When my son drew a Utah general statewide rifle bull tag, we thought we had it made. Eleven days of hunting, and right in the heart of the rut — it sounded like a slam dunk. Boy, were we wrong.We rolled in the day before the opener and set up base camp out of the truck. Spirits were high. But that first morning, the mountain went quiet. Almost no bugles, just the sound of boots crunching dirt — archery hunters everywhere. It didn’t take long to realize the easy bulls were pushed back. Two miles off the road, though, the sign got heavy.
Day three gave us our first heartbreak. We slipped in close, a giant bull just ten steps from sealing his fate, when the wind betrayed us. The next morning it was cows without a bull. Day five, a spike came charging to our calls, but my son shook his head: “I don’t shoot babies.”
Then came day six — a monster, at least 320-330", stormed in, pissing all over himself. He stood broadside. The Browning barked… and missed. That bull will haunt my son’s dreams for a long time.
Day seven, we thought we had it all lined up. Perfect setup, wind in our favor, soft calling. Suddenly, a bull slipped in behind us at fifty yards. One swirl of wind, and he was gone.
By day eight, we were worn thin but still grinding. First light, we blew a few calf calls. Out of the timber came a rag-horn five-point, bristling and curious. 150yds away, the Browning .308 with 168-grain TTSX barked again — this time true. The bull dropped in his tracks.
The pack out was two miles, heavy and full. Just me, my boy, and the filmer. One load, one trip.
Highs and lows, close calls and heartbreaks, all ending with a bull on the ground. Hunts like this remind me why I say it every year: I hate elk. But the memories with my son are worth every blister.
Next stop is New Mexico — two youth deer tags, whitetail and muley. After that, I’ll hang the rifle and pick up the guide pack for the rest of the season.
