By Aimee Keppel
The news had finally come that every elk hunter yearns for. I had finally drawn a late rifle bull elk tag. The selected unit for the hunt…well, let’s just say it’s notorious for leaving a sour taste in most hunters’ mouths. It’s one of the roughest, most rugged units in Arizona.
Still, I was beaming with excitement as this was the first bull tag with my name on it. When sharing the news with friends, their expressions quickly turned from excitement to…sympathy. They knew the challenges this particular unit presented. But having hunted this area successfully for the last 20 years, I knew the strenuous journey we were about to embark on.
The months of prep felt very short, as they often do. Opening morning was on us almost before we knew it. The alarm screamed at my husband and me at 3:30am. Large cups of coffee in hand, we began the drive to our coveted honey hole.
When we got there, though, the unpleasant sight of four other vehicles let us know that our once-secret, secluded spot had been found out. Forced to make a gut-wrenching decision, we abandoned our plan and chose to branch out in search of a bull elsewhere. In the days that followed, we were informed that a youth hunter had taken a 400-inch bull in that exact location.
The days quickly vanished along with my expectations. Each day brought the same disappointment…numerous large hunting parties in the spots we’d previously scouted. The large unit we were assigned started to feel increasingly crowded. If we were going to be successful, we needed to push the boundaries of our comfort zone.
On the fourth day, our hope was restored.
We were able to locate a group of bulls at last light nestled on the edge of a canyon surrounded by wilderness area. We made a plan that night knowing we would be the only ones in that area. No one else would be crazy enough to do what we were about to.
As the sun began to rise through our binoculars the next morning, the welcoming sight of tan hides appeared through the glass. It was time for the stalk.
As we ascended 1,000 feet over the next 45 minutes, we realized the bulls had travelled further away. We continued on the move and finally reached a spot where I could lie prone within 500 yards of the herd, using our warmest clothing layers as a rifle rest.
With a bedded raghorn’s rear end in my sights, we waited on our thin base layers. An hour passed. Then two. A total of three hours went by with us foolishly thinking the bull must rise and switch to a shaded bed. Feeling the chilled air from the snowstorm that was brewing, I looked at my husband who was also on the verge of hypothermia. Between the chattering of my teeth I muttered, “Get that bull up so I can shoot.”
Cow calls blasted in my left ear as he whaled on his reed call. In desperation, the sound of a curious cow elk turned into that of a flailing, dying animal. One by one, the bulls slowly rose in confusion.
Suddenly I heard, “Babe! Big bull is up!” I adjusted my crosshairs from the original, still bedded, raghorn to see a glorious six-by. Fifteen yards separated him and the crest of the hill. A quick “Please, God” escaped my lips before my husband got the bull back in his sights and the BANG.
It was a difficult, hard quartering away shot—the only opportunity I had. His large frame launched forward from the impact, just enough to be out of sight.
The uncertainty of the bull’s location was mentally brutal. I wanted to celebrate. I felt very confident in my shot, but the brain has a funny way of letting the “what ifs” flood in like a leaking dam. One thing I knew for certain…I sure was happy to be able to put my warm layers back on.
We side-hilled the gorge that separated us and popped up over the ridge that he disappeared behind. Lo and behold, the first sight upon cresting the hill was his beautiful beams being illuminated by the setting sun.
Overwhelming relief ran through me as the tip of my rifle touched the animal’s eye confirming the harvest. Warm tears of joy streamed down my frozen cheeks as my husband wrapped me in a proud hug. I had successfully harvested my first bull.
After a long night of field dressing, the risky decision was made to hang the quarters in a nearby tree knowing a resident mountain lion frequents that same ravine. With my bull’s rack in tow, we made the descent off the mountain. The trek was grueling. Two hours traversing steep terrain, oak brush walls, and a constant eerie feeling of being watched.
We finally persevered and made it back to the safety of our truck.
Snow flurries began gently falling and the chilling screeches of that mountain lion echoed at us from across the way. The experience was one that’s unparalleled. The feeling of accomplishment and pride for what we endured to harvest this beautiful animal was the cherry on top to close out this hunt.
Although he wasn’t the biggest one in the unit, this bull, along with the memories, will forever be one of my most prized possessions.
Aimee Keppel is an Arizona native outdoorswoman who, along side her husband, has immersed herself in the field for many years. She takes pride in learning from each experience in the wilderness on her own hunts and in assisting others. She hopes that one day her knowledge and experiences will teach her three young children to become the next generation of ethical hunters.