When I was in my 20s, I told my Dad that if he shot something I would pack it out for him. He was hesitant to get too far from the truck, but I wanted him to have a good hunt and not worry about the pack out. I took off, thinking I was a stud, and went way in, lots of miles and altitude.
I didn't see a single elk. I checked in with him on the radio as scheduled at 9:30 am. He had elk on the ground. So, I hiked all the way back to where he was. Turns out he shot 2 cows (had an either sex and a list B cow tag). His buddy also shot a cow out of that herd. Two others in our group connected that morning for a total of 4 cows and a bull down.
I took two hind quarters off of a cow, and hiked to the camp. I dumped the meat and my rifle, grabbed more water, and headed back in. Dad and his buddy were still making their way out with a quarter of a cow each.
By the time they got back, I had Dad's other cow mainly broken down and was getting a drink before starting the next trip out. We were talking and carrying on, with everyone in camp tagged out but me. Then a bull and two cows walked out at 75 yards and stopped broadside. Between us and camp.
Dad handed me his rifle, and I rested it across some of the meat from his cow. As I started to squeeze the trigger on the bull, Dad said "it hits a little high". I asked "how high" and couldn't get an answer to if it was an inch high or a foot high. The bull wandered off. Probably a blessing in disguise. I packed elk well into the night.
I got my cow 4 days of hard hunting later. (also had an either sex tag but was holding out for a bull).