After sliding down the mountainside back to camp, we stuffed our pockets with granola bars and headed out on foot toward one of Wayne's favorite areas, a series of sharp draws creasing a mountainside swathed in virgin spruce. The slopes were covered with blowdowns and slippery rocks, making the going difficult. But the weather was more depressing than the terrain. The rain was now a severe storm with thunder rumbling through the hills and jagged bolts of lightning crashing down around us.
    Such weather is no fun to hunt in under any circumstances, but it's particularly discouraging when you are toting a muzzleloading rifle and know that a mere drop of water on your powder can mean a misfire. I had wrapped plastic over the end of my gun barrel, and cut a cylinder of plastic to go over the action, cinching it down with rubber bands. But with the severity of the weather there was the constant, nagging wonder of whether the rifle would fire if an elk appeared in range.
    As we climbed higher up the mountain and penetrated deeper into the gloomy forest, the cover grew more intimidating. We had both fallen several times up to that point on the slippery rocks and logs. As I picked myself up from yet another tumble and rubbed a bruised, cut leg, Wayne said: "That's why big bulls like this place. Nobody else will hunt this nasty stuff. I've called in bulls for other people that scored 325 Boone and Crockett Club points right here where we're standing. There's almost always a good elk somewhere on this mountainside. We've just got to be patient and persistent and we'll find him."
    My leg hurt, my back ached from the climbing, I was wet and bedraggled from the rain and hail and worried about whether the muzzleloader would fire. But those words stuck. Patience and persistence. They're the keys to success in most hunting, and this rough country and severe weather were calling for deep reserves of them now.
    It was mid afternoon, and we had yet to hear a peep in response to Wayne 's calls. Finally, we reached a high granite summit where elk from several canyons could hear us, and Carlton announced that we would sit there until dark, if necessary, until a bull sounded off. Half an hour and a dozen or so calls later, a roaring bugle echoed across the spruce-covered mountains. A bull—and judging from his hoarse, resonant call, a very large bull indeed—was answering Wayne's challenge.
    After several more exchanges, Wayne knew exactly where the bull was located, and we set off for him at a rapid clip. Every hundred yards or so, Carlton would bugle again, to keep the bull fired up and make sure we didn't bump into him prematurely, if he was headed our way.
    As we moved in close to the bull, Wayne nocked an arrow in his bow. If my gun misfired and he had a shot, he'd try for the bull. I slipped a No. 11 copper cap onto the rifle's nipple and gave a silent prayer that the muzzleloader would fire. We were very close now. When we reached the edge of the draw where the bull was, Carlton called again and the elk bellowed back. The sound was awesome, traversing an unbelievable scale from a deep, scratchy roar that only the lungs of an 800-pound animal could produce, to the shrill, highpitched whistle that seems so strange emanating from a massive elk.
    The bull was close, perhaps 75 yards, just over the crest of the knoll. Kneeling, we waited as the elk came closer, listening as his hooved feet thumped on the wet forest floor. Soon there was a raking sound as the enraged bull cleaned the bark off a sapling 50 yards away. I could see a glimpse of antler and swaying branches, but the bull's body was concealed by trees.
    Wayne, five yards from me, had a better view. "He's real big," he whispered. "Don't get excited!"
    Don't get excited? I couldn't help myself. The elk was merely 40 yards away now, but brush blocked my view as he eased along parallel to us. Wayne could see the bull clearly, but from my position only the top of his back showed up briefly for an instant. I considered trying a spine shot, but then the bull stepped forward and was completely hidden again behind a spruce, 35 yards out. I could try moving, but feared I would spook the alert bull. Patience seemed best. Just two more steps and he would be in the clear for an easy shot.