There I was, twenty feet up in the air in a small, very small tree stand with the wind blowing 30 to 40 mph. It was 20 degrees without the wind chill, I had the stomach flu and felt terrible. It was opening day of my first Whitetail hunt ever.

Being from the Central Valley of California and having hunted black tail, mule deer and elk in the West, this was a little different for me. My guide, Van Hale of Trophy Outfitters of Eagar, Arizona had been helping me accumulate points for the trophy elk in Arizona and New Mexico. I decided to give a Kansas whitetail hunt a try as a change of pace. I must have applied for fifteen different tags in 2007, with Kansas being my only success.

As daylight emerged, I started to see deer everywhere. Using my Swarovski 10x42, these deer became trees, rock and bushes. I did spot some does and a few blaze orange spots at 1200 yards and beyond. Pheasants were crowing everywhere and I heard 13 shots early with one party dragging out a buck at over 1,200 yards.

By noon I was really sick so I climbed down, peed in a Gatorade bottle as instructed so as not to scent up the area, and got Van on the radio. "I need to go back to town" I told him. "I feel terrible and need something for my stomach." Van dug around in the console of his truck and came out with some Pepto Bismol tablets. As we drove, he told me about a good spot, but didn't trust me to stay in the blind as many of the other hunters decided to go on a "walk about" after a few hours. I told him I didn't feel like walking and am not coming out of that stand unless I have a deer down or it's dark. He agreed and up I went. I saw nothing for four hours, then a few does at 450 yards. By five o'clock there were two groups of does at over 400 yards feeding in a soybeen field. I couldn't wait for dark and was feeling worse than ever.

With about 10 minutes of shoot time left, I heard crashing to my right from a dried corn field. My adrenaline was up and then out walked a large doe I could see through a tree limb. She stopped and looked back, then another doe. They walked together for 30 yards then stopped and looked back again; this time a buck followed. Just as I put the glasses on him he froze. I think he sensed me and my heart skipped a beat. He was big and wide. When he walked behind a tree I got my rifle ready. When he stepped out in the open I couldn't find him; my scope was on 9 power. He was huge! A lot of things went through my mind-- it's only the first day, should I wait for a larger buck, what am I going to do the rest of the week -- but he's big. Finally at 40 yards I pulled the trigger. BANG! I never even chambered another round; my 25-06 hand load has never let me down.

When Van showed up in the dark and he jumped out of the truck he couldn't stop saying "you don't realize what you just shot." It turned out it was the largest deer taken in the area so far that year! He estimated 180 B&C with 26 inch main beams and 13 inch G2 & G3's. 12 points in all and approximately 280 pounds. What a first Whitetail! My stomach flu didn't go away for a week, but it was the best medicine I could have had.

I would first like to thank God first, my wife Veronica for putting up with my hunting passion, and all the people at Trophy Outfitters who run a first class operation.

Tim Ryan, Turlock, CA

My left hand had a death grip on the saddle horn; my right held the reins high enough to protect my face from the unseen brush that threatened to sweep me off my mule at any moment. The creak of tight leather, as I rocked in my saddle and the thorny brush raking my cordura saddlebags where the only sounds that broke the quiet wilderness. There was still no hint of daybreak over Arizona's infamous White Mountains. Occasional sparks from iron horseshoes striking hard stone were all that marked the trail as my guide Van Hale led the way up an ancient cowboy trail that would eventually take us up the steep ridge to where we had glassed two bull elk, just before last night's crimson sunset.


I have never considered myself to be extraordinarily lucky, but I had been one of the fortunate few to draw an Arizona elk tag for a rifle hunt in November. Knowing that I could ever hunt elk during the earlier September bugle season, because I would still be outfitting my own trophy moose hunts in Alaska, I enrolled in Van Hale's Trophy Outfittersl icensing program. It was simple enough and quite painless actually. Van made out the applications and handled all of the paper work that eventually led to my drawing an Arizona elk tag.

Receiving all of the pre-hunt information and a detailed map that directed me to Trophy outfitter's Base Camp, I arrived on November 21st, one day before my long anticipated hunt. Having outfitted in Alaska for the past thirty years. I know what it takes to put on a quality hunt. I was quite impressed with the amount of field equipment and number of vehicles, trailers, horses,mules, guides and camp helpers that were amassed before me. Van had everything in place and ready to go. We spent less than an hour in base camp before I found myself and all of my gear astride the biggest mule I have ever seen.

