The most important bowhunting skill is the ability to get so close to game that the archer can almost smell it. The bowhunter should hunt silently all the time. I ignored that rule on September 12, 1970, and it cost me a chance at a giant bull elk.
Everything was in my favor. Wrinkled clouds hung over the eastern slope of the Rockies west of Fort Collins, Colorado. Early-morning dew made the ground moist-perfect for noiseless walking. A gentle breeze was blowing on my face as I eased into a mountain drainage covered with lodgepole pines, aspens, and grassy meadows. It was familiar territory. I had seen many elk there in previous years.
I sneaked around downed timber and studied the forest for hours with my 7 x 35 Bausch & Lomb binoculars but saw no game, and I couldn’t find any fresh sign. I became convinced that no game had used the basin for weeks. As a last resort I tried bugling with my homemade elk call. There was no answer. I concluded that my best bet was to walk over a ridge and head down into another basin in a nearby area.
I came to a game trail among the thick lodgepole pines on the slope. At one time it had been used heavily, but now it was barren of tracks. Moments later I approached a large patch of blueberry bushes nestling in the timber above me. I considered glassing the bushes but decided that it was a waste of time and walked briskly ahead.
Suddenly I saw something moving in the blueberry patch, and then I made out the enormous antlers of a royal bull elk. The animal was lying down less than 50 yards away. The movement I’d seen was the bull’s head turning toward the first slight sound of my careless approach.
Things happened so fast that I didn’t have time to nock an arrow. As soon as the bull saw me he exploded out of the bushes and bolted up the ridge. He didn’t dodge or run around anything; he barreled over and through whatever was in his way. Dead tree branches snapped with the sound of pistol shots as his rack ripped through the pines.
I was disgusted with myself. When I jumped that bull out of his bed, I was only 22 years old. I had been hunting with archery tackle for nine years, and I hadn’t taken a single big-game animal, not even a deer.
I’m single and was born and raised in Fort Collins. Most people who grow up in that area develop outdoor interests at an early age. I enjoyed all types of sports. I developed the usual interest in hunting with firearms during my early school years, but I also wanted to play football. By the time I entered Poudre High School I had to choose between football and firearms hunting because both are fall sports. I decided to stay with football. There would be plenty of time for hunting with a rifle after my high school and college years were over, I reasoned.
I then began trying to score on a deer or elk with a bow. The Colorado archery seasons normally open in mid-August, so I could spend a week or so in the mountains before reporting for football. My first four years of bowhunting were dismal failures. I often hunted two or three days in a row without even seeing a big-game animal.
About that time, a mutual friend introduced me to Ben Alexander. Ben, now 28, is married and has two small children. He works for a water-filter plant in Poudre Canyon, 20 miles west of Fort Collins. He grew up nearby and was full of mountain lore. When I first met Ben he was 22 and had a keen interest in bowhunting. He invited me to hunt with him, and I accepted eagerly.
That was the beginning of a friendship that has grown closer through the years. The thing that intrigued me most about Ben was his firm determination to take a real trophy with an arrow. He readily admitted that the odds against him were heavy, but he figured he had some chance if he tried long enough and bard enough. Ben had killed several fine mule-deer bucks with a rifle, so that challenge had paled for him. He felt strongly that the object of hunting should be the sport itself, not meat on the table.
Ben figured that if he took an average deer or elk with an arrow, his hunting for that species would be over for the season. Holding out for an exceptional trophy animal offered more real sport, he reasoned. Most of all, he enjoyed the challenge of going after the very best with a bow.
During the first two years I hunted with Ben I wasn’t so trophy conscious, but I soon picked up his way of thinking. That’s one reason neither of us made a bow kill until the 1970 season.
Though Ben and I were unsuccessful for so many years, it wasn’t because we got no opportunities. We’re “picky” about long-range shots. We don’t like to draw an arrow unless we can get within 40 yards of an animal. Because we were unwilling to take long-range shots, we often spooked game by trying to get closer, but we didn’t wound any game.
And we spoiled some easy shots too. Once, my partner stalked to within 15 yards of a five-point elk. The bull heard the arrow rubbing against the bow when Ben drew. At the instant of release the elk whirled and bolted. The broadhead missed.
