Island House - S. Padre Island - Corpus Christi, Texas - 1986 – I was 14 years old! The spacious old hotel sits surfside with a unique and distinctive seaside flare, embedded in whispy palm trees and windblown sand, a pool evenly centered within the complex, open breezeways, and a set of rustic and practical outdoor showers. The hotel is a quick thirty-minute drive to Bird Island Basin, the southern most boat ramp on the island providing access to the inter-coastal canal, and is also conveniently located minutes away from the Padre Island National seashore which provided miles upon miles of coastal access.

My family and I vacationed in the same unit every year; a fifth floor, spacious blue and white room that overlooked the rolling waves breaking on the beach through two glass walls that led to an outdoor patio.  Upon arrival, as my mother and aunt situated themselves after addressing all of the food and kid related items, my Dad and uncle poured through fishing tackle and other gear, getting everything ready for several full days worth of use in the arid salt-water climate. The first morning’s outing was always highly anticipated, and for me, sleep the night before was always hard to come by. The plan was simple; wake up well before sunrise, go outside and look at the weather conditions, then discuss the thoughts and preferences of those who would be attending the all day angling sabbatical. Eventually, the men would arrive at one of two options: if the wind was down and the surf looked good, drive south from Bob Hall pier and fish our way toward little shell and big shell, the four-wheel drive section of National seashore that offers fewer people and more fish; or if the winds were up or the surf was discolored, drag the boat—a baby blue 1970s Thunderbird with a Johnson 150 outboard—straight to the lagoon.

After wade fishing the bay for thirty years, Dad had a nice variety of options. Still known to him by their old numbers and names, places like “86” or “The west flat” which have since changed, he would always fall back on these spoils, grass-beds, and rock flats to find fish. However, if the conditions were perfect—wind speed and direction, temperatures south of ninety degrees, no storms in the forecast—it was always Baffin Bay. Back then, this fish laden estuary was still somewhat of a well kept secret, held safely by the few hardcore anglers who knew the bay and its populous well.  Safely navigating the large, open bay required an excellent and highly experienced captain, not just a good fisherman.  Scores of gnarly, immovable rock outcroppings lay hidden beneath the surface of the dark, undulating water, and an inexperienced boater could expect the worst if he or she inadvertently discovered the whereabouts of these barnacle covered piles too late. Baffin has long been infamous for its capability to produce sudden three and four-foot swells on any given day as the wind increases, and boaters may suddenly and unexpectedly be confined and exposed on the narrow dry sandbar- forced to wait out the wind and the bow jarring waves with little or no protection from the elements. Waiting too long to get anything less than a sizeable boat out of the rough water and back to the Inter-coastal canal has left countless anglers stranded for days and nights in Baffin Bay.

The local forecast predicted our first morning to be clear sunny skies, an incoming tide, and temperatures in the mid to high 90’s, with northwest winds ten to twelve miles per hour and no storms in sight. We arrived at the boat ramp well before sunup to get the hour long boat ride underway early, and by first light, the trusty Thunderbird carrying Dad, my uncle and me, as well as half a dozen seven-foot popping rods and reels, ice chests, and scores of other relevant gear, floated slowly and quietly toward the Baffin bay sandbar at idle speed. At the sound of the engine shuddering to a stop, I took Dad’s unspoken cue, and slowly and gently lowered the stainless “V” shaped anchor overboard, allowing the steel claw to bury itself in the sand before swinging the bow of the boat back in the direction we had come, leaving us securely tied in three feet of water about 30 feet from the dry sandbar.  Finally, we raised the engine, and stood to survey the early morning water conditions, pleased to see a gentle ripple spreading slowly across the surface of the glassy bay in the soft morning light. Everything appeared perfect, and the shallow warm water was already teeming with finger mullet adding a rich, silky texture to the color and appearance of the water as the baitfish anxiously awaited the inevitable onslaught from the slew of predators above and below. The gulls that occupied the narrow strip of dry sand overnight stood attentive at our approach, then rose gently into the air, turned away in flight and floated momentarily over the sandbar before landing again, slightly further away from us—the familiar intruders.

I carefully tied a never before used, copper colored mirro-lure with black specks to the 17 pound clear blue Stren line found on my black Ambassadeur 5500, and my confidence was high. Dad began the day as he always would, opting to start out with a Johnson’s Sprite ¾ oz. gold spoon, and then if nothing happened within a short amount of time, go to his M-50 or strawberry colored mirro-lures. Meanwhile, my uncle chose varieties of the same.
After smearing a dollop of sunscreen on my face and lashing the needle nose pliers to my belt, just in front of my rope stringer with the red and white float at the end, I eased over the side of the boat, taking a second to get used to the cool water. Sliding my feet softly and deliberately across the firm sandy bottom, I made my first cast of the morning, the water level climbing my legs as I followed the gentle sloping bottom into deeper water. Casting repeatedly, I wasn’t that far from the boat when I bumped into a school of fish. After a long cast to the deep water before me, the copper mirro lure—as well as my adrenaline—was jarred violently by a five-pound speckled trout that immediately swallowed the lure the second it landed. Instinctively, I set the hook—whipping the All Star rod back to my shoulder in an intentional, split second reaction. Feeling the rod surge forward under the weight of the fish before switching and bouncing back with each release of drag from the well-oiled reel, I leaned back on the sow and patiently let her run. Watching speckled trout slash the waters surface as they battle before stubbornly taking more line is simply a magical event. As I stood half submerged in the bay and played the fish, I whistled and waved to my Dad and Uncle, who were clearly silhouetted on the horizon, but still too far to notice my summon. I guessed, they too were probably already enjoying some luck as well. After wearing the long, silver fish with the voracious appetite down, I was able to get a hand around the top of her back, and the fight was over. After stringing the first one, I was immediately tied into another one in exactly the same manner as the first; long cast, immediate strike, lure completely swallowed by a twenty-five inch trout. By the end of the hour, and before wading back to the boat, I had my limit of five and six pound trouts, all caught on the copper colored mirro lure during the unforgettable and highly aggressive morning feed. Back at the boat, my uncle was slaying a can of beanie-weanies in full shade under the extended canopy, while Dad approached from the other side of the boat with a couple of nice fat trout at the end of his stringer. For whatever reason, my father and uncle managed to pick up only a few single fish, but not much more. At the sight of my stringer stacked with thick silver backs and toothy, yellow mouths, the profane exclamations were followed by a few well-pointed questions.

