The afternoon of November 12 was unseasonably warm in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Temperatures exceeded 60 degrees. Lush, green rye grass that should have just been sprouting was ankle-deep.
I barely walked 100 yards from the ATV before erecting a big shooting tripod. Setting the Browning 6.8 Western into the saddle, I made sure the fluid tripod head could smoothly swing across the 120-degree shooting window in front of me.
Multiple readings from a rangefinder confirmed the farthest shot could come at 348 yards. The instructions from my buddy, Richard Kropf, stuck with me: “Walk down the edge of this green field, hop a little creek and set up next to a small oak tree in the corner of the brown meadow. If the bull comes out, it’ll be 200 to 250 yards from ya, on the main trail they use.”
From under the oak tree, I gazed across the 12-acre meadow of knee-high, brown grass and lifeless weeds. In the distance I could see trees near my duck blind where I’d shot a limit of puddlers that morning. Beyond that — just over two miles from where I stood — semi trucks rumbled up and down Interstate-5. On the left side of the field stood a 20-acre stand of short oak trees and tall briar. To the right of the field was the same sort of cover, but it was 35 acres in size; it was more densely packed with briars, rose hips, and other brush. That’s where the bull was bedded. We hoped.
The Bull Returns
Kropf had picked up a massive bull on trail camera during the night. “This one small enough for ya?” he texted, halfway into my morning duck hunt. The day before, Kropf and I were hunting Roosevelt elk in another spot. I told him then, that while I was hoping for a branch bull, with the season ending in a few days, I’d be happy with a spike. My wife and I wanted meat in the freezer.
“Is that him?” I texted back. Before Kropf could even reply, I knew it was. On November 7, 2024, Kropf caught the 7×6 Roosevelt bull on trail camera for the first time. It showed up again, three days later. Then it was gone. Until now. On this day, 363 days from when we’d gotten our last photo of him, the big bull had returned.
“Yep, that’s him,” Kropf replied. My pulse raced. A barrage of emotions consumed me. I knew what caliber of bull this was, and I knew we’d only have one crack at it.
“You tell me what you want to do, I’m ready,” I texted Kropf. “There’s zero wind and won’t be until this afternoon, so let’s wait,” he texted back. I’m not as patient as I should be, and the next six hours crawled by.
The Most Valuable Shed Hunt Of My Life
The first time I set foot on the piece of ground the bull now occupied, was March 31, 2023. Kropf invited me to bring Echo and Kona, my two pudelpointers, to hunt for elk sheds with him. When I arrived and laid eyes on the small patch of hardwoods and brush, I thought Kropf was joking. “You meant blacktail sheds, right, not elk?” I asked with a smile.
“Nope, there are some big bulls that come down here after the rut,” Kropf retorted. “Some bulls stay the winter here, others come and go. The last couple years we’ve found some impressive elk sheds in here.”
During some waterfowl hunts in the Willamette Valley that year, Kropf told me of a herd of bachelor bulls that had been hanging out on this property. What I had envisioned and what I saw now were two very different things.
A mile to the east of the fields and hardwoods was a section of rolling foothills that make up the western slopes of the Cascade Range. They rise to just over 2,200 feet in elevation. Rugged country blanketed by Douglas fir trees are where Roosevelt elk live, year-round, but sometimes entire herds drop to the lowlands. Ranches and timber companies have tied-up the hill country, and very few allow elk hunting. It creates the perfect situation for elk to thrive and for bulls to grow big.
After the rut, many bulls drop to the valley floor to recover. Here, water, food, and private land mean protection. Unless you know someone, holding this over-the-counter tag is worthless. Enter Kropf.
I’ve been hunting ducks and geese with Richard and his brother, Brent Kropf, for nearly a decade. They’re about the age of my sons. They come from a farming family and are hard-working and honest men — good people to the core. I love hunting with them. Their family owns and leases a lot of land in the Willamette Valley. And sure enough, the big bull was on one of their leases. Without them, this hunt would have been nothing more than a dream.
During our spring shed hunting adventure we found multiple Roosevelt elk sheds. I covered most of that lowland habitat and learned a lot in a short amount of time. Little did I know that one day I’d be hunting elk there.
I saw the tiny creek that meandered through the hardwoods, year-round. I laid eyes on rubs, confirming elk were in and out during the rut. The number of beds and well-worn elk trails boggled my mind. I knew elk dropped in from the hills, onto the valley floor, but didn’t realize the magnitude of the activity.
I’d watched elk in rye grass fields, 50 yards from I-5. I’ve also seen pictures of some giant bulls taken in recent years by both archery and rifle hunters, in the green grass fields. Timing and connecting with a landowner, that’s what hunting Roosevelt elk in this habitat comes down to. For the first time in my life, I had both. It was far different from how I grew up hunting these monarchs, high in the rugged Cascade Range and deep in the coastal rainforest. I’m not complaining.
