Luck Favors the Prepared
Prepare like you’ll never get lucky so you’re ready when its time to get lucky.
Pope & Young Roosevelt bull elk taken on the over-the-counter archery tag for western Oregon
Preparation will take you far. Trust the process and luck will find you.
I competed in two Olympic Trials (‘16 and ‘21), so I know what kind of dedication and sacrifice it takes to mix it up with the best of the best. Every year since 2009, I have spent my free time testing the patience and resolve of my wife and eventually our kids as I drag them to practices, leave them for extended weightlifting sessions, and embarrass them at the store with sudden hops and skips as I mentally drill for the big moment. The thousands of hours in the off-season is a burden on my family, my body and my mental resolve, and yet it is the only way to prepare for those few seconds of critical execution. The moments that I prepare for pass by so quickly that it is hard to believe - all those months and years of preparation for a single moment of success or failure. Most of the time, I failed. More often than not, that javelin did not go as far as I’d hoped, or as far as I’d needed. As painful as that was, I pulled from my many failures lessons that lead to success. One such lesson is that frustratingly, no matter how many thousands of hours of preparation you put in, there is no preparing for every possible hiccup in a competition. To win, you need both preparation and more than a little luck - a gust of wind or a last second tweak - to make it all come together.
Early in 2019, after years of the mildest deer hunting success in the golden oak scrub of California, and with a growing number of small mouths to feed, I was in a meat crisis. It was time to go elk hunting. An adult onset hunter with no first-hand experience hunting elk, let alone glassing one up or preparing for a trip, I did not even know what I did not know. To top it all off, for some reason the law does not allow me to use my hard-earned javelin skills to spear an elk. Despite this, I love new technical, physical and mental challenges, so I knew that I could put meat on the table eventually if I started preparing and making mistakes as quickly as possible. At some point the process I love and the luck I sometimes find would come together.
I bought bugles and screeched through the neighborhood towing my daughters in a red rider wagon as they put their heads back and howled along. I set up archery targets in the back yard and may or may not have definitely sent a few arrows through the plywood doors of my shed as I played with 70, 80 and even 100 pound bow limbs. On a small bench behind the patched doors of the shed I tinkered with arrow spines and point weights. On lunch breaks I watched all the YouTube how-to hunt videos and MeatEater shows, and I listened to the Sand County Almanac on long drives.
I was an over-prepping nuisance as I dove into the transformative process. From my home to the wilds, I took my bow out to the wind washed grassy nolls of central California chasing pigs and coyotes. I camped under the redwoods in Northern California stalking black tailed deer in the dense thickets. I made my way to southern Arizona’s red and tan sun drenched dryness to get after coues and mule deer. All unnsuccessful. I cut my thumbs and palms on broadheads, bruised my knees on rocks that made too much noise, and got busted by my own recklessness. I judged the wind wrong as it swirled around ridges and straight to black keen noses, I shot in desperation in fading light but nicked branches that sent my arrow gliding off target. I hunched over and moo’ed like a cow as black eyes stared in confusion. I cracked too many branches underfoot that broke like shotgun blasts in the still air. I saw a lot of tails fly up and patched rumps bound and scamper away.
By the time late August 2022 rolled around, my kids were riding scooters bugling throughout the neighborhood with me as we sounded like a very lost herd of elk, and I could make bow shots out to 80 yards consistently. I had made a lot of mistakes, but learned along the way, coming closer to success with every failure. To add wind to my sails, my wife had even started shooting a bow, gone on a hunt with me, and even greenlit future hunts together. The process was working, but the luck I needed to make an archery kill happen had not yet met me in the middle.
