Oregon Elk Hunting: Eighty-Eight

My brother and I started building points early in our hunting career in hopes to draw a coveted elk tag in one of Oregon’s big three units, a tag that takes most 20+ years to draw. In the meantime, we loaded up and headed east with our bows in what started the Rocky Mountain bull addiction. Fast forward to having 11 archery bulls under my belt and an itch that still hadn’t been scratched yet – hunting bulls with a rifle.
 
I now live inside the Mt. Emily unit, and I spend arguably more time in these hills than anyone I know. My chance to have my name on the tag was looking me in the eye. I spent weeks leading up to the application deadline thinking about and scouting what bulls were alive and had the potential to reach my dream goal. In the end, I put my points on the table and took the leap.


 
On October 7th, I received a text and a very shaky video from a good friend that said, “You need to run up here and look at this bull.” In the video, I could tell the bull had a good frame and what looked like eight points on each antler. By the time I reached his location, the bull was gone. From that moment forward I spent endless hours, days, and eventually weeks looking for this bull to never lay eyes on him before the season started.
 
Opening day, I was accompanied by my dad, my brother, my girlfriend, and some great friends. We surrounded and searched for “Eighty-Eight” in the country where he was last seen, but he wasn’t to be found. The days were clicking off, and I felt numb to the situation.
 
After a couple days, I decided to change my scenery and try a new angle. Just as I got settled into a new glassing vantage point, I got a call from a friend that Eighty-Eight was right where he was last seen and right where I had spent the last few days.
 
An insane amount of relief came upon me, but as luck would have it, I couldn’t have been further away in the unit from where he was. I made the drive over and the couple hour hike in to position ourselves within gun rage across from where he was last seen. In anticipation of him coming out that evening, we sat for hours in pouring rain, snow, hail, and intense wind only to have the ultimate heartbreak as the bull showed himself. It wasn’t him.
 
Two more days clicked off, and nothing was looking any more promising. To add to the stress, all the help I had was headed home. Monday came, and I was going to go back to where I had glassed countless days for Eighty-Eight. My dad had been working in the area, so he stayed to help me get moving and then he would head to work as I headed for the mountain. We both left the driveway, only for me to get a huge wakeup call just a few miles down the road. My trailer with my four-wheeler popped off my hitch and crashed into the ditch. With everything stacking up, I felt depleted. After my dad helped get the trailer and four-wheeler reloaded, he told me to just go do what I do best. I spend so much time on this mountain between springtime, summer cameras, and guiding that being by myself is the usual. With my dad’s words spurring me in the ass, I got going.
 
After an hour ride in the cold on my quad, I got to my glassing point. I spotted a couple bulls a long ways off on a ridge spine. Quickly doing an observation on the first bull, I said, “Rag,” in my mind, but as I was watching it, I could see a second elk cresting the ridgetop. After 28 days, countless trips to the mountain, and on the sixth day of the season, Eighty-Eight came walking into my spotter. I absolutely could not believe it. My first reaction was that he was no doubt the shooter bull I was hoping he was, but here I was trying to judge him on a less-than-ideal distance. I checked onXmaps, and he was just shy from two miles as a crow flies, so all I could do was make a game plan on my next move. As I watched him feed into the timber, I decided to move and get straight across from him, hoping he would just feed right back out where he went in.


 
That evening, I sat looking, but he didn’t show. I went to bed feeling rewarded but stressed, knowing that if he continued in the direction he was headed, he would get into a heavily timbered canyon that would make the search that much harder. On Tuesday, a good friend joined me and we went back to where I was Monday evening, hoping I had his pattern and he would be out feeding. Unfortunately, I was reminded once again why big bulls get big. The weather was harsh that afternoon and we didn’t see much, but I saw enough to make my next decision and my best one.
 
I laid in bed discussing the past two days with my girlfriend, and her words of advice were the complete opposite of my brother’s. She suggested I dive in and get close, knowing he was somewhere there, while my brother’s thoughts were to save my legs until he showed again. The plunge into the canyon I thought he was headed into was going to be brutal, and I likely would only have a short window in the morning and evening that the elk would be on their feet. Wednesday came, and the decision was made. I would dive in in hopes to anticipate the direction the bull was going while my friend hung back to glass from afar.
 
I left my rig at 3:30 a.m., and at daylight, I crested into my target basin. Before I even sat down, I could hear bulls bugling in every direction. I worked fast and tried to glass everything. He wasn’t in sight. Anticipating he would stay on the brush side, I worked my way across the adjacent slope. From ridge to ridge, it was maybe 800 yards, so I knew if he was in there, he was in trouble.
 
Mid-morning came, and I was working my way slowly up the canyon. I sat down, and amongst getting comfortable, I heard a couple bulls fighting in the draw below me. I packed my stuff and slowly slipped up canyon. As I stopped for a breath, a couple bulls caught my eye higher on the ridge. As I watched the bulls through the spotter, I went back to a previous video I had saved and quickly learned they were the bulls Eighty-Eight had been with. He was here somewhere. As those bulls bedded, I slowly continued up canyon in hopes of placing myself just above the fighting bulls from earlier. I got to a point that I felt was the best visibility, so I laid up against a rock, had a snack, and eventually dozed off.
 
At 11:30 a.m., my girlfriend called, asking for an update. After a few minutes of encouragement, it was back to just me and my thoughts. Just as I was about to doze off again, I heard the smack of the bulls’ horns fighting below me. I started straight towards them, ending about 200 yards from the creek bottom. Staring straight across at the opposing hillside, I caught movement coming out of the bottom. I quickly got my spotter on the elk and instantly knew it was Eighty-Eight. There was no mistaking his inline frame. From that moment, it all slowed down. I ranged him at 298 yards and watched him feed. I watched him for about 30 minutes and got myself into a better position to make the shot. He was slowly feeding into a small opening in the timber, and I felt like it was time. With one perfect 348-yard shot, he dropped out of the scope. Chapter closed; he was dead. Upon reaching him, my emotions came out. What a bull, a true Oregon giant. I had kept my personal expectations pretty quiet throughout this journey, but I knew without a doubt he was going to break my 380" goal.
 
As I sat there, I couldn’t be more thankful having to work for this bull. I don’t know if I will ever have the opportunity to personally hunt this unit again, but I know if this was it, I came out of it with everything I could have asked for and more.