“OH MY GOD,” I said to Randy. “Here he comes.” We plunked to our knees right in the open meadow, crouching tight to the ground as if we could actually hide behind the little wisps of bunchgrass and the last scant aster blooms. We may as well have rolled up in a couple of punch buggies for how well hidden we were. But that didn’t stop the bull.
He left three cows skylined at the top of the slope and thundered down a chute between banks of neon aspens before sprinting into the meadow. At 100 yards or so, he slowed to a trot and then, at 50, to a fast walk. At 30 yards, he paused to scream and slobber in our faces. And then he kept coming—straight on.
I couldn’t risk drawing, so I just held my bow out in front of me and tried to disappear. It was preposterous. I felt like a hippo