In 2023, I drew a coveted Arizona 23 South early archery elk tag. It was a hunt that took over two decades to draw in my home state and could justifiably be classified as the best elk hunt on earth to harvest a 400" public land giant. I had seen bulls over the years that would reach that magical mark, and I knew that one day my chance would come and I would join the sacred club.
The elk hunt started in a fury of adrenaline and stress. The 14-day hunt saw mornings and evenings fly by with close encounters of great bulls. We clung to the promise of tomorrow. By day 11, nights of anticipation and game planning turned into a slog to try something new to outsmart our giant bull. Every morning and evening without a shot became nothing more than a monumental leap closer to the end of the hunt. The mental gymnastics of tricking our minds into optimism became a progressively taller and taller task.
I rose with a near opening day jolt and rose effortlessly from my sleeping bag. I hadn’t felt this good in what felt like forever, and before I knew it, I was standing within a few hundred yards of the train of rutting bulls who were heading to the brushy mountain. By the time the early strands of that hot September sun pierced the darkness, the bulls were already ripping. Four, five, six bulls were sounding off. After a long hunt of slow rut, I was lost in chaos. As I switched between soaking in the moment and zeroing in on his bugle, I heard two bulls bugle within 100 yards. I nocked an arrow and prepared for the peak of my hunting career.
Somewhere deep in my mind was screaming that it was now or never. The last five days had been exceptionally warm, and the elk had foregone an evening rut in favor of staying bedded until well after the sun had set. I could not wait for the evening hunt, and this morning was the last morning. It was then that I heard a bull crash through the junipers towards our sporadic cow call. I came to full draw at 85 yards at the first sight of hooves. I waited steadily for the bull to show himself, and antlers and anticipation began to burn. I felt neither the strain of 65 pounds of draw nor the nearly two weeks of failed attempts but rather found peace in the moment. My bull stepped out, or rather, what I thought to be my bull stepped out. In actuality, a nice 6-point presented itself. I was caught off guard. How could I have waited so long and put myself through so much torment to conclude in this fashion? Thinking quickly, I decided a 6-point was better than tag soup. With a smooth squeeze, I let the 450-grain arrow fly and watched it pass through both lungs. What an incredible hunt where I left everything on the mountain and still got to pack a good bull out.
After packing out my bull, the beauty of the morning and those precious moments quickly turned to a sick feeling deep in the gut. The elk hunt was a bust. I had killed a bull, but I hadn’t killed the bull. It’s a memory I shy away from to this day. How could I, with all of the advantages in the world, not accomplish what I set out to? And, most importantly, how could I not have held out hope? After all, you don’t wait decades for a trophy hunt just to shoot a non-trophy animal.
In early 2024, I drew my first Arizona antelope tag. For anyone who knows unit 10, it possesses arguably the best genetics on earth for trophy speed goats but hasn’t seen a 90" antelope in many years. My goal was simple – shoot an 82" goat. I hired Pronghorn Guide Service to assist in my pursuit, and they stated, in very simple terms, that unit 10 would be lucky to see an 82" buck this year.
With dogged determination, I arrived before the season started to scout with the assistance of my guide, Pat Newman. He had already covered untold miles of dusty roads looking for a buck that didn’t exist. The genetics of bucks from years long gone had led us to a remote part of the unit looking for a buck that somehow, someway carried the distinct hooks from ancestors not seen in nearly a decade.
As fate would have it, two days before the season opened, one such buck passed through our glass. The heat waves were horrendous and the distance great, but we knew a relic of the past had possibly presented.
The preseason night started with excitement but soon turned to fear. Had the heat waves lied? Did his beams curl downwards or was that my desires overcoming reality in the relentless heat? The next day would provide answers, but not all the answers. The buck was located, and the prongs proved just as impressive as initially observed. Those hooks, however, remained a mystery. Hooks that would make the difference between a buck with 15" beams and one with 19" beams.
The day before the hunt, my son Cory and good friends Scott Pfitzer and Seth Sheer joined us. The plan on opening day was to hunt only this buck. Regardless, he would prove a quality buck in a downtrodden unit. I couldn’t sleep. I had a hunch, and my gut told me that his hooks really did dive down, but my ego, recalling freshly the elk hunt of last year, knew that all is not what it seems.
