Legendary Hunts

by Boone

  I had spent many hours practicing with my Golden Eagle Hunter on a bale of cardboard in the barn, and I felt competent to put the 2219 Gamegetter arrows where they would do the most good. The day before this hunt, I had set my Hunter up from the 75 pound pull I had been shooting to 85 pounds, for a little extra “oomph.”

  Saturday morning, September 7, 1985, I left home before daylight and spent a couple of hours bowhunting with no success. I had promised my wife and her brother that I would attend the grand opening of the building where her brother works. That took up most of the midday, but if I hurried, I could still get in a couple of hours of late afternoon bowhunting. I wasn’t about to pass up that opportunity.

  I had seen several herds of elk on a 300-acre tract of land owned by our timber company earlier in the season, so I figured this would be a good place for the evening hunt. My wife, Theresa, and two kids, Jeramy and Leslie, hopped in our four-wheel drive pickup, and we all headed for the hunting area 50 miles west of Portland.

  We arrived at 5:00 p.m., which would still give me three hours of good bowhunting daylight during the best part of the day. The sky was cloudy and completely overcast, with the feeling of rain in the air. For this country, rain is a pretty common occurrence, and I knew my wool hunting clothes would keep me warm even in a downpour. Theresa agreed to pick me up along a logging road (about a mile away) in three hours, so I headed for the woods.

  My favorite method for hunting elk with a bow is still-hunting and stalking, as the cover is too dense for good glassing. There is plenty of feed for the elk in the logged-over areas, so they seldom venture into the more open meadows and parks. I spent lots of time practicing my bugling, using a Jones diaphragm call and grunt tube. But with all the bowhunting competition in the area, the bulls are cagey and seldom answered a bugle any more. Over the past couple of years, several bulls have responded silently to my calling, catching me completely by surprise. To date, I had not bugled-up a good bull to get a shot, but that didn’t stop me from being ready.

  I hadn’t gone far down an old skid trail, when I began to see lots of fresh elk tracks in the trail. It had rained the day before, so I knew the sign was fresh, and that elk were in the area. I try to stay on good trails when hunting, because it is much quieter and easier to move through dense vegetation. I had traveled about a half-mile during the first hour, and I was seeing more and more fresh sign, when I heard brush breaking in front of me. About the time I heard the racket in the brush, I spotted a huge track in the muddy trail that I was sure had been made by a large bull. The huge track and breaking brush combined to get my adrenaline pumping, and I had to force myself to slow down.

  I eased forward and could definitely hear what I took to be elk, moving through the heavy brush ahead of me. The wind had been in my face since I left the truck; but, as luck would have it, it was now swirling around in several directions. I tried to move off the trail and circle to see what was making the noise, but I couldn’t because the underbrush was just too thick to get through. The only route open was a direct approach, which I didn’t particularly care for. The decision was taken from me when a stray breeze blew down the back of my neck and I heard branches and limbs breaking, as whatever was ahead of me moved off.

  In my experience with Roosevelt’s elk, I have found that if they get a whiff of human scent, they will move off but usually not leave the area. They do stay on the alert, and movement or more scent will put them in high gear. However, if the hunter backs off and lets things calm down, the elk can usually be approached again, with caution. I moved back 100 yards up the trail, where I decided to build a blind to hide from what I was hoping was a bull elk. I draped bracken ferns from alder limbs until I had an almost solid blind facing the direction where I had heard the brush breaking.

  After half-an-hour of planning and checking equipment, the time had come to do something. I bugled and grunted to the best of my ability. Almost immediately a bull came running into the small clearing on the trail that I had just vacated. My blind was too good, as I couldn’t see much of his antlers through the hanging ferns. But, I could tell by his body size that he was not a small bull. He looked around for a minute, and then crossed the trail and went back into the heavy brush and timber, where he proceeded to tear up the brush with his antlers. I waited through another 10 to 15 agonizing minutes of silence, trying to figure what he was up to. I bugled again, and glimpsed the bull as he moved cautiously through the trees and up a small ridge, where he again started tearing up the brush.

