After another morning of chasing our monster, Ken suggests a noon-to-dark vigil in what he describes as a "super-double secret" spot. The wind swirls unaccountably on this rough ridge where a stand guards a spring, but since I'm adorned in head-to-toe scent-containment duds I'm the obvious candidate for the site. Ben sits on a meadow wallow on the other side of the ridge.

Down time: Chasing elk through the mountainous timber of New Mexico can be an exhausting, but rewarding task.

I admit I'm skeptical about the stand as I crawl aboard. The seat squeaks and I'm restless as Ken and Ben disappear over the ridge. This squeaking continues as I squirm throughout the afternoon. I'm restless by nature, and knowing that I'm dry-docked for the next eight hours gives me little comfort. After finally locating the source of the irritating squeak I jam a piece of pine branch into the hinge to solve the problem.

The sun's beating down and a westerly breeze keeps the tree swaying. Out of boredom I spend several hours fine-tuning the spot, arranging my gear and trimming a branch or two before I feel I've everything in its place. I spent a lot of time ranging landmarks around the site, visualizing shot opportunities.

Honestly, I'm convinced I'm wasting time, but decide to make the best of it and get into the game. The sun eventually begins to fade as I grab my bow and settle in for prime time. It isn't long before I hear "clips" and "clops" from behind. I look over my right shoulder through pine boughs to see a nice bull making his way down the trail.

I'm forced to make a major shift in order to shoot. I stand, turning to face the tree, but am having trouble getting my release hooked up. By the time I'm ready, the bull has moved behind brush. He pauses after walking behind a juniper, and then after an eternity steps out broadside at what I believe is 50 yards. I tug the string to anchor, settled my sight above his back and let'er rip. The arrow passes harmlessly below his chest. He calmly melts into gathering dusk, unaware that he's been shot at. It turns out the range is closer to 60 yards.

When Ken arrives I began my sad blow by blow. He informs me I'm now in the "penalty box." Ken's the sole official of the penalty box. I could've edited my story to relate only the 60-yard miss, but ultimately the portion regarding a 6x6 at 20 yards, and fumbling my release so that I didn't get a shot off is what puts me in that box; that and forgetting my stalking slippers this morning...I have five days left to redeem myself!

There's talk of switching guides and hunting partners, but since an air of confidence has developed as things stand, we decide Ben and I will hunt for at least another day with Ken; Dennis and Brent running with Mark Mays, who Ken labels the best elk guide around.

Day three starts like the previous ones, finding bulls in the magic meadow, listening for the monster bull's recognizable growl. His bugle is quite distinct and before long we are in hot pursuit, attempting to cut his harem off, which seems to be growing each day.