At first the hunter lacked confidence in the water hole he decided to sit on the 5th evening of his New Mexico archery elk hunt. This feeling soon passed as he remembered the nice 5x5 he had taken at this same waterhole last season. Mike could see the big juniper thicket that provided cool shade from the hot September afternoons. He was sure that the bulls he and Van had spotted that morning were surly bedded there now.

 
    It had been a hard hunt this year hot and dry, and very little bugling , although he had had two opportunities one on a 300 6x6 and a nice 5x5 that Van and his son Brad had called in. He had passed on them! This year he was determined to hold for a 340 or better or go home with out one, and why not this was his 5th hunt with Van Hales Trophy Outfitters and he had taken 3 nice bulls it was OK if he didn't get one. 

  Mike sat back into the bushy cedar tree that was his homemade blind, Van had cut into the cedar trimming and building a small wall of limbs around the the base, It was perfect the wind was right and he knew from last years experience if he moved slow they wouldn't see him.  The cedar sat on the dam of an old dirt tank that was silted in from years of run off from the near by mountains, it didn't hold much water but enough for now and a fresh wallow was there. The mud that a bull had shook off after wallowing was still moist had to be this morning he thought, the tracks from that bull headed away up the grammar grass and sage brush valley were big very big! 

  2 pm Van was fanatical about getting into a spot early wanting all of the scent of walking in to dissipate relating numerous stories of elk walking in and hitting the scent thus avoiding the water until after dark. So the hours passed and the only action was a couple of blue jays that squawked and fought over who was king of the water hole. A raven flew in and eyed him curiously then decided it was OK to drink.  One hour until dark and he though he heard a bugle or was it his imagination. maybe a bird? glassing up the valley 300 or so yards and yes their was movement tan and yellow moving threw the thicket, would they make it before dark? 15 minutes had passed and nothing else had moved. Mike had just re clicked all the spots where a bull might drink, with his range finder. He was just setting the range finders down when out of nowhere 70 yards away lumbering straight to the water hole was a giant of a bull! Horns so heavy that with each stride the bulls head swayed with the weight of them. Mikes heart pounded his strength suddenly sapped , it was happening way to fast the bull was almost on the run and was drinking before he was ready.  The giant bull was drinking straight on to him 30 yards away his eyes seemed to be looking directly at the hunter, Mike dared not move. 

  OK get it to gather , remember Vans always preaching don't look at the horns, pick a spot a hair out of place a piece of mud a crease in the hide anything to concentrate on the shot. This was a bull of a lifetime, it had to work out it just had to slowly he eased the Mathews bow up ever so slowly so far so good! When he stops drinking and turns to leave i will draw he thought, But the bull drinks and drinks it seem that he will surely drink the small tank dry. Mike was ready but without warning the bull raised his head and stepped Back looking directly at him so he thought? Oh sh-- I'm busted that's when Mike made his mistake he drew his bow and actually the bull was just taking a breather between drinks. The bull caught the slight movement underneath the cedar and froze! 

  Time seemed to stand still and at full draw not wanting to take the head on shot knowing it could be lethal, but it had to be perfect starting to shake it was now or never, He focused on that spot where the neck meets the shoulders that little V and let fly the arrow disappeared into the maze of long mane hair, the bull whirled and was thundering hooves up the valley back to the Juniper thicket and was out of sight in a blink of an eye. 

  I was driving up the dusty rough little two track road when I saw the excited movement of a flash light From past experience when a flashlight moves up and down at a high rate of speed this usually means an excited hunter which translates in to something getting shot. I wasn't disappointed as Mike retold his story and I asked how big and he says I Don't want to talk about that I knew it was big and I started to get excited. OK lets go over this again when did you shoot him? 30 minutes before dark OK good' did you find blood? not much at first then good blood all right well lets go have a look! 

