The herd of elk stopped feeding peacefully and started running across the cholla filled desert flat. I wondered what spooked them.

Chase and I had been watching them feeding safely half a mile beyond the private land fence. Now, suddenly, they were running toward a lone island of state land—the nearest cover of junipers.

Could I be that lucky?

From the start of the hunt 4 days earlier I’d been watching the herd slowly feed closer to the fence line. But they showed no signs of leaving the safety of private land.

24 hours earlier something similar happened. A lone bikepacker pedaled his bicycle along the country road and the bull did the same thing. This time, however, it was Chase’s uncle Jeff who’d decided to leave camp to make the long drive back to Texas. As he drove by, the elk bolted.

While running toward the state land, the bull left his cows and found a smaller bull. Now, both bulls were running. One mile. Two miles. They were in the trees. Now I could hunt them.

We watched them.

The smaller bull moved behind the big rock outcropping while my target bull stayed in front of it. If he continued on this line we’d be able to watch where he went for some time.

He walked into a patch of trees. I could could see both sides of the patch. If he came out I’d see him. But he never did.

“Where’d he go?” Chase asked. He had been following the other bull until it vanished behind the rocks.

“He never came out of the trees.” I replied. “He must have bedded down in there.”

“Well shit, man. Let’s go get him.” Chase encouraged.

And like that we were headed to the trucks.

We made a quick plan for when we arrived. Then we jumped in and headed toward the patch of state land.

We moved slowly toward the rock outcropping. The trees the bull vanished into were just in front of it.

300 yards. 200 yards.

We would stop when we were 100 yards out. I’d find a place to set up while Chase moved back to blow his cow call. The idea was to have the bull walk toward Chase presenting a shot as he walked by me.

After 25 minutes of mewing, nothing moved. Nothing sounded except the wind in my ears and Chase’s call. There was no bull.

“Maybe we were too far away,” I thought. “Maybe we set up on the wrong patch of trees. Everything looks different when you move.”

We move forward, closer to the rocks

Nothing.

Forward.

Nothing.

We find tracks in the sand. I stop to look at them. They’ve been rained on.

Forward.

A few more steps and I notice movement to my right. I stop and turn my focus on it. The bull is standing beside a rock face behind a juniper tree not far away.

“There he is” I whisper.

Chase sees him simultaneously.

I get a range. Forty-two yards.

The bull is facing me, but I draw my bow anyway. I don’t want it to clear the tree without my being ready. I hear Chase whisper, “Don’t shoot him yet. If he turns and moves I’ll stop him.”

I’m at full draw and didn’t hear the last part.

The bull stares at us. Then moves to my right to catch our wind. A few steps later he’s behind a new tree. I’m still at full draw. He steps out from behind the brush.

As soon as his shoulder is clear I release the arrow. Chase cow calls. The arrow hits the bull and I hear Chase say “Oh yeah!”

A flood of blood and adrenaline pulsate through my veins.

The bull runs off and stops 20 yards further. It still doesn’t know what we are.

I nock a second arrow. Range the bull. I’m shaking wildly now and barely get a read. I draw, aim, and release. The second arrow hits. This time the only shot I have is high shoulder to clear the brush. It’s good, but the damage is limited.

The bull turns and runs, vanishing over the ridge.

We run to get a look, finding my blood covered arrow along the way. I pick it up. “That’s a dead bull,” I say, unable to diminish the smile on my face. “That’s a dead bull,” I repeat to myself.

But making the shot is only half the harvest. And a bull can run a long way, even with holes in both its lungs.