Some of the hunters were to hunt from the base camp, which was nestled deep in the Ponderosa pines, at the end of the winding gravel road that I had just navigated deep in the White mountains. A few of us would ride to remote spike camps even further from civilation, having just spent the last six months at sea level on the Alaska Peninsula, comfortably seated in the front seat of a Piper Super Cub, the present state of my posterior was not readily prepared for the five hour ride which now lay ahead. Although I do have to admit, the fifteen miles of rough mountain trail passed quickly as we wound through the pines, over tne ridge after another until we finally dropped off into a picturesque basin scattered with pinion pine, juniper, post oak and cedar.

Arriving at spike camp just before sunset, I thought someone was going to have to pry my out of the saddle. My prayers were answered as a crusty old character, wearing a dusty old black cowboy hat, worn Levi jacket and dirty Carhartt britches took my reins and steadied the mule as I stiffly swung from the saddle, only to find my legs no longer worked like they should. With a whiskered grin, more of leather than flesh, he chuckled and said, "Estes,
Corwin Estes, welcome to spike camp." So, this was Van's uncle Corwin, the man I had heard so much about on the ride in. Now on the back side of sixty-five years, Corwin had been a cowboy, lumber jack and a bounty hunter paid by the U.S. Government and local ranchers to rid Arizona's cattle country of mountain lion, thirty dollars at a time. Corwin and pennsylvanian hunter Ray Heller led our tired mules into an ancient barbwire corral where they joined three more pack-jacks and a chestnut horse named Chappo. Corwin provided the stock with water and alfalfa, in the form of compressed pellets from a fifty-pound sack, which he handled like a down pillow.

There was a campfire blazing in the fire ring between two roomy tents. Van and I stowed our gear and layed out our bedrolls. That being done, I looked for the thickest saddle blanket I could find, laid it over a log and rested my weary bones near the warmth of the fire with a cup of hot coffee that Corwin poured from a dented enamel pot hanging over the fire. Van and the old cowboy discussed the trail, elk that had been spotted and the plan for the hunt which would begin before daylight in the morning.

As Van grilled beef steak over the glowing oak embers while Ray and I listened to stories of previous elk hunts and Corwin's lion hunting exploits, I thought of what I have so often told my hunters. "If you go on a hunt like this just to kill an animal, you're going for all the wrong reasons." At this moment, although my ass was sore, my bones ached and I was dead tired, my own rhetoric really hit home. The only addition that I could think to add to the conversation before heading for my tent was; "It's a big damn country boys, good to get out."

Four-thirty came way too soon. The night had been a cool one but the water in my bottle had not frozen. I pulled on my Advantage camo jeans, matching tee-shirt and a polar fleece jacket before emerging from the tent. The campfire lit my way to the hot pot of coffee and A poured a cup. After a quick breakfast of instant oats, Van and I saddled our mules, loaded our packs with a couple of water bottles, lunch fixings and what gear we needed for the day. We were on the trail by five o'clock.

Our spike camp was located at a confluence of four drainages, each with little or no water due to the unseasonably warm, dry season. The lay of the land resulted in five different ridges, fanning like spokes of a wagon wheel, surrounding camp from east to west and extending several miles, high into the dark timber along the northern skyline.

Van led his mount toward the center ridge, using his headlamp to find the way. I followed with my mini-maglite, wishing I had brought a headlamp and both hands were free to yank on the mule and beat back the brush as I stumbled through the dark. Once on the ridge trail, we saddled up, turned out the lights and relied on the mules natural instincts to take us up the old cow path. Daybreak exposed the surrounding ridges and adjacent valleys, which were more like steep canyons filled with brush, cedars, and rocks- tough country to say the least.

Reaching a good vantage point we began glassing. Using my old Zeiss 7xs42 binoculars I spotted three bulls grazing in a small burn, two ridges to the west. The sun just broke the horizon, illuminating the eastern slopes of each ridge. We got a pretty good look at two of the bulls. One old 6x6 was extremely white and carried a rack that Van said would go about 350, the other was a bit smaller. We couldn't make out the rack on the third bull before he stepped into the cedars.

Van said, "With unusually warm weather, the bulls were not burning many calories and would stop feeding early, then head for the dark timber to bed down for the day." This wouldn't leave us enough time to cross the treacherous canyons before the bulls went into the deep timber. We continued to glass the closer terrain for a couple more hours, seeing nothing else. I broke out a candy bar and washed it down with some bottled water before heading back to spike camp.