  The ribbon that Mike marked the spot were the last blood he had found was illuminated by my sure fire combat light, great for tracking at night it throws of 125 lumen's of bright white light. Blood alright and deep tacks cutting into and breaking up the grammar grass headed up the valley. He is headed to the juniper thickets I whispered to Mike, shaking' his head in agreement All right i will track and you stand by the last place I found blood or tracks and we will proceed as a teem and be very quite! If he is not dead we don't want to push him,  An hour later found us deep into the Juniper thicket and I wasn't liking what was transpiring. We had tracked the bull approximately half a mile and he hadn't stopped or laid down although he wasn't running just walking. I was positive he wasn't dead not yet anyway. Mike I said let's not push him tonight I'm positive he is still alive, We will return at first light and give him a go in the morning. The elation that was on Mikes face earlier was now replaced with worry, oh the highs and lows of hunting you got to love it. 

  Dawn broke quickly on this cool September morning the sun illuminating the Gila mountains as we drove across the open prairie towards the Juniper and pinion pine covered hills. Hopefully these hills hold a giant dead bull for us this morning.We came prepared for the day, we were going to give our best effort, to recover this bull.  Okay, same plan as last night, I said, except I want you looking left or right of where I'm tracking.  They always go off their track to bed, when wounded, to watch their back trail.  Okay, said Mike, what if I spot him?  Just tap me  or throw a pebble or something but don't talk. Finally, after another hour of very little blood I found the first bed.  Quite a bit of blood, but it was dried a little, several hours old, I said.  Mike agreed he's not far.  We didn't push him last night and he feels secure in this thicket.  He only moved because the wound is bothering him. Be ready, he's very close, I whispered. Mike removed an arrow from his quiver and we proceeded very slowly.  Dang, I whispered, it's to noisy in here, to thick, we are making to much noise, no way we're going to sneak up on him in here.  If he's not dead we will hear him get up within the next 100 yards.  Mike just shrugged in agreement.

  I stepped into the second bed in 30 yards.  Not as much blood but fresher.  Then it happened, breaking limbs, hooves on rocks, us scrambling to get a look.  No use, to thick, we will just scare him worse.  We'll stop here for 4 hours and them try again.  Mike asked, what do you think?  A veterinarian once told me a bull elk has to loose 3 gallons of blood to die.  If he's not shot in the vitals, lung, heart or so forth.  I am not sure if that is accurate but in past experiences it seems about right.  So how much do you think he's lost?  Hard to tell, I said. But I'd say at least one and a half to two gallons.  We are approximately 1 1/2 miles from where you shot him and he's bleed in some manner the entire time.  I whispered, let's back out a ways, take a nap or eat something at 2:00 p.m.  we will resume tracking.  Maybe he will get weak and we can get another arrow in him.

 
  I awoke with a fly crawling in the corner of my mouth and sweating.  The shade of the small pine was no longer there, as the sun has passed the noon hour and was headed west.  My watch said 1:30 p.m.  Mike looked anxious but we stayed put until 2:00 p.m.  We resumed our efforts, found the last bed he had jumped up from with not much blood, but he had wallowed around alot and I knew hew was hurting.  30 minutes later found us traversing a side hill, in shell rock with only specks of blood.  It was mainly tracks I trailed now where his hooves cut deep into the side hill.  We had trailed him up out of the juniper hills into the main Gila Mountains, steep and rugged.  The bull was on a mission now, he knew we were behind him.

 
  I felt sorry for the bull that he was wounded and for Mike because he had wanted a clean kill. But we were in the middle of it now and I was glad for me as I looked out over the vast expanse of the Gila Mountains, I couldn't think of a single thing I would rather be doing at that time.  Matching wits with a trophy bull I would not quit until I couldn't find a drop of blood or a single track.  Another quarter mile found us at the base of a huge Malapi Rock slide with boulders as big as a volts wagon, treacherous to cross, but the bull did, and I could see where he had rolled rock out in the middle, So we followed trying not to start a rock slide or break a leg.  This isn't looking to good, Mike said.  I was silently thinking the same thing, but just didn't say it.  We still have 4 or 5 hours of daylight this time of year, will just take our time and see what transpires, I said, you never know we might get lucky.

