Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/528216
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 0 3 them when I see ivory tips rising beyond the crest of the hill 30 yards away, and the bull glides over the top as silently as a puff of smoke. We are busted. Bobby slowly reaches down as the bull burns holes in him, detaches an arrow, and actually knocks it before the beast concludes he doesn't like the company, turns and trots down the hill. Running to the top, Bobby kneels near the crest as Dusty bugles for the first time. Though we cannot see the bull, Bobby's posture and focus are sure signs that we are still in the game. But it is not to be. The wind betrays us, and the bull needs no more evidence that he should leave the territory. I t is the morning of our next-to-last day and Mike, Phil, and Bobby set out long before sunrise, heading for an area we have not hunted. They park at a gate on the valley road, where they hear several bulls bugling up high, as if urging the sun to rise so the courting can commence. Wasting no time, the hunters continue on foot, climbing steadily higher, playing the wind, and going straight at the elk under cover of darkness. Finally, they reach tree-line at 9,000 feet, where a steep meadow falls away then rolls up the other side of the mountain. A lone spruce stands sentinel a few yards from the woods, and they crawl out to it as dawn reveals a somber gray sky. It is cold and snow is in the offing. Phil cow-calls, and down to their right a very good six-by-six emerges from the trees, while another, a six-by-five, enters the meadow across the narrow valley and heads resolutely down to the bottom, bugling all the way. The larger bull, now within 50 yards, stops and watches the smaller one, which has crossed the creek and is steadily closing on the hunters. The six-by-five comes up the slope without pausing, and Bobby has no chance to draw as the beast stops at ten yards and stares hard at them. Concluding, finally, that he is in a bad place, the bull spins and jumps downhill as Bobby draws his bow. Still rendered mindless by lust, the elk stops and turns to look back as Bobby trips the release. They watch the arrow strike just behind the shoulder, whereupon the bull bolts down the slope, slows to a walk, and finally stops and stands—for a full 30 minutes. Bobby is unable to take another shot, so the boys study him with their binoculars, looking for blood, expecting him to fall any second. He begins to walk slowly, stopping occasionally, until he goes up and over the far slope. Mike and Bobby sprint down, swinging wide to scribe a looping circle around the bull and head him off at the base of the far hill. They are seconds late. They reach the bottom, step out on the road and watch him cross 100 yards away. We search for blood until dark without success while snow falls in big cottony flakes. Next morning we return, the snow now blowing horizontally in a slashing wind. Nothing. Three months later I call Dusty to discuss the story and ask him if they ever found Bobby's elk. He tells me a rifle hunter spent a lot of time in that drainage and never saw any sign of the animal. This is what I think, and, yes, what I want to believe. The bull, hit too far forward on a quartering-away shot, suffered a minor wound and survived. A s we drive out from camp on our way to Cody and home, the Wood River is a stunning spectacle of ice and snow. Muley bucks lie bedded in the drifts, paying close attention when we slow down to photograph them, while the whitetails, farther out in the meadows, keep to themselves. We've enjoyed a marvelous Wyoming hunt, killing two elk and having our chances at others. Two out of three . . . not bad according to Bob Sundeen. Terrific in fact. IF YOU WANT TO GO Contact Bob Sundeen at Trails West Outfitters; website: www.trailswestoutfitters.com; phone: (307) 217-1110; email: trailswest@vcn.com. Overnight the Wyoming mountains changed into a stunning spectacle of ice and snow. S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 0 3