In the eternal words of mario: Here we go.
Spring 2014. My dad and I do some trading for access to a ranch adjacent to some public land in the Colbran, CO area during bowseason. Not long after, a friend hits me up about putting in for NM 34 to hunt with an outfitter he knew. Sure, I'm for it. I don't know if he meant rifle season but I didn't stop to ask. Him and my dad throw credit card numbers at me to take care of the draw info. Ok, but since I was in charge I decided archery 2, muzzleloader, archery 1. By some dumb luck we hit on muzzleloader. Sweet. Same problem every year...how do I sell my wife on it with our second anniversary looming large on SEPTEMBER 15. I went up twice the year before for opening week and the last week, but it was tricky and it cost me some coins on our anniversary weekend. September is dang expensive.
Meanwhile, we've got to buy a truckload of smoke poles and figure out how to use them. September rolls around and I drive on up to Colbran alone. Spend an afternoon and a morning scouting around and pick my dad up at lunch in Grand Junction on my second day. That evening we go out and are bushwhacking through that damn oak scrub to get set up on a spot where I'd seen some elk. Late evening, hadn't heard anything, so I blew a bugle to see if anyone was around feeling froggy.
A response! Way up the canyon above us a faintly terrifying but beautiful melody danced down the mountain to us while we got a glimpse of some antlers descending through the brush. He had about a half a mile to cover, and was singing the whole way. So I hustled to a favorable spot that looked like he would naturally funnel through and set up to do some murdering. I bugled once more about 40 yards behind where I'd set up as I went by, and left my dad tucked behind a stand of oak brush ready to beat on some bushes to get his attention.
It was a couple minutes before he appeared up the canyon from me zigzagging his way around some brush and rocks in a lazy trot headed my way. He was a decent to good six. My mentality during a hunt is a) determine if he is a shooter. If yes -> kill him. worry about the horns later. So I don't have a clue how good he was (this will come up again later, maybe to my readers annoyance). Dad sensed him and got to whoopin on the bushes behind me. It was working out perfectly. He stepped out at 45 yards (how convenient - I've got a pin for that exact distance!), and I held on the bottom of his chest to account for the minor elevation drop between us. I let sail a beautiful arrow. Time stood still. I mentally checked that box in my head - 'did you kill an elk today?' 'hell yes I did...he is dead. mark it eight dude.' We just had to admire my arrow in the air... flying pure with pink and white vanes spinning slowly until it buried in my target.
Except it didn't. Sailed over him. He was much lower than me...way more than it appeared and I was the tightwad that didn't have a rangefinder w elevation on it. Mother ****er. He didn't spook badly, but I was unable to get another shot through the brush.
I don't remember much more from that trip because it was a week of oak scrub kicking my ass and seeing only one more elk. I SURE DO REMEMBER THE THREE HOURS I WATCHED MY ARROW FLY TOWARD THAT ELK THOUGH. Vividly.
I had to backtrack there to set the tone for NM.
I hadn't killed anything with a muzzleloader, or even known anyone who had. Didn't know how much confidence to put into it, and I have a near irrational respect for the toughness of elk (one a couple years before ran off after I put an arrow in the boiler room. and decided to not die. another vivid memory. that son of a *****). I was just going to treat it like my bow that I could shoot a little bit further.
We arived the afternoon before the October muzzleloader opener. We arrived and I was happily surprised with how the area looked. This is where big bulls lived, and I was here to kill them all. No ****ing oak brush. I had gunpowder with me. Wall tent, outfitter...all I needed was the sun to rise the next morning. The guy who was going to drag me around all week picked me up that morning. We went out, chase some bugles around, and stumbled upon two spikes that walked by us at about 30 yds. Sweet...we were in the elk! This was the promised land. We check some places during the mid day hours hunting some bedded bulls, but didn't find much. Hear some bugles that evening but never got the wind to do anything other than listen from a ways off. There is a lot of timber in the area we were in. The second afternoon, we set up in a spot 3/4 up the mountain. Skip to the juicy part. I hear a bugle and see some cows meandering through the brush about 100 yards away across a small draw. Big daddy appears behind them, herding them around in a trot. I get ready to shoot, but the spot he decides to stop in is behind a bush. I could see him clearly behind it, but there was no doubt I would be shooting through a damn bush, and I didn't know how this dumb sabot would handle it. So I did not shoot him then and waited for him to take a step. Then he jumped and took off to catch up w his cows at a trot. Vivid memory of him in the crosshairs. At the time I did not regret choosing to not shoot. That would change though. I don't know how big he was, but he would absolutely be on my wall right now. Like, literally right now as I type this he would be there. No big deal. Sad disappointed walk home as we didn't make anything happen afterward.
The next morning my buddy that started this whole fiasco arrived from south Texas as he had just went on days off. He got there as we were getting dressed. Grab some breakfast and jump in with us homie. We go listen for some bugles in a couple spots, and decide to head up the mountain. As soon as we clear the meadow at the bottom and hit the timber, we see elk. Close. Sub 100 yards in the timber above us. A bull and maybe ten cows. Wind is ok, thermals hadn't swapped. It is about to go down. I got my gun up and am ready. There are some trees between me and muy grande, and he is facing me. Gun is up, crosshairs on him, but I did not want to take a frontal shot at such an extreme angle. lack of confidence in the round...etc...etc. I figured patience would pay off and he would turn no problem and give me something I liked. They didn't know we were there, so just sit tight. I did get a good look as his fantastic, majestic, godawful huge antlers face on though. another vivid ducking memory. and its only a memory because some ***** sentinel cow we never saw at our 7 o'clock busted us and everyone hauled ass up the hill. i still get **** from that compadre to this day over not taking that shot. Nothing else happens that morning.
That evening buddy breaks off with another guide and me and my man head up another hill where we saw big daddy #1. Hour and a half before dark a scrub bull walks up on us grazing through a meadow we were on. We watched him for probably thirty minutes and he eventually grazed right between us...less than 5 yards from each of us. Was very cool and I did not want to shoot him. But that sentiment was very much at odds with the fact that I wanted to shoot something. As soon as he made his way out of the picture, I hear another bugle coming down from above him, and see some antlers glean through the trees. Awwwww yiss. I see a respectable 5 grazing down through the trees headed for the meadow I was sitting on. My brain said he would do, and my trigger finger (that had become noticeably itchy) agreed. He meanders out to about 60 yards. I grab a stick, level my gun, and bang. He takes one step and falls over stone dead. He's not very big, but I've got one on the ground and I am happy. As we were chopping him up another bull walks by in the dark bugling.
At 60 yards the slug punched through both lungs but hung up in his hide on the far side. I still don't know what to think about not taking the first two shots.