Mule deer in the timber gave me my best chances. I once got within 30 yards of a big four-pointer. He was standing above me on a slope near an aspen grove. I misjudged the steepness of the slope, and the arrow went over him.
Another time I stalked a five-pointer that was feeding along a sagebrush ridge. I closed the distance to 25 yards and was preparing to shoot when I spooked a doe I hadn’t seen. She made one jump, and the buck was in high gear. Still another time I had an easy shot at a similar buck, but my arrow smashed into an aspen between me and the target.
My hopes for 1070 were jolted when I was drafted into the Army on February 3. I was working then on a master’s degree in computer science at the University of Arizona. While I was in basic training at Fort Lewis, Washington, I was sure there would be no hunting for me that fall. Then, by a stroke of luck, I was assigned to the Division Data Center at Fort Carson, Colorado. My outlook was brightened even more when I learned that I could take a 20-day leave in September.
The 1970 Colorado archery season for deer and elk ran from August 15 through 3eptember 20 ( the dates were different for 1971), so I scheduled my leave to begin on September 1. When that date arrived I hurried home, bought my hunting licenses, and packed my gear. Colorado residents pay $7.50 for an archery deer license and $10 for an archery-elk license. The nonresident pays $25 each for similar licenses.
Ben and I usually hunt two areas about an hour’s drive west of Fort Collins. One area is good for both mule deer and elk. In the other there are more elk but fewer deer. While discussing the situation with Ben I decided to hunt the better deer area during the first half of my leave. Ben couldn’t get off from work to join me for about two weeks. and I knew that he was interested primarily in hunting elk in the second area.
“I’ll drive my camping trailer in there on September eleventh,” he said, “but I can’t start hunting till the thirteenth. You could base at the trailer and scout for a couple of days before I join you.”
We discussed the details, and then I headed out. I drove as far as I could up an old logging road to a big watershed at the 9,500-foot elevation. It stretches northward for miles and is covered by lodgepole pines, aspens, Douglas firs, and grassy meadows. My plan was to be out at dawn each day, hunt until dark, and then return to my car and sleep there.
The farther I went, the more sign I saw. One pine was rubbed bare of bark from the ground up to about 11 feet. That rub was much higher than any I’d ever seen before. The bull that had made it had to be a giant.
After a week of hunting I was still looking for my first shot of the season. I wasn’t discouraged — the weather had been perfect, and I’d seen 21 deer and eight elk. Not one of the animals wore antlers. but I’d had a lot of fun making practice stalks. I got within 15 feet of one deer, and I managed to get within 20 yards of an elk.
On September 8, I drove to Ben’s home to make sure his schedule was still the same. Then I put in three more days of uneventful hunting. Late that last evening I loaded my gear into my and drove 15 miles to where my partner had said he’d park his trailer. The comfortable unit was a welcome sight. Ben had made the body himself out of aluminum siding. The trailer is eight feet high, 17 feet long, and eight feet wide. It’s equipped with two sleeping couches, a table, a gas stove, a lantern, and a refrigerator.
The next morning I began scouting our elk-hunting territory. It’s a bowl-shaped drainage eight miles long by four miles wide. Ben and I had always found elk somewhere in the drainage whenever we hunted there. More often than not, we had found a herd in one small basin within the big bowl. Sure enough, that’s where I spooked the bedded elk, as I described earlier.
After blowing my chance at the royal bull, I resolved to hunt as cautiously as possible. I’d move along as quietly as I could for about 10 yards and then glass the terrain around me. That’s my usual method in heavy timber. In thick cover it’s almost impossible to spot game before it sees you-unless you glass more than you move. The almost constant use of binoculars tires the eyes, but it’s worth it.
For several hours I continued my slow, careful hunt, but then I decided to move a bit faster since my primary purpose was scouting. It was late afternoon by the time I reached the southeast end of the drainage, five miles from the trailer.
That’s when I began to spot fresh elk tracks and droppings in a large stand of lodgepole pines and Douglas firs. The farther I went, the more sign I saw. Many trees bore recent rub marks. One of those antler rubs astounded me. The pine was rubbed bare of bark from the ground up to about 11 feet. That rub was much higher than any I’d ever seen before. The bull that had made it had to be a giant.
