We spent more time in the truck than hiking. For the hunter used to streching his legs, it became somewhat monotonous. This was not the physcial game of bowhunting elk at home, but something more mental in nature.

During four days we discovered one bugling bull that was completely uninterested in our calls. We approached seven or eight cows and a single spike in three separate encounters. At home I might average six to eight encounters for every shot opportunity, making bowhunting success a game of numbers. In Oregon we certainly did not rack up anything close to such figures due entirely to weather, or more accurately, lack thereof. The writing was on the wall, and the odds appeared long on returning home with a Roosevelt bull.

Last Chance?
At home those elk would have been long gone. The day before Ross had tossed a bugle into a familiar canyon head. It came as a shock when the bull bugled in retort. Ross tried him again with the same results. “We’re in business,” Ross said, beaming, though darkness was descending quickly, the bull well out of reach. “He’ll be here in the morning,” Ross assured, reading my mind. To guarantee sleep would prove impossible, the bull sent one last bugle ringing down the hollow before we retreated. But with first light we could amazingly make out distant tan grubs scattered across the grassy swamp. This was my last chance and my reaction after so many desperate days was to bail off that mountainside like a starving coyote. Instead we loaded up and drove down blacktop. Ross knew of a relatively passable trail to the clear-cut our elk occupied.

The bull was talkative, even his cows gossiped busily. As we slipped forward a second bull joined the festivities. We quickly set up on him; Ross faded back while I guarded a narrow cut at the swamp’s edge. The bull showed at 50 yards, a just-legal three-point. I wanted a Roosevelt badly, but I had glimpsed the herd bull and was gripped by greed.

But the small bull suddenly received our scent and ran straight into our herd, stirring up trouble. Remarkably, the melee saved us and the elk remained. It was time to get aggressive, this much Rocky Mountain elk had taught me. I moved in a quiet sprint. The black-antlered five-point was marshalling a dozen or more cows, prodding them toward swallowing cover that would end it absolutely. I saw him through alder gaps, fervently rounding up reluctant laggards, bugling and panting through open mouth. I ducked into cover and rushed forward, taking advantage of the temporary chaos, the wind holding. The range I popped with laser range finder was discouraging but something I had certainly prepared myself for.

I snatched back the string as the bull paused between clumps of brush and fir. I swept the proper pin onto his chest, checked everything before allowing the string to slip away. My insides twisted as the bright arrow arched in slow suspension. It dropped in and piled through ribs and then I started dancing. Ross appeared and I grabbed him in a bear hug, releasing the frustrations of a mentally-exhausting week.

I approached my bull with a full understanding of how lucky I had been. Roosevelt just might be North America’s toughest archery trophy. The steep, jungley terrain’s certainly a part of that, the secretive nature of animals evolved in such a dark and obscuring place make them tough too, but I have also come to understand Roosevelt hunting requires as much mental toughness as Rocky Mountain elk requires physical stamina. No doubt about it; Roosevelt are different.

Editor’s Note: For more information on bowhunting Roosevelt elk with Spoon Creek Outfitters contact Bowhunting Safari Consultants at (800) 833-9777, www.bowhuntingsafri.com To watch the action unfold for yourself, look for this hunt soon on the Men’s Channel’s “World of Hunting.”