A Perfect Elk Hunt Two Decades in the Making

They poured off Sugarloaf like a cascade, plunging deep into the pale blue pre-dawn canyon a thousand feet below. I watched through my binoculars as they reached the bottom and crossed the open meadow above Iron Springs Lake, or perhaps it was through my rifle scope, and now I can’t remember which, for we were much more focused on their pace and direction.

A few moments later a tremendous bull appeared with them 600 yards away on the ridge above the lake, my crosshairs painting him as he whirled in momentary splendor before deciding which way to go. But he and his companions were on the move, weaving like spirits through the ill-lit oaks and too far away to even consider a shot on this cold December morning. So we bore east, then south, first into a parallel canyon and then up onto the intervening ridge in an attempt to cut the angle on them.

What it was that had pushed them off the mountain in the first place, we could not say. But it really didn’t matter, for our entire focus was now on the big bull. They finally disappeared into the canyon below our line of sight. But that was okay; we knew their direction, and my friend and guide Jaime Ortiz knew the land, and we hoped the old monarch would offer us a decent shot if we could circle and get ahead of the herd and stop them.

But for now, stopping was not on their agenda as they reappeared, and at this distance in the pale light of the gathering dawn it was difficult to tell if the big bull was with them.

Elk Dreams

You dream for years about the elk you would like to take. But in the end, you know that once you are among them, you will take the elk that speaks to your soul. Don’t worry; you’ll know him when you see him. 

He may indeed be the six-by-six of your dreams, full and long and heavy from the brow tines to the splits. But then again, he might have more character and mass than length and symmetry, and not necessarily six to a side. But he’s yours; and you’ll know he’s yours the moment you see him. 

And now, finally, I had seen him.

For nearly two decades I had been returning to the Lodge and Ranch at Chama in the soaring San Juan Mountains of northern New Mexico, sometimes for trout, sometimes for turkeys, sometimes to photograph and write, and sometimes simply to work on the business of the ranch. This is Jicarilla Apache land, and it was here 19 years earlier that my surrogate brother Frank Simms and I had managed to work into range of what should have been my first bull elk, only to have my arrow deflected by a tiny overhanging aspen branch I had failed to see in the low evening light.

Chama Drama

Two years ago I had finally taken an elk here, a cow to be sure, but still an elk, my first. But now the singular dream of a big bull had begun to stir once more, and Frank had invited me back to pursue that dream. So plans were made and schedules coordinated, and early December again found me back in the high country, this time with my longtime friend and publisher Chuck Wechsler, in pursuit of his own bull.

My guide would be Jaime Ortiz, whose hunting skills and keen vision are legendary in northern New Mexico. Jaime and I had been friends for years, but we’d never had the opportunity to actually hunt together, and I was thrilled at the prospect of finally having the chance to hunt with him.

We left the lodge an hour before daylight on that first morning. The deep snow was like a frozen field of diamonds in the headlights of the truck, and the ice-laden trees loomed like forests of crystal in the cold, pre-dawn darkness.

The mountains that surrounded us glowed softly as the eastern sky began to awaken, bathing the entire snowscape in an opulent aura of crimson and coral and peach as we climbed through the waning night. We halted above the Horseshoe to glass.

Vantage Point

After 20 minutes we began moving east out the ridge, climbing the final few feet to the crest of a small spur where we spotted three young bull elk tucked into the thick timber less than 150 yards below. Then, from just over the snowy crest came a bugle, a very close bugle—the percussive bellow of a big bull declaring his dominance. His calls resonated through the timber and deep into the core of my chest, and then all was quiet once more and he was gone. So we backed out and made our way north to a point where we could scan the ridges and canyons above Book Out Lake.

As the sun continued to rise, more elk began to materialize below us as they made their way to their bedding areas. Some were in the trees, some in the thick oak brush, some on the sunny southern slopes a mile across the valley. Some stood clear and defined, and some were mere wisps of ochre and bronze floating among the warm greys and cool blue shadows of the dark timber.

Then 700 yards below, a pair of massive bulls began posturing for position, finally turning to face one another before thrusting their great antlers together, the rattling crash filling the entire valley as the herd turned and disappeared into the trees. We followed on foot through deep snow, dropping 500 feet into the draw before climbing the far ridge, hoping to ease over the top and gain position above them. But a small group of cows nailed us as we reached the crest, putting the bulls beyond on full alert. Two of them were huge, definite candidates for the rifle, and Jaime quickly set up the shooting sticks as I silently moved toward him.

