Luck Is A Four-Letter Word

When I was a kid, four-letter words were taboo in our house and uttering them invariably resulted in a frothy mouthful of soap at the hands of my mother. Mom did not like four-letter words. I guess that’s why luck was never part of my vernacular. Luck is a four-letter word.

USO is a three letter word. Actually it’s not a word but an acronym for United States Outfitters. Three letter words were OK in my house, and after several years of dealing with George Taulman and United States Outfitters, USO is tops in my books. The business side to United States Outfitters is twofold. First they are one of the most respected outfitters for elk, antelope, mule deer, black bear, mountain lion and turkey in the western states. And second, they offer a Professional Licensing Service that assists hunters in applying for limited entry tags right across the U.S.A.. They not only ensure that you apply in the best areas, but they will also provide top quality guides and outfitters if you are lucky enough to draw a tag.

As I eluded to earlier, luck is not a word I use regularly, and after three years of applying for sheep, elk and deer tags through United States Outfitters, I had not once received the congratulatory letter saying that I was drawn. I knew several other hunters that had drawn New Mexico elk tags on their very first try. Heck, I even knew of another hunter that had drawn an Arizona desert sheep permit after applying only once. If I was going to get drawn, it was going to have to be the old-fashioned way: with patience.

"Your turn will come," George told me at the 1997 Harrisburg Sportsman’s Show in Pennsylvania. And it was only a few months later that Jean Taulman called me with the good news, I’d drawn a New Mexico elk permit for mid-October. Finally, I was on my way.

United States Outfitters does have a large number of private-land tags available for the hunter not wanting to wait, but they are more expensive. If a hunter is fortunate enough to draw a permit, he is treated to a hunt for record class animals at a fraction of the cost. These limited entry permits, especially in New Mexico and Arizona, are the working-man’s opportunity to hunt bulls that would normally set him back a half-a-year’s wages.

"You’ll be hunting with me," were the words from a tall, lanky kid by the name of Lance Crowther. I was several hours west of Albuquerque in a very well apportioned tent camp. It was the evening before opening day and the camp, whom I shared with five other hunters, was a buzz with activity. Archie, the camp cook and entertainment, was brewing up a batch of gumbo that was certain to stick to your ribs for the entire week. Bud, the lead hand, was strategically pairing up hunters and guides. And the guides were busy meeting their hunters.

"You hunted elk before?" Lance asked.

"Yea, I’ve killed a few."

"Where?"

"Colorado, Montana and at home in Alberta."

"What’s your biggest?"

"Around three hundred."

Lance looked impressed. Most of the members in our group were first-time elk hunters looking for a nice, mature bull, but they were certainly not as obsessed as me about shooting a monster bull. Suddenly, a bull bugled a couple hundred yards to the west. A hush fell over the camp. For many of the hunters this was the first elk they had ever heard vocalize, aside from those on the Discovery Channel. Several more bulls answered. Sleep did not come easy that night and the bulls were still going at it when Lance kicked me out of bed the following morning.

"There’s a bull just east of here that I’ve seen a couple of times that should go three-forty. You can take a look at him and see what you think."

"I won’t shoot a bull until the last day," I replied to Lance. "I’m never lucky enough to shoot anything early in the hunt, let alone the first day. It always takes until the last day. I usually get a good one, but it never happens early."

I knew that I would gladly shoot a 340-class bull on opening day and secretly hoped that it would happen, but I was already well into a last-day kind of year. I had shot a mountain caribou on day five of a five-day hunt in September. My 14-day Stone sheep hunt lasted 14 days. "Last day T.J., that’s what most of the outfitters that I know call me."

"We’ll see."

It was 15 minutes before legal light on day one and I was less than 200 yards from what by all accounts sounded like a monster bull. We couldn’t see him yet, but the wind was perfect and it looked like my luck might be about to change. Cows and calves were chirping all around us. One satellite bull bugled a challenge, and then another. The enraged herd bull screamed a bone chilling response. More cows barked. More calves chirped. The two satellite bulls bugled in unison.

It was a surreal place to be. There were too many elk. This was opening day. I’m not suppose to kill anything on opening day! It was too good to be true. And too good it was. As if on cue, the elk began to slowly drift toward the dark timber adjacent to the meadow.