My home state of California has slim to no chance of drawing an elk tag, but in my deep dives, I had found a few states with over-the-counter archery tags. The neighboring state of Oregon has such a tag, letting you hunt Roosevelt Elk on the western half of the state with a bow for four weeks in late August through September. With this tag in my pocket, I told my buddy Mike that it would be a great idea if he also started shooting a bow and came with me. He grabbed a bow, shot it a for a month or so and then we hit the road, bugle-screeching the whole 10 hour drive. Through Redding and past Lake Shasta, we wound our way through ag land as far as the eye can see, until pines and hills began to dot the skyline. Climbing up to Lake Shasta the pines became dominant, but pocked by fire-stricken black and green patches full of matchstick caracatures of pines. Then as if a wand was waived, we popped over the Siskiyous Pass into Oregon and were drenched in an almost neon green sheen that thickened as we left I-5 and headed west towards the coast. Coming to within a stonesthrow of the mouth of the Coquille River on Opening-Day’s Eve, we spotted a small herd of twenty or so elk congregating nervously near the road getting ready to cross. “Hell yeah, they are in the area!” I rejoiced to Mike as I pulled out my binos and looked them over. “Just a few spikes and cows but shoot, I’m game.” The game unit we were hunting allows hunters to take any elk, not just branched bulls or spikes, any elk at all.
We spent the first two days of season scouting, with Mike’s military background forcing me on a few long blister-inducing marches around down and up some unstable, steep terrain that would have made our wives chastise us. Despite the lack of elk sightings, we saw plenty of elk bedding and droppings, bear scat, berries, and what looked like good fishing holes. On the second morning we saw no less than seven mature blacktail bucks in one grassy valley, three of which we were within 50 yards of. The abundance of the smaller cervids had me seriously contemplating a trip into town to pick up a deer tag.
Despite good sign and knowing elk were near, we got a little mentally lazy as lack of sightings dragged on us. Just after first light we checked two spots where timber companies had logged away the thick forest a few years prior. With trees gone, grass and small shrubs, elk food, grew up in these clear cuts.
Seeing nothing in these cuts, with the sun breaking through the fog, we drove to a third canyon where the loggers had done their job five or seven years prior. Here, new pines five to seven feet tall grew up among the grasses as timber again began to claim the landscape.
In our mental laziness we drove up to the point where we wanted to look for elk instead of stopping out of sight of the point and hoofing it up. Sure enough, as soon as we rounded the last corner, I squinted as I saw a strange stump where there wasn’t before, about 300 yards away. Through my binos, the spike elk glowered as he stood right at the edge of where the young trees met the towering dark green, mossy old-growth forest. I slipped out of the truck and whispered for Mike to hustle down over the next ridge, “Then stalk back over and see if you can get in on him. I will call and keep their attention.”
I started cow calling and stumbled, hunched over, for a few yards down into the canyon in what I hoped was a non-threatening manner. Mike joggingly tip-toed away. Somehow the spike kept looking at me and then a herd of thirty or so elk popped up and started looking my way, ignoring Mike as he approached. I kept up my calling and stumbling, somehow capturing their gaze as I alternated between cow calls, checking my binos and crawling awkwardly over downed trees through the canyon. After fifteen minutes or so, Mike popped out of view and then back in to view just 20 yards from the spike. Through no fault of Mike’s, at that moment, the herd decided it didn’t like the sounds I was making and started to filter out of sight and into the old thick forest. I saw Mike come to full draw through my binos and my heart skipped a beat.
No shot - pine shrubs were just too thick. Once the herd was gone, we both ran back to the truck and drove down the fire road to near where they had gone to see if we could pick them up again. We parked far away, not wanting to make the same mistake twice, but as we walked into the forest, the herd was no-where in sight. We decided to split up for 10 minutes to see if they went down into one of the four or five valleys that snaked down away from where we had last seen the heard.
At least, I thought we agreed on 10 minutes or so because Mike disappeared for more than forty minutes. I started planning what I’d have say to his wife about how he went missing. Waiting for him back at the truck, two hunters we’d met the day before bumped into us, Brian and Scott. I felt torn about it, but I decided that it would be better to pass on the knowledge of elk in the area so we were all on the same page and didn’t step on each other’s toes. I spilled the beans on where the elk had gone and where Mike was. They were appreciative of the intel and said they’d go further down from where Mike was to see if the elk had been bumped further away.