  One hundred yards later the bull turned straight  up hill and I mean straight up hill! It was not great country, we found ourselves on hands and knees pulling ourselves up by grabbing oak brush.  Dang, this is crazy I didn't think he'd have the strength to do this.  I told Mike, going straight up hill is a bad sign. 

Now, I was starting to have doubts myself.  The top of this Ponderosa pine, scrub oak and malipi rock mountain appeared to be approximately 5 to 6 hundred yards above us.  Although, Mike thought it was probably 2 miles.  I ribbed him, well hell if you could shoot we would be celebrating right now.  I know, I know was all he managed.  I grinned, ah hell anyone can do it the easy way, just think some day when your to old to hunt and sitting in your rocker you can tell your grand kids this fantastic story.  Yeah, if I live through it, he said. 

  Twenty-five yards more and I spy ed something curious, the bull had mowed over a pretty sizable oak. Just flat ran over it, snapped it off with no attempt to go around and there was blood, not alot but more than we'd been seeing.  Twenty yards more and 2 more trees just blasted out of the ground as if he was mad.  This isn't normal, Mike, he is hurting, see how he makes no attempt to step around, just runs them over.  And look! there on the ground, huge clots of blood, 3 the size of your fist and fresh blood leading away. 

  I couldn't help but wonder what was driving this bull, straight up this steep mountain when he could easily of gone down a side hill or gone through a low pass 1000 yards to the east?  As I studied the terrain ahead it hit me, there were acorns everywhere and lush grass on this North hillside, and it was also cool. As I continued to look around I could see rubs everywhere, big rubs, his rubs, this is where he spent the later part of the summer lazing around eating acorns, rubbing the velvet off of his antlers.  As the rut kicked in he had left here headed to the low lands in search of cows.  I think he is very close to us right now, I whispered, I bet he already knows we are here.  This time I think he will hold tight  until we step on him, get an arrow out and be ready. Okay, said Mike.

 
  His trail was easy to follow now with broken brush, blood all over it.  I moved Mike in front as we inched up the mountain.  We came on to an old bed and he stopped and briefly tried to lay down but didn't like it and moved on.  He was side hilling now on an earthen ledge.  Elk trails pounded out over the years, criss-crossed the 40 foot wide ledge.  Bed after elk bed were here, some old, some new, he was here, right here very close, I could feel it. 

  I stopped,  trying to think , okay how are we going to get another arrow in him, it was too thick too noisy with oak brush over our heads. I knew he could hear us anytime.  I was sure we would hear breaking brush and thundering hooves again, but we had to try. The ledge narrowed, Mike was in front, arrow knocked, when the brush didn't knock it off.  It appeared that the ledge would peter out in another 30 to 40 yards.  I was just starting to think I was wrong. Then it happened, an explosion of yellow and horns and brush .  Shoot him! I whispered. Where? Mike said.  Anywhere, I replied.  The bull actually came towards us briefly and then was gone down hill, we could hear rocks rolling, brush breaking.  We were in a panic to find an open spot on the hillside to get a glimpse.  Finally, we found such a spot , the sound had died away and we sat down both sick at coming so close but not getting it done. 

  One and a half hours until dark, my 10x42 Licas were glued to my head, I had to glass him up.  Mike, we don't have time to trail him back to the bottom, not today anyway, I said.  Just then we got a break, I focused in, he was 1000 yards down in the very bottom next to a steep arroyo, he stood head down, breathing hard, mouth open.  He looked sick!  We watched as he slowly walked into a small thicket and disappeared.

