Something wasn’t right. I suddenly found myself in a surreal mental state, feeling a bit detached from reality. “Give me a minute,” I weakly said to Tyler, the young man serving as my guide for the week on the Ponil Ranch in northern New Mexico. I unbuckled the straps to my pack and let it drop to the ground, where I then summarily half-fell / half-eased myself down and leaned back against it. “Water. I just need some water,” I thought to myself. I retrieved a bottle from one of the pack’s exterior pockets and poured it down my throat as I caught my breath. I foggily concluded that I’d simply become dehydrated over the course of the last couple of hours, foregoing all measures of self-preservation to focus on the task at hand as the temperature climbed into the upper 70’s. Just dehydrated, that’s it. Or was it?

The sudden infusion of high levels of adrenaline, cortisol, epinephrine, dopamine, and other stress hormones can have profound short-term effects on the human body and brain: increased heart and respiratory rates, enhanced visual acuity, auditory exclusion, time distortion, increased pain tolerance and explosive strength to name a few. The body is a remarkable machine. Conversely, once the need for these emergency enhancements has passed, the body and brain have to go through a period of recovery or decompression as it clears those chemicals from the bloodstream, creating some of the opposite effects: fatigue, loss of concentration, poor dexterity, brain fog, etc. Maybe that’s where I was. But I’m not sure. A few moments before dropping my pack and myself unceremoniously onto the dry New Mexico ground, I’d told Tyler that it was really weird, but in the last hour or so I’d experienced about seven or eight episodes of déjà vu; that bizarre phenomenon of feeling like you’ve lived a particular experience before. Was it the sudden hormone dump, the fatigue, the dehydration? I couldn’t say for sure; all I really could say is that I’d just experienced the culminating moments of a hunt that I’d dreamed of my whole life. But I’ve gotten ahead of myself…

“Are you doing anything for lunch?” my friend Blake asked over the phone one fateful day in early August. “No, nothing special. You wanna meet up somewhere?” was my unsuspecting reply. Blake is a brother in Christ and one of a small group of men with whom I meet regularly to share breakfast and fellowship. I innocently assumed that our impromptu lunch may simply be an extension of that fellowship, and while it was certainly on the agenda, what he hit me with took me by complete surprise: an invitation to join him on an archery hunt for elk in northern New Mexico. Since my childhood days of consuming all manner of western hunting stories in the pages of Outdoor Life, Field & Stream and the like, I’d dreamed of a hunting adventure “out west,” somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, far away from my Georgia home. But as is often the case, life happened along the way, and I found myself in my mid-fifties wondering if it ever would happen and, if I’m being truthful, secretly suspecting that it would not. But at this stage of life, I no longer believe in coincidence; I possess a certainty that the Lord’s hand is in all things, and I believe this was no exception. This impromptu lunch with Blake would be just the first of many such examples on this journey.

A few weeks later, we embarked on an exceptionally pleasant cross-country drive to our destination in Blake’s 4×4, overloaded with so much gear and extra coolers that I’m certain we bore a remarkable resemblance to the Clampetts striking out from the Ozarks of Missouri, headed to the hills of Bever-lee. We arrived at the Ponil Ranch in Colfax County and acquainted ourselves with the outfitter, Colorado Buck, and his guides. Soon enough, steaks came off the grill, bellies were full, and I found myself lying in my bunk with the window open, listening to the nighttime Rockies and feeling the brush of cool, clean air flow into the room. I laid awake for a long while, my mind filled with the same visions of adventure I had as a young boy, when I used to fall asleep in my room with the bedside lamp on, with back-issues of Outdoor Life scattered across my bed.

Awakened by the rumble of the camp generator, we enjoyed a hasty cowboy breakfast of eggs and potatoes before Tyler and I set out on the short drive from camp to the spot colloquially known as “Phone Booth,” so named due to its ability to grant just barely enough of a cell phone signal to make a call or send a text message if the user was standing in just the right spot. As I stood outside the truck in the profound darkness, absolutely mesmerized by the brightness of the stars at that elevation with no ambient light pollution, it occurred to me that I was about to step off into exactly the adventure of which I’d always dreamed. Overwhelmed with gratitude for this opportunity, and bordering on becoming slightly emotional about the whole thing, I bowed my head with misty eyes and offered a silent prayer of thanks for my friend’s generosity and the Lord’s gifts. And we stepped off into the Rockies.