I praised the suddenly scarred up, no longer new looking copper colored mirror lure with black spots as my new favorite bait, and suggested to Dad he try the pattern. Instead, Dad decided I should put on a similar pattern but in a Magnum Mirro-lure, a lure twice the size of the first. Happily conceding, I tied on a lure similar in color, but noticeably larger. Before again wading away from the boat to resume the search for school trout before it got much warmer and they moved to deeper water, Dad and I quickly enjoyed a favorite saltwater snack of summer sausage, cheese, and crackers. As soon as we were finished snacking, we double-checked our gear, threw our legs overboard and plopped into the now emerald colored water, off to see how the big bait would produce.

Dad was letting me lead off with the big lure, staying several yards behind and to my right, as we worked our way into the distance. Not long after leaving the boat, I landed another five-pound plus speck on the Magnum Mirro-lure, and in no time, caught yet another big trout on the oversized bait. Dad and I were both thrilled. Standing together in waist deep water on such a remarkable and beautiful day with your father on the Texas Coast, catching oversized speckled trout with regularity in Baffin Bay—what could be better! Moving on, we covered only a few more yards before again picking up a big fish on the Magnum. By this point, we were only one fish away from having two full limits. I’ll never forget the next sequence of events as long as I live. While I was in mid cast, Dad said, “All-right baby, get me one more big one” The big bait had probably not sunk two inches after landing, when a huge sow crushed the lure near the surface, and did so with an upward surge of momentum. At the soundof her attempting to crush the bait, Dad turned just in time to see her completely airborne, the lure positioned outside her mouth, her big shiny body glistening in the sun. The instant she landed, she surged away with a lunging burst of energy that stretched and ripped line from my reel just before it fell completely slack. It happened so quickly, I wasn’t sure I hadn’t just been assaulted by a small tarpon, a theory that was immediately shot down by my wide-eyed father who made his opinion of the fish being a huge trout unmistakably clear.  I continued to reel faster and faster, but there was no resistance—none—and my heart began to sink and the blood drained from my face, as I grew more and more distressed with the thought of losing the once in a lifetime trophy. Slowing down my retrieve, and as the looming thoughts grew worse, it was almost a foregone conclusion that she had escaped, however, I never actually stopped reeling. Instead, one last flicker of hope surfaced in the back of my mind- that maybe, just maybe she was still holding the lure. I began reeling faster and faster, hoping and praying she was coming directly at me with the bait still in her mouth, as trout so often do when trying to free themselves of an angler and his menacing treble hooks. Because the big bait was so heavy, I had cast much further than usual, and there was a lot of line out. But as I reeled in what I thought was the last few feet of line leading up to my lure, I saw her in the clear water! Sure enough, she had swum all that distance straight toward me, and in doing so, had inadvertently prevented me from getting a great hook set. About the time I saw her, she saw me, and I immediately pointed the rod straight at her and quickly loosened the drag, fully expecting and readying myself for what was sure to come next. At the sight of my silhouetted figure against the blue sky, she exploded toward the sandbar, ripping off easily twenty yards of monofilament before turning back toward the deeper water. Fortunately I had loosened the drag in time, preventing her from tearing the bait out of her paper-thin mouth with undue resistance. As she pulled herself to deeper water and began to make runs side to side, I felt a small sense of relief after just dodging two major bullets: first, not losing her initially before I got a good hook set, and second, not losing her in close quarters when she made an incredibly powerful run.

Dad slid over to me and held close, worried the big sow would get wrapped up and entangled in his legs if she extended the distance of her runs beyond him. After another pulling contest, and as she began wearing down, we were both praying I could get her to me and get a hand on her before she threw the bait. As she came to the top and tried to turn away from us one last time, it was blatantly obvious that she was easily the biggest trout I had ever tied into, but I also knew how quickly a big trout could throw a hook with too much pressure, especially after the sharp hooks had torn and loosened the edges of the soft mouth and cartilage during battle.  Finally worn down, she was through fighting, and with rod tip held high, I steered her to my side where I literally put her in a headlock. Pushing the stringer through the soft cartilage behind her bottom jaw and fully relieved, I held her up to get a look at her length and girth. She was quite the specimen. Dad was excited, every bit as excited as I was, and he immediately predicted her as weighing over ten pounds. “I’ve fished more than half my life in this lagoon,” my father said, “and never have I seen such a trout.”

