Chasing bull elk in Idaho had been a dream of mine for over a decade. I had my first taste of elk hunting on a DIY archery trip to Colorado with my dad in 2011. That hunt went about as well as you’d expect for two southern deer hunters from the coastal plain.
Success rates for Colorado DIY archery hover around 5%; we were firmly in the other 95%. But that trip gave me the bug.
When I got home, my cousin (who had a nice Gem State bull hanging on his wall) told me Idaho was where I needed to hunt next time.
Fourteen years later, I stepped off the plane in Boise and headed north to hunt with Table Mountain Outfitters with visions of yellow tamarack and big, bugling bulls. At the same time, I knew I was also bringing a 52-year-old, 5-foot-3-inch body that has spent its entire life at sea level.
I trained hard, counting hundreds of imaginary miles on a stair stepper, in the months leading up to the hunt. But I still knew I would struggle.
I woke up before sunrise on the first day of the hunt, full of hope and optimism. My guide, Dylan Downs, seemed optimistic too as he parked the Can-Am Defender at the trailhead.
“It’s a pretty easy hike in,” he said. Dylan lies.
A few hundred yards later, up a relatively gentle rise by Idaho standards, I was sucking wind like an 80-year-old asthmatic smoker. And I was grateful we hadn’t hiked all the way to where we parked the Defender. That machine had covered ground that would have taken me all day to cover on foot before the sun touched the top of the trees.
I’m not a gearhead, but I know what works. And this machine had earned my respect before I even knew all the specs, although it was probably silently judging my fitness level.
Why This Review Matters
Most side-by-side reviews online read like someone copied and pasted a spec sheet and slapped a happy face on it. There’s even a good chance the person writing the review never stepped a single hunting boot inside the cab. That’s not what I’m doing here.
And after four days of riding ridgelines, dodging downed trees, and chasing bugles, I can tell you this UTV more than passes muster.
I don’t own a torque wrench. I honestly don’t even know why I would need one. I care about one thing. Could this machine help me notch an elk tag in five days?
I didn’t need a vehicle that looked cool on paper or sitting in the driveway. I needed something that could claw up steep, rocky ground fast and without quitting on me. And if it helped me keep a little dignity while I tried to keep up with a mountain-born guide, I considered that gravy.
Can-Am Defender: What Stood Out in the Field
We spent days cruising ridgelines, listening for bugles, and glassing pockets for bulls. Dylan drove the Defender with the confidence of a 20-something daredevil who’s never read a warning label.
The man can drive a side-by-side down a steep two-track at 30 mph while chugging an energy drink, popping a Zyn, and texting all at the same time; and he can still spot elk three counties away. That’s a rare skillset.
The Defender kept up with him. The big HD11 engine pushed us up loose, rocky climbs without slipping, and the wider suspension let us cut around a downed tree blocking the trail. Dylan hit the brakes when we saw that deadfall.
He paused to size it up for about two seconds, whipped the Defender off-trail, threading us between trees and rocks, across a shallow creek, making a wide loop before hitting the trail again well on the other side. It felt a lot like some wild theme park thrill ride, only without having to wait in line or deal with crowds.
The Can-Am Defender handled the whole thing like a champ while the sound system hummed country music as our adventure soundtrack.
The brakes gave me confidence, too. On the morning of Day Two, we nearly bumped into a herd of cows funneling up a ridge about 160 yards out. Dylan hit the brakes, slammed it in park, and I grabbed my rifle.
We were both hoping a bull might be bringing up the rear. But the only thing that showed was a tall spike standing stiff-legged, staring at us like an annoyed teenager who’d just been told to clean his room.
It’s pretty easy, even for someone who isn’t a gearhead, to realize the cab is designed around real use. Plenty of leg room to stretch out tired legs after a rough hike, seats that won’t make your back scream, and a solid HVAC to warm frozen fingers or to cool off in the early fall.
It’s also surprisingly high-tech, with a 10.25-inch touchscreen, on-board GPS, a backup camera, Wi-Fi, and a sound system that rivals my pickup's.
By lunchtime on day one, the Defender had earned my full respect. It didn’t matter to me what the spec sheet said. I didn’t need to know the torque curves or suspension geometry. I just needed it to keep moving and help me hunt.
Can-Am Defender Specs
If you are the kind of hunter who cares about horsepower and torque, here are the stats. The HD11 999cc inline three-cylinder Rotax ACE engine boasts 95 horsepower and 70 ft-lbs of torque. The HD11 powerplant is paired with a continuously variable transmission (CVT) and pDrive primary clutch.