As we made our way to Chase Canyon, light from the east rolled back the night, revealing scenery like that from my imagination, imprinted there long ago by the likes of Jack O’Connor and other famous western hunters and writers. Rock cliffs, ridges covered in oak brush, stands of dark pine timber, open grass meadows connecting all the canyon drainages; it seemed like a postcard in every direction. The smell of fresh sagebrush blew strongly on the breeze and filled my nostrils. I attempted to refrain from going full tourist-mode and stay focused on locating elk, but I couldn’t help but take quick snapshots at every opportunity. Fortunately, Tyler seemed unfazed by my wonder-stricken activities as he diligently glassed ahead and searched for the slightest tell-tale sign of elk. At one point, after a mildly taxing push to the top of a ridgeline to glass and listen, Tyler suddenly dropped his binoculars away from his eyes and leaned over within whispering distance. “Listen… do you hear that? That kinda sounds like an elk stomping. What is that?” It was then I realized that I should probably inform him: “You should probably know- I have a mechanical aortic heart valve,” I whispered. “You’re hearing my valve- it’s echoing into my bino harness.” He looked at me incredulously. “It’s noisy, but I’m fine. If you stop hearing it, then be worried.” Indeed, I’d not really thought about it since I’ve simply grown accustomed to the sound in the years since the surgery. But with my bino harness in the open position and the binos out, it acted like a hollow bass drum, amplifying the thump/click of the carbon and titanium device in my chest. The look on Tyler’s face became a comical combination of confusion and bewilderment, ending in a grin and a head shake. After our unexpected moment of humor, we were back to glassing and searching.

As the morning wore on and we racked up mileage in our quest, it started becoming evident that any significant bugling activity had yet to commence for the season and that staging an ambush at a water source may be the best strategy. In fact, unbeknownst to us at the time, Blake had nearly got a shot at a mature bull as it and two juveniles visited a water hole that same morning. But then a steady rain set in, resulting in abundant water sources and reducing the likelihood of elk concentrating on any particular hole.

After an entire afternoon of steady drizzle, accompanied by a long, muddy slog back to the truck and an unproductive ground blind sit on a waterhole, we soggily retired to the camp. But my spirits were still high; it was only day one, after all. A warm meal, dry clothes, and a soft bunk later, and we were ready for day two.

The second morning found us on a slightly longer truck ride but a much shorter walk to a familiar water hole known as “Brian’s Windmill,” named after one of the ranch’s longtime guides. After seeing the state of disrepair in which the windmill stood (the entire top half had apparently been blown over by high winds), I was somewhat perplexed as to why Brian would want his good name sullied by being associated with it. Since he was not guiding on this particular hunt, I hadn’t been afforded the opportunity to meet him. Perhaps the windmill matched his personality or stature in some way? I couldn’t be sure. At any rate, an all-day sit at this location, while sunny and enjoyable, proved fruitless until almost last light, when a noise emanated from down-canyon that I, having an untrained ear for elk, couldn’t clearly discern. Tyler however quickly informed me it was a distant bugle/chuckle, and then spoke words that absolutely wrecked my central nervous system: “He’s coming in.” That simple statement traveled through my ears, into my brain, and down to my torso and appendages, setting into motion a nearly debilitating case of the shakes. Now, I’ve grown accustomed to minor bouts of buck fever, but nothing with which I couldn’t contend. But this was a belted magnum case of the shakes, the likes of which I had not experienced since I was a kid too young to tote a deer rifle, but old enough for my Dad to place me in a treestand seven feet off the ground within eyesight of his own, only to have a huge whitetail doe walk right underneath me. The shaking was so bad it caught Tyler’s attention and prompted a sly grin, accompanied by, “Are you alright?” But alas, the bull never spoke again or made his appearance, and as shooting light faded, we eased from the blind and made our way back to the truck. Having never seen an elk in person nor heard one bugle, I silently hoped that the next day would bring a true encounter that could not be mistaken.