She was over ten pounds, ten pounds and four ounces to be exact, and thirty-one inches long. Sitting on the stringer next to the previous three trout, she looked like another species altogether. Landing the big speck not only completed our limit, but it completed the day of a lifetime between two anglers, a father and a son. We waded slowly but excitedly back to the boat where my uncle, still rummaging through the ice chest for goodies, sat up with a momentary look of disbelief when he saw me lift the four Baffin beauties from the bay. After reliving the story again and again, and with our limits of fish complete, we “gilled and gutted” our catch, appeasing the hungry gulls who waited on the nearby sandbar before lifting off and nabbing the floating entrails from the water, chasing and chastising one another for their share.

Looking back now, I wish I had returned the big sow to the bay. A fish like that, which is old aged and has survived that long in the Laguna Madre, has happened only by the slimmest of odds. But, from her permanent place on the wall in Dad’s beachfront condo, she will always be a reminder of that monumental day, a day where everything came together perfectly, and a father and son shared a memory of a lifetime. And, if I ever get so lucky as to catch a fish of that magnitude again, without question, it will be allowed to return to the place from which it came to hopefully perpetuate at least once more, a new generation of fish for a new generation of father and son.

He was one of the most distinguished bulls I have ever seen. He showed with a cautious swagger, ascending carefully, yet confidently into the small herd of cows and satellites already at water. Another September day was quietly expiring, and as the sun dipped further behind the Dakota Wall, the bull's ivory tips at the end of each of his points began to softly glow, further illuminated against the dark, chocolate finish of the crown-like rack. He was a character specimen - his body huge in size, yet sleek and muscular, the once butterscotch colored cape rippling beneath the mud of some nearby wallow. In his seventh year, he wore a six-inch kicker on his left main beam, adding the seventh point in coincidental fashion. However, it was the way the lengthy points caged his torso as he skillfully maneuvered through the pines, that was my favorite of all his posturing. Held spellbound by the surreal scene at hand, the feeling of the winds betrayal shocked me back to my senses, just before he and the rest of the herd quickly retreated into the fading mountain light.

Today was my first time to meet David Corrigan. Accompanied by lifelong friend and accomplished bow-hunter Newt Walker, they were both all smiles upon introductions, happy to be temporarily freed from work related responsibilities down in Texas. It was the second week of the 1999 Colorado archery elk season, and I was guiding Corrigan on his 6-day quest for a Rocky Mountain bull elk. Newt was returning to the Sierra Grande Outfitters for the fourth year in a row, after harvesting a 360" Pope and Young bull the year before. After all the gear was unloaded - duffle bags, bottles of fine wine, and hard bow cases - I discussed with David our strategy.

A few weeks prior to David's arrival, a herd of several thousand strong Rocky mountain elk began to subdivide, just as they did at the end of every summer. Bulls awakened by an innate primitive memory, at the changing of seasons, descended from the cool, high altitude of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the lower elevations where they would reside for several weeks during the rut. Our ranch sat at around 8,500 feet, and with an abundance of grass and water, the elk preferred its dark green forests framed securely within the rugged, sheer mountain faces. They arrived annually and went about their sometimes frenzied business of chasing, fighting, and bugling while trying to remain in, or resume control of, the cows and calves that would come and go - as quickly won as they were lost - while comprising a dominant bulls herd. Being immense creatures of habit, these animals instinctively and intuitively used the same trails and wallows as all the years before, an extraordinary concept flawed only by one undoing --- the susceptibility to ambush.

The big bull was frequenting the north side of our ranch. A long meadow with an alfalfa field and several bodies of water had drawn him into what was appearing to become a pattern of evening visits. On daily scouting trips, Prior to David's arrival, I had paid careful attention. The alfalfa field, surrounded in all directions by rugged, steep hillsides of stunted looking oak brush and towering yellow pine, was an evening respite for the herds that spent the majority of their day in the cool temperatures beneath the canopy of timbers and in the seclusion of the pristine mountain terrain.

The first evening David and I set up near the base of the Stonewall on the northern end of the ranch, strategically elevated on a narrow peninsula of brush near the food source. Our ground blind, perpendicular to the naturally sloping landscape that snaked downhill between an adjacent hillside and the ominous Stonewall, created the unimpeded path that would lead him straight in front of us should he travel it as he had earlier in the week. Ideally, we could come to full draw early enough to remain undetected, and then quickly revisit the plan in a hushed whisper; stop the bull with a gentle call, range his yardage, pick the appropriate pin, concentrate on keeping the arm up throughout and after the gentle release, and watch the arrow into the target, far enough behind the shoulder to avoid the huge bone mass, and midway up the body cavity. His daily habit of using this route was our opportunity to silently ambush him with a passing shot on his way to the field, though it almost seemed too simple. But as realistic hunters, neither David nor I expected it to be. With a savvy lead cow, even the simplest shot can go awry amidst a slew of nervous elk each possessing a keen sense of smell and excellent vision. As a mature herd bull, that had not received any hunting pressure, he would push his cows down the mountain and to within yards of the same trail exiting the timber every evening, only to emerge from the shadows of the forest into the fading mountain light. We needed only to be patient enough for this pattern to provide a shot; after all, we were on a small piece of ground by Colorado standards, and any overzealous and unnecessary mistake would not only interrupt his routine, but most likely send this bull into hiding for a period of time. On time as usual, his long awaited arrival was quick and anticlimactic as he hurried his cows through the meadow before us, enveloped safely in numbers just out of bow range. During the process, I refrained from calling and was happy to sneak out undetected, essentially guaranteed an opportunity to try him again the following day. It was by all means an encouraging start. David and I walked back to camp, anxiously excited and very content with our plan- to wait and let it all come together on its own naturally.