 
  I know that trail he is on, I've packed a couple of bulls out of that trail in years past.  See that big ponderosa, he was standing right next to it.  I know we can find him, let's go! I said.  Mike was game and we wasted no time getting off the mountain.   One hour til dark, standing next to the big ponderosa, Mike said, look here.  We had blood, not a lot but good steady blood, we were following it carefully through a jack pine thicket.  Every few feet I squatted and glassed, trying to glimpse the bull bedded.  Movement to the right, caught my eye, 50 yards ahead the bull was up and trotting down through the jack pines  not moving to well, but still moving.  Mike said, this is one tough bull. I said, you have to admire his determination, I know he's hurt bad, that down hill, mad dash really hurt him.  Let's try one more time before dark, if he jumps again we will come back in the morning.  Let's go, said Mike, with a renewed enthusiasm. 

   
  The sun was starting to go behind the Gila Mountains the woods were quiet, just a slight breeze.  We were in good ground now ,the breeze in our face, a light splattering of blood every 20 feet or so led our way.  Cautiously we slink-ed along hoping to see the bull before he saw us.  Every 10 to 20 yards we knelt down and glassed.  There, I whispered, 70 yards, next to that big juniper.  Yeah, I see him, replied Mike.  Okay, he probably knows we are here, but maybe, just maybe if we move real slow he might let us get into bow range.  Mike nodded in agreement.  See that pine? If we could get to there we would have a 30 to 40 yard shot and it should be clear.  Okay, said Mike, lets try it.  Give me your range finder, I said, and I'll try to range him for you.

 
  Slowly ever so slowly we crept to the pine, I peaked around, he's still there, I breathed.  I peaked again with the range finder 35 yards.  Mike 3, 5 I showed him with my hands.  I motioned for him to draw the bow and slowly step out.  He did, my heart was pounding, the arrow was in the air.  I couldn't believe my eyes, it drilled him perfectly behind the shoulder, the bull only glanced at his side, as red spread and spurted out of his golden hair.  He almost looked relieved as his eyes got big and his legs straightened out.  He never got up! We sank to our knees.  Mike's Trophy bull grossed 390 P/Y.

  Truly a bull of a lifetime and a hunt to match. THIS TROPHY BULL WAS TAKEN BY MIKE MCDAINALS FROM VA.  WAY TO HANG IN THERE!

There I was, twenty feet up in the air in a small, very small tree stand with the wind blowing 30 to 40 mph. It was 20 degrees without the wind chill, I had the stomach flu and felt terrible. It was opening day of my first Whitetail hunt ever.

Being from the Central Valley of California and having hunted black tail, mule deer and elk in the West, this was a little different for me. My guide, Van Hale of Trophy Outfitters of Eagar, Arizona had been helping me accumulate points for the trophy elk in Arizona and New Mexico. I decided to give a Kansas whitetail hunt a try as a change of pace. I must have applied for fifteen different tags in 2007, with Kansas being my only success.

As daylight emerged, I started to see deer everywhere. Using my Swarovski 10x42, these deer became trees, rock and bushes. I did spot some does and a few blaze orange spots at 1200 yards and beyond. Pheasants were crowing everywhere and I heard 13 shots early with one party dragging out a buck at over 1,200 yards.

By noon I was really sick so I climbed down, peed in a Gatorade bottle as instructed so as not to scent up the area, and got Van on the radio. "I need to go back to town" I told him. "I feel terrible and need something for my stomach." Van dug around in the console of his truck and came out with some Pepto Bismol tablets. As we drove, he told me about a good spot, but didn't trust me to stay in the blind as many of the other hunters decided to go on a "walk about" after a few hours. I told him I didn't feel like walking and am not coming out of that stand unless I have a deer down or it's dark. He agreed and up I went. I saw nothing for four hours, then a few does at 450 yards. By five o'clock there were two groups of does at over 400 yards feeding in a soybeen field. I couldn't wait for dark and was feeling worse than ever.

