Three headlamps bobbed along the gated mountain road, boots treading lightly yet swiftly as my husband Christopher, our surrogate hunting father Mike, and I trekked toward our early morning waypoint.  

The spot on OnX Maps that we had marked the afternoon before was where we had turned up a gnarly sounding bugle, tempting us numerous times. Unable to navigate down a hellacious slope to the bull’s fortress of a ridge, the three of us agreed that coming back the next morning would give us ample time to make a less brutal approach. 

That was the plan, at least. But sometimes the best laid plans take sudden detours, and in any form of hunting, things hardly ever turn out the way you expect them to. 

In my eighth season of archery hunting, but only my second with a bow in hand and elk tag of my own, I was still getting acquainted with being the one up front as the bull comes in, and not the one calling for the shooter. My husband got his first archery bull last September, a beautiful 7x7. So, this fall, I am first shooter while he bugles for me; Christopher is on deck. 

At 2 miles in, we hadn’t done any cow calls or bugling. Rounding a deep dark drainage with exceptional elk sign the night before, Christopher finally let out one small location call. From high up on a ridge, he heard a faint high-pitched reply. We worked our way to the bottom slope of where the bugle came from, still shaded in cold morning dew, the wind was perfect for a stalk up a well-trodden game trail. 

We were nearly 50 yards up when Mike had to answer a different kind of call - nature’s call. He told us to go on ahead, and he would go find a tree. 

Christopher and I walked a bit farther, stopping in front of a large tree to allow some privacy, then gently cow called. Within seconds, a reedy squeal sounded off from the forest above us. 

I looked at my husband wide-eyed, “That was close!” We figured the bugle was only 150 yards away. From the high-pitched, uneven tone, we assumed it was a young bull, which I would be perfectly content with as long as it had legal brow tines.

To harvest my first archery elk, I would be elated to find a raghorn. 

But suddenly we were in a conundrum. Mike was still finishing up his business behind us, completely unaware, as above us, we heard sticks breaking from the bull making his way down to our location. Christopher directed me to move ahead on the trail, and he would try to get Mike’s attention. 

I nocked an arrow and moved uphill about 15 yards along a game trail. We could hear rustling up ahead of me, just as Mike from down below Christopher started to come and rejoin us. My husband, whispering as loudly as he could, tried to tell Mike to stop, and motioned with his hands…Mike had no clue, head down and stepping away. 

Thankfully, the bull didn’t witness our mixed signals and miscommunications. Christopher quickly informed Mike that there was a bull coming in and to get ready! 

Mike got his GoPro out of his backpack, and then a minute later, the bull appeared. A small raghorn, a four-point with a wide rack. 

Christopher from back behind reported, “He’s coming, Amy, he’s coming!” Yet up in front of me, all I could see were trees. The bull was hidden just out of my sight, but proceeded to have a five-minute stare-off with Christopher and Mike. 

While that happened, I ranged several different trees, a lodgepole at 25 yards, another ponderosa at 30. But as I was checking distances, waiting on the bull, then reattaching my release each time, I noticed that more and more something wasn’t working right with the claw mechanism. We had hiked through nasty brush and thick undergrowth the previous days, and it seemed that some dirt and gunk were in the roller of the metal jaws. 

What should normally happen as I pull back on my trigger to attach to my d-loop is that as soon as I let go, the auto-closing jaw should snap shut and stay closed. At the most crucial moment, I realized an overlooked part of my gear was not working properly. Having just a minute more before the bull walked out of his cover, I attached the release one last time, pushing forward on the trigger, trying to ensure it was closed right. 

The bull stopped broadside by a tree I ranged at 30. I drew back, and my release popped open prematurely. My arrow went - boink - and landed in a downed tree about 20 yards ahead of me. I was furious and confused but instantly knew the reason. 

Astonishingly, the bull looked around unconcerned and walked a few more yards to the left. As he went behind some small firs, I incredulously nocked my second arrow, regained a smidgen of composure, then ranged another tree at 30 yards he was heading toward. As he walked behind the trunk, with eyes out of sight, this time I drew without an issue. 

I anchored well, took a breath, and settled my 30-pin on him. Pulled the trigger, and my arrow went just beneath him. I later learned the bull was closer to 35 yards; if I had aimed about 6 inches higher, I would have gotten him.

This young bull was not the wary type or had much sense of self-preservation. After being shot at twice by me, he skirted uphill about 20 yards but stayed put. Just then, my husband decided he had an elk tag and wouldn’t have any shame in taking this young bull, so he unclipped his bow from his backpack and gave it his best try. 

The bull was slowly walking uphill at an angle from my husband, who drew back several times trying to find a clear shooting lane. On his final attempt, he ranged a tree directly behind the elk at 58 yards. His arrow flew right over the bull and hit a branch before deflecting into some brush. The bull was at 48 yards, and my husband had misjudged the distance between the tree and the bull. 

Unscathed but clearly sick of being shot at, this young four-point spent the next half hour within a 100 yards of us, uphill, barking at us repeatedly while we gathered all of our missed arrows. 

In archery hunting, I’ve heard it said that it’s a game of inches. I like to add that it’s a game of inches, and miles. Oh, the miles you’ll go to find these magnificent musky creatures. The inches it takes to miss one or take one down. 

There are hundreds of ways to mess up an archery encounter. Whether it’s the wind, a sound, calling too aggressively, or not aggressive enough. Poor shooting lanes. Setting up behind a tree. Taking a shot and hitting a branch. Miscalculating yardage. Or, in my case, having equipment failure. 

When you spend so much time preparing for the season, most of the focus is on the bow, the arrows, shooting hundreds of times and practicing. But if I had only used some cleaning oil on the metal caliper of my release, I believe my first shot would have been successful. My second shot, missing beneath the bull, I was definitely rattled and thrown off by my release fiasco. 

Since that hunt, my husband cleaned it out for me, and it hasn’t had an issue since, but knowing now that it can be a problem will hopefully help me avoid another heartbreak down the road.  

As an archery hunter, the pursuit of elk is so full of extreme highs and lows, a rollercoaster of emotions, ranging from boredom and frustration to exhilaration and anguish. You discover something new with every encounter, every night you return home without punching your tag. 

As a hunter, you learn to view failure as an opportunity for growth, not an end. Embrace setbacks as steppingstones to success through blowdown and wicked elevation gain, and allow your mistakes, your comical mishaps, and even your malfunctions to be an opportunity to help others along the way.