Hunt for Old Fighter

   He was a bit long in the tooth in the Fall of 2006, in fact you could say that tooth had worn down to a stub. Just three months shy of 83 years, he hunted in a time when licenses were five dollars for a deer, bear and turkey combined. He worked hard all his life, raised two sons and two daughters who in turn blessed him with many grandchildren.

   Old Fighter is no stranger to the years, in fact he is much like the old man who pursues him. He has seen eight winters come and go and doesn’t quite have the spring in his step he once had. He does have countless offspring to carry on his genes though I doubt this ever crosses his mind. His crowning glory is the rack he carries on his head, a magnificent conglomeration of points, spread and mass exceeding 450- inches. Even though he is up in years he has yet to lose a fight, he is a force to be reckoned with.

   The old man has many kills to his credit, in fact if he had put a notch on his trusty 30-06 for every buck and bull he has outsmarted, there wouldn’t be any stock left. His gun was as much a part of him as his right arm, together they were a deadly pair, a force to be reckoned with. But over the last few years the gun has been in the safe and the old man has tried to adjust to a life where hunting is only a pleasant memory. His best friend Tony passed on a few years ago and after their last hunt together the old man decided to call it quits. His sons’ now roam the hills searching for the elk he only sees in his dreams. Season after season he anxiously waits for their truck to return; a dark brown rack with ivory tips strapped to the top. He relives every hunt……he has been away from the mountains much too long.

   Life is getting harder for the old bull, it seems the stamina he once had for fighting is starting to slip away. The younger bulls now challenge him, where before they wouldn’t dare get near. The urge is strong and the fire still burns but his body doesn’t respond in kind. The constant running back and forth trying to keep his cows in check has taken its toll. One by one the younger bulls steal them away until only a fraction of his harem remains. He refuses to answer yet another challenge, he doesn’t have the energy for another fight. He’ll run away this time with what cows and dignity he has left. The satellite bulls follow sensing it is the end for the old warrior. They do not challenge him directly for he can still fight and they wisely choose not to tempt his wrath.

   A massive bull squares up and lunges, his eyes bulging with rage. A less experienced bull would have been caught off guard but the old veteran reacts instinctively. The impact reverberates off the surrounding cliffs as the two titans’ collide into a raging battle. The clash is brutal, youth and strength against age and wisdom. The warriors tear and gouge at each other, drool snapping like whips around their heads, muscles popping with the strain. They pull back covered with dust as they circle seeking an advantage. The cunning rival turns as if to leave but the old scrapper has seen this tactic before. He counters the attack and buries his sword point into a left hindquarter. That should be enough but this bull feels no pain, he thrives on it. Once again they separate, their sides heaving from the strain of battle. This fight must end soon the old warrior’s strength is about used up. He charges, ears flat and eyes rolled back. The sheer force of the attack shatters two of the rival bulls’ ribs on impact. The injured bull rears back, ripping a jagged gash into Old Fighters’ right shoulder; the wound is deep, this fight is over.

    Old Fighter is now alone, this fight is his last. The bull that beat him has earned the right to his remaining cows. The old warrior fought hard and inflicted much damage but he got more then he gave. He will lick his wounds and regain his strength through the winter…..This Fall will be different.

   The old mans legs are bothering him and his back is in constant pain. He cannot stand up straight anymore and his walk is more a shuffle then a stride.

It would be easy to stay home and save his strength but the fire still burns.

He will make the trip in the Fall.

   The end of August arrives and the old man sees the truck at his gate. There is no rack strapped on top, this time he must put it there himself.

   The old man and I drive west to Star Mountain Ranch near Nephi, Utah. A huge bull has been spotted and I am taking Dad there to see if he can “put him on the wall.” Ranch manager Shane Dykster will personally guide us on this adventure. Normally each hunt is three days long but due to Dad’s handicap Shane will try to get it done in one.

   We arrive on August 30th after a stunning drive across Colorful Colorado and the Red Rock Canyon Lands of Utah. We are met by Shane who is strung tighter then a fat lady’s panties at an all you can eat buffet. He has a monster bull on the property, (by his estimation over 450- inches) that he has been scouting for the past week. I have never seen a 450-inch bull, though I am no stranger to big bulls. Shane has guided me more then once to some very nice bulls, a 330-inch I shot last year and an incredible 372-inch I nailed five years ago.  He has guided hunters to many huge bulls with several in the 400-inch range but he has never seen one this big!

When Shane is excited…..I get REALLY EXCITED!

   Morning comes quick and Shane is waiting for us in his truck. He “put the bull to bed” yesterday evening and he has a good idea where we can find him this morning. The old man is amazingly calm, sipping his coffee as he listens to us plan our strategy for today’s hunt. Something about that grin on his face bothers me, does he know something we don’t?

   The rising sun battles to shake off the moonless night as we drive west toward the ranch. A soft neon glow basks everything in a surreal palette of pink and gold.

I wonder if Old Fighter senses we are coming, what is he thinking; will the old man have the stamina to finish the job if we do find him?