At 3 a.m., we were up and finalizing our plans. Cory, Scott, and Seth all set off to glass from high points, hoping to locate the buck. Pat and I were up early, hiking in the pitch dark under the soft glow of a red light towards a buck I didn’t fully understand. In position, I anxiously awaited the first amber taste of sunshine. The sun rose with a laziness that I am loathe to recall. Those first rays shown through like stadium lights, and we picked the buck up at over 1,000 yards. He looked better than I recalled, and I quickly made the mental note to stop looking at his horns.
While I shoot regularly to 1,000 yards, I wanted to get within 650 yards and ideally closer. Cover was all but nonexistent, and the punishing heat would soon be upon us. As we surveyed the country for a gameplan, the flashes of his horns proved a constant interruption. The buck had prongs better than I had seen, and his hooks dove downwards for what seemed like an eternity.
In an instant, the buck dashed forth, rutting his chosen doe. I knew it was time to stay still and not give the buck a reason to bolt off. After several minutes, the buck went back to mindless feeding, signaling our chance to move closer. As we eased forward using limited cover, we saw the buck distracted by his doe. With a combination of conviction and adrenaline, we dove rapidly across the crest of the hill when the prying eyes would gaze elsewhere. There he was at 900 yards, then 700, then 650, but we knew he wouldn’t stay in this area long and the sun was now fully visible. Heat started to pour over the prairie, and soon, the antelope would move on. An initial attempt to shoot at 650 yards was quickly abandoned as the descending terrain and tall grass prevented a clean shot.
As luck would have it, the buck went back to grazing, and we used that opportunity to crawl forward. We got to 450 yards before the does got antsy and started feeding away. We knew it was a matter of time before the buck would follow. I eased to the prairie dirt, set up my bipod, and settled in for what I hoped would be a crowning achievement. There he was, in the scope at 450 yards. It was in the scope that I realized he was even bigger than the giant I had built him up to be. I counted breaths and started my routine of applying pressure to the trigger. My heart went calm, and time stopped. Boom! The Gunwerks suppressed 7 SAUM roared to life. The wallop of the bullet striking the goat will be something I never forget.
We slowly made our way to the buck in hopes that ground shrinkage wouldn’t have its way. Upon arrival, we were greeted with a perfectly heart-shaped antelope with 18 7/8" beams and nearly 8" prongs. He was world class by any definition.
This hunt was another chapter. Earlier on in my hunting life, I was not able to fully appreciate the magnitude of a hunt, but it has become clear to me now. To fully appreciate the highs, you must experience the lows.
The elk hunt started in a fury of adrenaline and stress. The 14-day hunt saw mornings and evenings fly by with close encounters of great bulls. We clung to the promise of tomorrow. By day 11, nights of anticipation and game planning turned into a slog to try something new to outsmart our giant bull. Every morning and evening without a shot became nothing more than a monumental leap closer to the end of the hunt. The mental gymnastics of tricking our minds into optimism became a progressively taller and taller task.
I rose with a near opening day jolt and rose effortlessly from my sleeping bag. I hadn’t felt this good in what felt like forever, and before I knew it, I was standing within a few hundred yards of the train of rutting bulls who were heading to the brushy mountain. By the time the early strands of that hot September sun pierced the darkness, the bulls were already ripping. Four, five, six bulls were sounding off. After a long hunt of slow rut, I was lost in chaos. As I switched between soaking in the moment and zeroing in on his bugle, I heard two bulls bugle within 100 yards. I nocked an arrow and prepared for the peak of my hunting career.
Somewhere deep in my mind was screaming that it was now or never. The last five days had been exceptionally warm, and the elk had foregone an evening rut in favor of staying bedded until well after the sun had set. I could not wait for the evening hunt, and this morning was the last morning. It was then that I heard a bull crash through the junipers towards our sporadic cow call. I came to full draw at 85 yards at the first sight of hooves. I waited steadily for the bull to show himself, and antlers and anticipation began to burn. I felt neither the strain of 65 pounds of draw nor the nearly two weeks of failed attempts but rather found peace in the moment. My bull stepped out, or rather, what I thought to be my bull stepped out. In actuality, a nice 6-point presented itself. I was caught off guard. How could I have waited so long and put myself through so much torment to conclude in this fashion? Thinking quickly, I decided a 6-point was better than tag soup. With a smooth squeeze, I let the 450-grain arrow fly and watched it pass through both lungs. What an incredible hunt where I left everything on the mountain and still got to pack a good bull out.