With about 10 minutes of shoot time left, I heard crashing to my right from a dried corn field. My adrenaline was up and then out walked a large doe I could see through a tree limb. She stopped and looked back, then another doe. They walked together for 30 yards then stopped and looked back again; this time a buck followed. Just as I put the glasses on him he froze. I think he sensed me and my heart skipped a beat. He was big and wide. When he walked behind a tree I got my rifle ready. When he stepped out in the open I couldn't find him; my scope was on 9 power. He was huge! A lot of things went through my mind-- it's only the first day, should I wait for a larger buck, what am I going to do the rest of the week -- but he's big. Finally at 40 yards I pulled the trigger. BANG! I never even chambered another round; my 25-06 hand load has never let me down.

When Van showed up in the dark and he jumped out of the truck he couldn't stop saying "you don't realize what you just shot." It turned out it was the largest deer taken in the area so far that year! He estimated 180 B&C with 26 inch main beams and 13 inch G2 & G3's. 12 points in all and approximately 280 pounds. What a first Whitetail! My stomach flu didn't go away for a week, but it was the best medicine I could have had.

I would first like to thank God first, my wife Veronica for putting up with my hunting passion, and all the people at Trophy Outfitters who run a first class operation.

Tim Ryan, Turlock, CA

My left hand had a death grip on the saddle horn; my right held the reins high enough to protect my face from the unseen brush that threatened to sweep me off my mule at any moment. The creak of tight leather, as I rocked in my saddle and the thorny brush raking my cordura saddlebags where the only sounds that broke the quiet wilderness. There was still no hint of daybreak over Arizona's infamous White Mountains. Occasional sparks from iron horseshoes striking hard stone were all that marked the trail as my guide Van Hale led the way up an ancient cowboy trail that would eventually take us up the steep ridge to where we had glassed two bull elk, just before last night's crimson sunset.


I have never considered myself to be extraordinarily lucky, but I had been one of the fortunate few to draw an Arizona elk tag for a rifle hunt in November. Knowing that I could ever hunt elk during the earlier September bugle season, because I would still be outfitting my own trophy moose hunts in Alaska, I enrolled in Van Hale's Trophy Outfittersl icensing program. It was simple enough and quite painless actually. Van made out the applications and handled all of the paper work that eventually led to my drawing an Arizona elk tag.

Receiving all of the pre-hunt information and a detailed map that directed me to Trophy outfitter's Base Camp, I arrived on November 21st, one day before my long anticipated hunt. Having outfitted in Alaska for the past thirty years. I know what it takes to put on a quality hunt. I was quite impressed with the amount of field equipment and number of vehicles, trailers, horses,mules, guides and camp helpers that were amassed before me. Van had everything in place and ready to go. We spent less than an hour in base camp before I found myself and all of my gear astride the biggest mule I have ever seen.

Some of the hunters were to hunt from the base camp, which was nestled deep in the Ponderosa pines, at the end of the winding gravel road that I had just navigated deep in the White mountains. A few of us would ride to remote spike camps even further from civilation, having just spent the last six months at sea level on the Alaska Peninsula, comfortably seated in the front seat of a Piper Super Cub, the present state of my posterior was not readily prepared for the five hour ride which now lay ahead. Although I do have to admit, the fifteen miles of rough mountain trail passed quickly as we wound through the pines, over tne ridge after another until we finally dropped off into a picturesque basin scattered with pinion pine, juniper, post oak and cedar.

Arriving at spike camp just before sunset, I thought someone was going to have to pry my out of the saddle. My prayers were answered as a crusty old character, wearing a dusty old black cowboy hat, worn Levi jacket and dirty Carhartt britches took my reins and steadied the mule as I stiffly swung from the saddle, only to find my legs no longer worked like they should. With a whiskered grin, more of leather than flesh, he chuckled and said, "Estes,
Corwin Estes, welcome to spike camp." So, this was Van's uncle Corwin, the man I had heard so much about on the ride in. Now on the back side of sixty-five years, Corwin had been a cowboy, lumber jack and a bounty hunter paid by the U.S. Government and local ranchers to rid Arizona's cattle country of mountain lion, thirty dollars at a time. Corwin and pennsylvanian hunter Ray Heller led our tired mules into an ancient barbwire corral where they joined three more pack-jacks and a chestnut horse named Chappo. Corwin provided the stock with water and alfalfa, in the form of compressed pellets from a fifty-pound sack, which he handled like a down pillow.