Bolstered by the previous evening’s events, the morning of day three found us set up on yet another water hole in Chase Canyon, near the Chase well, after hiking in through an area called “Colorado’s Basin,” (presumably named after our host), all while glassing and listening to no avail. Determined to wait it out, we spent the remainder of the day there and despite the abundant elk sign in the area, the highlight of our day was watching a ground squirrel make one trip after another from his den in the bank of the water hole into the surrounding brush, gathering morsels to stock up his larder for the coming winter.

Mindful on the morning of the fourth day that thus far our entire hunting party of four had nothing to show for our efforts, I still maintained a degree of optimism and reminded myself that this was my hunt of a lifetime, and it was far from over. As Tyler and I returned to “Phone Booth” to begin another trek into Chase Canyon, we agreed that sitting on a water hole again was not the way we wanted to attack. Today we would be on the move. If the elk weren’t coming to us, we’d go find them. Once again, we moved through the canyons and draws, traveling along the fringes of the pinyon and ponderosa pine stands, pausing to glass the surrounding slopes, ridges, and meadows. We repeated the process for a couple of miles approaching the area known as “Turkey Track,” given its name due to the aerial view of the three-branched canyon resembling a gobbler’s footprint.

Pausing for a water break, Tyler’s demeanor suddenly changed as he directed his attention to “Middle Road,” a four-wheel drive two-track that made its way up the canyon. While once again my untrained ears heard nothing, he informed me that he thought he’d heard a distant bugle, so we started in that direction. Working our way further up Middle Road, we diverted along the tree line into a small draw off to our left. Having heard nothing for some time and seen no more that some mule deer sheds and a curious discovery of two bear skulls- one adult and one cub- we stood at the edge of a semi-open area of pines between two small finger ridges, covered with oak brush. As I stood facing the open meadow, Tyler stood at my left shoulder facing the opposite direction. All was quiet, and we agreed that we would head back to the truck, re-group, and formulate a new plan for the afternoon. Admittedly, doubt was creeping into my mind, and I began to wonder if my hunt of a lifetime would end with nothing more than fond memories of a beautiful place and an unfilled tag. And then God stepped in.

With that thought still bouncing around in my mind, Tyler suddenly grabbed my shoulder and pressed downward with great enthusiasm. “Get down, get down, get down!” he hissed, “there’s an elk!” Attempting to vanish into the shin-high grass, we dropped to our knees and crouched over as low as possible as we watched a large bull walk off the finger ridge to our right into the semi-open pines. “Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move!” Tyler hissed into my ear. I secretly wondered about his sudden affinity for verbal repetition. However, my compliance was absolute; the bull was less than one hundred yards away, angling toward us and to our left, and we were caught in the wide open. As we continued to watch the bull graze and work his way ever closer, I had a decision to make. All my arrows were in the quiver. I knew movement would be risky, but the bull was still probably eighty yards distant, but he was at ease and the wind was in our favor. I had to get an arrow knocked, now or never. I was afraid if I waited any longer, he might close the distance to the point that I couldn’t get away with it. Hoping my movement was concealed enough by the grass, I eased my right hand under my bow, which I held parallel to the ground, to access the quiver. Bringing the arrow around and knocking it on the string, I shifted only my eyes between the bull and my equipment, trying to remain as motionless as possible. I flipped up the drop-away arrow rest, clipped my release onto the d-loop, and made like a statue.

As the bull continued quartering to our left, partially concealed by the pines at about seventy yards, he turned loose with a full bugle- the first I’d ever experienced! He then inexplicably zig-zagged back to a right quartering angle, bringing him right out into the open directly in front of us. “Sixty-three yards,” Tyler whispered as he ranged the bull over my right shoulder. “Can you make that shot?” My reply, whispered confidently and without hesitation out of the right side of my mouth: “NO!” I felt pretty good at fifty yards, confident at forty or less, but I’d decided before I left Georgia that sixty was beyond my responsible limit. As the bull stood in the open, I feared that the proverbial jig may very well be up. Just as that thought flashed through my mind, the bull, standing in full view, raised his head and bugled loudly, laying his six-by-six rack almost all the way back on his shoulders, tapering off into a short chuckle at the end. It was the stuff of wildlife documentaries, and I had a front row seat. A gift from the Lord that simply could not have been scripted more beautifully. While it was a magnificent show, the reality was that he was still out of my effective range. And then once again, God stepped in and continued to orchestrate. Right on cue, another bull bugled in response far behind us, from up the canyon to our left. Our bull immediately turned and started walking in that direction to investigate the interloper, quartering once again to our left. 