"Let’s go," Lance said grabbing me by the arm and pulling me toward the slowly retreating elk. "He doesn’t know we’re here. He’s just trying to get his cows away from the satellite bulls."

What can only be described as a foot race ensued, as we desperately tried to get in front of the elk and regain the wind advantage. Even though this was mid-October, long after the peak of the rut, you’d have never known it by the way these big boys were bugling. Keeping track of them was easy, keeping up with them was not. It soon became obvious that our attempt was in vain. There was no way to get ahead of them and the wind would soon give us away.

When all looked as if it were lost, another bull to the west bugled. We were in the perfect position to intercept him if he continued moving up the ridge he was on. Again, it looked too good to be true. If he kept on his present course, he would pass less than 50 yards away, upwind! He bugled again. He was only 100 yards away. While uncertain as to how big he was, if the tone of his bugle was any indication, he was a monster.

Several cows crossed our line of sight first, 50 yards away and with no clue we were there. A satellite bull bugled further up the ridge which elicited an immediate response from the herd bull. He was only 75 yards away but the heavy timber prevented us from seeing him. Several cows barked which further enraged the big bull. He screamed again, daring the intruder to confront him. The smaller bull answered, causing the herd bull to take off in a mad rush after him. The chase took the pair to the next ridge west. Another opportunity was lost.

"Let’s get in front of him," Lance said pulling my arm again as we took off in a mad dash.

My lungs burned, my thighs ached, my heart raced. But somehow we made it. After a couple of close calls with a few scattered elk, including two smaller bulls, we were once again in position in front of what we hoped was the big bull.

Suddenly, a bull appeared only 30 yards away. He was a beautiful 6x6 with long, sweeping main beams and polished ivory points. We had been caught flat footed, standing in the open. There was little to do but let the scenario play out. The bull knew we shouldn’t be there, but was uncertain of what we were. The wind was in our favor and he stood motionless, as did we.

The stand-off lasted for several minutes, with the bull occasionally glancing behind him at a number of unseen elk. We could hear them slowly moving through the timber. We saw occasional glimpses of tan glowing in the sunlight. We could smell them, their pungent odor wafting on the slight breeze. Then, another bull, a mirror image of the six-point that stood before us, joined him in the stare down.

While it was tempting to shoot one of the bulls at such close range, a bugle 40 yards below confirmed our suspicions that these were only satellite bulls and that there was a much larger bull on the ridge. And then there he was, just below us. He was a 6x7 with tremendous eye guards, heavy main beams and all the majesty of a herd bull that had earned his social stature. I likely should have taken him, he was far bigger than any bulls I had previously shot, but it was only the first day and I knew this region of New Mexico held better bulls. But at that moment it was hard to believe any bull could be bigger or more regal.

"That was wild," I said to Lance as the bulls slowly melted into the timber. "Most guys will never have opportunities at that many big bulls in a lifetime, let alone in the first hour of the first day."

Then another bull sounded off on the next ridge to the west. "Shall we?" Lance said grinning from ear to ear.

This bull didn’t really bugle, but uttered a blood-curdling roar. Lance cow called to him. His roars became more intense, more guttural. Soon we had the distance closed to 50 yards, but in the heavy timber we could only see teasingly short glimpses of various parts of his anatomy, but never his antlers. Then, an errant wind swirled off the hair on the back of my neck and the bull went crashing through the timber. It wouldn’t be until day four that we would have an opportunity at this bull again.

He played a game of hide and seek with us for the next three day. His bugle was so unique that there was no doubt it was him we were after, but fickle winds, alert cows and Lady Luck conspired against us to prevent an opportunity for a shot. That’s not to say there weren’t other opportunities. During those three days I passed shots on several more 6x6s and a host of smaller bulls. I just had it in my mind which bull I wanted.

It was late in the morning of day four that things almost came together. He bedded, along with several cows, on the top of a ridge directly across the valley from us. We had not seen him, but he readily answered Lance’s cow calls at every opportunity. Lance thought it would be best if I went after the bull alone while he stayed back and cow called occasionally. Hopefully, with the elk’s attention focused on Lance, I could slip in undetected and get a shot at close range.

The plan worked like clockwork and in less than an hour I was within 40 yards. I was down to my socks and painstakingly placing each step where it would not make the slightest sound. I don’t know who saw whom first, but there I was, eyeball to eyeball with a calf elk. I don’t know who was more frightened either; the calf for its life or me for the mayhem that was about to be unleashed.