The second morning, we attempted to intercept the herd exiting the hay field at dawn en route to the bedding areas that awaited them high up on the hillsides in the safety of the timber. We struck out well before sunup, moving briskly in the dark across the wide, open valley to the timbers edge at the base of the Stonewall. Finally, concealed within the darkness of low morning light and silhouettes of standing timber, we crept slowly north for the fence line that stood between the alfalfa field and us. Reaching the last stand of timber before the fence line, I checked the wind that was beginning to stir as it did every morning, synonymous with the first hour of sunlight. The somewhat predictable wind currents in Stonewall had a bad tendency to "curl" during the early hours and as the sun climbed, suddenly switch direction before eventually settling into a steady stream of currents from the same general direction throughout the afternoon. Careful not to overplay our position, we set up just downhill and slightly east of the heavily used trail, hoping to take advantage of the natural bottleneck of brush and timber. It was a cold, crisp morning with frost on the ground, and the elk – all of them - were extremely vocal; bulls screaming, cows mewing- a chorus of fluent elk language.

No sooner than we were getting situated, the screams of competitive, old herd bulls as well as the younger, inferior bulls grew louder and were soon considerably closer as the bulls at sunrise lead their herds on the trek to the bedding areas hidden deep within the confines of the Stonewall.

I had a video camera and from my back underneath a huge pine tree, was able to capture footage of the frenzied, trampling mass migration of elk taking place some 75 yards away. Before we could react, there was a steady stream of them - cows, calves, & bulls, big and small- on every side of us. Completely pinned down and unable to move, I wondered how long it would be before a member of the herd caught our scent as they filed past us. An instant later, the herd was thundering into the timber, fully acknowledging my cause for concern. David and I turned, somewhat dumbfounded and looked at each other, still in awe of what had just happened. The light mesh mask David used to conceal his face was still hanging loosely from one ear, and I still laugh at the sight of him looking at me with it covering only about a third of his face. The herd came so fast; there wasn't much chance of putting a mask on, and even less chance of trying to rise and achieve full draw unnoticed. The herd was so vocal as they moved toward the forest, that any calling on my part would have more than likely gone unnoticed, so again, I refrained. As soon as they were gone, I rewound the Sony 8mm video camera, and we watched the footage in amazement several times before moving on. Because we never followed the elk into their bedding areas, hunts could be finished as early as 7am on a clear, warm day. As long as we had time on our side, our plan was to attempt an ambush. Knowing they would most likely be returning for their evening feed, if undisturbed, we snuck out quietly and headed for camp again, content to come back later that afternoon. In camp, I shot a number of arrows with David and Newt until lunch, and then enjoyed a "rapids-induced" siesta beside the splashing, bubbling snowmelt in Cuchara creek. This was followed by a quick assessment of all scent-lock, optics, and otherwise relative gear.

The second afternoon, Dave and I entered the alfalfa field at the far North end of the ranch, not far from our cabin. Hiking against the timber's edge, in anticipation of a portion of the morning's earlier visitors, we worked our way about a half-mile into the ranch undetected, and then set up near the trail that was the herd's preferred thoroughfare to the alfalfa field. Later, as the sun dipped slowly below the crest of the Stonewall and shadows stretched across the softly colored field, herd bulls began announcing their descent with bugles. Not long afterward, cow and calf elk were leaving the shelter of the pines, some jumping and playing excitedly as they entered the wide-open space. As more elk emerged, David and I prepared ourselves for the first sighting of the bull that was in control of the huge, oncoming herd. His screams were so loud that we were easily able to gauge his whereabouts as he ran back and forth, screaming and clunking in the timber, barely hidden beneath the fringes of darkness, but no doubt about to show. At long last, he exploded from the timber, hurriedly chasing and returning any cow that strayed too far for his liking. His long beams stood out to me every single time I saw him, and this time was no different. Once the herd was completed and fully exposed, the lead cow, which had long since assessed her options for delivering the herd safely to the hay field, began a descent just beyond our liking for archery and all we could do was sit and hope our bull was going to move within striking distance. I wondered if David wanted me to call to these elk. But, with so many of them ambling by just out of bow range, calling from an isolated blind would have not only given away our location, but could have easily spooked the herd, heightening their awareness that danger was present. As fate would have it, the bull followed the herd down the narrow drainage, but steered about 100 yards from our location. We still had several full days of hunting left, and with these elk demonstrating a daily routine, we just sat in awe of the bull until well after sunset and then, for the fourth time in a row, carefully snuck out of the valley undetected.

Day three found us employing the same strategy as the previous morning, slowly moving through the darkness just south of the buzzing herd in the damp, chilly air. We would stop occasionally and listen to the bulls screaming and chasing in the hay field. The thunderous sound of bulls' antlers violently crashing into one another in the darkness is one sound a hunter will never forget. Making it to the timberline undetected, we would wait and hope for a passing shot, or at the very least, potentially allow ourselves an opportunity to move undetected in the cover and stalk ourselves within range of whichever point of entry the bull chose. Unfortunately, and for whatever unknown reason, the herd was already heading for the timber long before sun up, exhibiting the sixth sense type of behavior that leaves hunters marveling at their awareness every year. Dave and I could only watch as the steady stream of animals steered their way straight up the center of the meadow before eventually melting into the pines. We were able to get a glimpse of our bull, but the herd was moving quickly and deliberately so, yet again, we gave the herd ample time to reach the bedding area in the high mountain timber, then eased slowly out of the pasture and headed to camp. As quick and as uneventful as this morning had been, there were several days left, and the number of bulls bedded in the timber above our ranch appeared to be increasing by the day, so we refused to second-guess our strategy.