There was a campfire blazing in the fire ring between two roomy tents. Van and I stowed our gear and layed out our bedrolls. That being done, I looked for the thickest saddle blanket I could find, laid it over a log and rested my weary bones near the warmth of the fire with a cup of hot coffee that Corwin poured from a dented enamel pot hanging over the fire. Van and the old cowboy discussed the trail, elk that had been spotted and the plan for the hunt which would begin before daylight in the morning.

As Van grilled beef steak over the glowing oak embers while Ray and I listened to stories of previous elk hunts and Corwin's lion hunting exploits, I thought of what I have so often told my hunters. "If you go on a hunt like this just to kill an animal, you're going for all the wrong reasons." At this moment, although my ass was sore, my bones ached and I was dead tired, my own rhetoric really hit home. The only addition that I could think to add to the conversation before heading for my tent was; "It's a big damn country boys, good to get out."

Four-thirty came way too soon. The night had been a cool one but the water in my bottle had not frozen. I pulled on my Advantage camo jeans, matching tee-shirt and a polar fleece jacket before emerging from the tent. The campfire lit my way to the hot pot of coffee and A poured a cup. After a quick breakfast of instant oats, Van and I saddled our mules, loaded our packs with a couple of water bottles, lunch fixings and what gear we needed for the day. We were on the trail by five o'clock.

Our spike camp was located at a confluence of four drainages, each with little or no water due to the unseasonably warm, dry season. The lay of the land resulted in five different ridges, fanning like spokes of a wagon wheel, surrounding camp from east to west and extending several miles, high into the dark timber along the northern skyline.

Van led his mount toward the center ridge, using his headlamp to find the way. I followed with my mini-maglite, wishing I had brought a headlamp and both hands were free to yank on the mule and beat back the brush as I stumbled through the dark. Once on the ridge trail, we saddled up, turned out the lights and relied on the mules natural instincts to take us up the old cow path. Daybreak exposed the surrounding ridges and adjacent valleys, which were more like steep canyons filled with brush, cedars, and rocks- tough country to say the least.

Reaching a good vantage point we began glassing. Using my old Zeiss 7xs42 binoculars I spotted three bulls grazing in a small burn, two ridges to the west. The sun just broke the horizon, illuminating the eastern slopes of each ridge. We got a pretty good look at two of the bulls. One old 6x6 was extremely white and carried a rack that Van said would go about 350, the other was a bit smaller. We couldn't make out the rack on the third bull before he stepped into the cedars.

Van said, "With unusually warm weather, the bulls were not burning many calories and would stop feeding early, then head for the dark timber to bed down for the day." This wouldn't leave us enough time to cross the treacherous canyons before the bulls went into the deep timber. We continued to glass the closer terrain for a couple more hours, seeing nothing else. I broke out a candy bar and washed it down with some bottled water before heading back to spike camp.

That afternoon Van and I climbed the steep hill behind camp to glass to the south, hoping to see more elk that direction. We spotted two, which appeared to be bulls, but they were so far away we couldn't make out their antlers. Moving around the slope to another vantage point, we sighted a single bull on the opposite slope. My Bushness range finder told me it was 364 yards. Not a bad shot for my custom built Match Grade Arms .300 Winchester Magnum. Van judged the 6x6 to be a 325 bull, the minimum size he would want a hunter to take. Being the first day and seeing three bulls this morning, at least one of which wasw in the 350 class, I decided to pass on the camp bull. We got back to camp just as Corwin was lightning the evening campfire.

Up again before the birds, we saddled our mules and headed up the ridge ( where we had seen the bulls yesterday), this time accompanied by Corwin and Ray, in hopes of banging two bulls from the group. Tying the mules just short of the ridge crest we continued on foot for another mile or so, I spotted two bulls in a basin not far from where we saw the trio yesterday. One was the old white bull. The third one was not with him today.

