Nevada Dream

The Pursuit of a 391 Gross Bull Elk
By Verne Atwood

One can only dream of having a year like the one I had in 2006. In June, my wife and I had just returned to our home in Ely, Nevada from a successful black bear hunt on Vancouver Island, British Columbia to find out that there was a $120.00 charge pending on my credit card. Now, anybody that hunts in Nevada knows that can only mean one thing, they had just been drawn for one of Nevada’s coveted big game permits. The question was, which one had I drawn? I quickly found the first available phone and began calling friends to see if they had any information on the results. Soon after, I found myself jumping for joy over the Nevada bull elk tag that I had drawn for the late rifle season.

My excitement soon turned to anxiety as I was faced with a dilemma, was I confident enough in my hunting abilities to gamble this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? I had never hunted bull elk, but had hunted cow elk with my wife and even that hunt was challenging. I made a call to one of my co-workers, Mike Romero, who happens to be a sub-guide for Timberline Outfitters to ask his opinion. Mike acknowledged that this would be the most difficult hunt I had ever experienced and that I should give myself the best opportunity to harvest a trophy bull because the chances of me ever hunting bull elk in Nevada again would be very slim. I asked if he thought I should hire a guide or try the hunt myself. He told me to sit down and weigh the positives and negatives of both and then decide. I have virtually no experience hunting bull elk, and after a little contemplation, I decided that I better call Thomas Brunson, master guide of Timberline Outfitters and a local taxidermist. Thomas books up fairly quickly on all of his hunts because he has a good reputation of being one of the best big game guides in the area. Luckily, I was able to secure the final open spot for the late rifle season. With my hunt booked, I knew that not only had I better get my 300 ultra mag. tuned up, I’d better get my 49-year old body tuned up as well. So, every weekend I hiked up different spots and shot a box of shells from every position imaginable

I became really accurate with my rifle up to 400 yards and felt pretty confident but, when I went to the range with Mike, he advised me to be accurate up to 600 yards because in this open country long range accuracy is a must.

Summer came and went and fall was in the air. The bulls began to bugle and I tried my luck at calling in bulls to a videotape. It started a little rough, but after several unsuccessful attempts I got a nice bull to within 20 yards of my camera. He bugled so loud that it made the hair on my neck stand up. What a rush, I was definitely hooked now.

Soon it was November and the early rifle season was starting soon. I felt like I was going to lose my mind. I called Thomas and left him a message, “Thomas, this is Verne Atwood. I am ready to go. I am sitting on my back steps in my camos watching elk hunting videos.” Thomas called back and was still laughing. He reassured me that everything would be alright; my hunt would be here before I knew it.

December 2nd came and my hunt of a lifetime was on. I met Thomas and Mike at 4:00 a.m. and we were off. We arrived at our destination just before daylight. Thomas and Mike were talking about different bulls and where they should be feeding. As the sun started to rise, we pulled out the spotting scopes. We found two different bulls and, as I looked at them through the scope, my guides asked me which one I wanted to put a stalk on. Talk about decisions. I carefully looked over them both but couldn’t make up my mind, so I asked them which one they would hunt. Thomas advised me that he had picked up sheds off one of the bulls and said that when I saw the set of sheds I would know this would be the bull to hunt. There was only a small window to hunt this bull before he would be bedding down in the thick trees, so we grabbed our packs and were off. When we arrived at our glassing spot, it was already getting warm and the bulls weren’t showing themselves. We patiently glassed for hours, walking from ridge to ridge with no luck. Opening day came and went without a shot fired. I was off to bed early that night even though I knew that I wouldn’t get much sleep.

On the second morning, Thomas advised me that we would be hiking into a new area in the dark and that it would be a “little” ways up a mountain. As we walked, the anticipation of what would be on the other side of this steep mountain kept my feet moving but, about an hour into the hike, the burning feeling in my legs and lack of oxygen overshadowed my excitement. I have never sweated so much when it was 20 degrees outside. Soon, I could see the top and I gritted my teeth and finished the hike. Once on top, Mike went to one vantage point as Thomas and I went to look into another bowl. As the sunlight began to shine on the hillside, Thomas spotted a good bull approximately 450 yards across the canyon. The bull was a 350-class 6×6 and, when I looked through the spotting scope, I was ready to shoot. Thomas decided that we should continue to glass to see what else was in the area because there were a couple of really big bulls that just weren’t showing themselves yet. So, I sat back down and continued glassing.

