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During the last decade or so, I've enjoyed some incredible moments bowhunting elk in extreme wilderness settings. Unlike normal elk hunting, wilderness elk demand more from you physically and mentally, and they require a lot more scouting and research in order to plan a successful trip.

However, the rewards are well worth the efforts. There's just nothing like bagging an elk six-plus miles in the backcountry with not a soul in sight. It's the raw beauty and solitude of the high country, and the idea of hunting less-pressured animals away from the crowds, that draws me in year after year.

Also, permits come a lot easier in designated wilderness areas. Some come with easy draw odds, while others can be purchased over-the-counter, just like the good ole days.

I'd like to recount three of my most memorable elk hunts that occurred in wilderness areas over the years. You'll get a sense of what this type of hunting entails, and the type of adventure it can offer a bowhunter. Then from there you can plan your own trip.

My First Bull

The drive from my home in Southern California to northwestern Colorado was rather painful, all in all about 15 hours behind the wheel. Not only was it far, but I worked my day job on Friday and then drove all night, reaching Grand Junction an hour or so before sunup, then driving a few more hours to reach my hunting party. Thank goodness for Dr. Pepper and sunflower seeds— chewing them, I've found, is a great remedy for keeping you alert and awake.

I arrived at the outfitter's house with about 30 minutes to spare. With no one around, I made use of the time and grabbed a few winks in the front seat of the truck. Before I knew it, my friend, Randy Templeton, was pounding on the window, grinning from ear to ear, telling me it was time to get rolling.

I began unloading my gear and prepping it for the horses' saddlebags. This would be my first wilderness elk hunt ever.

Later, we were in the saddle, weaving down the trail in our eight-horse convoy, enjoying the sights and sounds of the pristine Colorado backcountry. I could already hear gurgling water flowing through the creeks. Surrounding us were massive shale-laden mountain tops, contrasted by a stark blue sky. Patches of oak brush covered the valleys, while dark timber dotted the steep ridgelines. On the lower slopes, bountiful parks of aspen trees (now changing colors) shined like light bulbs, adding a vibrant stunning color to the landscape. Suddenly, I felt more alive.

The three-hour ride had left my bottom a little sore as we came upon our two wall tents tucked away in a creek-bottom. Our legendary outfitter/packer Nigel Frazier said it was a great spot, noting all the fresh growth a two-year-old burn had left in the canyon, which drew in elk like a magnet.

Not only had Nigel put us in a prime location, but he had offered to help me the first day out. He did a little calling and offered some general hunting tips.

I had a hunch this guy was the real deal; after all, he spoke few words, manned the horses like a rodeo wizard, and pulled four whopping one-pound steaks from his saddle bag on arrival so we could eat like kings that night. We went to bed with bulging bellies and a symphony of elk talk surrounding us.

At sunup, Nigel and I were only a few hundred yards from camp when he let out a sharp, short squeal of a young bull. Immediately we got a response, which was astonishing, being so close to camp. That's one benefit of hunting the backcountry.

We quickly set up behind some pines as the bull came in on a string. The bull grew increasingly angry as Nigel fired back with a series of crisp, well-blown bugles, cutting off the bull's replies frequently.

About 10 minutes later, I saw brownish antler tips sauntering across the meadow in front of us. With the bull now only 15 yards away, all was still. There was no shot through the tree branches, and I could do nothing but watch the incredibly thick 5x5 back out of there as quickly as he had come.

Later that morning, Nigel called in two more bulls, a spike and a scraggly 4x5, which I elected to pass on. Nigel gave me the thumbs down, as he thought we could do better.

The morning had gone quickly and, by midday, Nigel got back on his horse and left. The ball was all in my court now, as Randy and Craig were set to hunt together. I've learned two is good for elk calling, but three is a bit of a crowd.

Three days went by and I still hadn't called in an elk, not to where I could see one at least. Nigel made it look too easy. From the little time I spent with him, I realized that you must not only call well, but you must know when and where to call.

Contemplating my ability as an elk caller, I realized things needed to change fast or I would surely eat tag soup, as only a couple days were left in the hunt. Already an aggressive stalk hunter, I figured why not run-and-gun these elk. Really, I had nothing to lose.

