He grew up in the Sacramento Range on the Mescalero Apache Reservation in southern New Mexico. Daily, he had a view of the Sierra Blanca, the signature 12,000 foot peak of these un-farmed, un-fenced, and un-tamed mountains. He had 500,000 acres to roam, and eventually to rule. When he died on Thursday, September 21 2006, he was protecting a harem of eight. I feel confident that his genetic imprint will have a positive and lasting effect on the Mescalero herd.
The reason that I was hunting the Mescalero was simple—it was the best place that I knew of to take a big, mature bull elk. I had hunted elk successfully several times before the fall of 2005, but had never killed a really large bull. Hunting in Wyoming on a draw permit in 2005, I had seen a monster. He eluded me, but I caught a bad case of big elk fever during that hunt. Consequently, when I got home from Wyoming, I did some research and ended up booking at the Mescalero, knowing that it would be the best medicine for that fever. I was right.
Wednesday was incredible. We were into elk from the first moment of the hunt. We hit the rut just perfectly. No moon also helped. The bulls were active in the morning and in the evening, as well. I passed two very good 6x6, 300 + class bulls in the first hour of the hunt. One was stepping out of a small pond at 40 yards, bugling and grunting at another bull that was coming to challenge him. Unbelievable action. The afternoon saw another, bigger bull come to Christie Lopaz’s cow calls to within 25 yards. (Christie was my Apache guide.) As he bugled in our face, I practically begged Christie to let me shoot him. He insisted that I hold off, it was early and there were even bigger bulls known to live on the Mescalero. As a side note, when I met Christie on Tuesday night at the Mescalero orientation, he told me that he had one very important rule for his hunters: Don’t shoot until he gives the OK. As it turned out, I was glad that he stopped me. When the day ended, I knew how blessed I was to have this opportunity. Looking forward to the next morning, I also knew that my arthritic hip was holding up well, and that gave me great confidence. The hunting was all up and down, in steep and rugged country. However, the ground was firm and sure, nothing like the other-worldly crags of the Wrangell’s of Alaska, where every slope is made more dangerous by the wretched footing created by the numerous shale slides.
Thursday morning was not at all like Wednesday. The wind was blowing at about 30 mph and the bugling had dried up. Either that, or we just couldn’t hear any because of the wind. We had not heard the first bugle when Christie decided to go to a new area with some protection from the wind. When we arrived at 7:45 a.m., we both heard a bull up the canyon to our north. The wind was still blowing hard, but not the gale force that had greeted the dawn. We had to hoof it up a pretty steep ridge to get around the bulls (at least two) and be in a position to see into the canyon. Christie was in a hurry. Thirty minutes later, soaked in sweat, we saw the first bull at 200 yards and he was a beauty, standing broadside, back shining in the sun, bugling and grunting as fast as he could breathe. I really wanted to shoot him. He was a heavy 5x6 with good tines and main beams. Christie said no, let’s try to get a look at the other bull that was bugling lower in the canyon. His grunts and groans were as coarse as sandpaper. It didn’t take long, as it was pretty clear that the two warriors were fixing to fight over the eight cows that were with the still unseen bull below us. The second bull finally came into view 75 yards away, on our side of the canyon, looking dominant, angry and majestic. He actually took my breath away when he showed his right side. I instantly knew that he was the bull that drew me to the Mescalero. The tines were so long that he didn’t look natural.
There was no hesitation. Christie asked, “Do you want him?” I said “yes,” and he said “shoot him.” I already had the gun on Christie’s shoulder (we were both sitting, he slightly in front of me to my left). The only problem was that at that moment, his vitals were partially obscured by a small fir tree. In less time than it takes to write this, I decided that the tree was close enough to the bull so as not to alter the flight of the bullet. I pulled the trigger, holding behind the shoulder. He lunged forward, staggered for 17 yards, and tipped over. It was a sight that is burned in my memory, those antlers shining and flashing in the sun as he fell to the ground. He rolled just a bit, as it was a steep hill, and came to his final resting place behind a small pine. I had the Jarrett on him, but he was done. As we approached him, he kept looking better and better. He truly was an extraordinary bull. Big in the body, old, with points that were so long my immediate reaction was to trace my fingers along the length of each tine, astonished at their length. To provide some idea, his first four points, starting with the brows, were 17, 21, 23 and 17 inches. He was heavy, with a base circumference just under 10 inches. His main beams were also excellent. His fifth points were small, but who cares! Man, what a bull!
After we gutted him, we were able to slide him down almost to the bottom of the canyon. I stayed with Long Tines while Christie went to get some help to load the 800 pound dream bull. Sitting next to my lifetime trophy, I thanked the Lord for the gift of this bull and this hunt. I am truly blessed to live the Hunt Life and I know it.
