Hunter’s blood courses through all our veins. For some it’s dormant, for others it’s active. If you’re in the latter camp, the fall is the most special time of year — the time to head out in search of meat and wildness.

Last November I posted a story on our Instagram page about Aldo, our beloved bird dog in the stars, helping us get an elk.

Well, Aldo did it again – this time a bit more dramatically – and the result is a story I’ll be telling around campfires until it’s my time to head to the stars.

I’ve been hunting a long time now, but this is only my fourth year of archery hunting. I’ve seen elk and talked to elk, but I had yet to even draw my bow back.

That changed last week.

I was up in the mountains on my first morning out, heard some bugles, and then saw a bull on the other side of a small drainage. I hiked over there and cow-called to see where he was.

Turned out I was too far in front of him. I turned around and called again to see where he was, and that call was answered by a screaming bugle from a different bull standing about 40 yards above me, staring at me.

The wind was perfect, and he stared at me through the trees for a long, long time. My heart was coming out of my chest.

He eventually relaxed and started feeding. He was within 30 - 50 yards of me for at least half an hour. I had numerous shot opportunities and even drew back once — but none of them felt solid.

I’d never released an arrow at anything other than a target, and I was so, so focused on making sure I made a perfect shot. I’d practiced a ton and felt 100% dialed, and I was fine waiting for an excellent shot opportunity to present itself. So I waited and waited and waited.

I moved forward to get into a better shooting position – and continued waiting. But eventually he started to leave and went out of sight, so I cow-called, and he came running to me.

Another stare-down through the trees, but this time from roughly 20 yards.

He then turned and took a few steps, stopped, and gave me a perfect broadside shot at about 25 yards.

With all of my practice and shooting this summer, this should have been a layup.

But — unknown to me at that moment — I was so amped with adrenaline and so deeply focused on that perfect shot — that I was holding my bow straight out in front of me — sort of stretching it out there to try to make sure everything was extra taught and secure – all in an effort to make everything extra perfect.

I released the arrow, and the bow string hit my forearm.

(You’re supposed to hold your bow with a slight bend in your elbow to prevent this from happening. It often happens to novice archers (it happened to me early on) – but it hurts like hell (and screws up the shot), and you learn quickly to adjust and never let it happen again.)

I was in shock. I could not believe what just happened. All of that work and practice for the perfect shot, and I lost my form without realizing it and screwed it up.

I assumed my arrow missed the elk, and I went up to take a look. At first nothing, then I saw a drop of blood, and my heart sank — I feared the worst, that I’d wounded him and wouldn’t be able to find him.

Then I looked around and saw more blood – lots of blood – and wondered if somehow the arrow had connected in a good spot on the elk.

I followed the blood trail for a bit and then decided to be smart and slow down and give the elk some time. The worst thing at this point would be to bump the elk and have him really take off away from you.

Eventually I started following the blood trail again. I tracked it and tracked it – moving slowly and quietly – until I looked up at one point and saw a patch of blonde through the trees.

I pulled up my binoculars – and, sure enough, there was an elk.

I still approached slowly, but he was dead – about 400 yards from where I released the arrow.

I felt a range of emotions. First and foremost, I was elated and relieved to find the elk dead – and to know he wasn’t somewhere out there wounded. But I was also still so pissed at myself for screwing up the shot. And I was also just awestruck at his beauty and everything about him.

I snapped some photos and then got to work skinning and field-dressing him.

I was very curious to see where my arrow had hit him. And after working through most of the elk, I still saw no sign of trauma from the arrow.

But then I rolled him over to work on the other side of him, and as I skinned out his neck I found a small hole in his hide and some blood damage.

And then it hit me – when the bow string hit my forearm, the arrow must have flown to the left towards the elk’s head, which was behind a small conifer tree, and then the arrow must have hit a branch and deflected up through the bottom of the right side of his neck – hitting a major artery of some kind and he must have bled out and died fairly quickly. (Or he turned his head super quickly toward me and the arrow hit his neck that way, but in light of everything I saw the branch deflection seems the most likely.)

I could not believe it.

And then I smiled and thought of Aldo. The old bird dog in the stars redirected my arrow. The luck involved here is just too crazy.

I eventually went back to where I shot him and found my arrow (with elk hair and blood on it) in a spot that further corroborated the most plausible scenario for what happened.

I still can’t believe it, but that’s what happened.

And, of course, I still wish I’d released the perfect arrow I’d spent so much time practicing for and dreaming of – but excitement, adrenaline, and human error got the best of me.

At the end of the day, I’m relieved the arrow killed the elk quickly, I know I’ll never make that mistake again, I have a crazy story of crazy luck that I attribute to a bird dog in the stars, and we’ll soon have a freezer full of delicious elk meat.

I eventually finished quartering and breaking down the elk to pack out, and I got him into five game bags.

I packed the game bags and the skull and antlers away from the carcass. (When scavengers come looking for a meal, they go to the gut pile first.) I hung three game bags in some trees and stashed the head in a stump.

I packed out two loads that night, finishing in the dark. And then I came back the next day for three roundtrips, the last with the final game bag and the skull.

I packed it all out solo. It was exhausting and exhilarating.

We cooked up the heart and the tenderloins Saturday night – a delicious and memorable meal.

I’ll butcher the rest of the elk for the freezer this week. (It’s currently hanging in the cooler of our mobile processing truck.)

And, well, that’s the story of my first archery elk.

It’s certainly not how I dreamed it up all summer, but it is what it is at this point, and we’re ultimately just beyond grateful for that elk – and we’re going to celebrate the hell of it, its life, and its meat.

And for all of that – we have a bird dog to thank.

An Elk from Aldo