The bull was bought fair and square. The state got a lot of money for the bull, and the folks who helped with habitat did a good job. To win the lottery, to ride the bull at the rodeo, you first have to step up and pay your money. No tickee, no laundry. Pay to play. Harsh as all that sounds, c'est la vie.

And all might not be well for prospective Governor's tag purchasers, either. The noon news says a big Portland area Cadillac dealer is closing its doors in the morning. A lot of fortunes are missing in action. A trillion here and a trillion there, and the Governor's tag could get cheaper.

This amazing animal will cease to pass his special genes on to the next generation because some bubba was looking to put a trophy on his wall. These trophy hunters are the worst example for hunting, but "hey"..... they can show their homo-erotic fellow bubbas , you know the kind that keep Cabela's Catalogs in their bathrooms, how tough they are.
It's sad to see a magnificent animal, regardless of the species, sacrificed to stroke a man's ego.
What a waste.

I hope he got eaten. That is a pile of good meat. Maybe a little tough, those old blue bulls, but there are lots of ways to make them into good eating.

Somebody was going to shoot him someday. Known quantity. Too many pictures in circulation. So the guy who bought his way into the hunt got him, which was maybe somewhat lucky, even knowing that luck is managed opportunity.

We all would like to. And few ever will. Life is sort of like that.

I've never understood the desire to take a picture of something after you've killed it. It takes far, far more skill to capture that animal on your memory card while it was alive.


Hopefully we evolve as a species sooner rather than later.

Unfortunately, there is a grain of truth, despite the excessive emotion, in what "logger" says. The hunting community and their associated straphangers are on a rant about the impact of predators like wolves and lions on the game animal populations; but, in general, carnivorous animals, like wolves and lions, take the old, the weak, or the stupid out of the gene pool. This guy took out a top breeding bull with plenty of reproductive life still in him and removed uncommon, potentially even unique, genetic material that probably should have been left to proliferate through the herd. If this is "the hunter’s role in conservation," I like to see it rethought a bit and in a less selfish manner.

I read the Hanford Atomic Reserve elk studies out of the U of Idaho...that bull had to be 10+ years old. At his antler size, he had to have grown horns for many years, and was a wise old guy who managed to avoid hunters until his end. There is a lot of his DNA in the local gene pool.

The Hanford study showed that to get a bull like this one, you have to have old bulls. Not 4 year old bulls. Not 6 year old bulls. 10 year and older bulls. And to get to be that old, they have been in the thick of the rut for years, and have spread a lot of their DNA. This issue is not to hunt the damn things from the middle of August until the first of the year, every year. Archery, then black powder, then a short season, then a longer season. The poor elk are hunted way too long, in most every state. And way too early. It would be better for all if the arrow slingers didn't start until mid September. And their season would let them get a piece of the second estrus. The clean up season.

The real deal about elk hunting and elk management is that cows should be the major target of management. When you have close to 50/50 sex ratios, then you can have a "one elk" season. The one eik season is the one that will provide the diversity of sex, age, and herd composition that will provide for healthy herds. Tags or permits allocated by management area for the removal of "one elk." The hunting establishment, the ethos of the sport, should be about eating elk, fair chase, and good management practices. This mega horns deal is wayyyyy overdone. It is a self defeating deal. And, anybody can buy them today. So what is the big deal?

Another one for big money. Another loss for hunting overall. Pretty hard to justify--- what are we becoming? This bull will be forever tainted by the treasure expended to kill it and unethical lapses in judgement. A world record must be taken a certain way--- and this is not the way. Let Ahab beware of Ahab.

All I know is if I still hunted, and I saw this Bull I sure as helk would drop it. From the sounds of some of these posts, you want hunters to be told which elk is old enough to shoot? Reminds me of the first time they tried 'hunting' Bison. FW&P;showed you which one you could kill.

This is sad on two counts. First, it saddens me to see hunting becoming such big business. I don't begrudge this man his trophy, and it is clearly an amazing elk. However, this type of hunt trades field-craft, time afield, and time with family and friends for money.