  I was beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t just pack it up and go home. I didn’t seem to be gaining anything, and I was sure I had spooked the bull to the point where he would never come close enough for a shot. My blind was no longer in the right position, so I slowly moved up the trail until I could get around a small bend and out of sight. I bugled once more, and once more the bull started tearing up the brush quite a distance above where I crouched. A few minutes later, I heard a sound in the opposite direction and more brush breaking. The bull had circled around and seemed to be stalking me from the opposite direction.

  I figured I had only about 20 minutes of good shooting light left, and I knew I had to do something to get things off dead-center. I found a limb and started thrashing it through the brush, at the same time squealing for all I was worth with the diaphragm and tube. The bull went berserk as he headed my way, tearing and thrashing the brush and limbs. He was about 75 yards away and coming steadily, so I eased out onto the trail and came to full draw. He was moving through the brush, looking around, while I was concentrating on all the things a bow hunter should do at this point of the game. I argued with myself as to whether I would try a shot through the brush. I figured if I couldn’t get a good shot, then I wouldn’t take any.

  The bull took a couple more steps, stopped, and then moved into a small clearing at about 40 feet and stopped again. He turned his head slightly, and as he did, he took one more step forward with the front leg on my side, giving a perfect “behind the shoulder” angle. I put the 20-yard pin half-way up his chest, and about 10 inches behind the shoulder, then lowered it about four inches to allow for the short distance, and released. The bull jerked, and then trotted about 30 yards, where he stopped and stood looking at me. I remember wondering, as he stood there 40 yards away with the arrow embedded up to the orange vanes, why I hadn’t shot completely through him as I had supposed I would at that range.

  I don’t know how long we stared at one another before I thought to myself, “Man, get another arrow into him if he’s just going to stand there.” I got another arrow on the string just as he turned and started off. I let go with a bugle, hoping to stop him for the shot; but all that did was scare him into an all-out run for heavy timber. He disappeared in a second, leaving me standing there with a sinking feeling, wondering if I had really hit him as well as I thought, or if I would have to track him all night or maybe lose him in the rain that was just starting to come down.

  The light was fading fast when I got to the spot where I last saw him, but there was still enough light to see the quantities of blood that seemed to be everywhere. Another 20 yards and I could make out his huge form lying on the forest floor. What an elk! His body was so big that I really didn’t take a full look at the antlers before heading back to the truck to tell my wife and kids and to get all the help I could to get him home.

  We were able to get the truck to within 150 yards of the bull and take him out whole. He measured 12 feet and four inches from hind feet to nose and would have stood 5½ feet tall at the shoulders. The meat weighed 580 pounds, which would have put his live weight at somewhere in the neighborhood of 1,200 pounds. His massive rack was six by six, with a couple of little extra points, and a score of 353-4/8 points.

  Image from B&C Archives

  Original score chart for Ken Adamson’s Roosevelt’s elk, which scores 353-4/8 points.

  Photo from B&C Archives

  Non-typical Mule Deer, Scoring 265-1/8 Points, Taken by Charles
J. Hogeland in Hayes County, Nebraska, in 1994.

  A Hunting Tradition

  By Charles J. Hogeland

  23rd Big Game Awards Program

  I AM ONLY A YOUNG MAN, BUT HUNTING IS A FAMILY TRADITION THAT IS ALREADY DEAR TO MY HEART. I WENT ON MY FIRST HUNTING TRIP WITH MY FATHER, MOTHER, AND SIX-YEAR-OLD BROTHER WHEN I WAS THREE MONTHS OLD. HUNTING IS BRED INTO ME, AS I COME FROM AT LEAST FIVE GENERATIONS OF HUNTERS.

  In 1994, I turned 16, which had its advantages. I now had my driver’s license and could go out driving to scout for deer on my own. As a sophomore in high school, I participated in sports. As soon as practice was over, I would head out into the surrounding country to scout for deer. I had received my hunting permit for the Frenchman Unit of southwest Nebraska, so I knew that I would be hunting deer that November. Many hours were spent in the months preceding deer season looking through binoculars and a spotting scope, glassing the countryside.

  One particular evening will stay in my mind forever. It was just prior to a huge red sunset. It had been very hot that day, and as the sun dropped in the sky I caught a glimpse of a very large buck and several does heading for a water hole. Through my spotting scope, I realized that this deer was something special. I had never before seen such a spectacular rack. I counted at least eight points on each side, and several smaller projections when the buck turned his head just right. I watched the deer until they walked down a draw and disappeared.