Meanwhile, elsewhere on the ranch, Newt and his guide were reporting favorable elk activity in their hunting areas as well, but David and I were both intrigued with the bull on the North end of the ranch that wore the long extra point, and we had no intention of leaving him. The weather being warm and clear, we did our best to entertain ourselves in camp throughout the heat of the day, knowing full well it would be near last light before the elk made their evening appearance.

At around 3:30 pm that afternoon, we made the familiar hike through the north end of the hay field to our peninsula, and built another small ground blind further up near a frequently used elk crossing, opting for more of an offensive approach as we entered the halfway point of the hunt's duration. The five-strand barbed wire fence just beyond us was virtually collapsed, torn down by the frequency of visits from the lumbering herds tripping clumsily over it as they attempted to cross, while its demise ultimately resulted in an almost unimpeded path for adult cow elk to bring their calves through with ease.

We settled in to our blind of fresh cut juniper limbs laced between pieces of select dead wood, and got organized and ready for the hours to come. From the blind, we were well elevated, giving us a fine look at the open landscape below. David and I both had the feeling that this was going to be the hunt where we accomplished our goal, and we waited patiently. A little after 5:00 pm., I noticed that the elk still in hiding were not as vocal as the previous evenings, though there was some occasional light bugling coming from high on the hill. At around 6:00 pm, we listened intently to a bull as he worked his way down the mountainside, descending slightly earlier than usual. His bugles were louder at each sound off, and David and I were growing more attentive and convinced at every note. Suddenly, there he was, and to our complete surprise, he was alone! For days, and as recently as that same morning, this bull commanded numerous cows and calves, and now here he was completely solo, obviously relieved of his duties by a more dominant bull who was probably still somewhere up on the mountain - the proud new owner of a coveted herd of cows and calves. No matter! The gorgeous bull I had watched for days and weeks was now in plain view and heading right for the downed fence merely yards from where we hid. David slowly and gently pulled the light mask up over his face, and quietly knocked an arrow, while I began rolling videotape from my vantage point slightly above and behind him. We had already assessed the distances of every possible point of interest - rocks, plants, and even prairie dog mounds, so there was nothing more to do than remain completely motionless and let the bull close in. The weight of his heavy, long rack caused his head to bounce softly back and forth in unison with each step as he slowly ambled toward us, stopping occasionally to look from side to side before resuming pace; completely oblivious to any signs of danger and heading for the path of least resistance where the wire fence was all but leveled. Compared to the days prior to this one he seemed remarkably unenthused, possibly worn out from days of running and chasing, or the fight that may have lost him his herd.

Being a novice with the video camera, and more importantly, needing to actually guide David through the situation that was rapidly unfolding before us, I removed my finger from the red button on the back of the camera, sending it directly to pause. As the bull strolled to within forty yards, he disappeared momentarily behind a plump green juniper that was directly between him and us. "Draw your bow," I whispered, and David did so stealthily, still undetected by the beautiful bull that emerged within thirty yards. From his knees David held his draw, readying himself for the shot as the bull in front of us casually approached the downed fence on his way to the alfalfa field. As the unassuming bull stepped squarely into the clearing in front of the fence, I cow-called softly, causing him to stop and look our direction, broadside and motionless at eighteen yards. I whispered "eighteen" so softly I don't think I even heard myself, and David let his arrow fly. From my vantage point behind David, I immediately thought that the arrow came off unnaturally. Rather than flying true, the knock of the arrow went suddenly downward and the tip pointed skyward before quickly leveling out. To our surprise, the shot was well back, cutting the animal superficially across his right rear quarter, prompting him to jump, whirl, and quickly retreat to the edge of the timber from which he came, where he pulled up and turned to look back for his attacker. David knocked another arrow, and we sat there totally confused as the assaulted bull barked multiple warnings before taking a stiff-legged and cautious walk into the timber. I half-heartedly tried a cow call, knowing it was pointless, and from the trees he barked another warning that echoed in our ears and across the meadow. David looked back at me after the bull disappeared, and his face said it all. Still on his knees, David leaned forward and put his head in his hands for a moment, then sat up and looked back at me again. There was no way to sugarcoat it -- we were both sick. After careful inspection, we realized that the facemask Dave was wearing was hanging freely outside his collar, and in all probability, the bowstring caught enough of the loose material upon release to negatively affect the flight of the arrow.

I resumed filming shortly after the shot, and zoomed in on the flesh wound while the bull stood barking at the timbers edge before vanishing into the mountainside. Reviewing the tape a while later, we noticed a light stream of blood emerging from his rump where the broadhead barely opened the skin. Needless to say, it was a long, long night for both of us, and the overall tone of camp that evening was anything but enthusiastic. When you wound any animal, the feeling of disappointment as a hunter and a sportsman can be at times overwhelming. Suffice to say David and I were both suffering from a bad case of the big bull blues.