The Drive
Thanks to that shed hunting experience, I knew where the trails were that Richard referenced. My dog, Kona, had actually brought me a shed down that main trail.
After getting multiple ranges, I dialed the Leupold VX-6HD scope to 18 power and turned the CDS to 225 yards. Whether the elk came out 100 or 300 yards, I was set.
Richard had dropped off his brother, Brent, on the northwest corner of the hardwoods cover. Richard was on the northeast end of it. With the wind blowing from the north, at 8 to 10 miles per hour, the wind was perfect.
I was 200 yards from the brothers, looking into a meadow on the opposite side of the trees and brush that the bull was hopefully hiding in. Richard and Brent slowly zig-zagged their way through the cover. The goal was for the bull to catch their wind and come out where I was waiting. With multiple escape routes, I gave it about a 50/50 chance of success; there were a lot of escape options.
As I stood overlooking the wooded, brush-choked edge of the meadow, I tried to recall the last time I’d actually been a part of a big-game drive. It had been years, decades, in fact. Growing up, that’s how most hunters killed big blacktails in the area, by driving them out of thick brush to hunters waiting on stands. Shooting windows were brief, and those with reactive instincts filled their tags more consistently than hunters who had to think about what to do.
Three minutes had passed, and nothing. Maybe the bull left the area during the day, I thought. Or, perhaps it crossed the field I was looking at and entered into the trees to the south of me. If that was the case, it was less than a mile until freedom in the Douglas fir covered hills. That bull could be miles away by now.
But I stayed optimistic and mentally prepared for what could happen next. I don’t know how many times that day I envisioned the bull exiting the brush and entering the field. I considered all the scenarios. The bull could slowly slink from cover and stand still. It could bust out on a full run. Or anything between. No matter what, I was ready.
Only five minutes into the drive, it happened. The bull emerged from the exact trail that Richard said it would. It lumbered its way through trees and briar patches. Its head was held high. I was already tracking the bull with my scope but it was too brushy to shoot. The bull’s pace slowed and I knew it was about to stop.
And it did stop, right behind a tangled mess of briars that were too dense to for a good shot.
All I could see was the head and antlers of the giant bull. Wild eyes and flared nostrils filled my scope. It was a powerful image I’ll never forget. For a brief moment the bull stood, looking back over its shoulder. It’s wet, shiny nose pumped the air for information. The shot would have been simple, but there was no window to the vitals and I wasn’t about to take a 200-yard head shot.
When the bull turned its head, the massive rack nearly sucked the breath out of me. The left side of the rack carried seven points, and as it started to run the antlers swept across the bull’s lightly colored back. It was much heavier than I’d envisioned. Trail camera images paled in comparison as to what the bull looked like now.
Almost instantly the big bull was lined-out and on the run. It had to pass through 20 yards of briars before hitting the open where I could get a shot. Just as the bull was about to enter the clearing, I let out a hyper loud series of cow calls. It failed to slow the bull, it didn’t even twitch an ear or turn its head. Quickly, I was back in the scope, tracking the bull as it fled into the open.
The FireDot in my scope glowed clear red on the bull’s body as I sped up the tracking. The instant the red dot reached the bull’s brisket, I pulled the trigger. The bull dropped. There was no need for a followup shot.
The bullet entered between two ribs on the left side, punctured the left lung, clipped the lower spine —— doing enough damage to drop the bull —— then continued passing through the right lung and between two ribs on the opposite side. The Browning Long Range Pro Hunter 175 grain Sierra Tipped Gameking bullet was never recovered. I’ve taken a number of big animals with the 6.8 Western, but this performance on an old Roosevelt bull, was its most impressive.
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The End
Seconds after I shot, Richard and Brent emerged from the brush. We exchanged hugs and high fives. They never saw or heard the bull. They had to be close when it finally flushed from cover, within 50 yards.
Walking up to the grand bull was a surreal feeling. Having spent a lifetime hunting these elk, I knew the magnitude of what we were looking at. That feeling greatly intensified when I bent down and tried wrapping my hand around the base of the antlers, but couldn’t.
Behind the bull’s left ear was an open, infected wound, likely a puncture suffered during the rut. It was full of puss and stunk awfully when caping it. Another fighting injury to the top of the spine had infected nearly half the backstraps. The bull was skinny, and carried very little fat. I’d seen many bigger bodied Roosevelt bulls over the years, but not with the antlers that this one carried.
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It was an easy hunt, but I’ve been on enough hard ones over the decades and gone home empty, to truly appreciate what had just transpired. Some seasons I never laid eyes on a bull, that’s how challenging they can be to hunt on public land.
Thirty years ago, Roosevelt didn’t live in this lowland habitat. They’d pass through, then go back into the hills or cross I-5 and continue moving toward the Coast Range. But today, elk thrive here, and thanks to the effort and kindness of two fine brothers, I came away with the biggest Roosevelt bull of my life.
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