Mike made it back eventually and we got a text from Brian that they saw some cows and spikes but Scott wasn’t going after them. Brian invited us to come and get them - they were ours if we wanted to chase them while he went after another herd he had spotted. Since Mike and I had any-sex tags and had never killed anything with bows, we were more than eager to get after any and all elk. We slowly drove around the ranch a ways to find Scott. As soon as we made it to Scott, we received word that Brian’s cows had spooked, but that he had re-located the herd we were going after moving through a grassy valley. The herd had picked up a nice bull. Excited, we crept up a ridge to where we could see down into the valley. Staying quiet, we watched the beautiful 6x6 bull and his harem feed through the green and light tan valley floor as the mottled sun peaked through the clouds, watching with us. Eventually, the herd made their way from the valley floor up into the old growth trees where Brian was waiting. We didn’t see him shoot, but Brian nailed the lead cow as it walked to within 20 yards of him. Through the binos we watched it scamper back and lay down for the last time. With their comrade down, the remaining cows milled around the edge, lost, until bull rounded them up and pushed them into the forest. Scott and Brian exchanged excited texts, and we all agreed that Scott should get in there and get after that bull seeing as he and Brian had found it. We told Scott that we would back out around where he was heading and just get well out of their hair. We started slowly making our way out of the area as Scott trekked into the forest. Creeping over the gravel popping on our tires, we heard a few gentle mews that lost cows make, perhaps from Scott or the herd, and as we rolled further away, we heard a faint challenge bugles.
On their way up to Brian
While normally ignored, the sticks and rocks bouncing off tires with distinct pings were deafening as we wound through the forest and patches of clearcut. A half mile down the road, which mentally felt like a thousand miles because of the cringing noise, we rounded a corner through the green pines to find a cow calf combo standing in the middle of the road looking back over their shoulders at something hidden in the bushes. We piled out of the truck, leaving the doors open in our haste. I fumbled for my rangefinder with shaky hands - 40 yards - and again for good measure - 42 yards. Not quite spooked, but nowhere near at ease, the pair trotted off and into deep, thick timber wall to our left. The wood was thicker than a hedge, and nearly as spiny as a blackberry turtle, so I was surprised how easily they slipped through. As they disappeared, I heard branches breaking as something moved up from the equally thick vegetation covering the valley to our right. I gingerly slipped an arrow onto my bow, set my sight to 40 yards and drew back, praying that those noises were elk and not just Scott making his way up to us.
Directly, I saw a rack breach the green wall on our right as a scream broke the tension. The 6x6 herd bull pushed onto the road somewhat further than where the cow calf pair had been standing. He stopped broadside and turned his head full of wild eyes to glare through us.
I knew that this was the moment for which I had been preparing months for. The reps in the back yard, the hours of breath work, the study. And unlike those immense inputs of time and energy, it all came down to the moment that required only a small movement of my finger. And some luck.
I inhaled - 4 seconds. I set the pin just behind his front shoulder. Started letting out my breath. I checked my bubble to make sure I was level. Floating the pin for an eternity behind that shoulder. All the air in my lungs gone, I pressed my release.
The lighted knock flew forward as the bull wheeled away. I swore I missed high because the bull never acted hit. Thoughts raced through my head “Did I check my bubble level? Did I check my peep alignment? Did he duck the arrow? Why am I running such a heavy arrow, expletive expletive, get ahold of yourself.”
He ran down the road before sharply turning out of sight about a hundred yards away around a bend in the road.
I could see my arrow glowing, stuck in a mound right behind where the bull had been when I shot.
Despite the commotion, other elk were still filtering up the valley towards us, making quite a racket as they came. “You’ve really messed this up Nick, better get Mike something, keep breathing.” 4 seconds inhale, 7 seconds hold, 8 seconds release breath.
A raghorn spike stepped out and I ranged him, “He’s at 50 Mike - take him!” Long seconds went by. “He’s still at 50 you’ve got the shot!” I looked back and Mike was on one knee trying to get his sight set for my range “What are you doing, shoot him!”