As we approached the stately pair, Van tossed a coin to see who would get first shot. Honestly, I was thinking heads but my lips didn't move before Ray said, "Heads." Heads it was to my disappointment. We moved a bit closer. I pulled out my range finder, sighting across the ravine, then signaled Ray with my fingers; three then two, for three hundred twenty yards. Van rested his pack on the short tripod he used for his huge 15 power binoculars. Ray took the shooting position. We were both locked and loaded. Van said if Ray missed for me to take the shot. I could see that the second bull was a 6x6, but not quite what I was looking for. I held the crosshairs on Ray's bull and covered my right ear as we were side by side. When his 30 - .378 bellowed, I pulled my finger out of my ear and placed it on the trigger. I hesitated long enough to hear Van say "high" and remembered seeing Ray out of the corner of my eye as he bolted another round. Hell, I didn't have the heart to squeeze the trigger. Ray fired again and the bull went down. It took us the rest of the day to dress out Ray's trophy elk and pack it back to our spike camp.

Leaving Ray and Corwin at camp, Van and I departed before dawn. Flashlights, mules, rocks and brush all the way up yet another ridge. We reached the top just as the sun lit the hillside. We glassed for the better part of the morning to no avail. So back down the mountain to camp for an early lunch of elk tenders, graciously provided by Ray and grilled over an open fire. After lunch we saddled up again and headed south along an old cattle trail which should take us closer to the elk we had seen from the hill behind camp. It was a spectacular ride past a beautiful mountain spring guarded by a huge sycamore tree, surrounded by rock cliffs lined with pinion pine and lush blueberry juniper. We saw plenty of elk sign, and numerous rubs, telling us that the elk were thick here during the rut two months ago. From the clear-water spring, Van chose a trail marked only by a small pile of stones, left by cowboys who roamed this high range, who knows how long ago. The old cowboy trail took us in further south, the direction we wanted to go, seeing lion scratches, jumping coveys of quail and passing more elk sign.

Reaching a long ridge overlooking our mountain, we settled down to glass. It was getting late, but I had already resigned myself to a long ride to camp in the dark and had thought to lay a track on my GPS when we left the spring, more for my own benefit than Van's. I could see he was going to push me to my limit today. In the past few years he had taken six trophy elk for six clients from this area, and wasn't about to let me break his lucky streak. Van was glued to those big binoculars of his, making little conversation. Just as I was going to suggest we head back, he spots two elk coming out of the bush about a half mile across the valley. "Dinks" is all he said, then "Let's ride." We pulled into camp about an hour after dark. Thank God I commandeered Ray's saddle. Either it fit me better than the one I rode in on, or I was actually getting used to hunting the cowboy way.

It was day four of my seven day permitted Arizona elk hunt and I was beginning to think tht a 320 bull would look pretty good on my wall as we plotted along in the dark, bucking brush all the way up yet another rocky ridge. The new day was just breaking when Van spotted two more elk just below the tree line. We tied the mules and beat feet for the top of the ridge. Van set up the tripod and pulled out his [big eyes] as I came to call them. He screwed with the focus for a moment, then slowly counted from one to seven and said "he's a toad," It may have been the long uphill sprint or even a touch of buck fever, but my heart was about to jump out of my rib cage. Then to my suprise, Van pulled his oilskin hat from his head and slapped it down in the rocks. "He's only got one antler!" he exclaimed in disgust, "The entire right side is missing." Settling back to the big eyes, he swung to the second bull, " and this one's got a morphidite left side and a heavy six point on the right, what's the chances of that." My guide was baffled and I was about to be sick. I was beginning to think that my luck had run out shortly after drawing Arizona tag number 154. I lost the toss, hesitated on the back up shot, and now this. All I could do is laugh at the irony of it all.