The next morning, severely distracted by the thoughts of the previous evening, we did the same thing we had done all week long; cross the meadow in the dark a few hundred yards south of the alfalfa field and try to create an opportunity for an ambush on a bull en route to the bedding ground. We recalled the wind switching on us mercilessly just days before, so on this particular morning we set up around seventy five yards below the timberline; concealing ourselves beneath a huge pair of pine trees surrounded by tall, light-colored grass. The bulls in the alfalfa field were screaming as loud as ever, and heading our way in the cold morning haze. Before long, the first lead cow showed up accompanied by a very nice 320-class bull. Directly behind them was at least another hundred head of elk that had obviously migrated down from the Sangre de Cristos overnight and joined in with the resident herd already frequenting the alfalfa field. According to my rangefinder, we were within eighty yards of countless elk as they filed past just up hill from us, but amidst all the fighting and herding taking place, we remained unnoticed. I was filming the whole chaotic thing, all the while watching for, and hoping to see our bull from the previous evening somewhere in the mix. Suddenly, a beautifully wide and dark antlered bull on the outer edge of the herd swung wide, inadvertently coming toward us - his huge body and antlers covered in wet, black mud. We had seen him once before during the weeks first major influx of elk, and he was easily a trophy with a rifle, much less a bow. As he approached from our right side, just downhill of our location, I whispered to David that he was a shooter, and to be ready. It was about then that the big bull stopped and began adding a fresh coat of urine to the underside of his belly, screaming and "clunking" as he did so. David had a moment to size him up, and then whispered softly to me that he was going to pass on the bull due to a broken tine. The old elk was indeed short a royal point from fighting, but his huge cage of a rack more than made up for this subtlety. As he passed by us at forty yards, I let the camera roll, and David, as he said he would do, let him pass. After the muddy bull moved past us, I turned and looked uphill again just in time to see one of the biggest bulls I have ever seen in Colorado. He was coming out into the open from underneath the low hanging limbs of a pine tree, and watching him carefully maneuver his huge antlers around and through the pine limbs is a sight I will never forget. He was a monster bull, and he pushed cows within 70 yards of us before stopping broadside at the timbers edge, giving us a flicker of hope. I was still filming the giant bull as I implored David to take him no matter what if he passed within range and presented a clean shot. Unfortunately, with all the screaming, cow talking, and fighting, there was no possible way to call him any closer or sneak anywhere else, so we remained motionless and prayed he would move downhill another few yards.

Normally, I would try and make up that slight section of ground with a stealthy sneak, but with so many eyes, ears, and noses present, it was simply impossible. Seconds later, he was gone, and we never saw him again. After the herd completed its ascent and reached the bedding areas high on the hill, David and I left the valley. We watched the video footage back in camp, and the huge bull maneuvering his monstrous antlers side to side through the pine limbs got everyone watching excited. David really had his heart set on "our bull," and willingly opted to pass on others in hopes of getting one more opportunity at the beauty that came so close to his fate the night before. But, for the first time in days, he never made an appearance. We were both thinking the same thing all afternoon, though neither of us mentioned it. It was tough for us to deny the fact that our close encounter the previous evening may have been enough to prevent our chosen animal from re-entering the meadow for quite some time. We hoped the shallow gash on his rump would soon be forgotten, just as any other injury sustained by a rival bull would be, or would it serve as a reminder that a dangerous foe was lurking in the valley, heightening his caution and awareness and compelling him to forego what had become daily visits to the alfalfa field. We could only wait and find out.

That evening we set up and watched the usual activity before dark, but again failed to see our bull. With only two days left in the trip, time was becoming a factor, so we decided to adopt a backup plan. There was a massive pine tree that stood in the valley near the timbers edge, towering over a major trail that the elk traveled more often than not. Throughout the first few days of our hunt, as we sat facing South from the peninsula, David and I observed numerous animals move within striking distance of this tree, and we discussed the idea of installing a hanging stand half way up its giant trunk in an attempt to potentially get a shot at a "consolation prize" if things did not come together sooner. The next morning, while we awaited the herd's routine journey from the alfalfa field to the timber, something mysterious happened. The entire herd was incredibly nervous, and we watched in awe as a hundred or more frightened elk ran in large circles in the valley, before stampeding east, leaving our property for a neighboring ranch. Fully aware that the last few hunts were not going to get any easier, we decided it was time to implement our back up plan, and place the hanging stand in the pine tree near the heavily used elk trail.

Hurrying back to camp, we wasted little time eating breakfast, then rounded up all the necessary equipment needed to convert the big tree into a comfortable staging area. On our way out the door, Newt and Les, wanting to pass some time and enjoy the camaraderie, decided to ride with us on our elk stand endeavor. All necessary items in the truck, the four of us headed for the ranch, and soon arrived at one of the entrances on the east side of our property. Turning in, we drove a short distance and pulled up on "the perch," the highest knoll on the ranch with a bird's eye view of the entire valley. From this place over the years, I watched many scenarios unfold in the valley below; whether it was a large black bear encroaching on an attentive elk herd, coyotes and bobcats slinking through prairie dog towns, or an unforgettable sunset or sunrise against a backdrop of snow covered peaks. This was a wonderful vantage point to take in the happenings of the wild. David and I slid out of the truck and grabbed the items needed to hang the stand and clear shooting lanes. Because the walk across the huge, wide-open meadow was much longer and more deceiving than it appeared, Newt and Les opted to stay in the truck and relax, and simply watch the show from high above, while David and I headed down the hill and across the sprawling landscape to complete our task of erecting a tree stand. Between the two of us, we carried a hanging stand, a protective body harness, a bucket of steel tree spikes, and a saw. Once across the meadow and under the protective shade of the enormous pine tree, I looked back at the tiny truck sitting high on the hill directly east of us.