It has three drive modes: Normal, Work, and Sport. We kept it in Work when threading through tight spots, then bumped it to Sport if Dylan decided a steep incline required a little extra enthusiasm.
Traction was never an issue. That Quick-4Lok front differential locked up without drama when we needed it.
The suspension also deserves a mention here. The 2026 models feature new suspension geometry with a 65-inch-wide design and 50 percent larger arched double A-arms.
The suspension and steering components have been beefed up. It has 12 inches of front and rear suspension travel, 15 inches of ground clearance, 262mm front brake rotors, and a high-performance braking system with 32mm hydraulic twin-piston calipers.
The Bull That Made It All Come Together
On the evening of day four, we went after a bull we’d glassed that morning from a distant ridge. I’d watched that 6x6 from over 2,000 yards as it fed along a sparse patch of timber for over an hour before we headed in for lunch. Dylan knew exactly where to set up that afternoon so we could catch him when he got up from his afternoon nap.
We parked low and hiked to a spot a few hundred yards from where he bedded that morning, with a clean view of the open face. The bull finally stood late in the day.
I watched him through the scope as he fed along the ridge, totally unaware he was being watched by a starstruck woman with more adrenaline than sense. The bull turned broadside at 340 yards.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Dylan whispered.
I was focusing hard on controlling my breathing, but I was on the verge of hyperventilating. I sent the first shot clean over his back. The bull took a few steps and stopped to look around as Dylan and another guide tried to soothe him with their cow calls.
I settled again, took a long breath, and put a 7mm PRC round from a Savage 110 Ultralite straight through his boiler room. His back legs wobbled. His rack swayed. I sent another round. He folded into a heap.
It took a minute for what happened to really sink in. “I just shot an elk,” I said out loud, trying to convince myself I wasn’t dreaming. Then it turned into hollering and hugs.
I had worked hard for that bull and so had Dylan, but I’ll say it straight. I never would have been within striking distance without that freakin’ side-by-side hauling me up mountains every day.
The hike up to the bull was rough. It felt like climbing sideways up a wall. Once I finally got to him, though, the moment hit with a jolt. The ridge where he dropped opened into a panoramic punch of Idaho wilderness.
Guides and other hunters showed up to help, and after photos, they came to a quick conclusion. The spot was too steep to break down the animal. The only thing to do was roll him down to the two-track where the Defender waited.
I couldn’t watch. The bull tumbled a few times, neck and legs flailing like they might break. Then, two guides grabbed antlers, another pushed from behind, and together they slid him a good 200 yards down the ridge.
Once he landed on something that barely counted as level, the guys went to work. I tried to help, which mostly meant handing over game bags and trying to stay out of the way of their blades. The way they quartered that animal was pure art. It only took 28 minutes to take that bull from animal to meat.
Dylan backed the Defender up and we loaded the tidy packages into the bed. It swallowed the quarters, the gear, and two passengers without complaint.
I’d love to say I was the hero of that pack-out, but the Defender was the MVP. It did all the heavy lifting. All I did was hoist a front shoulder into the bed.
I rode back to the lodge in the passenger seat, tired and grateful in a way you can only feel when it’s earned. We toasted the bull with a couple of beers at dinner, and I went to bed grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
The Bottom Line
I went to Idaho for the thrill of chasing bulls. I got that. I also came home with a deep respect for the people who live in that country, who handle that terrain and that altitude almost as well as the elk do. I also left with some serious gratitude for the machine that hauled me around those mountains for four days.
The Defender didn’t magically make the hunt a cake walk. I still had to make plenty of steep climbs and suck air so thin it felt like I was breathing through a straw. But it did help make the hunt more manageable for my flatlander legs and lungs. And it did its job every single time we asked it to.
That’s more than I can say for a lot of the gear I’ve hauled into the woods over the years.
There are hunters who crave the kind of grind where you carry everything on your back to camp dozens of miles from the nearest blacktop. I admire them. Heck, I wish I could do that. But I also know my limits. The Defender let me hunt country I’d have been hard-pressed to reach without it. That alone makes it worth talking about.
This wasn’t a lab test. It was four long days in real mountains with real stakes. The Defender kept a middle-aged coastal girl in the game and eventually hauled my dream bull out of those mountains.
If you’re looking for numbers or bragging rights on paper, Can-Am already printed those. What I can tell you is simple. The machine worked. It earned its keep. And I’d hunt with it again in a heartbeat.
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