"I heard about this vast, unforgiving wilderness where dreams have been made and broken"
It’s now almost twenty-four hours since packing out my 2026 Oregon bull. My legs are sore but still ready to go. Year-round conditioning and training made the painfully deep pack-out manageable. Not easy, but manageable. The funny thing I’ve noticed about being in ‘mountain shape’ isn’t that your legs and body never get tired; it’s the ability to reload overnight, both physically and mentally. It’s the capacity to stay in the grind with a positive attitude and mindset. That’s not to say there isn’t frustration or mental strain, but you bounce back and recover quicker from the inevitable lows you find in bowhunting.
This hunt was a special one for me. When I first got into bowhunting, I heard about this vast, unforgiving wilderness where dreams have been made and broken. Bowhunting in this country, like some of the greats had done before me, called to me. This was before I had even picked up my first bow… when this lifestyle was still just an idea, one I knew I would eventually make a reality.
This was a true wilderness hunt, bivvied in with all our gear miles from any trailhead. It was something I’d done before and was accustomed to, but this time it just felt a little different. Was it the immeasurable lore of this country, with endless ridges, deep unforgiving bottoms, and the wild creatures it held within? Or was it the sheer beauty this wilderness guards so dearly? Maybe it was a bit of both, but something undeniably felt different. One of hunting’s most glorious arenas. What the Colorado high country is for mule deer, this is for elk.
A few days before the season, I was already in the first zone with eyes on bulls. Bugles were echoing, and things looked promising. The night before the season, my buddy Nate packed into camp. We sat around with our chosen freeze-drieds and made plans for the following morning while bulls piped off around us. The anticipation and excitement of the first elk hunt of the year rolled into camp with him.
"Bowhunting in this country, like some of the greats had done before me, called to me"
Opening morning arrived soon after, and we were off chasing bugles. That morning, we snuck in to what I’d say was about 100 yards from the best-sounding bugle in the drainage. The undulation of the landscape kept the bull hidden, but we were nearing striking distance. And just like that, he was gone. Silent. The only thing left behind was a pool of urine where he’d stood and the pungent odor that came with it. Our only explanation for his Houdini-like escape was that the wind must’ve shifted for a moment, allowing him to catch our scent. No biggie. There were other bulls in this drainage, and at this point, we thought we had it to ourselves. We’d get more opportunities.
We continued hunting throughout the day, glassing bedding areas in hopes of finding a lone bedded bull in a good spot. While most people were back at camp, we were still getting after it. This is one of the things I love about hunting with Nate: his dedicated persistence and effort throughout the entirety of the hunt. This is something I’ve found that helps maintain a good headspace even when things aren’t going according to plan. Staying busy and keeping active keeps the negative thoughts away because you’re always on the chase.
That evening brought competition in two forms. Two groups of hunters worked into the drainage from the top, bugling their way through the country, while a pack of eight wolves howled their way into the late afternoon, rounding up the troops for an evening hunt of their own. Needless to say, things changed and it happened fast. The bulls went quiet and slipped out sometime that night, so morning two was a bust. We worked our way through the day, glassing more bedding sites, and turned up a couple of bulls that evening in the distance in some thick country where sneaking in on a bugling bull was the only play. The one problem: they were no longer bugling, so we packed up camp and bounced that night.
By first light the next morning, we were up in new country. However, this zone proved less productive. No sign, no rubs, and the bulls just weren’t there, so we hiked back out and wrapped around the unit to our next spot.
Upon arriving at the trailhead, we cooked up lunch, which was bratwurst made from my early-season mule deer. After washing it down with an iced coffee, we geared up for a three-day rip and headed just over five miles into the new zone. We set up camp, got water, and headed to the glassing knob overlooking some primo elk country.
It wasn’t long before we turned up a bull on the opposing face, pushing a couple of cows around. With the sun in our faces, it was difficult to see exactly what he was, but we could tell he was a good bull just based on his frame. We kept tabs on him but continued to glass the rest of the drainage. It was loaded. Cows and smaller bulls nearly everywhere we looked.
Sometime later, about thirty minutes before last light, we heard a different bull; one that sounded much larger than any we had seen prior that evening. A raspy growl that sounded more T-Rex than elk. We immediately glassed in the direction of the sound and turned up a much bigger herd bull, pushing about twelve cows into the bottom below. At over 1,000 feet above, we knew we couldn’t make a play, but the next day we’d get a chance.
The next morning, the bulls had taken their cows to bed early. By 7:30 the drainage had been vacated and was devoid of life. It was their preferred area for the pre-rut action that was unfolding before us. Their bedding? Just around the opposing ridge, in a series of benched-out flats down low, but still above the main valley that our drainage fed into.