Van jumped up and said reassuringly, "Its still early, let's jump this canyon ridge and get a look in the basin on the other side, "where Colby - Van's son had killed a 380 bull last season. Eaier said than done, I thought. Down we went crashing through a jungle of buck brush, cedar and juniper, across a dry creek bed of loose rock and boulders, then up an equally miserable slope on the other side. Reaching to the crest of the ridge, panting like greyhounds, we headed for the timber. They had obviously heard us coming and were having no part of it. Fortunately, they were both 5x5 bulls. After that failed approach, I just knew this just wasn't going to be my day.

We rustled in our day packs and came up with lunch. The sun was high overhead and the temperature was pushing 80 degrees. No bull in his right mind would be out in this heat so we took a little siesta. At about three o'clock, Van suggeste3d I stay here and glass the hillside before us, while he went to the other side of the ridge and glassed to the west. With disappointment of the day still weighing on me, I agreed and Van disappeared into the cedars. I scanned up and down the ridge before me for the better part of an hour, and then remembered the can of sardines in my pack. I cracked open the tin and enjoyed the oily snack before resuming my surveillance. As I glassed. I was thinking that it was getting late again and the mules were tied on the next ridge, not a fun hike in the dark. Just then I heard Van coming, probably thinking the same thing. He paused, then came running up to me saying "There's a bull and it's a good one" pointing to my hillside. A cedar had blocked my view of less than five percent of the ridge across the canyon and sure enough an elk had come into the space. I threw up my range finder, five hundred eighty-three yards, too far. We climbed down the canyon wall to close the distance, but it was steep and only gained us a few yards. We were about even elevation now and daylight was fading fast. I handed Van the range finder and bolted a 180 grain partition in the chamber. "Long ways, five hundred and twelve yards" Van whispered as he placed his shooting sticks in front of me. I rested my .300 on the sticks, having already adjusted the three to nine Leupold scope to 9 power.

Before, the hunt, I had double checked the ballistics of my 71 grain IMR 4350 load. "Zero at two hundred, seven inches low at three hundred, twenty-two at four hundred and forty-four at five hundred." I recited. I held two foot over the broad-side bulls shoulders, took a deep breath and slowly exhaled as I put pressure on the trigger, then held my breath. The rifle recoiled against my shoulder. I saw the bull lurch and Van said "shoot again!" Not sure that I hit him with the first shot, I held on the long rear fork of the bulls massive 6x6 antlers as he was disappearing into the brush; and squeezed off another round. We could hear him thrashing in the cedars for a few seconds- then nothing. My trophy Arizona bull was down, but so was the Arizona sun. We had to do something quick. Van told me to shoot another round into the brush to see if he gets up. I picked out a thick juniper near where I figured the bull was and let another one fly. "Whack!" right on. Nothing moved.

Van bailed off the ridge like a mountain goat while I stayed on the shooting sticks, pointing at the spot the elk disappeared. Light was fading fast as Van climbed the steep hillside before me. About thirty minutes later he yelled for directions, but I couldn't see him until he shined me with his headlamp. "Thirty yards to go, straight up" I shouted. A few minutes later Van let out a wild "Yea-hoo." It was now pitch black with only a sliver of a moon rising in the southwest. It took me nearly an hour with the aid of my mini-maglite to work my way through the boulders and brush and up the other side, where I finally got a look at my trophy 6x6 Arizona elk. The first shot took shoulder and lungs. The second was ten inches from the first. It was a bull of a lifetime.

Van built a fire, by which we gutted the elk and propped him open to cool for the night. We had to leave the mules tied out until morning because it was all that we could do to get ourselves off that mountain. It was 1.9 GPS miles back to spike camp, in the dark.

I have been hunting and guiding all of my adult life. but never have taken a more hard earned trophy than my Arizona elk. The experience of hunting the White Mountains with Van Hale's Trophy Outfitters was a trip of a lifetime and I recommend it without hesitation. What Van does in Arizona is similar to what we do in Alaska, in that the hunts are both done as they were 40 years ago, fair chase - the right way.