The very next morning, the alarm clock didn't sound, so we ended up sleeping in. Randy vowed to scratch the morning hunt, staying behind, while his partner Craig and I headed up the hill behind camp. We separated, and I found myself creeping along a well-used game trail, listening to elk along a distant hilltop. I hustled ahead like a madman, hoping to intercept the animals.

At one point I heard a branch break, then three cows filed past at about 45 yards, followed by what sounded like the growl of an old bull. I was on my knees when antlers popped into view. Quickly coming to full draw, I watched my arrow find the sweet spot, and before I knew it, the bull was down. The bull's massive body and 6x7 rack will forever be etched into my memory. What an incredible first bull, all on a do-it-yourself wilderness hunt. Success never tasted so sweet.

Elk at Timberline

Three years after tasting wilderness elk success, I was back hunting the rugged Flattop Wilderness region of northwestern Colorado. My hunting party consisted of friends Randy Templeton, CJ Davis, and Greg Andrews. Packing us into our drop camp was Karl Maser.

By midday we rode into our two canvas tents situated at a nose-bleed 9,000-plus feet. The country around us was gorgeous, as it always is in these mountains. Except this time we were camped on a bright-blue lake full of trout. CJ brought his fly rod along and promised he'd show me his moves out on the water sometime during the week. And he did, catching some nice pan fryers.

Over the next couple days not much happened and, unfortunately, CJ overextended his leg while traversing some blow-downs. Since we were a team, this slowed us down on the big climbs, but not by much. CJ endured the pain and still marched up the mountains like a true champ.

In the beginning, we got a sense that a group of hunters had just left the area. We saw a few boot tracks, and the elk seemed less vocal and not all that prevalent. It was unlike any backcountry hunt I'd been on. The weather was perfect, too—cold and crisp, with the lows just below freezing. It even snowed six inches on the second night. We were also hunting in mid-September, prime time for rutting elk.

One morning, CJ and I hiked up to a series of ridges, all leading to timberline. After some time, we could hear some faint elk bugles up ahead. We charged uphill as quickly as we could and set up a few hundred yards from the sounds. We called, only the bull with his harem of cows (we could hear their mews) went away from us. He would frequently bugle back, but then walk away. It seems when elk do this, they know they are being fooled, or they simply don't want to fight. So they leave.

We stayed on their trail for some time, following fresh tracks and droppings in the soft snow and mud. Eventually the trail led down a rocky ledge and into more rugged terrain beyond. I knew they were gone, at least for today. I gazed out over the area, recognizing a low-cut saddle way up in the crags. Even from nearly a mile away I could see deeply cut trails entering the notch in the mountain. The elk were obviously using it, but to get to it would require a full day's hike. I pondered how to hunt it as we made our way back into camp.

With only two days left to hunt, I knew it was time to pull out the stops. The next day, I went out alone, hiking a set of complex ridgelines, climbing higher and higher. I rarely get aggressive when calling, but now I figured why not? I began bugling at every rise.

Within a few hours' time, I was at timberline, still covering ground at a fast pace. Then it dawned on me. The high-mountain saddle was not far away now. Near sunset, I let out a series of bugles. I heard no replies at first, but then a faint squeal came from deep down below. I rushed downhill to get closer.

As I practically jogged down slope, the bull's sounds grew stronger by the minute. I cow called several times, and he replied in each instance. I knelt down in a patch of evergreens and cow called some more, concentrating on delivering perfect notes with my Sceery bite-and-blow mouth call.

Suddenly, the majestic 5x5 bull stepped out into the open, 50 yards below, swiveling his head suspiciously, looking for the lonesome cow he had just heard. I was scared to move a muscle, but when he began walking the wrong direction, I made one last and careful cow mew. That brought him right to me, and from 25 yards I sent an arrow through two tree limbs and into the bull's chest.

After gutting the elk in the fading light, the feeling of the hunt washed over me. Hard work does pay off, as does aggressive calling. With the help of my new GPS, I marched into camp in one complete piece at 10 o'clock that night, blood up to my elbows and a huge grin across my face.

Backpack Escapade

My good hunting buddy, PJ Selinski, had assured me he had found the ultimate elk-hunting spot. Only it was a long hike all uphill to reach it. He discovered the place after talking to a friend who had hunted the "other side" of the mountains during a gun hunt, where some private logging country met BLM lands. This guy was incredibly impressed with all the elk and elk sign he saw on the public-lands side.