I laid the crosshairs on the shoulder of the nearest bull; but Jaime suddenly pointed to the right to an even bigger one and I turned, trying to identify him. But by now a young and overly energetic raghorn had wandered into position between us and them, and by the time he cleared, the entire herd had shifted up the mountain and into the timber without offering a shot. And though I felt a twinge of disappointment as we backed off the ridge and made our way farther down the canyon, I knew in my heart that the bull of my dreams had simply not been there.

Quiet Confidence

But I felt certain I would know him when he came.

We hunted the broad valley and the snowy slopes for the rest of the day, moving with the elk and trying to locate a bull that might warrant a proper stalk. Then, with the afternoon beginning to wane, we spotted a tremendous elk high on the side of the mountain standing sentinel above the entire herd. He was magnificent, the master of his domain, a glorious bull worthy of any hunter’s dreams. But trying to climb the ridge at this late hour would have been pointless at best, for if we spooked him now, we might never see him again. So as daylight continued to fade and the clouds came rolling in, we made our way down the valley to the head of the lake.

Unknown to us, Frank Simms had come out from the lodge to do some late-afternoon glassing of his own and was now perched on a ridge a mile above us to the west with his spotting scope. What the three of us witnessed that evening in the fading light will dwell in our collective memory for as long as we live. For now, from up and down the valley, elk began to gather along the high slopes on the far side of the frozen lake a half mile away. In the dimming dusk, Jaime and I watched them through our binoculars as Frank watched us all through his spotting scope. It was much too late to try making a move on them as they continued to assemble. But suddenly, to our delight, they started easing down along the side of the ridge, momentarily disappearing into the oak brush at the head of the lake before beginning to climb a long and narrow trail angling up in our direction.

One by one they came, crossing an opening less than thirty yards above Jaime and me. In the cold, fading light we searched for the giant bull we had seen earlier, wanting him to be there, willing him to be there. But he was not. Frank told us later that two bulls had flinched as they struck our tracks above the lake and veered east, back up the canyon. He said they were both big, but in the fading light he couldn’t tell exactly how big.

Close Calls

For our part, Jaime and I never saw them; we were too enthralled with the elk passing above us, so close we could smell them, for the light evening winds coming off the mountain were directly in our faces. Some were five-by-fives, some five-by-sixes, along with a few cows and spikes and even one six-by-six, his antlers long and dark and heavy in front but weak in the back with short fourth points and small crab-claw splits on the ends.

And when the last bull had become one with the dusk, we were all breathless and spent from what we had just witnessed—Jaime and me tucked into that small clump of oak brush above the lake and Frank perched high above us to the west.

Back at the lodge that night, Frank told us how he had watched in disbelief through his spotting scope as we held our fire while the line of elk passed so close. He grinned at me and shook his head and said I must have ice water running in my veins. But the truth was that I just did not want to shoot the wrong elk and disappoint him, for he wanted a big bull for me at least as much as I wanted it myself.

Still, I knew my elk was out there; we had seen him earlier that day standing watch over his herd high on the side of the mountain. And now a lesser bull simply would not do.

The Search

For three more days we searched for that bull with no success. To be sure, there were other lesser bulls for whom we might have settled, and we left the lodge on our final morning an hour and a half before sunrise still seeking him.

The night was sharp and clear and brutally cold. The sky was studded with stars, and our senses and souls were vital and alive and brimming with hope.

It promised to be a perfect morning for photographs, so at the last minute Chuck decided to join us with his camera. At first light we located them—a small group of bulls far to the southwest above Iron Springs Lake.

We immediately began our move, dropping into the canyon and then climbing out the other side before circling into the high valley below the herd. We spotted them again 300 yards above, all of them big but one truly outstanding, his mighty rack looking very much like our great bull from day one. For a fleeting moment I had him in my crosshairs, but the entire group started moving again.

Cutting Them Off

We moved parallel with them from below. Again they paused and again I momentarily caught the big bull in my scope as they turned south along the ridge.

