The Ghosts of the Coast: A Washington Coastal Roosevelt Elk Story
I decided to pack up early. The few elk I was finding were coming into the call quietly, and I wasn’t ready to “rifle hunt with a bow.” I wanted to find some screamers. My dad tagged out on opening day in Washington and said it was the best rut he’d seen in the areas we hunt in many years. The Coastal Roosevelt elk rut is always a gamble. Usually, it’s defined by rain — more rain — and little to no elk. Still, for some reason, I talk myself into chasing them year after year, and every year I come up short of tagging out. Instead, I hold onto memories like: “Remember that one time we got absolutely soaked, saw no elk, but had an awesome time putting on miles and taking in some of God’s greatest views the Northwest has to offer?”
Understanding my odds were slim and that I’d only have four or five days to hunt, I took the gamble and headed west. I drove 12 hours straight through the night, arriving just in time to take the biggest nap of the year.
“The highs and lows of elk hunting always seem to come in waves. There’s the hope and excitement that carries you through the planning stages, but the real test is when you hit the ground, whether or not you see a single elk. This is when patience, perseverance, and good company are what keep the experience worthwhile.”
The next day, I got my pack set up, checked my bow, and my dad and I hit the woods hard. The first day was incredible — the sun was shining. Imagine that, the sun out in Western Washington! After putting on miles and seeing no elk, darkness crept in, and we decided to head back to camp. That turned out to be a great decision because the guys at camp had my dad’s tenderloin cooking, and freshly picked Cantharellus mushrooms were waiting to be eaten. That’s the beauty of our camp — we eat like kings. We got back, shared stories of the day’s hunt, and made plans for tomorrow.
The following day, we decided to try a different area. Our first spot didn’t pan out, but we found fresher elk sign. Still, it felt like we were five days behind the elk. My dad and I did our usual setups but couldn’t get a bull to answer. We decided to move to our third area, and this is where things got a little more exciting.
“There’s always this sense of optimism when you head to a new area. Every fresh set of tracks, every new rub is a hint that things could finally turn around. It’s easy to lose hope, but elk hunting has a way of humbling you, especially when you’re chasing the ghosts.”
As we headed down a logging road, we finally got a bull to answer us. The wind was less than ideal, so we had to keep moving north to get it in our favor. We moved into position, but just as quickly as the excitement built, the bull decided not to play back. Just like that, the elk vanished. Gone. Nowhere to be seen or heard. We backed out and headed for the truck — it was lunch time.
That night’s hunt was uneventful. After two days of pushing brush, we still hadn’t seen an elk, though we did get one to answer. That at least proved there were a few still running around.
Day 3 was… well, Day 3. A huge storm rolled in, and rain unleashed from the sky. We were completely soaked. But there’s something about being in the woods, soaked to the bone, and knowing you’re about to sit by a fire with the people you care about most at camp that make it worth it. The crackling wood, the warmth, the feeling of being alive — it’s enough to erase the frustration of an unproductive day. With only two days left, I knew my odds were slim, but we stuck with it, and thankfully, this is where things finally started to turn.
“Hunting is as much about perseverance as it is about luck. The hardest days are often the ones that teach you the most. The storm, the setbacks, all of it — it’s part of the story. When it all comes together, it’s that much sweeter because of the struggle.”
Day 4 came fast. The ghosts of the coast had beaten us again on our morning hunt. We still hadn’t seen an elk, but we held onto high hopes as we entered the area where we planned to hunt that night. My dad and I worked our way two miles down a logging road. Reprod timber stood on both sides, the sky was dark, the air was crisp — and my finger was itching. We stuck with our plan, and as we reached the end of the road, we hit an elk trail. The sign was picking up, but so was the weather. You can feel when a storm is moving in, and the crisp wind carried the scent of rain.
We knew we were about to encounter something special. My dad let out a bugle followed by a chuckle, and immediately, a bull growled back at us. We locked eyes — this was the moment. We peeked around the corner, and a small sapling bent left to right. The bull was pissed. My dad dropped back 50 yards, and I set up. I started ranging the landscape: 20 yards, 32 yards, 27 yards, 41 yards, 34 yards. Perfect — I knew the bull would be inside 40 yards, regardless.
That bull reared up and bugled again, a quick high note followed by a long, low growl. My heart raced as I clicked my release into my D-loop. My dad bugled again, the bull answered, and before he could finish, my dad cut him off. That pissed the bull off. Here he came, on a string.
As he moved down into a ravine right in front of me, all I could see were antlers. I came to full draw and followed him as he walked. He stopped only eight yards in front of me, staring right at me. We locked eyes, and I knew my only opportunity was a frontal shot.
“A moment like that is a hunter’s dream. You’ve got seconds to make the right call. It’s about focus, preparation, and the confidence to take the shot when the time is right. This wasn’t just a physical test, but a mental one.”
I kept repeating to myself: “Find the color change, color change, color change.” There’s a six-inch gap between an elk’s mane and their chest that holds the deadliest vital area for an arrow to enter. It’s a shot I won’t take past 20 yards, but one I’ve practiced countless times with our Deadnuts archery targets.
The rain was pounding as I released, and in an instant, my arrow vanished. The bull took a step back, made a soft grunt, and looked around as if asking, “What just hit me?” He took 10 steps, then faceplanted, rolling over. He was expired in less than 30 seconds.
I turned around, eyes wide, dropped to my knees, and threw both arms in the air. Finally, after all the miles and time spent chasing these ghosts, my tag was notched. My dad came sprinting up, and I gave him the biggest hug I’ve ever given him. It was epic. The bull’s herd fed in front of us as we sat and soaked it all in.
Now the real work began. Dad and I took a few quick photos, said a prayer, notched my tag, and started processing. Darkness was near, and we knew we had a long night ahead. We decided to pack the meat out in two trips. For the first load, we took the front shoulders and loose meat. We dropped off the first pack and met our buddy Mark, who had come up with us. Unfortunately, the pack boards were in the other truck, so it was just Dad and me for the second pack out.
We headed back in and realized we hadn’t looked for my arrow. We popped a couple of ribs, and there it was — the fletchings sitting right in its heart. The broadhead had gone through the diaphragm and had just a touch of guts on it. The penetration was incredible. We grabbed my arrow and now it was time for the crazy second pack out. Dad took a hindquarter, and I took the other hindquarter and the head. Let me tell you, it was heavy. I put the horns down to give me something to hold onto when the weight slid too much onto my waist. Step by step, we made our way toward the truck. When we finally got there, that pull of Pendleton never tasted so good. Sweaty, bloody, and exhausted, the job was done.
“At the end of the hunt, it’s not just about the success. It’s about what you learn along the way and how the experience shapes you. When everything comes together, it’s a reminder that the best moments are earned through hard work, patience, and a bit of luck.”
As I reflect on my time in the Washington elk woods, I give thanks to the Lord above for allowing me to do what I love and for the opportunity to harvest an animal as majestic as a Coastal Roosevelt. I can finally say I have had success chasing the ghosts of the Washington Coast. I’d also like to give thanks to the guys at camp who stayed on me to keep after them. Louie, Kenny, Jeff, Brad, Todd, Mark, and especially Dad, I appreciate all of you guys.
Cole Daniels