PJ went to work researching the place and began talking to a BLM agent about various access points. He was told about an old pack trail that started at the sagebrush flats and zigzagged up several thousand feet across inhospitable sandstone cuts and mountain valleys. The very next summer, he was bushwhacking a path along the old, unimproved trail, heading into wild elk country. After spending two nights in the place, his report was lots of elk.

In between deadlines and hunts, I had little time to hunt in early September. So PJ would go up with a couple buddies and hunt nine days, while I'd join the group at mid-week.

Equipped with an 80-pound pack, a good topo map, coordinates of elk camp, and a reliable GPS, I left the truck on the afternoon of the hunt and began hiking up what "trail" I could see, all while the sky grew increasingly darker. Rain was surely looming ahead.

Within an hour or so, I was making good progress and felt strong, despite the heavy pack. However, now, the storm began growing violent with heavy rain falling, eventually washing out what little trail I could see. It was raining so hard that water beaded across the bare spots in the hills like rushing guzzlers.

After about two hours of hiking, my boots and clothes were soaked to the bone, and light was beginning to grow dim. I hunkered under a juniper tree, unzipped my pack and changed into some dry fleece clothing that I had wrapped in a plastic bag. I got PJ on the radio, and then put camp's coordinates on the GPS. I marched on into camp, cold and hungry as ever.

Daybreak brought more rain, so we slept in. At about noon, we began hunting. Since PJ had already been in the woods for a few days, his suggestion was to stay in the lodgepole pines; this is where the elk were hanging. It was only the second week of the Colorado archery season, still too early to expect strong rutting activity and vocal elk. This meant more "blind" calling, using cow calls almost exclusively.

Over the next couple days, PJ pulled in several bulls within shooting range, only a shot opportunity never presented itself. His Primos Hyper Lip open-reed was the ticket for this kind of calling. It was much louder, raspier, and allowed greater calling versatility compared to my bite-and-blow and push-button calls. At one point we even had a 300-class bomber wilderness bull inside 40 yards, only his chest was covered up by brush. He ended up winding us and vacated the area quickly.

In this particular area, the mountain currents proved as inconsistent as ever, always blowing in the wrong direction it seemed. The hunting was tricky, too, with most of the elk coming to the calls completely silently. Every now and then we'd get a bull to squeal or bugle a bit, but rarely. How a 700-pound animal can be that quiet I don't understand, but they are.

On day three, PJ arrowed a fat cow. He was stoked as ever. PJ's buddy Steve had some llamas in camp, and we were able to bone-out his elk completely as Steve brought the little packers to the meat. Steve had already tagged out on a nice bull on opening weekend, so he agreed to take the meat down to the truck and get it on ice. The llamas were due back in Colorado Springs as well. So now it was just PJ and I up on the mountain. If we got a bull, we'd have to pack it out the old-fashioned way—on our backs.

That night we ate fresh elk tenderloins, along with tortillas and black beans. My spirit was suddenly strong again, not having to eat freeze-dried grub for the fourth night in a row.

On each hunting day, we had hiked about seven to eight miles. I was tired, and I knew PJ was tired, given he'd been doing it for twice as long as me. Yet this guy was still motivated as ever. I was impressed and thankful to have him as a friend.

At daybreak, we angled upward toward some deep timber pockets a couple miles from camp. We followed an old jeep trail for a bit, stopping on occasion to call. At one point, we heard antlers clattering in the distance, and we loped aggressively in that direction.

PJ began calling heavily, and I got set up near a small pine. I decided to stand to increase my shooting lanes and so I could move more easily if the bull came in fast. The sound of running hooves came abruptly, then the streak of elk antlers lacing a small opening in the vegetation. I don't remember hitting full draw, but I do remember the sight picture and releasing the arrow the moment the 30-yard pin hit the pocket. I could feel PJ squeezing my shoulders in excitement as the bull fell within sight.

Together we got all 150 pounds of elk meat off the mountain. Fortunately the pack-out was a five-mile walk straight downhill. Sure my shoulders, hips and everything else ached in agony when it was all said and done, but I knew I'd be back. It was one of my most memorable bowhunts ever. It's a sick kind of fun some of us guys actually dream about all year long, hoping to do it again and again.

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