   We arrive at the ranch and I jump out to open the gate. It is still dark but I can see the outline of rolling pinon-covered hills and deep black canyons. The truck bounces across gnarly sagebrush flats before finally turning into a deep dark ravine. We begin the climb through a steep brushy canyon. Rock-strewn slopes shoot straight up on both sides strangling the narrow rutted trail.  Shane’s truck fights for traction as we twist and spin, climbing ever higher as we fling mud and rock in all directions. We finally crest the summit with the first light of dawn. The view up here is incredible; this ranch is an elk paradise! Rolling hills covered with pinon, mahogany and cedar trees. Deep cool canyons for shade, a huge grass covered mountain for feed, springs and ponds scattered through out the entire ranch. I hear a piercing bugle followed by a screaming challenge. More exchanges follow as other bulls respond. I see elk in the distance, all three are bulls. It is still not quite light enough to make out their size. I help Dad with his rifle and gear as we follow Shane toward the distant uproar.

   Daybreak finds us at the summit of “Boots’ Hill”. Across a steep canyon the bulls continue to bugle oblivious to our presence. We stay back 400 yards and glass the entire drainage watching elk, buffalo and Corsican Rams amble across the steep hillside. The bugling bulls range from a large spike up to a 380-inch brute. These guys have it all, length width and mass; “shooters” anywhere else but here. As we search we see no bulls under 350-inches, I’ve never seen anything so incredible in my life!

   The buffalo meander from slope to slope grazing on the abundant grass. I imagine myself a buffalo runner, sneaking up hoping for a stand. The distance is about 300 yards, a piece of cake for the fellows who knew their 50- caliber Sharps, no doubt they would have felt as I do now.

   The rams graze the steep edges, moving at a fast clip. A solid white male with a full curl and a half saunters toward us. The entire herd follows stopping at 120 yards. Six mature rams, several ewes and some younger males now move off toward the upper rim rock. Shane says they’re always together, he has never seen them apart.

   The old man takes it all in; a hunter once again, on a quest for his elusive phantom.

   Yesterday evening we scouted for Old Fighter until dark. Huge bulls filtered out of the pinon trees heading for grass and water in the meadows below. All were hard horned as they had rubbed on the scattered trees the week before. The cedars are shredded, their branches ripped off and strewn everywhere, a naked trunk is all that’s left. These bulls were busy, the meadows resemble a deserted battlefield.

   Bulls bugled all around as we glassed the edges hoping for a glimpse of Old Fighter. I never did count all the bulls we saw that evening, but I know it was well over thirty. Darkness finally overtook us and we had to leave, we would return in the morning with a rifle and an old man searching for his dream.

   We glass “Boots’ Hill” until sunrise before heading for another area. Shane’s truck makes the move much easier for Dad; he never could have negotiated the steep trail on foot. Trees smother both sides of the road but we do manage to see two bulls trotting through the endless cedars. This time we hardly pay attention, they are only 360-inches…..much too small.

We cross a lush meadow and spot a huge bull grazing among charred trees on the side of a rising slope. A fire ten years ago cleared some of the ranches thicker sections allowing the grass to flourish. The elk visit this area often, growing fat and sassy on the rich feed. More bulls filter out as we cross Margaret Meadow (named for the owners Mother.)  We briefly catch a glimpse of yet another massive bull disappearing into the thick canopy. Shane thinks he might be our boy but he is not sure. He does not want to push him any further into the timber so we back off and continue the search.

   When so many incredible bulls surround a person it tends to raise the bar. All the bulls I have seen and shot over the years are of little consequence. Compared to these they are all dinks; the biggest bull I ever shot doesn’t meet the standard here, these bulls are in a class of their own!

   There comes a time in every hunt when doubt begins to rear its ugly head. It is late morning and Dad considers taking the 420-inch bull that we are now looking at. He is less then 100 yards away standing broadside at tree line; Dad is worried he may not get another chance. Shane is unrelenting, he is after Old Fighter and will settle for nothing less.

   We continue checking meadow after meadow turning up many fine bulls but not the big boy. He seems content to stay hidden in the trees where we can’t get a shot. Dad is unable to walk very far so Shane brings in reinforcements. Two guides, Clint and Kirk are on horse back pushing the thick timber searching for the elusive phantom. Shane positions Dad in a meadow that we are hoping Old Fighter will use as an escape route. We wait on pins and needles making small talk to pass the time. Two bulls break out of the timber two meadows over heading away from us! We scramble for the trucks and race toward a distant opening, hoping to intercept the escaping giants. Shane brakes ahead and Dad leaps out of the truck like he was seventeen again, I have never seen him move so fast! His rifle is up as he follows the largest, a colossal bull with massive antlers and bulging muscles. My friend Steve and I stay back forty yards waiting for the shot. Steve hollers out “SHOOT….Why doesn’t he shoot? Normally calm and cool, Dad is shaking so badly he is unable to fire before the bulls fade into the timber. Back into the trucks, we race toward the last meadow, hoping for a shot before they disappear.

I see fleeting glimpses of hide and horn flashing through the trees. Shane slams on the brakes and we all bail out! Dad is ready this time and fires, hitting Old Fighter at forty yards. The bulls slow a bit but continue toward the trees at a fast trot. Three more shots and Old Fighter is down, the old 30-06 has done its job. Dad reloads and we cautiously walk toward the downed beast. No words are spoken, we stare slack jawed at the monster lying before us. I look at Dad, that grin is now permanent.……This Fall will be different.

John Romero…… USA