Still hunched over in the grass, I saw an opportunity when the bull passed behind a small, scraggly, but perfectly placed pine tree about halfway between us. I rose to my knees as I simultaneously brought my bow to a vertical position and began the draw stroke. I reached full draw just as his head reappeared on the other side of the tree; I’d gotten away with it! Now I just needed the range and to see those vitals…

“Forty-two yards,” came the call from Tyler. Almost perfectly broadside. I waited. I’m not entirely sure why; I’m confident I could have made the shot, but something just told me to wait. Indeed, God had yet another move in store. So I held. And he stood. Time stopped. I continued to hold. Then three soft cow calls emanated over my shoulder from Tyler. The bull instantly turned his full attention to the oddly shaped thing in the grass forty-two yards away: me! He turned ninety degrees to his left and walked right at us, staring at me the whole time still holding full draw.

“Twenty-two yards!” came the final range call from Tyler. The bull took a couple more steps before stopping and staring at me from a distance of eighteen yards, still squarely facing me- presenting a low percentage shot that I was unwilling to take. Internal panic crept in as he began to behave as though he was onto us. His huge head swayed from left to right and back, as if he was trying to get a better visual angle on me. I caught myself looking around my peep sight at the beast and had to remind myself to look through it and find the pin, not look at the whole animal.

Finally, doubt got the best of him, and he decided to depart from our company to further his investigation of the aforementioned bull in the distance. As he turned back to his right, I saw the broadside angle I’d been waiting for. I found three of the five pins to be inside the breadbox, and a moment of panic overtook me as I mentally sorted out which pin I needed. I finally settled the twenty-yard pin just below center of the vital zone, pulled my shoulder blades back, and let the pressure of my finger on the release trigger do its work. The bow fired with a satisfying, muffled slap, and the red LED of the lighted knock traced a slightly upward path from my kneeling position directly into the bull’s ribcage, sending a reassuring “schnecke,” sound back to my ears as the broadhead pierced the leathery hide and deflated the lungs. As the mortally wounded animal wheeled and dashed out of sight, all of the tension and breath escaped my lungs and I nearly fell forward on my face under the weight of my pack, which I’d never even had a chance to remove. Tyler and I were ecstatic; high-fives, fist bumps, and back slaps all around. It was surreal; I’d just experienced in real life something that I’d only previously seen on television hunting shows. The only thing left to do was collect my trophy, or so I thought.

Both Tyler and I were confident we’d just witnessed a solid double-lung shot. Perhaps just a little bit high, but absolutely a lethal hit. We dropped our packs and waited about twenty minutes before moving up to find the arrow, covered in blood end-to-end, about ten yards beyond where the bull stood at the time of the shot. A clean pass-through, this was a great sign. Next step: just follow what would surely be a proverbial red carpet leading directly to my prize. The only trouble was, there wasn’t one. Not only was there not a clear blood trail, we didn’t locate a drop of blood anywhere. How could that be? We watched the arrow go in; we knew it was a good hit. Admittedly, a slight panic began to set in. We quickly expanded our search and found no trace that an elk had even been in the same county. A feeling of dread started to dominate my thoughts. The hunt of a lifetime, an unbelievable up-close encounter, a shot that looked and felt great… and now this. This just couldn’t be happening.

After walking a crisscross pattern across the brush covered knoll formed by the end of the finger ridge behind where the bull disappeared, Tyler and I reconvened. Our conversation turned from the absence of a blood trail back to the shot. Was it possible that the arrow was higher than we thought, going through the so-called “no-man’s land” between the spine and the vitals? With the blood covered arrow it seemed unlikely, but could we be so sure? After all, it did feel as though I was shooting uphill, since I was on my knees and the bull was so close. Maybe the angle was steeper than I thought.