I was so entranced by my discoveries that I didn’t pay much heed to a building storm, but as soon as rain began pelting down I headed out in a hurry. Then the temperature plummeted, and the rain changed to sleet driven by a high wind. It was long after dark when I found the trailer. I was soaked through, and my clothes were half frozen.
The next day I hunted near the trailer since I didn’t want to disturb the herd before my partner’s arrival. Ben arrived in the evening and listened to my news with growing pleasure.
“They’re way back at the edge of the bowl,” I explained, “too far away to hunt full days from the trailer. Our best bet is to backpack in and stay near the herd.”
The next morning we loaded our backpacks with camping equipment that might surprise many hunters. Our gear is selected on the theory that the quickest way to spook game is to advertise your presence with human scent or noise. We camp cold. In other words we never light a fire for cooking or warmth. We pack in canned lunchmeats, fruit, and other ready-to-eat items.
Cold camping may be uncomfortable, but it eliminates the disturbances of woodchopping, cooking, and other camp chores. A bowman usually has to get within 40 or 50 yards of his quarry, and that’s almost impossible if his clothes carry the odors of smoke or cooked food. Getting within sure bow range is especially improbable if the game has already been alerted by the distant sounds of human activity. Though we could have driven close to our destination in Ben’s four-wheel-drive vehicle, we didn’t even consider it, because of the noise factor.
During our hike to the far edge of the drainage a wet snowstorm reduced the visibility to near zero. We were almost to the camping site I had selected when an unseen elk crashed out of a grove of pines ahead of us.
“I told you they were in here,” I told Ben gleefully.
An hour later my two-man nylon pup tent was stretched between trees near the edge of some pines bordering a small meadow. A meandering creek flowed behind our camp. We were in an ideal spot.
It was early evening by the time we’d finished eating and readying our archery gear. My bow has a 53-pound pull; Ben prefers a 48-pound pull. We use bow quivers and arrows tipped with four-edged heads. We buy aluminum shafts and put on the fletching and heads ourselves.
Our caution paid off that same evening. We were less than a quarter-mile from the tent when I bugled for the first time. The high-pitched notes had barely died when an answering challenge came from across the basin. Again I bugled, and again the challenge was returned, closer this time.
After several more exchanges, Ben and I knew the bull was coming fast. Soon we heard his gurgling grunts in the timber across a 200-yard-widc meadow.
Then the bull got cautious. For an hour he answered my bugling invitations to fight, but he wouldn’t come closer. Daylight was fading, and it was too late to make a stalk.
Ben and I separated and bugled from various spots along the edge of the timber on our side of the meadow. The bull moved back and forth opposite us, but he still wouldn’t show himself. Then darkness fell, and we were forced to give up the game.
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As we walked back toward the tent along the edge of the meadow, I gave one last whistle on my call as a parting salute. We were astonished when the bull answered from directly across the meadow. He was listening to our movements and following us on a parallel route.
Several times that night we were awakened by ringing bugles in nearby timber. It was almost impossible to sleep with a bull elk so close.
My partner and I were up before dawn. Stars glowed, frost covered our archery tackle, and our camouflage clothes were frozen stiff. With barely enough light to see, we studied the tracks the bull had made in snow the night before. Ben is normally very calm, but now he could hardly contain his excitement.
“I’ve never seen elk tracks that large,” he said. “He’s a real trophy bull.”
We hunted hard all day without success. We heard a few distant bugles but never got close. A warm sun melted the remaining patches of snow, but by late afternoon a cloudy, cold dampness settled into the bowl.
We returned to the tent, prepared some food, and were adjusting our elk calls when we heard a faint bugle on the nearest ridge. We didn’t pay much attention — until the bellowing whistle sounded again. That time it was so close that we scram bled for our bows.
The bull was grunting up a storm. We heard brush snapping and guessed that he was just inside the pines and firs on the other side of the meadow in front of our tent. We had to get across the opening and into the timber before the elk reached the meadow. We could have made it easily by running, but the bull would have heard us. Quietly but as fast as possible, we began to cross the meadow. Halfway across, Ben slammed to a halt. I stopped beside him.
“Look,” he whispered, “I see his legs below the branches. He’s coming straight at us!”
Then I saw the bull’s legs moving into a dense clump of pines directly in front of us. We nocked arrows, positioned our bows in front of our bodies so that we could shoot with as little motion as possible, and then froze. There was no cover in the meadow. Our only hope was to stand motionless where we were.