Then, turning my attention to the massive tree trunk, I inserted the first steel peg, followed by another and another, until I was able to climb on them high enough to reach the first huge limb. A few moments later, David and I were both high above the ground, lashing the aluminum-hanging stand to the trunk of the huge pine. There was a great chance that a bull would come within bow range of this tree, but we never expected it to occur while we were putting up the stand! As we worked, I looked out from our place in the limbs and noticed a single bull in the distance coming rapidly from the east directly at us. He was obviously exhausted, his mouth hung open and his tongue wagged as he gasped for air, yet he kept running for the safety of cover that waited just behind us. Crossing the open span in a hurry, he added insult to injury, pulling up to a complete stop for a rest directly under the tree that David and I were in. Of course, we violated the most important rule in hunting, and neither brought a bow with us, only the gear needed to hang the stand and cut a few limbs. David and I looked at each other - partly amused, partly stunned, and partly disgusted. We did have a radio however, and as one would imagine, it suddenly lit up with the sound of Newt and Les laughing and taunting aloud as they watched the whole thing unfold from afar. Imagine, two fully-grown bow hunting men, - standing in a tree without a bow, during bow season, directly above a panting, shooter bull elk that has no clue they exist. Yep, we could have dropped a pinecone on his head! Eventually, he resumed his pace and melted into the pines, and David and I climbed down and headed for the truck, where we took one hell of a "ribbing."

Later that afternoon, hoping to give the North end some time to settle down, and allow David the chance to see some different terrain, we hunted elsewhere, setting up in the middle of the ranch well south of where we had previously hunted for days. We watched both north and south for any sighting of our bull as others began trickling out of the pines just before dark, but he never showed. After dark, pressed with the quandary of having only one-day of hunting left, and no sign of our bull, David and I agreed that he should hunt the hang-on stand the final day, and attempt to arrow any decent bull within range. The pressure was certainly on, and walking silently out of the field, I couldn't help but lament our missed opportunity days before.

The next morning was a quick one. The elk were feeling the pressure of the ongoing bow season; the hours we spent in the field stalking and crowding them for a perfect bowshot, and they responded by moving out of the field and into the timber well before legal shooting light. As the sun rose, we sat dejectedly and listened to the bugles high on the mountainside before again sneaking out of the valley and heading for camp, more concerned than ever. After breakfast, David and Newt began shooting their bows behind the cabin, chatting loosely while remaining optimistic about their final evening hunt. Personally, I was not looking forward to putting David up in a tree by himself for his final outing. I was his guide, and I especially wanted to be there if and when he made his kill. After a few dozen arrows were launched, we prepared ourselves for the final evening of the Colorado archery season. De-scenting our gear as much as possible and each taking scent free showers, we headed out early for the final afternoon, content to spend the rest of the day killing time in the field. We entered the ranch due east of the hanging stand, and after the long walk in, crept slowly up to the old tree that held it. While we were standing at the base of the huge pine and about to climb up, the wind picked up noticeably and turned out of the south. Standing there for a moment thinking about the possible implications, my gut feeling was trying to overrule the idea in my mind that David would be high enough off the ground to potentially avoid being winded by animals below, and only after expressing my utter disgust at the wind direction with David, did we decide that together we would live or die with our ground blind, the same blind overlooking the downed section of fence at the alfalfa field, where we had come so close. Our minds made up, we abandoned the tree stand, turning north and hurrying for the peninsula with the heavily used elk trails below it. At the cross fence, which separated the alfalfa field from the valley, we turned west, pushed through the sparse oak brush and made our way quietly up the hill for our evening stay. When we reached our blind, we found to our liking, that the wind was very favorable - blowing directly out of the south and straight in our face as we settled in to wait for the show, both hoping our last night would be one to remember.

It was early when the bulls started bugling, but it was also somewhat encouraging since some of the calls were beginning to sound like they were heading our direction. Often times a bull's vocal inflections are distinguishable from others, and at one point as we sat there listening to the chorus of bugles, I thought I heard our bull's "voice." After more intense bugling, and as the sounds came closer, I felt almost sure that I was listening to our bull. Whichever bull it was, he was apparently coming out, and coming out soon. Quietly, David readied himself with his bow just below me in the cover of some large boulders and scrubby oak brush that grew into the fence. I sat motionless against the trunk of a middle aged juniper that I had trimmed earlier with a pack saw; leaning back, enshrined in the wooded arms and greenery, surrounded on all sides by oak brush.

