Laski Luck — Once-in-a-lifetime!

The odds of both father and son shooting bulls in the same
lifetime, 13 years apart, has to be slim!

 

It was 13 years ago, I answered my dad’s call without hesitation.

“Guess what?” he shouted, his voice bouncing with excitement.

My heart skipped a beat. “What?” I asked, expecting he’d won something.

“I won the lottery!” he shouted.

I froze. “Dad, you mean like, real money lottery?”

“No, no, better than that!” He was vibrating with glee. “The Michigan elk lottery!” They drew my name for the December hunt! We are going on a Michigan Bull Elk hunt, son!

I’ll always remember that cold December morning loading up his Dodge Ram to head to Elk Camp. The drive up to Canada Creek Lodge was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you wonder if the wilderness has been holding its breath just for you. My dad and I hauled our gear in, eyes wide at the rustic charm of the lodge, the smell of pine and campfire wrapping around us was welcoming. This was Michigan elk country!

Day 1 started with high hopes. We trudged through the snow. Dad had his rifle slung over his shoulder. Scanning, glassing fields, looking for tracks, and listening to the radio as other hunters had opening-day success.

Day 2 was much the same—silent forests and distant bugles teasing us from beyond the ridge. The other hunters seemed to be finding luck we couldn’t touch. By day 3 and 4, frustration was starting to nibble at the edges of excitement. We shared stories over beers and elk burgers with fellow hunters at the Elbow Inn in Atlanta. Listening closely to the success stories, I had high hopes for day 5 for my dad. Dad just chuckled, with his optimism steady, reminding me that patience was part of the hunt.

Day 5 at Canada Creek Outfitters, the miles were starting to add up and the mornings felt heavier than the first. Michigan bull elk tags come once in a lifetime, and my dad knew every step mattered. He’d been patient all week—watching, glassing, learning the country—waiting for the right opportunity rather than rushing the moment.

That afternoon, he eased his way into a stand of tall pines where the woods grew quiet and thick. The air was still, and tucked into the shadows were multiple elk, bedded down and unaware. He settled in, steady and calm, knowing this was the kind of place where patience paid off.

Among them was a mature 6×5 bull. My dad and his guide waited, barely moving, letting time stretch. When the bull finally stood, the moment arrived exactly as it was supposed to. One clean shot, right there in the pines, the bull dropped and the hunt was over. In that instant, years of dreaming and preparation came together. Filling a once-in-a-lifetime Michigan bull elk tag isn’t just about the harvest—it’s about the effort, the respect for the animal and the memories earned along the way. On day 5 at Canada Creek Outfitters, my dad’s hunt became a story that we will tell the rest of our lives.

The morning of June 24, 2025, my Dad called me to tell me to head over to his place ASAP. I figured we had an emergency tree job, nothing felt out of the ordinary. When I walked in, I could tell something was different by the way he stood frozen in time, like somebody had pressed pause. Then he looked up, eyes wide and grinning the same grin I’d only seen once before. “You drew it,” he said, voice shaking. “You actually drew a Michigan bull elk tag.”

Lightning has struck twice!!! Michigan Bull Elk License — Successful Applicant.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Michigan only offers a handful of bull elk tags each year. People apply for decades and never draw one. It’s the kind of tag you talk about as a “maybe someday,” the kind you don’t let yourself expect. And somehow, impossibly, my name had been pulled from the hat. The only thing I could think while hugging him tight was, “It’s time to run it back, Pops.” I was in the hot seat now with big shoes to fill following his 6×5 he killed at Canada Creek in 2012.

The weeks leading up to the season felt unreal. Every map I studied, every piece of gear I checked, carried extra meaning. I wasn’t just preparing for a hunt; I was preparing for a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Friends and family treated it the same way—half excitement, half disbelief.

“You know how lucky you are, right?” they kept saying.

When Friday, December 12, finally arrived, it felt like the night before Christmas. It was my turn to load up the Dodge Cummins and hit the road to Michigan’s Elk Country. A great feeling that was so familiar, yet this time I was feeling the pressure.

The morning broke crisp and golden. The kind of cold that makes your lungs ache a little, but feel alive. I loaded my gear into the truck, the smell of leather mixing with the lingering aroma of coffee. The phone is ringing, my best friends Grant Wolf and Justin Hoffman are blowing up the phone to get the address to meet at Elk Camp 2025!

The night before my season opened was overwhelming. Heart racing, no sleep, tossing and turning, feelings of pressure to perform with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity on the line. I was told by many, good luck sleeping the night before your first day. That statement was so true, I don’t remember ever falling asleep.

Opening Day

Having not slept, I was a bit nervous about how I would hold up, fueled only on caffeine and adrenaline! With a real feel wind chill of -7 and snow falling with no end in sight, I knew I had quite the opening day ahead of me. At noon, we finally cut tracks on two good-sized bulls. They were 100 yards out by the time we made up our minds and got the sticks ready. Then the wind switched and we were busted. As we tracked further, they picked up a third bull; now we were on the tracks of three. Again, getting within 100 yards of them, my buddy Justin spotted a 300-plus-inch bull, the one that joined them. I do everything I can to see through the binoculars what he sees. I have a scope that only goes down to 6.5 power, so with deadfalls and brush blocking the vitals, I had no clear shot. The bulls caught onto us while trying to get moved and set up for an ethical shot. With bulls on the move once more, we were back to square one, trying to decide if we should track them even further.

We decided to back out and make the trek back to the vehicle. That ride out was filled with so much excitement, yet a feeling like ‘the one’ got away. That was a hard pill to swallow. Having so many miles in the boots on the first day, all three of us were contemplating how physically demanding the week was going to be with more snow in the forecast.

