Twenty-two years ago I had no idea what I was doing. I had a rifle and an elk tag and I was in excellent shape, so I kept walking up one mountain and over the next. I can still smell the rich, sticky aroma of the elk. The snow-cloaked basin held heavy tracks, and when I bent down to crawl under a log I saw a rack.
When I stood, the rack stood with me. I counted four points, shouldered my 7mm Rem. Mag. and fired. The bull was less than 50 yards away. I don’t remember aiming, and I had no rest. All I remember is seeing the bull drop in my scope. The crack of the rifle ignited a stampede. I’d never seen so many elk. Cows, calves and bulls scrambled left and right to flee the scene.
I’ve been an elk addict ever since.
Last year, the cards fell in the Bausermans’ favor. The circus that is the Western hunt draw system was good to us. If the elk stars aligned, it would be a hell of a year.
Amy, my bride of 21 years, wanted a 6x6 public-land bull. She’d put in for a kingpin rifle tag for years but couldn’t catch the point creep. The solution: We went with a primitive firearm, burned her points and chased bugling bulls in the same unit she longed to rifle hunt.
We worked hard on that hunt. Mountain miles hit differently, and while we sat and ate lunch off the edge of a foot-traffic-only logging road, we jawed back and forth about getting our butts kicked. For grins, I let out a bugle. The answer came quickly, and the guttural bellow told me the bull was close. Cows and calves emerged from the timber 260 yards away. The bull was in tow. I knew the area (I’d killed a bull there in 2022), so Amy and I made a beeline for a small, isolated meadow where I figured the herd was headed.
We retraced my previous tracks via my HuntStand app to avoid the beetle-killed timber and got in front of the herd quickly. Mother Nature added a gentle rain to help cover our noise. When the bull stepped into an opening at 113 yards I stopped him, and my wife put a 270-grain muzzleloader bullet behind the shoulder.
Four bull elk in a single season is quite the accomplishment for one family. Four bull elk for one family in a single month, well that’s near legendary.
Amy got her wish because she worked for it. We battled through, and as it can so often happen in the field, a decent hunt became an incredible one in the blink of an eye. My wife’s pack out was long. Thank God for good friends and good packs.
Two days later, exhausted and running on fumes, I sat with my buddy Jay Waring and watched a pair of bulls scream on a distant cedar-covered hillside. There was no approach—the wind sucked—but Lord, do I love watching and listening to rutting September bulls.
Day two brought a crisp north wind, which meant Jay and I could get above the bulls on the canyon rim and stay back far enough that the morning thermals wouldn’t pull our stink down. It was the perfect elk morning: calm, crisp and beautiful. The problem: No bulls were bugling.
The location was a rut fest the previous morning and evening; now, nothing. I turned toward Jay to make a joke, and when I did something caught my eye. The bull had an enormous body, which made it difficult to evaluate his 6x6 frame. Before I could get him in my Leupold spotter, he disappeared into a maze of cedars and pinyons.
When he emerged, I had a tiny window of opportunity. If I waited too long trying to size the bull he’d disappear into a no-name hellhole. Through my scope, I got one good look at the bull’s sweeping thirds, settled my crosshairs and sent a 190-grain .300 Win. Mag. bullet into his side.
Two 300-plus-inch bulls in three days is not a bad way to kick off my favorite month of the year. The best part was September was far from over.
My son, Hunter, was a stud football player. He wouldn’t tell you that. He knows you don’t have to tell people if you’re good at something because people already know. However, dear old Dad can brag. Due to Hunter’s fall dedication to football and his team, he couldn’t go elk hunting. There wasn’t time. This year, though, would be different.
“That’s a squeaky windmill,” I told Hunter with a chuckle.
“Yeah, you’re right, it is,” he responded.
The hunting was terrible. It was an ultra-low-odds unit with a small elk population. The September air was warm, and the day, aside from spending time with my oldest son, was a bust … until it wasn’t.
“Bull,” was all I heard.
Hunter couldn’t say another word. He was looking through the spotting scope and pointing. My jaw dropped. The elk was coming on a dead run, but it was so far away I couldn’t make out if it was a bull or a cow let alone a legal bull. Then I heard the squeaky bugle. It wasn’t a windmill after all.
At 800 yards, I could see the 4x4 rack. The bull was young, but I wasn’t going to tell my son that. He’d never killed a bull—and in a general unit any legal bull is a good one.
I had to scream at the bull to stop him at 230 yards. His olfactory system would have kicked in if I let him get farther. Hunter manned up and made a perfect shot, which dropped the bull in his tracks.
And there was still one more hunt in the Bausermans’ September.
I fancy myself a horseman. I know just enough to be dangerous, primarily to myself, and my 3-year-old filly was ready for her third elk voyage of the month.
Annie was born in the corral adjacent to my house. I was the first person to touch her moments after her birth, and I broke her myself. My good buddy and horse whisperer Jake Masias did some finish work with her, which helped immensely and prepared her for the elk woods. I’d used horses for elk hunting my entire life but had never ridden my own mount into elk country, killed a bull and rode out. It was a dream I’d yet to achieve.
My hunting mentor, Bill Seamans, cow-called as we rode through a maze of sprinkled cedars. The bull was on top of us when he bugled. Not one of the horses spooked, and we quickly tied off, jerked our rifles from their scabbards and moved ahead. It was a rodeo, which included offhand misses by Bill and myself, but as the bull was running away my crosshairs found the back of his neck and the 168-grain Berger Hybrid Hunter put him down.
The bull was a mature, respectable 6x6, but it could have been a small 4x4 and it wouldn’t have mattered. Elk hunting is about setting and accomplishing goals. Killing an elk using a horse I’d broke was one of mine. Oh, and so was having the perfect September. Dreams do come true.
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