Mike’s sight housing was stuck and he could not adjust it in his andrenaline-packed state. I looked back up and the spike sauntered away without a care as the rest of the herd bounded across the road.
At this point we were both jacked up and kind of upset, thinking I’d missed and he couldn’t even get a shot off. “I think you missed man” Mike said as we walked up to my arrow.
It was covered in blood. No miss.
We tracked blood down the road but it didn’t look like enough. The sun was bright in the sky now making us sweat more than the elk had bled. A palm-sized initial spattering of crimson had hit the rocks, then sporadic dime or nickel sized drops until vanishing after a hundred yards or so. His tracks carried on down the road away from his blood, carrying away with him most of the hope I had for a good hit.
More than a little nervous, I texted Scott and went to meet him with Mike down by Brian’s cow that they were processing. I told them about the shot and started to calm down. Luckily Scott was a rock of emotional support, telling us he always waits three hours or more before going to track an elk after a less-than-stellar hit.
Since Brian and Scott had been so gracious with us, and since Scott had bumped those elk up to me, I felt like I had to help pack that cow out, plus working out is the best way I know to calm down. So Mike and I took a few short steep trips from the cow up to Brian’s truck packing some quarters.
After three or so hours of packing out meat and waiting, Mike and I set off to track down the bull. An hour of searching led to not much. Mike kept following the road to the next clear cut to check there. Scott joined me in the search and we followed the herd’s tracks off the road and a mile or so down into the thick rainforest of another valley and back up and around to where we started. Scott is a big guy, a complete stranger at the time, and clearly much more experienced than I was in those dark woods. I’d be lying if I said the thought of Scott knocking me out in the woods never crossed my mind. But I was too worried about my poor hit to give the thought much attention. Time and distance crept by and I was nearly certain that we would never find that bull. Two hours later and we had not turned up more blood or any definitive clues. Trekking back to the road, Scott saw the flash of bird wings and walked a few paces out of our way to see what kind of bird it was. Suddenly, he looked back at me and cracked a huge smile “I’m afraid that six by six is actually a six by seven.”
Hollering and pumping my fist, I hugged Scott a little aggressively and rushed over to the bull, which we had missed by 15 yards on our way into the woods. He lay only 20 yards from the road and about 200 yards from where I shot him.
Scott and Nick
After the months of preparation, I needed a lot of luck for this to come together. I got lucky to find elk and not spook them off the property entirely. I was lucky to run into Scott and Brian who were ready to let us go after elk they were already on and even helped track and break down the elk. Although I would like to say we strategically went up the hill to intercept any elk that Scott bumped, the truth is that I was just lucky that trying to stay out of the way turned into a shot opportunity. When the bull wheeled to run away, he changed from pure broadside to quartering away, and I was lucky that my arrow still struck just right to get both lungs and pass through to leave me evidence that the elk was hit. And finally, I was lucky that bird flashed and caught Scott’s attention, putting a wild hair up in him to check it out, or else I would not have found that bull, or at least not before the buzzards got to him.
While I had a lot of luck, my preparation allowed the luck to happen. I had practiced with my bow in the yard and in the field for over a year, tinkering with my setup poundage and arrow spine until I had a heavy hammer of an arrow with an excellent broad head that flew true every time and had the sharpness and strength to make it all the way through that bull from his hip, breaking a rib as it exited the lungs. I was in peak physical condition ready to chase Mike and those elk all across the property and still be ready for a shot. I had practiced box breathing - 4/7/8 - to keep calm so that even when the bull stepped out, instead of a cow or spike, I was able to keep my calm.
Looking back on the hunt, it mimics my athletic career so well. I put in immense mental and physical effort in preparation for a moment of execution that always requires a bit of luck. And damn do I love it.
If you love it too, start preparing and learn to love the process. Earn it every day and don’t get frustrated when the luck doesn’t fall your way. If you keep on keeping on, it’ll start falling your way.