I don’t recall seeing the bull emerge from the pines. Suddenly he was there, standing broadside to us only 30 yards away, completely out in the clear. His great rack was held high, and his body seemed swollen with overbearing pride. His arrogance and eagerness to fight a rival bull so absorbed him that he didn’t seem to notice us.
I don’t recall seeing the bull emerge from the pines. Suddenly he was there, standing broadside to us only 30 yards away, completely out in the clear. His great rack was held high, and his body seemed swollen with overbearing pride.
Ben and I drew at the same instant, but my arrow flew a split-second earlier than Ben’s. The bull heard the twangs of the bowstrings and snapped his head toward us. Instantly his body seemed to shrink and cower in fear. His eyes bulged with apparent disbelief. As he lunged to his left I saw that a light-colored arrow had driven through his upper back. The shaft was plainly visible on each side of the animal. I knew it was Ben’s arrow because mine was spotted with camouflage paint.
The bull vanished quickly, but we could hear him crashing through the trees, and his running retreat sounded uncontrolled. In seconds the commotion ceased. We figured the bull was down, but we waited 45 minutes before following the blood-sprinkled trail, wanting him to stiffen if he was only wounded. We found the bull dead just 90 yards from where he’d stood when our arrows had sliced into him.
When we field-dressed the bull we discovered that either arrow would have killed him. Mine had broken a rib and made a gaping cut through the liver. The profuse internal bleeding had downed the elk after only a short run. Ben’s broadhead had cut through the bull’s backbone just above the spinal cord. If the arrow had been an inch lower it would have dropped the trophy bull in his tracks.
These facts led to a question: who should legally claim the bull? State law requires hunters to tag elk right after the kill. There might have been some difficulty if Ben and I hadn’t been such close friends. We were well aware that the massive antlers would win some recognition.
Finally we decided that I should tag the elk since my shot was placed a little better than Ben’s and had caused quick death. And yet I’m convinced that Ben held his draw for a moment so that I’d have the first shot. He’s the kind of guy who would do a thing like that and never admit it. By the time we finished the field-dressing chores a thick fog had blanketed the basin, so we decided to stay another night in camp. The next morning we marked a route from the bull to an old logging road by hanging small blaze-orange trail-marking ribbons on branches.
Then we hiked back to the trailer and drove Ben’s car to the home of his parents. His dad, Herb Alexander, a lifelong firearms hunter, was enthralled by our story.
“Well,” he said with a grin, “I didn’t think you fellows would ever get a bull with those sticks. If your talk is as big as you say, I can’t wait to see him.”
Herb, Ben’s wife Marion, and my brother Jim went with us in Herb’s jeep to help load the animal. Herb’s vehicle is rigged with a winch-and-pulley arrangement that made short work of the job.
After a 60-day drying-out period the antlers were officially scored for the Pope and Young Club by Marvin Clyncke of Boulder, Colorado. The main beams measured 46 4/8 inches and 48 6/8 inches. There are eight points on the right antler and seven on the left, and the tip-to-tip measurement is 45 2/8 inches. The official score is 364 2/8.
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As I write this story that score is good for No. 3 rank in the Yellowstone-elk category of the Pope and Young Club’s records of North American big game taken with archery tackle. The world record bowkilled elk scored 376 6/8. It was taken by Jack Sheppard in Idaho. D. A. (Bud) Johnson’s No. 2 bow-killed elk scored 366 5/8 and was also killed in Idaho.
Ben and I scored on the best trophy elk ever taken in Colorado with archery tackle. Our kill has been entered in the Pope and Young Club records under both our names.
Editor’s Note: Though such a joint entry is unusual, it does have a precedent. In 1958 hunting partners Dr. James Rumbaugh and John Ruyan fired their rifles simultaneously and dropped a big typical-whitetail buck in Ohio. Their trophy won first award in its category in the 1958-59 Boone and Crockett Club competition. The names of both men are jointly listed in the record book. The story of their hunt was told in the November 1960 issue of Outdoor Life in “How I Got No. l Deer.”
This story, “Trophy for Two,” first appeared in the January 1972 issue of Outdoor Life. The current archery world-record for a typical American elk is 430 0/8 inches. That bull was killed by Montana bowhunter Stephen Felix in 2016.