The Elk Horn was hosting an elk pole for opening day, and the boys and I wanted to check it out. I had mixed feelings as I rolled into the elk pole that evening. Playing back each moment from my hunt, second-guessing decisions made, wanting to have a bull of my own hanging there. However, it was awesome to see and hear the stories of the lucky hunters’ success. If you haven’t been to the Elk Horn Bar and Grill, it’s a must. Their elk burgers and prime rib were outstanding and even better, they have a heavy hand when pouring your favorite mixed drinks to warm you up after a cold hunt.

Luck wasn’t on our side. Day after day, nothing. Tracks that led nowhere, distant bugles that never came closer. Doubt started to creep in, whispering that maybe this trip wasn’t going to pay off. We were all exhausted, really feeling the miles in the snow, hiking with wet, cold, sweaty feet. My buddies Grant and Justin helped me keep my head in the game. Reminding me to keep my chin up, because this hunt was far from over. I appreciated it because I was starting to get a bit frustrated with little leads on a shooter bull. Sunday, Monday and Tuesday all came to pass with no success.
Wednesday, Day 5!

Sevens have always been my lucky number. Superstitious as I am, I just had “that feeling” that December 17 was going to be the day. With the snow melting quickly at 40 degrees, we needed to cut a track in a hurry.

We started our morning on a much larger piece of land in the Pigeon River Forest Country. Immediately spotting a fresh bull track. This track was a no-brainer as it was the size of a Clydesdale horse!

We waited for legal shooting time, then got locked and loaded to hit the track like a couple of hound dogs. About a mile in on this track, we now had tracks everywhere. Multiple beds made it tricky to decipher which track was our target bull. Thankfully, by mile two, they had split back off the big herd, three bulls heading straight north into the ridges. Once we made it to the top of the first ridge, we got busted immediately by three bedded bulls that probably watched as we closed the gap on them.

The two bulls that had the largest tracks hung together, and the third broke off in a different direction. We gave them just a few minutes to calm down. Then decided it’s now or never, time to catch these bulls. We ran when they ran and walked when they walked, using the wind to our advantage to hike up to the tallest ridge to see if we could glass them. Immediately upon reaching the top, our guide froze and hit the deck. We quickly followed suit. All of us hunkered down in the snow, staring face to face with the bulls from one ridge to the other. They were about 300 yards out. We glassed the bull and could make out that he had 5 heavy tines on his left side.

In range, once again, yet the same scenario as day one. Tree tops and deadfalls in our way for a clear ethical shot. We waited what seemed like forever for him to bed down. Then backed out, hoping to use the adjacent ridge for cover and an ambush point to go in and make the kill.

Checking the wind, everything was right. I felt like it was now or never. We used the ridge as cover, working our way to the top. Once we got there, we came to a halt. We were immediately busted by the bull we couldn’t get eyes on while glassing from across the ridge. Busted twice now, trying to work these bulls, my only positive thought was, third time’s a charm.

We decided to take the bedded bull tracks, as we knew he had a solid five on one side and was an older bull by the size of the tracks. Now he was alone headed his own direction from the other two. Our guide knew right away he had probably been run before and was a mature bull just by how he was positioning himself over and over to put the wind at his face.

By mile six, it seemed like he had our number. We agreed that maybe it was best to not waste the entire day and go find a less pressured animal. Well, he turned toward the nearest road, so we decided to push onward, since we had to head that way to reach a truck to get scooped up. At this point, we were all tuckered out. Eating snow for hydration because we had no food or water and now we were over four hours into this hike.

As we pushed on, exhausted, our guide looked down in disbelief. He noticed the bull was double-stepping in his own tracks! Our guide said, “Get ready, this means he’s as tired out as we are.”

This was the best sign we had all day that we were closing the gap. We had one more hill between us and an area that had been previously logged. We could tell the woods were opening up.

As we crested that final hill, all hell broke loose!

There he was, standing at maybe 75 yards. A chip shot, yet only a small area of his vitals was showing between the trees. The moment of truth was now and if I didn’t react quickly, we were about to be busted once again. Standing in the wide open with just two trees separating him from seeing us, my heart rate is now at 200 beats per minute. I took one deep breath, let half out, and squeezed the trigger. After my 300 Win Mag went off, all I could see was where he was initially standing.

As I’m trying to find the bull in the scope for a follow-up shot, my guide says, “You smoked him, man! You dropped him in his tracks!”

He went down so quickly I couldn’t even process what had happened.

We high-fived. Celebrating was bittersweet. It was finally over. Never giving up on that bull, all the miles on the boots, all the hard work had finally paid off. A once-in-a-lifetime Michigan bull elk tag was filled.

A prime example of being resilient and never giving up! Now, five hours into our hike, the real work was about to begin. We were 1,000 yards from the nearest road. Long story short, packing out a nearly 700-pound animal by taking multiple trips with just an ice fishing sled and three guys was quite a task before sundown.

With the hunt and hard work finished, we headed down to Vanderbilt to celebrate at the Elk Horn, to toast to the points and share our story with fellow hunters. All I could think about though, was calling my dad to tell him the news! Life felt full circle in that moment. Father and son are both successful ‘Bull Hunters.’

It started in 2012, and now running it back in 2025! The odds of both father and son in the same lifetime, almost a decade apart, has to be slim.

Big thanks to Dan Connel and Scott Connel for guiding me to success on a hunt of a lifetime. Couldn’t have done it without you boys. If anyone is looking to hunt Michigan elk, calling and booking with these guys would be a good start!

The author, Max Laski is a charter captain on the Detroit River and Lake St. Clair. Check him out at www.Laskisportfishing.com