Bugle Magazines Women in the Elk Country

A Girls Dream Comes True
By: Kristy Titus

Once I got a taste of those monsters, it became an addiction for which there is no cure. All I can do is pacify the disease is head deep into the mountains year after year to get my fix.

I took up archery hunting some years ago and was fortunate to encounter monster bull elk up close and personal. I had some chances, but I was determined my first archery elk was going to be a branched bull. No exceptions. I have become a bit of a bull snob.

My father and I had been hunting hard for three weeks, averaging 12 to 15 miles each day on foot in the rugged eastern Oregon Mountains and passing on many small bulls. We were down to the last two days of the season, and in the afternoon the weather began changing rapidly. Hail started pounding down on the mountain, and the ground was soon covered by a thin white layer. It was cold, and I was pumped! There is nothing better than bad weather to get the elk moving. Just as I was preparing to leap over a log, we jumped a spike bull out of his bed. He was only 30 yards away, standing there staring at the two of us. I froze solid, and my dad drew, aimed and let his arrow fly. The spike walked a few feet and lay down for his forever sleep.

The mules would be happy to have the job of packing out the bull after having spent the better part of the month on a picket line. With the season running short, my dad was happy to have filled the freezer.

The last morning, I decided to finish out my season hunting a favorite meadow where I had patterned the elk’s migration through the years. This was also the halfway point between the road and my father’s downed bull. My dad was to meet me at 11 a.m. to spend the remainder of the day packing out his bull. I began the four-mile hike in the dark. Lots of fresh sign guided me along the series of game trails leading to the big meadow, but I heard no bugling bulls.

By the time I arrived at the meadow, I knew I had already missed the big herd. I decided to set up and start calling to see if I could get a location on a nearby bull. The wind was rushing down the mountain, but my hair and clothes were treated with scent elimination products and I had drowned myself in elk urine. I didn’t know where the herd went, but I knew from the sign that they were close.

I began a series of cow-calf talk but got no response. So I bugled. The bull we all call the Donkey Bull replied. He is one of several dream bulls we had encountered frequently, a perfect 7x7. The herd was below me, and I couldn’t get to them without being busted. So I decided to hold my position in the meadow and keep calling with the hope of drawing in a bull.

Donkey Bull and I screamed back and forth to each other for over an hour. The growlier I made my bugle, the madder he became. I was having the time of my life. Watching intently in the direction of the herd I saw antlers coming over the hill. I had time to draw my bow, but I knew instantly that this wasn’t Donkey. The bull was a respectable 5x5 coming up to me downwind and silent. No surprise there, these bulls love to sneak up on you. He stopped, quartering to me and just out of my range, looking intently for the herd that he knew should have been there.

I sat silently, praying he would come in a bit closer and give me a broadside shot. He only needed to take a few more steps. But instead, he quickly turned around and trotted away. These bulls are so smart and when something just doesn’t add up for them, they take off.

After the bull returned to the herd, the mountainside grew silent again. The elk were still there, but I couldn’t get to them. The time passed quickly, and before I knew it was almost 11 a.m. Time for my dad to arrive with the mules.

When Dad showed up at the meadow, I shared the great morning I’d had. This was one of the best days of my life, a life-changing day as a hunter. I was proud I had hiked into the mountains alone and, after years of practice, had called in a branched bull on my own.

I did not get my branched bull that year, but I finished my season with more knowledge and confidence than I had before. We packed my dad’s bull out on the mules, and for the next year I dreamed about what it would be like when I returned to that meadow.

The next year was like awakening from a dream. Dawn was just cresting the mountains and the air was cold. My father and I were in my favorite meadow, the same meadow where I’d called in the bull the previous year. We hadn’t even had enough time to properly set up, let alone begin a call sequence, when we spotted a 5x5 sparring with a pine sapling on the far side of the meadow. He wasn’t alone. He and and a group of smaller bulls, cows and calves started feeding toward us. I soon realized this was a new herd and my dream Donkey Bull was not in it.

I set up my decoy, as we had little cover and were on ground level among them. My dad and I watched the herd undetected as the small bulls sparred. The cows fed and watched over the calves that were frolicking around. They were so close now, 35 yards, some even closer and all downwind. Our field preparation was paying off as the herd didn’t know we were there yet.

I’d been dreaming and waiting so long, and I’d hunted so hard for this very moment. It was one every hunter can appreciate. But even with the herd this close, I did not have a shot on the 5x5. The lead cow began to get suspicious and let out a bark. I was horrified, because once an elk barks, the rest of the herd becomes distressed and spooks.

I kept trying to find an opportunity to draw without being spotted. I drew back my bow and by the grace of God none of the elk spotted me. There I sat at full draw, waiting for that perfect shot on the 5x5. I finally knelt down and rested my bow cam against my leg to take away some of the back tension. I was hoping my shot would come before I got the shakes.

I crept back up to my shooting lane just as the bull was moving forward. When he stepped into the opening, I was already there. My arrow passed through both lungs, and the bull was down. All of my hard work and preparation had paid off. My dream had come true. I finally killed my first branch-antlered bull with a bow. And I did it without a guide on public land. That bull is now displayed on my wall as one of the most amazing accomplishments of my life so far.

An Oregon native, Kristy Titus is a columnist, freelance writer, public speaker and freelance videographer. She is passionate about hunting and protecting our hunting heritage, and is an active supporter of wildlife conservation and outdoor education for kids and adults.