After an uneventful morning, we had some lunch and the guys made a plan for the evening hunt. Mike would go back to our original spot to see what bulls were showing up and Thomas and I would narrow our search by walking up another mountain top to look into another bowl. Once on top, we found an area that was thickly covered with grass and other forage. I could see Thomas smile as he glassed around. He whispered to me that we would call this area “The Salad Bowl” because of all the feed. He knew that this spot would definitely be holding some mature bulls. As we were glassing, Thomas leaned over and whispered that he was going to find a “spot” because Mother Nature was calling. He dropped behind a ledge to take care of business and I stayed put to keep glassing. The next thing I knew, Thomas was hurrying back in my direction still buttoning up his pants and excitedly telling me to grab my stuff now! He told me that we needed to get down the hill to close the distance on a bull. This was my first hunt with Thomas, but I do know that it would take an awful big bull to get him this wound up. We closed the distance to 650 yards and I still had no clue what we were trying to get close to. We were now walking on crunchy snow and the wind was swirling around the bowl. Suddenly, Thomas pointed out some bulls standing across the canyon fully alert and looking back at us. The hill we were on was very steep and rocky and it was very difficult to get a steady rest on anything. Thomas found a down tree and I quickly knelt down and put my rifle on the steadiest place I could find. Thomas ranged the bulls at 650 yards and said the biggest bull was to the left of the group. My heart was beating quickly, I couldn’t control my breathing and my crosshairs were swaying back and forth. Thomas kept saying, “Left, left.” Finally, he reached over the top of me and brought the weapon to the left. There in my sights stood the biggest bull I had ever seen. Thomas was setting up the camcorder and I overheard him say that this bull was nicknamed, “Badonkadonk.” When I heard that, I knew exactly what bull it was. Mike had last year’s shed antlers and I actually got to hold them with my own hands. I had never seen such a huge back end or “whale tail” on a set of antlers (hence the name “Badonkadonk”). I couldn’t get steady and was afraid to rush the shot. The 650 mil dot kept drifting on and off the target, and the rest just wasn’t solid. The bull then trotted over the ridge top and another bull stopped in his place. This bull was a 360-class 6×6 and as I attempted to get a steady shot on him, Thomas told me to hold up because another bigger bull was coming up out of the trees to the top of the ridge. Thomas recognized this bull as a bull named “Morris” (because he seemed to have nine lives). Thomas had hunted this bull earlier in the archery season and had judged him to be a 390-class bull. Both of those bulls soon blew out and over the ridge top without a shot fired. I felt as if I was going to vomit with the excitement and disappointment hitting me all at once. All I could do was shake my head and apologize to Thomas for not taking the shot. Thomas reassured me that it was better not to rush the shot and completely blow the bulls out of the area, especially at 650 yards. Needless to say, the ride home was sure a long one. Even though I never pulled the trigger, the opportunity to see such trophies during one hunt was priceless. Thomas was able to record some good footage of the bulls, but it sure hurt to watch.

The next morning, Thomas, Mike and I walked back up to the Salad Bowl hoping that the bulls hadn’t blown out of the area too hard. Once on top, we glassed over the Salad Bowl but nothing was showing itself yet. Mike walked up ahead of us to get a different angle and soon signaled over to us. We slowly moved up to Mike’s location. The bull was a heavy-horned, unbroken, 350-class bull. I began to take my backpack off and prepared to take the shot. Thomas told me to get up and grab my stuff so we could continue with our search, he reassured me that if we put the effort in, we would eventually find one of the other bulls and, if not, this bull would be here as a backup.