  I was very excited and raced home to tell my parents. For awhile only Mom would believe that such a trophy could actually exist. Dad and grandpa had seen a large buck at the close of muzzleloader season the previous year, but I don’t think Dad believed me about the size and the mass of this deer. Then one evening, a week or so later, my dad ran into the house with a big grin and exclaimed, “I saw him!” That meant he was real. However, my brother was still a nonbeliever.

  Opening day was fast approaching, so we made our annual stops and phone calls to local landowners to get permission to hunt. Three days before the season, I had to attend the National FFA Convention in Kansas City. Several of us at the convention had licenses for deer, so it was my job to get the advisor to leave on Friday, early enough for us to get home. Our advisor was my dad, so I didn’t have to work too hard to leave a few hours early.

  Saturday, November 12, started out like a typical morning. We woke up early, got dressed, and had breakfast. The only thing different was that we were all more excited than usual, since we were loading the vehicles to go hunting. On this hunt, I was joined by my dad, who was our guide, my 62-year-old grandma, who was looking for any buck, and my brother, who was just going along, not really believing my story. As for me, I was only looking for “The Buck.”

  Finally, the time had come, and we were now off to find the monster buck. The weather that morning was overcast and chilly, with only a slight breeze blowing out of the south. We carefully checked each pocket in every draw we came to. As we approached each draw, tension mounted until the draw would prove empty. Occasionally, we would flush a few pheasants or have a covey of quail explode at our feet, momentarily stopping our hearts. At about 9 a.m., we saw a few does as we continued to check draws, but no bucks.

  Dad was the first to spot a nice buck, but he was a long way out at 500 yards. Looking through the spotting scope we could see that he was at least a 6x7, with good width and some mass, but it wasn’t my buck. Dad tried rattling the buck closer for grandma to shoot and got him to come within 150 yards, but it was still too far out for Gram. The buck did stop for a short time, looked toward the sound of the clanging antlers, then towards the two does he was leaving behind. This time the does won out, as the rut was in full swing. After the deer disappeared, my dad asked me if I would have shot that nice buck. I replied, “No, it is only the first day, and I am in no hurry. Besides, Grandma was in the best position for a good shot.”

  We moved to another set of draws and immediately started seeing more does. I also noticed that these deer appeared to be nervous. The next pocket produced the reason for the watchful deer. As we approached and were able to see more of the draw, I saw movement. My heart started pounding, only to see a woolly white coyote run over the hill. The time was now 11:30 a.m. and another two pockets were ruled out.

  The next pocket started out the same. I didn’t see anything at first. Then all of a sudden, I saw three deer. I quickly realized that one looked awfully big and awfully familiar. What probably took seconds seemed to take hours — like super slow-motion. I looked at the antlers and my mind went on autopilot. “Damn, it’s him!” I said to myself. Range? 150 yards. I knew that my .270 was sighted in for 200 yards, so it was a dead-on hold. I felt this shot was a piece of cake, since I had taken hunter safety and practiced many hours for this shot. I flicked the safety off, took a deep breath, settled the crosshairs behind his front shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. I prayed that my shot would be accurate and the deer would not suffer. The majestic buck reared up on his back legs like a horse. I chambered another round as the deer came to the ground on all fours. He started to move, so I took aim and squeezed the trigger one final time. The big buck was down for good.

  A new excitement now started as I approached the deer cautiously. My dad, brother, and grandma came up to me and my trophy; Dad let out a loud yell, and my brother shook his head and my hand at the same time. Grandma later said that by the time she reached the three of us, I was just sitting beside my buck stroking his soft coat and admiring his antlers. I guess I was in a state of shock, both happy and sad at the same time. I had great respect for that splendid animal.

  Grandma had come prepared, pulling out her camera for some quick picture taking. By then, my smiles told it all. Dad asked if he could have the honor of field dressing my deer, and asked jokingly if I wanted this small thing mounted. Little did he know that I was shaking too much to handle the job myself.

  We finally got the deer loaded, and headed first to the landowner’s house to thank him and show him the buck that his land produced. He could not believe that a deer that size was taken a half mile from his house, and he had never seen it before.