That afternoon Van and I climbed the steep hill behind camp to glass to the south, hoping to see more elk that direction. We spotted two, which appeared to be bulls, but they were so far away we couldn't make out their antlers. Moving around the slope to another vantage point, we sighted a single bull on the opposite slope. My Bushness range finder told me it was 364 yards. Not a bad shot for my custom built Match Grade Arms .300 Winchester Magnum. Van judged the 6x6 to be a 325 bull, the minimum size he would want a hunter to take. Being the first day and seeing three bulls this morning, at least one of which wasw in the 350 class, I decided to pass on the camp bull. We got back to camp just as Corwin was lightning the evening campfire.

Up again before the birds, we saddled our mules and headed up the ridge ( where we had seen the bulls yesterday), this time accompanied by Corwin and Ray, in hopes of banging two bulls from the group. Tying the mules just short of the ridge crest we continued on foot for another mile or so, I spotted two bulls in a basin not far from where we saw the trio yesterday. One was the old white bull. The third one was not with him today.

As we approached the stately pair, Van tossed a coin to see who would get first shot. Honestly, I was thinking heads but my lips didn't move before Ray said, "Heads." Heads it was to my disappointment. We moved a bit closer. I pulled out my range finder, sighting across the ravine, then signaled Ray with my fingers; three then two, for three hundred twenty yards. Van rested his pack on the short tripod he used for his huge 15 power binoculars. Ray took the shooting position. We were both locked and loaded. Van said if Ray missed for me to take the shot. I could see that the second bull was a 6x6, but not quite what I was looking for. I held the crosshairs on Ray's bull and covered my right ear as we were side by side. When his 30 - .378 bellowed, I pulled my finger out of my ear and placed it on the trigger. I hesitated long enough to hear Van say "high" and remembered seeing Ray out of the corner of my eye as he bolted another round. Hell, I didn't have the heart to squeeze the trigger. Ray fired again and the bull went down. It took us the rest of the day to dress out Ray's trophy elk and pack it back to our spike camp.

Leaving Ray and Corwin at camp, Van and I departed before dawn. Flashlights, mules, rocks and brush all the way up yet another ridge. We reached the top just as the sun lit the hillside. We glassed for the better part of the morning to no avail. So back down the mountain to camp for an early lunch of elk tenders, graciously provided by Ray and grilled over an open fire. After lunch we saddled up again and headed south along an old cattle trail which should take us closer to the elk we had seen from the hill behind camp. It was a spectacular ride past a beautiful mountain spring guarded by a huge sycamore tree, surrounded by rock cliffs lined with pinion pine and lush blueberry juniper. We saw plenty of elk sign, and numerous rubs, telling us that the elk were thick here during the rut two months ago. From the clear-water spring, Van chose a trail marked only by a small pile of stones, left by cowboys who roamed this high range, who knows how long ago. The old cowboy trail took us in further south, the direction we wanted to go, seeing lion scratches, jumping coveys of quail and passing more elk sign.

Reaching a long ridge overlooking our mountain, we settled down to glass. It was getting late, but I had already resigned myself to a long ride to camp in the dark and had thought to lay a track on my GPS when we left the spring, more for my own benefit than Van's. I could see he was going to push me to my limit today. In the past few years he had taken six trophy elk for six clients from this area, and wasn't about to let me break his lucky streak. Van was glued to those big binoculars of his, making little conversation. Just as I was going to suggest we head back, he spots two elk coming out of the bush about a half mile across the valley. "Dinks" is all he said, then "Let's ride." We pulled into camp about an hour after dark. Thank God I commandeered Ray's saddle. Either it fit me better than the one I rode in on, or I was actually getting used to hunting the cowboy way.

It was day four of my seven day permitted Arizona elk hunt and I was beginning to think tht a 320 bull would look pretty good on my wall as we plotted along in the dark, bucking brush all the way up yet another rocky ridge. The new day was just breaking when Van spotted two more elk just below the tree line. We tied the mules and beat feet for the top of the ridge. Van set up the tripod and pulled out his [big eyes] as I came to call them. He screwed with the focus for a moment, then slowly counted from one to seven and said "he's a toad," It may have been the long uphill sprint or even a touch of buck fever, but my heart was about to jump out of my rib cage. Then to my suprise, Van pulled his oilskin hat from his head and slapped it down in the rocks. "He's only got one antler!" he exclaimed in disgust, "The entire right side is missing." Settling back to the big eyes, he swung to the second bull, " and this one's got a morphidite left side and a heavy six point on the right, what's the chances of that." My guide was baffled and I was about to be sick. I was beginning to think that my luck had run out shortly after drawing Arizona tag number 154. I lost the toss, hesitated on the back up shot, and now this. All I could do is laugh at the irony of it all.