The calf chirped loudly, then went crashing down the ridge sending elk scattering in all directions. The musky scent of elk permeated my nostrils. I had blown it. Running down the ridge I could see elk on the opposite side, slowly ascending the steep slope. Other than the calf, the elk didn’t even know why they had spooked. Their alarm was over.

"Cow, cow, cow, cow," I quietly said to myself, looking through the binoculars. "Bull! There he is."

At a distance of nearly 300 yards it was a long shot, but I had the legs on the bipod already extended and was confident that if he stood still for a few seconds that I could make the shot. This was the first real good look I had at the bull and I hesitated, perhaps longer than I should have, to carefully evaluate his antlers through the binoculars. There was no question he was the bull of my dreams. His antlers, sporting six long points per side, made his immense body look like a porcelain miniature. How could he carry them around?

Settling in behind the Simmons scope, dialed all the way to 10 power, I momentarily, or so I thought, lost sight of the bull as he stepped behind a tree. With the rifle trained on the opposite side of the tree from where the bull had disappeared, I waited, and waited, and waited. There was no other way out, but then five minutes later he bugled several hundred yards up the ridge. Somehow he had slipped out undetected. I couldn’t believe it. My spirits were crushed. We had invested so much time and effort into this bull only to be thwarted in what seemed like a perfect setup.

"I’ve got another spot that usually has some big bulls in it this time of the year," Lance told me, sensing my angst. "We need to give this guy a rest."

That evening we hiked in to some spectacular desert country, dominated by scrub oak, pinion pine, cedars, and yucca plants. It was in sharp contrast to the mountainous, dark timber ridges we had been hunting so hard the previous days. The lava rock flowed smooth, creating a cornucopia of caves, blow holes, and roller-coaster-like slides. It looked more like a creation of the folks at Disney than of Mother Nature, but there were no ticket booths, no junk food vendors. This was here to be enjoyed, to be explored for just the price of a little sweat and boot leather.

We took a vigil atop an outcropping of broken rocks, Lance on one side and me on the other. It was still early and we didn’t expect to see much for a couple of hours, but almost immediately I spotted a pine tree swaying violently back and forth. The slight breeze was almost indiscernible, and could not possibly be responsible. A quick glance through the binoculars revealed the cause. A large bull was totally engrossed in stripping every branch from the tree.

"Lance come here."

"What is it?"

"There’s a great big bull a hundred and twenty five yards out there raking a tree."

"Well shoot him."

And with that I steadied the .300 magnum on the bull’s shoulder and squeezed. The 180 grain Federal Trophy Bonded Bear Claw devastated him. The point of the shoulder is not an ideal location to shoot an elk unless you are certain your bullet will hold together, and mine did. The bull fell immediately.

It was as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from my shoulders. We had hunted so hard, and came close so many times, but success had seemed a million miles away. Now it was here, it was tangible.

Lance and I took our time photographing the big bull and then caped and quartered it just as the sun was going down. We packed the antlers and cape back to the truck that evening and returned the following morning with a game cart to retrieve the meat.

Yes, luck might be a four-letter word, but so is work, hard work, and that’s what it seems to take for me to be successful. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

My hunt could not have been better. I experienced some incredible country, shared my days with a fine hunting companion, and saw more big elk than I will likely see on a dozen more hunts. The Albuquerque Airport was full of hunters when I arrived there and many came to admire my bull.

"Where’d you get him?"

"Did you see lots?"

"Who were you hunting with?"

"United States Outfitters," I said, "and I’m already planning on coming back."

Author’s Notes:

If you are the least bit interested in hunting elk and you are not applying for the limited entry tags in New Mexico and Arizona, you are out of your mind. By hooking up with a quality outfitter like George Taulman, you can be assured of applying in the best areas and getting a fair hunt at a fair price. These hunts really are the working man’s best opportunity at a record-class bull.

I shared my camp with five other hunters. Three of them took bulls, one missed an opportunity and Lady Luck just did not smile on the last. These are pretty impressive statistics anywhere, but when you look at the quality of bulls we took, it is all the more impressive.

For more information on hunting with United States Outfitters, contact:

United States Outfitters, George Taulman, P.O. Box 4204, Taos, NM, 87571, 505-758-1744, 800-845-9929.