We looked at the landscape from above, checked our maps, and decided on a starting spot for that evening. We then used this vacancy as our opportunity to get down into their territory unseen and set up for when they filled back in later that day. The amount of sign in this drainage was wild, but not surprising after what we had seen earlier. A network of trails spiderwebbed throughout, with more rubs than you could count. This was the zone. It was on.
About an hour after setting up, cows, pushed by their respective bulls, started to filter into the drainage from above. The wind in the bottom where we set up was good, but it left some room for error. We eliminated as many variables as we could, but as bowhunting goes, there always seem to be one or two left on the table. This is where you inevitably need a few things to go your way.
The first cows, with a decent 5x5, filtered down above us and started feeding at about 150 yards away, completely unaware of our presence. With more elk arriving soon, we stayed put and waited.
Not ten minutes later, another group of cows started down the slope. This time, there were twenty-five or more from what I could see, all single file heading down. Unfortunately, they decided to peel left and drop below where I was stationed. With so many cows, I knew this was the big herd bull’s harem that he had left with that morning. He just wasn’t visible yet because he was pushing from the back, so it wasn’t for certain, but I knew.
As the first few cows got into the meadow along the creek, I knew my wind wasn’t perfect. Any small switch and they’d immediately be aware of my presence, which is exactly what happened. Now on high alert, they looked around, noses in the air and heads held high. About two minutes later, they were gone, back up the way they came, taking the herd with them. Damn. Something told me to set up lower in the drainage, but it was hard to resist this higher point we’d chosen to give us a visual of their entry.
Knowing we had only seen a fraction of the elk from that morning, I picked up my pack and started sneaking down the creek edge, lower, to keep my wind right for the next to show. Along this sneak, a bull popped out slightly offset but still below me. Standing there broadside with his head tucked behind a tree, I knew this was my opportunity. Ten more feet and he’d catch my wind. I had to act fast. I ranged him at the edge of what I’d call my effective range. I dialed my sight, drew back, and settled my pin. Slow one, slow two… the shot broke clean. I watched the trajectory of my arrow as time seemed to slow down. It looked money. At this distance, the bull had just enough time to whirl slightly, but it was too late. The arrow caught him perfectly quartering away, and I can still hear the sweet, hollow sound it made upon entry. He took off.
Within minutes I spotted a dinner plate-sized splatter of blood on the blowdown he was standing in front of through my binos. I felt as if I’d hammered this bull, but you never really know until you walk up on them dead.
About thirty minutes later, both Nate and I snuck up to check. Immediately finding the arrow buried in the ground, covered in blood and surrounded by even more, we knew this bull didn’t make it far. We trailed the blood for roughly twenty feet before looking up and seeing the bull piled up not twenty-five yards away. It was over. Well, this part of the mission at least. The real work had yet to begin. We exchanged high fives, took some photos, and got to work.
One well-placed arrow is what it always comes down to
"The real work had yet to begin. We exchanged high fives, took some photos, and got to work"
Nathan Endicott, for those who don’t know, is not only a top-tier bowhunter but potentially one of the cleanest, most effective, and efficient field dressers in the game. Once, in Arizona just over a year ago, we had dropped our meat off with an old abuela who had been processing wild game for over fifty years. Upon getting our meat back, she told us that in all her years she had never received meat so well-kept and clean from the field. That was all due to Nate; a testament to the respect and care he has for the meat and these animals we chase with our bows. Watching him with blade in hand is something else. Needless to say, with him at point we made relatively quick work of things.
Around 10 PM that night, we humped our first load up and out and hung it on the ridge. Steep. Brutal. And that was only the first load of deboned front quarters. A ‘warm-up’ for what was to come.
"You may not need elite fitness to kill, but you damn sure need it to pack a bull out of a hole"
The next morning, we dove back in and got the rest: hindquarters, backstraps, tenderloins, and horns. Roughly 100 pounds on both our backs. This time we took it up sidehill, over blowdowns and shale, to get it to the top. Most of the elevation had been accounted for, but the mileage was still on the table.
We quickly swapped them out for the previous load, got it back to the truck and on ice, ate some lunch, and dove back in. That last load, the heavy one, came out in less-than-ideal conditions: wind, rain, and sub-forty-degree temps. As much as it may have sucked, it felt right. It felt like one last test the wilderness had for us. Nothing easy, nothing given, everything earned. Everything I could ever want from this hunt in the first bit of country that drew me in at the start of my journey.
You may not need elite fitness to kill, but you damn sure need it to pack a bull out of a hole. If you want to go further and hunt harder, it is a must. I’m just happy that I take it seriously in the off-season because it’s what allowed me to accomplish this benchmark I’d set early on. A hunt I’ll never forget with one of my best friends, in country I deeply respect and love dearly. The first elk tag of 2026… punched and earned.