Van jumped up and said reassuringly, "Its still early, let's jump this canyon ridge and get a look in the basin on the other side, "where Colby - Van's son had killed a 380 bull last season. Eaier said than done, I thought. Down we went crashing through a jungle of buck brush, cedar and juniper, across a dry creek bed of loose rock and boulders, then up an equally miserable slope on the other side. Reaching to the crest of the ridge, panting like greyhounds, we headed for the timber. They had obviously heard us coming and were having no part of it. Fortunately, they were both 5x5 bulls. After that failed approach, I just knew this just wasn't going to be my day.

We rustled in our day packs and came up with lunch. The sun was high overhead and the temperature was pushing 80 degrees. No bull in his right mind would be out in this heat so we took a little siesta. At about three o'clock, Van suggeste3d I stay here and glass the hillside before us, while he went to the other side of the ridge and glassed to the west. With disappointment of the day still weighing on me, I agreed and Van disappeared into the cedars. I scanned up and down the ridge before me for the better part of an hour, and then remembered the can of sardines in my pack. I cracked open the tin and enjoyed the oily snack before resuming my surveillance. As I glassed. I was thinking that it was getting late again and the mules were tied on the next ridge, not a fun hike in the dark. Just then I heard Van coming, probably thinking the same thing. He paused, then came running up to me saying "There's a bull and it's a good one" pointing to my hillside. A cedar had blocked my view of less than five percent of the ridge across the canyon and sure enough an elk had come into the space. I threw up my range finder, five hundred eighty-three yards, too far. We climbed down the canyon wall to close the distance, but it was steep and only gained us a few yards. We were about even elevation now and daylight was fading fast. I handed Van the range finder and bolted a 180 grain partition in the chamber. "Long ways, five hundred and twelve yards" Van whispered as he placed his shooting sticks in front of me. I rested my .300 on the sticks, having already adjusted the three to nine Leupold scope to 9 power.

Before, the hunt, I had double checked the ballistics of my 71 grain IMR 4350 load. "Zero at two hundred, seven inches low at three hundred, twenty-two at four hundred and forty-four at five hundred." I recited. I held two foot over the broad-side bulls shoulders, took a deep breath and slowly exhaled as I put pressure on the trigger, then held my breath. The rifle recoiled against my shoulder. I saw the bull lurch and Van said "shoot again!" Not sure that I hit him with the first shot, I held on the long rear fork of the bulls massive 6x6 antlers as he was disappearing into the brush; and squeezed off another round. We could hear him thrashing in the cedars for a few seconds- then nothing. My trophy Arizona bull was down, but so was the Arizona sun. We had to do something quick. Van told me to shoot another round into the brush to see if he gets up. I picked out a thick juniper near where I figured the bull was and let another one fly. "Whack!" right on. Nothing moved.

Van bailed off the ridge like a mountain goat while I stayed on the shooting sticks, pointing at the spot the elk disappeared. Light was fading fast as Van climbed the steep hillside before me. About thirty minutes later he yelled for directions, but I couldn't see him until he shined me with his headlamp. "Thirty yards to go, straight up" I shouted. A few minutes later Van let out a wild "Yea-hoo." It was now pitch black with only a sliver of a moon rising in the southwest. It took me nearly an hour with the aid of my mini-maglite to work my way through the boulders and brush and up the other side, where I finally got a look at my trophy 6x6 Arizona elk. The first shot took shoulder and lungs. The second was ten inches from the first. It was a bull of a lifetime.

Van built a fire, by which we gutted the elk and propped him open to cool for the night. We had to leave the mules tied out until morning because it was all that we could do to get ourselves off that mountain. It was 1.9 GPS miles back to spike camp, in the dark.

I have been hunting and guiding all of my adult life. but never have taken a more hard earned trophy than my Arizona elk. The experience of hunting the White Mountains with Van Hale's Trophy Outfitters was a trip of a lifetime and I recommend it without hesitation. What Van does in Arizona is similar to what we do in Alaska, in that the hunts are both done as they were 40 years ago, fair chase - the right way.