On a seemingly contradictory note the comments here are clearly out of touch with the reality of wildlife management. Hunters are the core of conservation, and have been since wildlife became actively managed. Those who don't understand and appreciate hunting can't hope to understand wildlife management.

Mike, shut up!

Its disgusting to see such a beautiful animal murdered just so some moron can have his picture taken with it. Apart from all the conservation issues associated with this incident it boils down to some yoyo with a high powered rifle taking down a defenceless animal just to show his manhood to his redneck buddies. I wonder how he would make out without the gun?

It seems hasty to throw name calling as i bet over half the bubba calling yoyos who are angry and saden by this have had their picks standing in line at the zoo or circus. Its only crueal or unusual when theres a gun or arrow right? But no ones ever accidently plowed a squirrell or stray dog, opposum, etc. with there car. And when you did i bet you stopped and moved it took it to get medical attention and had a proper burial right. I doubt it. Yes there are always going to be yoyos who hunt pay to hunt or just do it for meaness. But for the people who do it with passion even if they do pay for it because unless your tithing to the conservation of these animals you so defend which most dont even PETA these hunts have to be paid for to not only support families they deserve to make a living no matter if its not what you like and the money to conserve the land and the animals. Because proven fact the yoyo do a damn good job at it thats why you have this massive elk and trust me theyll be more and theyll be bigger.

Its a whole lot easier to take a picture of a live animal. To take one of an animal you shot you have to get close enough to kill it. And wow you guys are dumb that elk has breed many times by now and its genes have been passed down dip shits!

alec & bearbait

I would ask both of you to think out of the box a bit. This means forgetting what the schools and their products, the biologists who set the ages, sex and numbers of animals per season, have "told" us for the last hundred years.

Both the hunting and non hunting public, as enthusiasts of nature, have to start thinking in terms of how people and the other animals evolutionary organized themselves before the "animals" we manage or care for have any chance of species sustainability.

My degree is in wildlife biology but my experiences and observations come from 30 years in a very remote location, the SE corner of Yellowstone. This in itself does not mean didley. But approaching from a non superior mind, if that can be done, allowed me see non hunted herds as composed of families and extended families no different than any human hunter - gatherer population.

All families have homes and all families have individuals with roles. Thus, when applied to discussions such as this thread one realizes ratios of sex, age percentages and numbers (or population densities) have nothing to do with the health or infrastructure of the "herds". A healthy and ecologically sustainable "herd" or extended family of elk can be composed of individuals and sex ratios matching those desired of by our states college educated wildlife biologists, but there is no way this constitutes what a population of families (elk in this case) is composed of.

Present game managers would think of themselves a success if they could manage for and then count any multiple of individuals thrown together to make up the appropriate ages and sex ratios deemed necessary for supposed "healthy populations". It would be like saying one could shoot any number of a human population as long as we are left with the right percentages. This would be leaving out human infrastructure needs, of course, whether it is artifically (corporations, school teachers for training of our young) or naturally (indigenous peoples extended family structure)assembled.

There is no success from either a hunting or non hunting sustainability approach if all we think of is punching in numbers. The big bull this story talks about before his death provided the needed hero and training role to younger bulls. He anchored the discipline and feeling of security to the greater herd. His role would be no different than any respected leader of this country. One could say this world record shooter assassinated the president of our country. That of course would be looked on with elation if you were a Taliban but it would be horrible if it happened to those in this country.

Enough for now, but I would hope all those who care about our wildlife, the alec's and bearbait's, start thinking what it takes to maintain a family and its extension the extended family (up to 300 animals as the limits of interactive recognition before we have territories to defend) before we follow the "wildlife principles' of today. I suggest we do as indigenous peoples of the Plains did as their main technique for obtaining animal foods; kill out an entire family (surrounds jumps, piskins etc.) and leave the infrastructure intact of other families. This way elk mothers were able to teach the young what to eat and when (a herbivore is a grassivore without training) and the bull groups learned a lot from those "old" bulls hunters covet, as part of the extended family left alive. Todays herds are all very dysfunctional.