It wasn't long when a small group of cow elk marched hurriedly down the base of the mountainside, bursting from the shadowy timber into the soft evening light. As soon as the last cow had been driven from the woods before us, an awesome bull charged out behind them and into the open, with little else on his mind other than keeping firm control over his nine prized cows. As soon as he stepped clear, I knew it was our bull. The long tines caging his ribs when he ran coupled with the ivory tips on his chocolate antlers and long extra point made him hard not to recognize. Besides that, he had a nice little scar on his right rump from our brief encounter days earlier. "That's him, that's our bull," I shrieked in a whisper as David stoically watched the herd approach, and neither of us moved a muscle. The lead cow grew serious seconds after stepping into the open, and we were unsure of which direction she would take the herd. Soon, she began to follow a path drifting downhill with the natural contour of the land, and into the natural funnel that would potentially lead them directly in front of us. My rangefinder was in my left hand, and in my right hand was the video camera that I used to film the slowly approaching herd. Soon, they were at our 100-yard marker, and at that point, I again paused the camera so I could accurately call a range for David. There is a reason professional hunters hire professional camera crews to accompany them into the woods to hunt. Attempting to guide and film is tricky, and knowing when to put the client's best interest over the hopes of capturing his or her footage, is walking a fine line. The herd avoided the downed fence area to our right that would have provided the better shot, and instead turned to our left and continued our direction on an easterly, downhill march. The big bull was running back and forth screaming violently, warning several nearby satellite bulls to keep their distance, or fight. As they pressed closer, I gave David soft spoken instructions: "Get ready to draw your bow David," followed by, "seventy five, sixty five, fifty five, forty five, draw your bow!" With that David committed and came to full draw as the lead cow stopped and stared, prompting the entire herd to stop behind her. "Thirty Eight!" I hissed, and as he turned his last cow into the herd, the perfectly broadside bull came to a stop facing slightly uphill, and clear of all the other animals. David held momentarily, taking careful aim, and released. However, just as he let go, our intended target also took a step to its left, and with a resonating "whack," David and I fell ill at the sight of the arrow sticking squarely out of the bull's rump, seconds before it fell to the ground and the startled animal kicked and wheeled toward the forest. I cow called immediately and the entire herd, including the bull stopped. David, still on his knees, bent over in disbelief and put his face in his hands, rocking slowly back and forth, whispering something barely audible that I assumed was an all out verbal assault on himself. What he didn't see was that the bull was bleeding badly from his right rear quarter and, to my surprise, the dominant bull, being so overly protective and wound up for a fight, bugled, forcefully pumping a dark stream of blood from the wound as he did so. At that point, I resumed filming and gave a few gentle cow calls, as it was becoming more apparent that the 100-grain Spitfire tipped on David's arrow had successfully severed the bull's femoral artery. While his cows grew restless, to our amazement the injured bull continued to echo challenges and herd his cows, losing immense amounts of blood all the while, yet seemingly unfazed. I started to wonder nervously aloud how the bull was still on his feet, insisting he should go down any moment as the severed artery continued to spray vital, dark blood over the soft green carpet of the valley floor. As the wounded animal crested a small hill to the south, heading in the direction of another bull that was loudly issuing challenges, I noticed he began licking his lips - generally a good sign for the archer as it implies the animal is feeling the ill effects of severe blood loss, or possibly just sick from what amounts to sudden dehydration. I never thought he would make it to the top of that hill alive, but as he passed over it and out of sight, we emerged from our hiding places and slowly followed, now unconvinced of anything. As far back as the shot was, David and I were still a little unsure of what to think, but neither our eyes, nor the videotape would deceive us. With loud bugles still coming from just over the hill where our bull was last seen injured, but alive, we simply didn't know what to expect, so with an arrow knocked and ready, we pursued the prize in hopes of attempting a finishing shot before dark. Moving deliberately up and over the hill just as the bull did, I led David around a small stand of timber, and my heart jumped when we suddenly saw the bull's huge motionless silhouette on the ground in the fading light, his gorgeous long antlers pointing to a darkening sky. "Will that do all right?" I asked excitedly as I pointed at the expired animal. "Oh Man, there he is!" said David excitedly. With that, we gave each other a big bear hug and a high five, and then marveled at the surreal sight of the trophy bull lying before us in such magnificent surroundings.

We never saw the animal go down. He carried on until he could carry on no more, passing just out of sight before running out-of-time, and neither David nor I could have ever scripted a better ending. In the final few minutes of light -- the last few minutes of the season -- and the final minutes of our last hunt, we stood together victorious after achieving the common goal that would bond us as friends and as bow hunters, as outdoorsmen and as sportsmen, and the day ended in amazing fashion.

Les Ezell, on his way out of the field, spotted our cameras flashing in the darkness, and assumed we were taking pictures of a kill. Carefully maneuvering his vehicle through the soggy marshes barely visible in the dark meadow, he slowly made his way toward us, just about the time Newt and his guide radioed ahead to ask about our evening. David grabbed the radio and told them he settled on a 310-class bull, which brought hearty congratulations from them both, fully aware and thrilled that David had taken his first elk with a bow. When they drove up and saw the smiles on our faces, and the Corrigan Bull on the ground behind us sporting some 340 inches of antler with the long extra point still in tact, they were as surprised as we were, and it didn't take long for their excitement to kick in. After sharing the sequence of events with them and admiring the massive rack for some time, we took several photos of the majestic bull before loading him into the bed of the pickup. Slamming the tailgate shut and riding out of the meadow with our bull legally tagged and in tow, Dave and I looked at each other and smiled. "You did it you turkey," said David, breaking into laughter. "You did it," I replied.

Back in camp, we celebrated heartily and relived scenes from the entire week – watching video, laughing, eating, drinking, and staring at the majestic bull that nearly eluded us, but fell to Dave's arrow.

Before heading back to Texas, David and Newt invited me to their deer lease in Tilde, Texas, which oddly enough, was only fifteen minutes south of my deer lease in Tilden. I took them up on their offer, and the rest is history. Our families have been friends for over a decade now, hunting and having fun whenever we can, eating good food, drinking great wine, and never wanting the hunt to end.

The Corrigan bull fell to one of the most humble and generous men I know, and I am proud to have been part of harvesting such a magnificent creature in such a beautiful environment, with such a friend.

*David shared one of his bulls' ivory's with me, and I look at it every day as it sits in my favorite arrowhead frame, reminding me of the time…