Playing the Wind

The wind was perfect, so Aryls and Paul moved ahead quickly. The hillside was open for a short distance, but the thick timber loomed all too close. As we stepped around a clump of scrub pine, the bull spotted us. He was ten yards from the timber, and Paul got off a quick shot just as he swapped ends. I could hear the bullet hit, but the bull faltered for only a step and then took a great lunge. Just at that second, Paul’s 220-grain Core-Lokt bullet caught him at the base of the neck, and the backslapping began!

Paul’s bull was another heavy-beamed six-point bull, a near duplicate of mine. His first shot had hit well back, angling forward through the lungs, and his bull wouldn’t have gone far—but on big animals like these, it pays to make sure.

Although both of our bulls required more than one shot, I came away mighty impressed by the Big Eight. Bullet penetration was perfect, as was expansion. Recovered bullets retained from 60 to 70 percent of their original weight, and all mushroomed perfectly.

It had been an exceptional hunt for Paul and me, but all the hunters had similar stories. Joe Roberts took a fine bull, and George Rockwell took a monster seven-by-seven, the biggest of the hunt. In fact, the 26 hunters took 26 good bulls.

Apache Hospitality

Moreover, the Mescaleros put on an exceptional experience. These are proud people, descendants of Geronimo’s little band who fought the cavalry to a standstill for years. They’re proud of their reservation and proud of their heritage, and they make their hunters welcome. The lodging is almost too plush, but those who have earned their spurs in wind-swept fly camps will appreciate it! The food was superb, and Dallas taxidermist Bill Flagg is on hand to assist with trophy preparation and meat processing. These hunts aren’t cheap by any means, but it’s a class operation throughout.

It’s also a rare chance, in this day and age, to hunt bugling elk in full rut. If you’ve never hunted elk before, well, maybe you should hunt the more traditional areas a few times before you head for the Mescalero. You might get spoiled!

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