So my dad shot a bull from his tree stand in unit 15C on the evening of the 13th; good rest, 75 yards, .300 H&H Magnum, neck shot. The bull went down hard, and dad started to climb out of the tree. In the time that took, the bull got up and eased off into the willows. Dad blood-trailed him until dark, but lost him. The next morning, five of us went out there and combed the area; no bull. "Well," we said, "the brown bears, coyotes and ravens'll have a good meal." Two days later, a mile to the west, Dad's best friend John was staking out a little muskeg and saw a cow run out of the brush, followed closely by a big bull. The brow tines were two and two, and John agonized for a few moments before taking the shot. Broadside lung shot, Weatherby .378-338 Magnum, perfect kill, right on a trail only a half mile from camp! We all pitched in and had the big fella hanging in a few hours. As I was skinning the neck, I noticed all this yellow Crisco-looking stuff all over the muscle, but didn't think too much of it until I found the bullet. "Hey John, you want your bullet back?" I yelled. John looked at me funny. "That's not my bullet," he said. "I shot him through the ribs."
"You know what," Dad said, "that's MY bullet." We all had a good laugh for a while. That's why we couldn't find that bull the other night; he was out chasing cows with his neck shot to hamburger and filled up with pus! We found John's bullet just under the skin of the shouler on the other side; two old moose hunters have mementos of a great season, and a great bull. Here's a picture of the rack, which measures 57".