As the doubt and the dread continued to build, my head began to spin, and the detached reality feeling began to set in. Time warped and things became fuzzy. I’m uncertain whether or not we firmly decided that it was a lost cause, but at some point, we elected to don our packs and start toward the top of the canyon where we could get enough phone service to call Blake and Colorado Buck. It was at this point that this story’s opening episode took place. After recovering somewhat and finally reaching the top of the ridge to make the call, they were on their way, and soon the white Chevy pickup arrived. After several minutes of conferencing, it felt like we were on the verge of conceding defeat. And then God stepped in yet again, this time using Blake. He asked to look at the arrow, so I removed it from my quiver, and he examined it closely from tip to tail. A rather stern look came over his face, and he dug in his heels. “I think that bull is dead. We need to go back and find him,” he said resolutely. He wasn’t asking. Outfitter and guide relented to his persuasiveness, and soon we were all on the ground where I’d taken the shot. I recounted the sequence, walked them to where the arrow was recovered, and then to the last place we saw the bull in full retreat. Having found no blood, all four of us fanned out on the search, examining likely avenues of escape for any sign. Soon we were on the opposite side of the knoll with nothing to show for our efforts. Once again, we regrouped at the arrow recovery site, and for whatever reason, we finally took the proper approach to the search: painstakingly slow and deliberate, literally taking one step at a time, looking not only for blood, but for any sign of passage. Soon we discovered a scuff or two on the ground where the bull made haste. And then there it was- on a small rock, the fist tiny droplet of blood, no larger than a ladybug, a full forty to fifty yards from where the bull stood at the shot. My spirits began to cautiously lift.

From there we discovered more hoof marks where the wounded bull, instead of following the path of least resistance as one might expect, made a hard right turn and went straight uphill into the thick oak brush. Then another droplet of blood, this one even smaller, probably twenty yards from the first. Then one on a leaf about waist high as we entered the thicket. Marking each drop with a plate-sized, flat rock set on edge, we pressed further into the brush. After finding only a few more tiny crimson specks, we were on pause, searching for the next one when I heard Blake shout, “There he is!” before vanishing into the brush on a headlong sprint. Based on the speed of his departure from sight and the enthusiasm in his voice, I honestly thought for a moment that he was in hot pursuit of a live animal and had plans to run it down and tomahawk it to death. But then I realized that Blake wasn’t equipped with a tomahawk. He’d found my bull!

The emotional roller coaster might have hit the bottom an hour prior, but now it was rocketing back to the top. As we gathered around the beast, the sheer size of it was astounding compared to the southeastern whitetails I was accustomed to. After moving the bull a few yards out of the thick stuff to a more open spot suitable for photographs, a sense of satisfaction and relief like no other came over me. My first western hunt, my first bugle, my first elk… it was simply overwhelming, and I found myself once again on the verge of becoming emotional. But there was no time for that; much work was left to do. After getting the truck as close as possible and loading the bull, we offered a prayer of thanks to the Lord for such a tremendous blessing and made our way out of the canyon.

Back at camp, with the bull quartered and cooling, I stowed my gear, put on some comfortable clothes, grabbed a book, and sat on the porch enjoying the warm sunshine and spectacular scenery. Completely unable to concentrate on reading, I relived the morning’s events over and over in my mind, and when viewed in context with the entire experience, beginning with that fateful day in early August, I remained even more convinced that there is no such thing as coincidence. God’s hand is in all things; He places certain people, certain things, and certain circumstances in our lives for a specific purpose, whether we recognize it or not. This entire hunt was absolutely a blessing from the Lord. Through it He showed me the absolute magnificence of His creation, as well as the value of friendship, perseverance, and faith that He will work all things out.

That night, after recounting the story of the hunt over our final supper among the company of friends old and new, I found myself once again lying in my bunk with the window open, listening to the nighttime Rockies and feeling the brush of cool, clean air flow into the room. I laid awake for a long while…