Jaime and I continued moving with them as we bore up the valley, but Chuck dropped down to be in position to cut them off should they double back.

We finally halted 250 yards below the spur where the ridgeline fell away. We could see them there above us in the low light of dawn as they milled about in the sparse cedars and scrub oaks, first moving briefly back north in the direction they had just come, then dropping away over the crest and disappearing altogether.

There was no possibility to head them off, so we tucked into the shadows, scanning the spur above and hoping they would circle back, me sitting with my rifle resting lightly on the shooting sticks as I covered the skyline while Jaime knelt close beside me glassing the ridge above.

Coming Into Frame

Then, from around the southern flank came three good bulls, clearly on alert, peering back to the north. A moment later three or four more topped out eighty yards above them. I examined each as they came, searching for that one majestic herd bull we hoped was still with them.

The tall cedars and fragmented sprigs of oak brush that separated them seemed vast and empty.

And then there was movement.

At first it was just the tips of his antlers I saw, then his entire rack expanding upward and outward to fill my scope as the morning parted and the great bull crested the ridge. He moved as I had always imagined he would, looming grand and elegant, slowly turning his head from side to side as he studied the scene, huge, bigger than any elk I had ever beheld.

Long-Awaited Encounter

The entire universe now existed only in my rifle scope as I watched him. I knew this elk—I had known him for 19 years, confident that one day he would come, growing into my vision until he was complete.

And now he was complete, fluid in his every movement, royal in his demeanor, framed against the sky and the softly shaded ridge, turning slightly to the left as he began quartering downhill.

And on he came, step by step by resplendent step, his nose held forward into the wind, his great headdress flung back over his massive shoulders as he surveyed his last domain, turning fully broadside as I eased my rifle and myself off safety, the crosshairs probing his broad chest, searching for that lovely crease that I knew existed just behind his shoulder, distance certain, angle uphill, steady, steady, breathe, don’t breathe, hold for him to clear, there, there...wait...wait...

The recoil system was firm and controlled, and it lifted the muzzle of my rifle as I racked the bolt and re-chambered. Pulling the scope back down, I saw him stumble and fall, then try to regain his feet, both of us knowing full well he could not.

Follow-Up Shot

Immediately I sent another round flying up the mountain and into his chest to end it for him, and his noble head settled to earth as he surrendered to the Eternal. And still I watched him, my last round chambered, my finger on the trigger, his great motionless shoulder covered by my crosshairs, I alert for any sign that might require this one final cartridge.

The trembling air was icy and alive on my stubbled face, the rifle hot in my ungloved hands, the smooth oil-finished walnut warm and reassuring as it pressed firmly into my face. The silence was palpable and nearly overwhelming as the muffled echoes of my shots coursed the canyon walls and came circling back into the focused reality that for the past few moments had been centered in my scope, and from some far realm I could hear Jaime’s distant voice.

I lifted my head and peered over the top of the rifle at our elk, then turned to Jaime, still kneeling close beside me, and he smiled his grandest smile and flung his arm around my shoulders and shook me, and I was back from the killing.

It is a holy thing, walking up to a creature you have just slain by your own intent, and for my part it is something I can never quite bring myself to fully share.

Spiritual Moment

I climbed the ridge alone that morning, rising solo from the snow and the deep blue shadows of dawn, easing up the long slope into the first quivering shimmer of sunrise, and as I neared the old bull I paused. He lay above me on his side, his noble head angled downhill in my direction, his great antlers rising into the quickening sky, his vacant amber eye still shining as it stared lifeless into my soul.

I knelt there below him and made words to him, and it took a minute or so before I could bring myself to touch him, whispering a prayer of thanks as I laid my hand against his still-warm shoulder. The cold December sun bathed us in the first full rays of dawn as I looked out on the world awakening below us, shrouded in shadow except for this single ridge lifting its blood-stained crest into the sharp, side-shearing light of new morning.

We waited there together, the old elk and me, until Chuck and Jaime finally climbed the ridge to join us. I thanked Jaime in his own language and he responded in kind, and by noon we were all back at the lodge where Frank and his good dog Crockett were standing in the warm light of day to greet us.

We had waited long to share this moment, Frank and I, and only we truly understood what it meant. Just as we’d known we would for 19 years. 

---