The plan for the evening hunt was to hike to the top of the highest peak and glass down into a couple of draws where the big bulls might be timbered up. Evening came and Thomas soon spotted Morris. Morris was feeding on a north facing slope just above the timberline about a half a mile away. Thomas and I were going to make our way down the backside of a ridge to a point that would put us approximately 500 yards from where the bull was feeding. Mike would remain behind to keep an eye on the bull’s movement. Thomas and I moved out at a quick pace as we would soon be losing daylight. Just as we reached the spot to start up to our vantage point, military aircraft operating in the area decided to break the sound barrier and let out several loud sonic booms. The noise spooked Morris into the thick trees and he used up yet another one of his nine lives. We walked back up to where Mike was and then walked the three miles back to the truck in the dark.

By now, I was just as sore as I was excited. Day four found us back on the same ridge glassing down into the thick trees that Morris had disappeared into the night before. For the first few hours we didn’t glass a single big bull. I was starting to get a little nervous with only three days left on my hunt. Suddenly, Mike found some bulls moving in the bottom of a thick draw. Soon, Thomas had Morris found again. It was now warming up and we were hoping Morris would bed in an area where we could possibly make a stalk on him while he was bedded. Just as we began to get our hopes up again, another military fighter jet made a low pass and Morris disappeared into the thick trees again. We glassed for hours trying to relocate him, but there was no movement around the thick patch of trees. We found ourselves scratching our heads wondering what our next move would be. Thomas said he thought it might be better to try to get into the valley east of where Morris was hiding and come up from the bottom across the canyon to get a different angle into the deep, thickly covered pocket. We had lunch back at the truck and decided that we should start at the bottom of the draw to navigate our way to where we needed to be for the evening hunt.

Evening found us on a south facing ridgeline tucked in the trees off of the skyline of the area where Morris had disappeared into the trees. Mike and I were positioned lower on the ridge as Thomas hiked a little higher to look into another drainage. With the sunlight directly in our faces, glassing conditions were far from good. I was now getting fairly anxious. It was about 3:40 p.m. and Thomas whispered that in a few more minutes the sun would be behind the hills and out of our eyes. As we continued to glass, Mike suddenly sat up. As Thomas looked through his spotting scope, I could tell they were excited. Mike rolled to his stomach and turned his pack over so that it was flat on the ground. He then motioned for me to lie down with my rifle on the pack. Thomas whispered that the bull was 605 yards away, so I steadied myself. I didn’t know which bull they were focused on, so I asked Mike if it was a “shooter bull.” Mike assured me that it was definitely a shooter bull and for me to take my time and make a good shot. I was surprisingly very steady and calm. I found my mark, steadied my breath and slowly squeezed the trigger and with that, the first shot of the hunt was fired. The 180-grain Swift Scirocco found its mark. Mike and Thomas were telling me to get ready for another shot, so I chambered another round and searched for movement. There was a quiet moment and soon Thomas was jumping up and down shouting, “Morris, you won’t be reaching life number ten!” I knew I had just harvested a huge bull. The celebrations then began and I was literally jumping for joy. There were high-fives all the way around.

I knew the bull was big, but when I had the opportunity to see him up close, all I could do was jump up and down and yell. What a magnificent bull elk to harvest on my first ever elk hunt. Thomas had judged this bull on the hoof to be a 390-class bull and, as it turned out, Morris the bull taped out at 391 4/8 gross and 385 3/8 net Boone and Crockett. As a non-typical 8×7, he should be ranked in the top fifteen largest non-typical bulls ever harvested in the state of Nevada.

We field-dressed Morris that night and came back in the morning after yet another sleepless night. Pictures were taken and we packed the huge animal off the mountain. I was so excited that I didn’t even feel the soreness from the miles of hiking. When we arrived back to Ely and finally came to a stop, people came out of the woodwork. Cell phones were burning up the air waves. Groves of people lined up to get a closer look at Morris. Camera flashes went off and flocks of people came over to congratulate me on harvesting such a fine animal. I tell them that I owe it all to a hardworking young guide named Thomas Brunson and Timberline Outfitters. What a year 2006 turned out to be.

Tags: HI33, Nevada

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