I’m hopscotching down a steep sandy hill trying to stay on the broken slabs of sandstone. Deep sand captures a large puddle of blood like kitty litter clumping spilled motor oil. The bull I’m following is bleeding out both sides of his chest making it easy to follow the puddles.

We edge around a rock bluff gaining a vantage of the desert floor. The bull is bedded beside the private land fence a hundred or so yards away.

“I’ve got him” I say to myself.

Four years out of the last five I’ve had an archery bull tag and this is the first I’ll recover. Archery elk hunting has been my nemesis—one that’s made me doubt my skill as a hunter every year. Confidence and self-doubt are long levers in a hunter’s success. The more confidence you have the more successful you tend to be. And it’s inverse for doubt. Confidence and doubt create self-reinforcing cycles that take you opposite directions depending on which you catch.

The dying bull isn’t big. But it’s the biggest I found on the worst of the four hunts—so I don’t mind. It’s better than going home without a bull in the cooler again.

I stare at the bull. His head is up but wavering. I’m relieved. I’m excited.

My eyes tear up in a strange combination of pride and humility, gratitude and sadness. I turn away so Thomas and the camera can’t see my emotion. This is my moment, and I don’t want to share it with either of them.

A few minutes later the bull’s head is in the sand. It’s dead. Its lungs finally filled with blood. It ran out of air. Poor thing.

I’m always struck by the oddness of death in hunting.

A few hours earlier this bull was happily feeding with a herd of cows. None of the nearby bulls could challenge it. When it opened its eyes and stood up that morning it had no idea this would be the last time it saw the sun rise. I bet it wished it rutted that hot cow a little more earnestly. Take one for the road, so to speak.

Finitude is a bitch.

We’re all a little like that bull.