You can see where hunting is headed: ignorant bubba-huntin' videos (waddle-waddle from the AC-cooled shooting platform), team-mossback/realtree nascar huntin fools (smells like team spirit), game-farm genepool CWD vectors (old macdonald had a hybrid...), high-paying viagra-induced market hunters (Bob's a happy fellow...!).
If you were a real hunter, you could do and would do it with a longbow. Fred Bear will always be the man. Twang.

I personally have a hard time with the concept of "buying" a hunt. That being said, logic tells me that this was a legal hunt, which provided many dollars for the local economy-guides, outfitters, hotels, restauranteurs and the like earned some much-needed dollars by providing services to this "hunter." The fact that this bull existed is testament to the conservation of wildlife habitat and wildlife management in the area. Yes, he bred for many years, and if his age was as suggested, probably nearing the end of his natural life anyway. So maybe one hunter has a tremendous trophy on his wall, but the local economy, and habitat conservation (by way of the tag he purchased) is all the better for it. Most states have so-called "Governor's Tags" or something like them (yes, even in MT), and these provide much needed dollars for our wildlife and habitat management funds, which go much farther than just providing "trophy hunts." They ensure healthy habitat for a myriad of wildlife species, game and non-game alike.

I was in a Sportsmen's Warehouse store, and in the archery dept. a dvd of some guy and guide hunting brown bear was on. I stopped to watch, as looking at stuff was the objective. The bear was sunning itself, on a windy clear day, in the open on top of a dirt pile of some kind, just enjoying life. The bow guy and the guide were about twenty feet from this old bruiser, who does not smell them and probably has eyes so bad he can't see them, and they are waiting for the bear to roll over so he can shoot an arrow into this hereford like critter not hurting anyone or anything but dumb shits, salmon, and other bears. The bear rolls over, the arrow goes "twang-thud", the bear rolls around in pain, confused. And both guys pull out giant guns. Death throes over, the bear is soon still. So someone assassinated the archduke of Kodiak....big deal. All the bravery of being an archer quickly hid behind the magnum shooter. So when you add the probably armed cameraman, the guy shooting the training wheels, and the guide, all the archery aspect of the venture was faux Fred Bear. Not the real deal. No more than a cold killing for drill and a skin and skull deal. It sort of left me numb for a while, ran me out of the store, has me examining the whole of my hunting lust. Old age has to be a huge part of it. With death ever closer, the end more near, I suppose old farts look askance on the whole process and likely have some sympathy with the old boar just enjoying some time in the sun between meals. The deal made me sad. For me or the bear I have yet to figure out.

well said bearbait. If your not hunting for food, whatever the method, then why are you hunting?? just my opinion

Jeff, I'll tell you why:
Hunting is in my blood, red blood that flows from father, grandfather and great-grand father with crimson splashes of spirit from my ancestral intimates. I remember those who dressed in skins and slept in caves, while I hunt from my four-wheel-drive metal cage. Those dark skinned fathers, who killed the king’s deer in Scotland, chased tigers in India and knelt in prayer before their quarry in the deserts and high mountains of the “Native” American South West, their blood flows against and erodes my modern “sensibilities.” What would those heathen have thought of body wash and body spray and the fashion focused 21st century “man?”
ilies...

I’m fully aware that most who happen across this, will never, under any circumstances, endorse or support killing a beautiful animal in its native setting, with flint, or lead. I write this less to convince them and more to ease the conflict inside me.

Hunting season is a yearly fight, between that blood and sensibilities, a fight my blood has not lost.

But there is this. Even one who hunts gets annoyed with hunters…even though they have every right in the world to hunt and they have every right in the world to empty out of the cities into Southern Utah, where they do not live or work or deal with frozen winter or mud season and the isolation that we country folk endure. They have every right in the world to dress in camouflage from head to toe and then ride their bright red or yellow four-wheelers around looking for deer. The sportsmen from the city have every right to over-run and over crowd my home mountain range; it is public land, national forest, after all.