  We headed for home where mom and grandpa shared in the excitement as we relived the story. We then took the deer to the check-in station, where a few successful hunters congratulated me and admired the massive buck. On the way back home we had the buck weighed. My buck tipped the scales at 290 pounds, field dressed.

  The following days were filled with many well wishes and handshakes. We estimated that close to 500 people stopped to see the buck the first week. Many people suggested we make sure to have the deer scored. I knew that the buck was an exceptional trophy, but little did I know how exceptional. A few days after the big hunt, Dad, Mom and I took my trophy to North Platte. Arrangements were made with Barry Johnson of Johnson’s Taxidermy to do the mounting. He was impressed with the mass of the buck and suggested that we should make an appointment with George Nason. Mr. Nason is the District Manager of Programs Section with the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission and is an Official Measurer for Boone and Crockett Club.

  On January 13, 1995, we watched patiently as Mr. Nason measured and re-measured the antlers. After what seemed like several hours, the totals were added. “It’s official,” Mr. Nason proclaimed. “Congratulations, Charlie, you are now the proud owner of the new Nebraska state record non-typical rifle mule deer. This head is the most perfect non-typical specimen I have ever seen,” he continued.

  From that moment on, the chain of events continued. My hunting idol, Ted Nugent, called and later mailed a letter to congratulate me on my deer. In August 1996, I had the pleasure of meeting him in person. Ted is a musician, an avid bowhunter, a strong supporter of family hunting, and an active member of numerous hunting organizations.

  On April 30, 1995, my trophy was ready to be picked up from the taxidermist. Barry Johnson had a big surprise awaiting me. Art Thomsen, the previous record holder came to North Platte to meet me and see my deer. His state record
had stood since 1960. We spent part of the day swapping hunting stories and getting to know each other. Before departing, Mr. Thomsen left me with these words, “Don’t worry that your deer broke my record, records were made to be broken.”

  Photo from B&C Archives

  Non-typical Mule Deer, Scoring 294-4/8 Points, Taken by Robert H. Arledge in Elmore County, Idaho, in 1997.

  Ivory Tooth Buck

  Written By Jerome E. Arledge

  23rd Big Game Awards Program

  MY SON, ROBERT ARLEDGE, HAS BEEN SERIOUSLY HUNTING BIG BUCKS FOR FOUR YEARS. HE ROUTINELY PASSES UP SEVERAL BUCKS PER YEAR, LOOKING FOR A “BIG ONE.” FOR ONE REASON OR ANOTHER, THREE BOONE AND CROCKETT CLASS BUCKS AND ONE 37” FOUR POINT HAD ESCAPED ALL OF OUR PREVIOUS HUNTING EFFORTS. ROBERT SET A PERSONAL GOAL OF HARVESTING A REALLY BIG BUCK WITHIN FOUR YEARS, AND 1997 WAS HIS FOURTH YEAR. ANOTHER OF HIS GOALS WAS TO SCOUT AT LEAST 30 DAYS BEFORE THIS YEAR’S HUNT. IN 30 DAYS OF SCOUTING, ROBERT HAD ONLY LOCATED ONE GOOD BUCK... BUT WHAT A BUCK!

  On the 29th day of scouting, we found a non-typical buck, which we were able to glass for an incredible seven hours. It was feeding with 12 smaller bucks and was twice the body size of his running mates. During these seven hours, he showed us something very interesting. The big boy changed beds four times and didn’t move more than 75 yards all day. When any of the other bucks were changing beds or feeding, he would only feed or change positions when all of the other bucks were bedded... making sure that the other boys were maintaining a watchful eye. On the last day of scouting, we didn’t spot the non-typical, but felt confident he was still there, because we did see four of the other bucks that were with him.

  After the opening day alarm and a quick breakfast, the decision was made to drive nine miles around to the top of the hunting area, in order to hunt down on the buck. We arrived on top an hour early, and to a strong, cold wind. As we began to see the brush and rocks in the dawning light, Robert led the trek downhill to find the exact draw where we had spotted the buck. As he cautiously peeked over the ridge, he saw three deer sneaking away from another hunter, down the mountain, right where the big buck should have been.