Blessed in Wyoming

Blessed in Wyoming
By Brian Hamilton

My son and I received an early Christmas present when we put in for a draw area that was known for big bulls. We had put in as a party draw. My son has only shot cow elk so far and I had hopes of us both getting a couple of nice bulls out of this unit. After drawing the tag, we looked forward to hunting archery season and then rifle season if we were unsuccessful. We planned to only go after bulls over a 330-class in archery season and bulls over 350-class in rifle season.

My son’s spare time for hunting was limited because of school, but we were both anxious to get up there and start our hunt. So, we made long weekends when we could and took advantage of his days off.

We have always been successful self-guiding our hunts and we spent the first few days of archery season scouting the land. The temperatures were high and the elk were not eager to talk at first, so we learned the country on foot and ATV. The first weekend of our hunt, we spotted elk in the distance, but were unable to call any in.

We went back a week later. The first day out we had a few bulls bugling, but no close encounters. It was still too warm and the hunting windows were too short before the elk would bed down.

The next morning was cool and, as we got half-way up the mountain, we started hearing some bugles. We hiked to a clearing and waited for light. When it was just light enough to see, we glassed a nice 350-class bull at the edge of the trees. Before we could glass anymore, a fog rolled in and we lost sight of the bull. After a while, the fog opened a little and the bull walked into the trees. We set up with my son Braxton sixty yards in front. I started cow calling, and we had a small bull come into fifteen yards without a peep. We heard a bugle again and I continued to call. It was then that I heard a twig snap behind me and, twelve feet away stood a 350-class bull. He barked and ran off; he had come up behind us like a ghost. We were bummin.

On Friday morning, Braxton mentioned that he would like to go to the homecoming dance Saturday night, so that put a twist on our weekend. We headed up the mountain until we heard more bugling. We quickly got set up again. Braxton was below me where I could not see him. I started calling and saw a 300-class bull step out below Braxton. I knew he had to be close to Brax, so I start calling like crazy in the hope that the bull would not spot Brax. I heard the thud. He’d made a clean shot at 25 yards. We spent the rest of that day and the next packing him out. Braxton had not gotten the 330-class bull that we had talked about, but a nice 6×6, and he made it to the dance.

Now it was my turn. The next weekend my wife Rhonda went with us. Brax got sick, so he stayed in camp all weekend. We hadn’t gone far up the mountain before the bugling started. We set up and got a 6×8, 380-class bull in to 65 yards. He had seven cows and a spike with him, but we could not get him any closer. The herd eventually wandered off.
We hunted the rest of that day and all of the next with no close encounters, but I knew the bull I wanted now.

The next weekend Rhonda and I hunted the last two days of archery season, but never ran into the bull again. The opening morning of rifle season we went up a canyon that we had scouted the night before. I thought that perhaps the big boy was hanging out there. It was a cool and windy morning with snow on the ground. We glassed some elk and spotted a nice 350-class bull. Just what I said I would set my goal at. He was a 7×6 and I had him in my scope at three hundred yards, but I could not pull the trigger after seeing that 6×8, 380-class bull the week before. We hunted around for a while then decided to go back to camp, get a good meal and regroup. While walking back to the ATV, I started thinking of what a mistake I made by passing on that elk. He was a nice bull. I couldn’t stand it and decided to go back after him that evening; hopefully he would still be in the area.

That evening, Rhonda and I walked and glassed as we worked our way back to where we had seen the bull. When we came out into a meadow we glassed a herd that was approximately a mile and a half away. We could barely make them out and had to get out the spotting scope to even see if there was a bull in the bunch. There were three bulls, and it was obvious that one was a shooter. There were also three nice rams feeding with them. We did not have a lot of daylight left, so we had to cover some country and fast. Rhonda was exhausted from all the trips up the mountain, but she had no trouble deciding to go after him. My saying has always been, “Hunt till you drop.” Rhonda and I were to that point. We finally got to where we were close enough to see the bull well with the binoculars. We could tell that he was not the bull we had seen earlier that morning, he was bigger! The adrenaline really began to flow as we worked our way closer, being careful that the herd didn’t see us - we couldn’t blow this one. We knew for sure that he was the monster of the woods and we wanted him. We ran through the trees as fast as we could, dark was coming and quick. We finally came out in a meadow where we collapsed, rolled onto our backs and took time to catch our breath and say a prayer. It didn’t take long, we were running out of light. We hid behind trees, took turns moving from tree to tree, walked up a few gullies and did some belly crawling as to not blow our cover. Finally, we got to 364 yards - we could not get any closer without being spotted. There was not time to rest. Even though we thought we were hid well, the cows had started to look in our direction. The bull was still there, lying down eating and watching his cows when I made the shot. He tried to stand up but went down. We both let out a victory shout and I kissed my wife and thanked the Lord. All the bull kills I’ve been around before looked smaller when approaching them, but not this one. This bull got bigger as we got closer. We couldn’t believe it. God had blessed us!

It was now dark, so we quickly dressed the bull out. The bad news was that it was now dark; up on the mountain was not the place to be with blood all over us. People who live in bear country say that the sound of a rifle shot is like ringing the dinner bell for the bears. We were in grizzly country, and Rhonda never let me forget it. We left our monster on the mountain that night, there was no other choice. Now we could make all the noise we wanted to, there was no more sneaking through bear country for us! Fear set in as we hiked out in the pitch black with the fresh blood on us. I didn’t know Rhonda could make so much noise. She was shouting and banging a stick on every rock or tree in her way. We got a little lost and had to do some belly crawling through the deep timber, but thanks to the GPS we were able to get back on track. When we came out into the meadow where we had started from we were completely exhausted.

We packed the bull out the next day with help from some wonderful friends we met up there hunting. How awesome that they would help us pack the bull out. When we thanked them they said, “That’s what hunters do; we can’t just say “nice bull” and walk away.” We were so thankful for the help of these great people and their new friendship. What a great hunting experience. I was able to watch my son harvest his first bull during archery season and then take the bull-of-a-lifetime with my wife at my side, self-guided and on public land.
Thank you Lord for the blessings!

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