After packing out my bull, the beauty of the morning and those precious moments quickly turned to a sick feeling deep in the gut. The elk hunt was a bust. I had killed a bull, but I hadn’t killed the bull. It’s a memory I shy away from to this day. How could I, with all of the advantages in the world, not accomplish what I set out to? And, most importantly, how could I not have held out hope? After all, you don’t wait decades for a trophy hunt just to shoot a non-trophy animal.
In early 2024, I drew my first Arizona antelope tag. For anyone who knows unit 10, it possesses arguably the best genetics on earth for trophy speed goats but hasn’t seen a 90" antelope in many years. My goal was simple – shoot an 82" goat. I hired Pronghorn Guide Service to assist in my pursuit, and they stated, in very simple terms, that unit 10 would be lucky to see an 82" buck this year.
With dogged determination, I arrived before the season started to scout with the assistance of my guide, Pat Newman. He had already covered untold miles of dusty roads looking for a buck that didn’t exist. The genetics of bucks from years long gone had led us to a remote part of the unit looking for a buck that somehow, someway carried the distinct hooks from ancestors not seen in nearly a decade.
As fate would have it, two days before the season opened, one such buck passed through our glass. The heat waves were horrendous and the distance great, but we knew a relic of the past had possibly presented.
The preseason night started with excitement but soon turned to fear. Had the heat waves lied? Did his beams curl downwards or was that my desires overcoming reality in the relentless heat? The next day would provide answers, but not all the answers. The buck was located, and the prongs proved just as impressive as initially observed. Those hooks, however, remained a mystery. Hooks that would make the difference between a buck with 15" beams and one with 19" beams.
The day before the hunt, my son Cory and good friends Scott Pfitzer and Seth Sheer joined us. The plan on opening day was to hunt only this buck. Regardless, he would prove a quality buck in a downtrodden unit. I couldn’t sleep. I had a hunch, and my gut told me that his hooks really did dive down, but my ego, recalling freshly the elk hunt of last year, knew that all is not what it seems.
At 3 a.m., we were up and finalizing our plans. Cory, Scott, and Seth all set off to glass from high points, hoping to locate the buck. Pat and I were up early, hiking in the pitch dark under the soft glow of a red light towards a buck I didn’t fully understand. In position, I anxiously awaited the first amber taste of sunshine. The sun rose with a laziness that I am loathe to recall. Those first rays shown through like stadium lights, and we picked the buck up at over 1,000 yards. He looked better than I recalled, and I quickly made the mental note to stop looking at his horns.
While I shoot regularly to 1,000 yards, I wanted to get within 650 yards and ideally closer. Cover was all but nonexistent, and the punishing heat would soon be upon us. As we surveyed the country for a gameplan, the flashes of his horns proved a constant interruption. The buck had prongs better than I had seen, and his hooks dove downwards for what seemed like an eternity.
In an instant, the buck dashed forth, rutting his chosen doe. I knew it was time to stay still and not give the buck a reason to bolt off. After several minutes, the buck went back to mindless feeding, signaling our chance to move closer. As we eased forward using limited cover, we saw the buck distracted by his doe. With a combination of conviction and adrenaline, we dove rapidly across the crest of the hill when the prying eyes would gaze elsewhere. There he was at 900 yards, then 700, then 650, but we knew he wouldn’t stay in this area long and the sun was now fully visible. Heat started to pour over the prairie, and soon, the antelope would move on. An initial attempt to shoot at 650 yards was quickly abandoned as the descending terrain and tall grass prevented a clean shot.
As luck would have it, the buck went back to grazing, and we used that opportunity to crawl forward. We got to 450 yards before the does got antsy and started feeding away. We knew it was a matter of time before the buck would follow. I eased to the prairie dirt, set up my bipod, and settled in for what I hoped would be a crowning achievement. There he was, in the scope at 450 yards. It was in the scope that I realized he was even bigger than the giant I had built him up to be. I counted breaths and started my routine of applying pressure to the trigger. My heart went calm, and time stopped. Boom! The Gunwerks suppressed 7 SAUM roared to life. The wallop of the bullet striking the goat will be something I never forget.
We slowly made our way to the buck in hopes that ground shrinkage wouldn’t have its way. Upon arrival, we were greeted with a perfectly heart-shaped antelope with 18 7/8" beams and nearly 8" prongs. He was world class by any definition.
This hunt was another chapter. Earlier on in my hunting life, I was not able to fully appreciate the magnitude of a hunt, but it has become clear to me now. To fully appreciate the highs, you must experience the lows.