They shouldn’t have the right to get drunk and drive an ATV with one hand on the handlebars and one hand on their loaded gun. They shouldn’t shoot at misplaced deer while rolling to a stop, skipping bullets willy-nilly up the road mere miles from my little town, and my little daughter. But they do.

In the final examination, I don’t really know, or care, why they do what they do.

As for me, getting close is the goal; being so close that I can smell the animal, close enough for mutual tension that explodes like lightning cutting through a blue sky. This was not always the case. I’ve flipped arrows at deer from the back of moving trucks and killed elk at three hundred yards with a high-powered rifle. I’ve been shoulder deep in an animal’s body, ripping, with tight grip and a sharp blade, at its innards. I have had blood on my hands, and I might again, if I get lucky.

The summer rain in the greater reaches of the High Plateau in Central Utah has spun the mountains into a green and glorious autumn splendor. The blue bell have grow to shoulder length and I’m six-five. Great, deep, patches of blue bell that are a joy more than a hindrance to pass like a childlike adventure in the flowers. I was thus brushing through a patch when I stopped cold, spying two ears, deer ears, ten feet, straight ahead. She was waiting me out. I had chosen a path that would lead me right into her, quite by accident, as I never would have suspected the bluebell patch as such a quality deer hideout. But then again, why not, why wouldn’t a living animal doze among the green and blue of deity? It was a standoff, we were each aware of the other, the deer and the invader in an epic staring contest. Five, ten, sixty minutes? She made the first move, a burst from her bed and out to the safety of the forest. But there was the encounter, and a bloodless encounter at that.

…and I know what you’re going to say… “You could have done that without the bow, without the weapon.” You might be right, however, if you’ve never walked into the wilds with the intention of killing something to eat, you might want to try it…for fun. You might see things differently as a hunter. Blood from the nether reaches, ancient blood is re-awakened to fill veins and thoughts.

The very eyes become, ever so fleetingly, the eyes of the fathers.

But that’s not all…

Nothing empties the mind as well as hearing an elk call on a frosty morning. I’ve never, not once, been able to continue whatever destructive line of “self talk” my brain was fabricating during a bull elk bugle.

Elk are ghosts, spirits, specters, and phantoms, hardly of this world. Hunting allows me to mingle with these. What can be wrong with that? How can you possible argue with that? Nothing awakens the ancient blood like a canyon or mountain clearing straining under the weight of elk musk in the thin air. Mountain bucks are nice, even beautiful, but elk are close to deity, a Godly hunt.

Last year I walked up onto a herd in Canal Canyon my back yard canyon in Central Utah, our only road less area. (The elk, for their part haven’t missed the road at all; in fact they’ve thrived without it.) I sat, dog-tired on a log, only to be startled by the scream of a bull who was ever so close, close enough that I saw saliva dribble of his mouth as he passed. I followed, because he was in no way scared of me. We walked, he at the lead, over a ridge and into a herd of cows, calves and spikes.

My license was for cows or calves or spikes, and since I’ve always wanted to kill me a bull, I focused on the spikes, the adolescent bulls.

The big bull, the herd king, circled his harem, like a sheep dog, and began to push them into the safety of the trees. Space and time merged into one as I notched, pulled and released. From that moment till the end of the night, I lost all power over my fate.

The arrow, floated, fluttered, toward the spike elk, who jumped at the twang of the string. I watched, in slowing time as he turned his head toward me, to look in my eyes. The arrow struck, with a sick crack that echoed off the hills and in my head.

In the post shot confusion, I saw the spike, with a unsullied arrow sticking straight out of its nose, between he two black eyes.

Instinctively, I reached to the quiver attached to my bow. It was empty. In the hunt and shot, my arrows had become dislodged from their holds and lay in the brush behind me in symbolic eternal rest on behalf of everything I’d lost.

After gathering them up, and muttering to myself, I started following the faint blood trail. It led me in and out and around the quaking aspen whose leaves were beginning to turn, and eventually circled back to the trial I came in on. The elk must have stood facing to the trail and shook his, now aching head, violently. Small sprinkles of blood covered the ground like the stars cover the sky.

