Local hunter Levi Kary shows off the first antelope he harvested with his bow.

Photo courtesy Levi Kary

Kary’s bowstring snapped just as he had positioned himself for a great shot at a big bull elk last season.

Photo courtesy Levi Kary

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First off, I’d like to preface this article by warning the reader I have failed every year of English aside from my senior year, so be warned. But we don’t read hunting stories for fantastic grammar. Just like we don’t pick up a bow for the first time because it’s the easy thing to do.

At least with me, I picked up a bow for the first time to keep my dad hunting. He was tired of being cold in the mountains chasing elk, I couldn’t stand the thought of dad hanging it up, with colder weather typically taking place during rifle season; archery season is usually nicer weather. Not to mention I could take the wife camping instead of getting in trouble for being gone day after day. So, I picked up my first bow on Facebook for a whopping $150 completely set up. I didn’t take archery that serious for the first two years, only shooting a dozen arrows that were severely under spined just before taking it to chase elk. That is until after missing an opportunity at a trophy class bull and then a spike bull in the fall hunting season of 2021. That was the turning point in my archery journey. I was fired up and motivated; that following spring I went down to the local bow shop in Cody and picked up a much newer bow, built my own arrows and started shooting dozens of arrows daily. It became my new religion. It wasn’t only about elk now — I wanted to chase it all with my newfound passion. I lucked out and drew a speed goat tag on top of an archery elk tag and was drooling at the thought of August rolling around to chase goats, spot and stalk style. 

When Aug. 15 finally rolled around, I found myself sick with anticipation and I couldn’t wait for the weekend to hunt, so I called into work and headed for the sagebrush. As often comes with spot and stalk pronghorn hunting, there were many blown stalks and a few less arrows in my quiver after those first few days of hunting. It came time for my friend Ryan and his 13-year-old daughter Haylie to join me and priorities changed. No longer was the priority for me to get my first bow kill, but to get Haylie her first ever animal tagged. We set out that morning looking for stalkable bucks using a decoy to help get her a bit closer and maybe keep the buck a bit more patient as she got ready with her crossbow.

After the third failed stalk of the morning, we approached another buck. This time I held back watching as Haylie and her dad rolled around the backside of a hill. They approached to within 75 yards of the buck and, only having a frontal shot available, Haylie elected to watch the buck spin around and jog down the hill and in my direction. The buck closed the distance to 60 yards from me as I looked back up the hill and asked this 13-year-old for her blessing to take my opportunity. As soon as she gave me the go ahead, I ranged the buck and he stopped broadside at 50 yards. I quickly found my 50-yard pin, settled and let my arrow fly. I saw the arrow skipping behind the buck as he looked at me curiously walking away. I knocked another arrow and followed him ranging him again at 50 yards as he stopped. I settled again and let the arrow fly — this time I knew I hit the buck as he took off running and stopped hanging his head now at 110 yards away from where I stood. Not being one who enjoys tracking wounded game, I knocked another arrow and pursued the injured speed goat and after my fourth arrow hit him, he dropped dead. I was elated with joy as I lay my hands on this buck that I had worked so hard all year to get. All those hours spent walking back and forth in the pasture sending arrows down range, finally paid off.  I was so proud of that buck but it was only a step in my mission for elk season. 

September’s presence finally showed and I found myself yet again calling in sick multiple times to work and taking a vacation day here and there. Chasing elk with my dad and buddy Ryan, or running solo, it didn’t matter to me, I was going to make it happen this year. After a few close encounters with a spike or two that happened to always be within yardage but obstructed by a bush or pine tree, it came down to the second to last weekend of my elk season.

My dad and I sat munching a late lunch pondering our next move and feeling like it was all for nothing, we were checked out. Our minds were on other things when we heard it, that sound we all love, a bugle. Unusually pessimistic I looked to my dad and said, I bet it’s just a hunter. Then not three minutes later we heard another. “That was not a hunter that was a bull!” Dad and I said together. I grabbed my bow and bugle tube, walking into the tree line sending off a challenge. The bull quickly responded. I knew it was thick and I needed to move fast. So, I asked dad to stay back while I went after the bull. Going back and forth between cow calls and bugles I closed the distance on the bull and he closed the distance to me. Finally, it came to the point where I knew he was close. But where was he? I looked through the thick timber to see a skyline and the bull standing between the trees screaming. He was 75 yards away — I knew he expected to see other elk and would more than likely not close any more distance. My only hope was to make it sound like the elk he expected was walking away. I started to pitch my calls behind me and slowly made them quieter and quieter. The bull fired up bugling more and started coming down the hill as I hid behind a smaller sapling pine. I told myself, “Slow down, make it happen.” I calmly knocked my arrow, the bull glunked down, closer and closer. The bull let out a monstrous bugle as I poked out, ranging him 30 yards broadside looking away. I clipped on my release staying silent, he bugled again and I drew back, my second pin lay steady behind his shoulder. I had never felt so confident in a shot in my entire life, rifle or otherwise. I remember breathing deeply, telling myself to squeeze … the shot broke, a weird thwang seemed to resonate and the arrow never flew. My string had just broken right as I let the arrow fly. I dropped to my knees wondering what just happened. The bull, just as confused as I was, wandered back to the top of the hill bugling again, and we walked away from each other. Defeated and my season over, my dad and I rejoined talking about next season.