Arriving back at camp on the last day of my archery elk hunt, I felt the bitter sting of defeat set in while peeling off my sweat-drenched camo. Washington's 2017 elk season had kicked off with the theft of my trail cams and treestand setup, followed by their unexpected return. Mojo killer aside, I eventually found myself chasing around a testy but responsive 5 x 6 bull.
For five days, the battle of wits and patience played out. With a mixed bag of cow calls, I'd give the bull the illusion there were receptive girls close by; he'd hit me back with his bizarre, look-at-me-I-swallowed-a-kazoo, honking bugle. The hunt was an exhilarating game of cat and mouse.
That is, until I ruined it on the last day of the hunt by charging into the bull's immediate bedding area with thermals swirling. That was stupid. As the saying goes, "haste makes waste," and in this case, the ornery 5 x 6 bull permanently disappeared into the mixed-conifer forest.
Now lost in thoughts of what could've been, I prepared to head out. I began hauling gear from my campsite to a game cart parked on the logging road, the first steps toward home. Letting go of the handles, the gear tote landed on the powder-coated frame with a metallic thunk.
As the plastic box crashed down, I was startled by the sound of scattering gravel and trotting hooves. Jolting straight up, I watched an alarmed cow elk make a swift beeline across the road and into the trees on the other side.
"Goddamn it," I cussed under my breath, followed by a deep sigh; I was suddenly aware how much the universe hated me. In the same instant, I had an otherworldly light bulb moment. There could be another elk behind that first cow. This sent me screaming into my campsite at Mach 3, where my bow was hanging on a tree 20 yards away.
In one deft motion, I snagged my bow off the alder branch, pivoted 180 degrees, and blazed back out, racing down the logging road in my hiking shorts. Somehow, I managed to strap the bow release to my wrist while covering 70 yards in one-point-five seconds.
Capitalizing On the Critical Moment
Shawn Lentz
Crouching down on one bare knee, I quickly nocked an arrow. Then I waited, hoping there was another elk behind the first one. There was—and it was a huge bull.
As the big cervid poked his brown muzzle out of the forest edge, I knew the timing of my draw had to be just right. Tall vegetation concealed me, but the bull would see me once he cleared it. If I was going to bring attention to myself by drawing my bowstring, I was at least going to do it with his vitals exposed.
I drew back, and seconds later, the mighty Cascade Roosie stepped the rest of the way out. As I guessed, he caught my movement and whipped his head around.
We locked eyes, and I sat there in awe, peering over my bow sight. He was big. A lunker of an elk stood 30 yards from me, and I considered not even shooting him because he was so beautiful and majestic.
Snapping back into the reality of why I was there—to fill the freezer—I let my arrow fly. A direct hit sent the bull elk running up a game trail next to the hiking trail he had come out on.
Standing there, it took me a minute to comprehend what the hell just happened. I mean, eight minutes before, I was packing camp to leave. Everything had unfolded so fast.
Paying My Respects
Judging by the amount of blood on the ground, it wouldn't be long before he was ready to track. I waited the standard 30 minutes, then followed a well-defined blood trail through the easy-going forest. After a tenth of a mile, the increasing blood led into a small moat of sticky, nasty marsh that sucked in my legs nearly to the knees. Upon clearing the muckhole, I saw him. Holy Jesus.
A wave of emotion hit me like a nine-pound hammer to the face. The magnificent Roosevelt bull was big-bodied with points everywhere—a unique, non-typical 6 x 7 that scored maybe 310. Regret. Elation. The king had fallen, and I felt conflicted. Extremely thankful, I knelt down beside him and graciously paid my respects.
Two brothers hunting the area helped me get the "camp bull" field dressed and hauled out two miles in the dark and cold pouring rain. Given that I was suffering from severe sciatica, the brothers showing up was a tremendous Godsend.
As I drove home—with a big antler sticking out the window of my wife's Jeep Liberty—I reflected on the crazy events of the day. It was a reminder that you never know what's around the corner, so always be ready. I was able to capitalize on an opportunity by being adaptable, prepared (never put your weapon away until the absolute last minute), and getting my head back in the game.
Some say it's better to be lucky than good. But every now and then, you get a chance to be both.