No blood beyond that point, no tracks beyond that point, it was as if God had reached a kind hand out of the sky and lifted the Ghost Elk into heaven. I was left on earth…

An entire history of guilt-ghosts from the “hunters” past followed me off the mountain. All those who slaughtered the buffalo and passenger pigeon, all those who’ve killed for the trophy a head on the wall, all those who tortured, poisoned, trapped alive and ran animals to death, all of them joined my blood stream, setting my heart aflame.

Guilt, remorse and shame took verbal shots, at me:

“What a terrible shot, do you ever practice?”

“Why would you hurt an animal who never really did anything to you?”

“There are only so many elk and you’ve mortally wounded one for no reason.”

The dust at my feet laughed.

It got dark, but I did notice, in the shadows of the night, a lone stranger simply standing on the side of the trail, and he, like a hand to a drowning soul, brought me back to reality. I was about said, “hey…” as a greeting, when I felt the blood leave my body, flowing down through my feet. I was helpless, cold and shaken still.

The man, a Native American, wore a white cotton v-neck pullover tied with a simple white string up the chest and neck, a simple shirt that was beaded and embroidered beautifully. He was an old man, wearing a white headband that kept his long hair in check. He reached out with both hands together, grasping something, small. But he never got to give it to me, because before I could react, he faded into the night. I was left staring into the bushes that were behind him.

He didn’t walk away, but slipped into the night like smoke.

I hunt now because I'm looking for him. I have questions. I like to think that he somehow replaced my blood, or purified it, and I hope now that the blood of all those human hunters in my family of ghosts fills my veins.

I’d like to ask what he thinks of modern big game hunting.

"crimson splashes of spirit from my ancestral intimates"
"a fight my blood has not lost"
"the blood of all those human hunters in my family of ghosts"

Oh, come on now! In this case, the only truly rational excerpts I can find include "Nothing empties the mind as well as hearing an elk call on a frosty morning," and something about "a sick crack that echoed off the hills..."

I suppose that you wanted to poetically advance your viewpoint; but, by your posting, You really have revealed yourself as less of a lost coyote than a delusional loon, perhaps complete with a Napoleon costume; there's no way to tell for sure.

wow, name calling, cleaver response indeed.

Look, HUMANS have been hunter gatherers for about 99 percent of our evolution. That lifestyle is genitically imprinted in our blood.

The Inuit say, "The wolf makes the Caribou strong."

Since there's few wolves in Utah, I'll make the deer and elk strong, make them what they have evolved to be, but hunting them...think about it!

I'm not a poet, but "delusional loon" I am that, now that that's settled are you going to actually argue a POINT or just put me down?

Lost Coyote,
also well said..... however if I read the post correctly; what makes you believe I don't hunt(I have and do. for food) or perhaps you were speaking rhetorically.

Thanks, Bill---for keeping this topic going. How about some followup on game (elk) farming in Idaho?

I cannot agree totally with this type of hunting but its true, if you have the money you can buy. This is not only in the hunting world but in every area of life.
The rhetorical naysayers here, or antis, can build there homes in the national parks, if they have the money!
They can be the BMOC in their local club, or church, if they have the money!
They can live their protected, air conditioned snobbish, holier than thou lives in their gated communities, if they have the money!
They scream hunters are takers, slobs, fat pigs, redneck yo-yos while they consume 45% of the gross world output. But, because they dont hunt they are better than all others.
If Austad had not killed this elk, you would have never seen it and would have nothing to bitch about. This elk was 10 years old and never reported being seen.
You naysayers have missed the connection to the land and have no understanding of the cycle of life.
I have seen your type as you vacation with your overwieght families at local restaurants and motels, drinking sodas and eating cheetos as you sloth your way from the hotel pool to your room. Or you green tree huggers, pale, thin,lonely, crabby, complaining dry mouths, because no one wants to live like you. You roam the world and suck the life out of every human you come in contact with because of your bitterness with OMG hunters.
Just remember, you may rely on a hunter someday to feed your sorry a$$ when there is no food to be had from your bankrupt organic food store. But that will never happen, will it!