It had been almost 20 years since I'd gone deer hunting with a rifle, and the switching of gears from archery elk season to targeting deer proved to be super fun. I roamed all new parts of regional public lands, places that I'd never seen or necessarily even knew were public, and that alone became addicting, and within a handful of days in the field I'd had so much fun that I declared the effort a success. Absolute satisfaction came when I climbed a thousand or so feet up a mountain, and in a series of north-facing coves that from Google Earth had caught my eye as ideal zones I'd hope to find bucks. No sooner had I taken my old 7mm to hand and put around in the barrel did I side-hill into a sagebrush pocket to find exactly what I was looking for.
Following an hour or so of negotiating the topography and swirling wind I gathered my composure and executed a hundred yards shot that put my best buck to date into our freezer. Along with fishing, many of my fondest childhood memories took place in the sagebrush deserts of southeast Oregon deer hunting with my dad. As a youth, mule deer bucks were an icon of my imagination, in the quarry of my first years as a big game tag holder. Pretty luck never smiled upon my father and I though, and short of one fork and horn buck from Majestic Steens Mountain, our dreams of gripping 4x4 racks remained only that, dreams.
In 2013 I lost my father as the result of a freak cycling accident. Our relationship had broken down over the five or so years leading up to that, and now, when I reach for some of my best memories with him, they take me back to deer hunting in the 1980s. My dad had outrageous enthusiasm for many things, he would light up like crazy at the most modest sized fish or game animal. Unfortunately, he never harvested anything that could be considered even close to trophy class nor had I.
When I look back now at my modest but respectable 2015 buck, I can only imagine the excitement he would have expressed if he could have seen me take a buck like that. His voice rings crisp in my imagination, and I can hear him saying, wow what a buck, wow I'm so proud of you son. As described earlier in my 2016 Rutt Report, our tree season had brought me incredible success and the continuation of this new streak, one of big game success. Armed with knowledge gained in the last year's deer hunt and confidence that only a blood stained backpack can bring, I eagerly anticipated this year's general rifle deer season.
Following a 10 day bout with the worst cold I can recall, I made my plans for my first deer hunt of the season. I've often stated that because of my love for adventure, tagging out on the first day of any season would absolutely suck. Without echoing in my mind, I contemplated strategies as I admired a handsome buck bedded far below me. He was 490 yards away on a random plot of private land, but I speculated that if I stayed put, he would eventually get up and migrate uphill into better cover once the morning son eventually blazed down on him.
As I'd hoped, the buck did just that and wove his way through the sage up the steep terrain of crags, bitter brush and willows. Still far out of range, I watched the buck disappear into a fold of terrain. He was now off the private and onto beloved public land. An hour later he had not emerged, so I opted for a stalk that would deliver me to a close range of antich into the hidden goalie.
As I approached the crest above the buck, I slowed to a creep with my rifle mid-shoulder. The day was calm as a candle flame, without a breath of wind, and I could hear each pebble crunch under my slow motion footsteps. A short distance below me, I heard a light rustling and knew that had to be the buck. I peered through the tops of brush and spotted antler tips, tilting back and forth.
The slightest squeak of my rifle-sling jolted the buck's attention in the rack's spun in my direction. He was seven-year-eighty yards away, and I'd spotted him first, yet he'd had me pegged, even though he couldn't directly see me. I was only inches below his field of view, and if it weren't for his antlers, I'd never know he was there. The standoff began as his vigilant stare seemed to penetrate the partial sagebrush curtain that concealed me.
I was mid-stride and straddling a large bush. A few minutes into the stillness contest, I could swear he was going to hear the muscles in my legs and ask, cramping. The slightest movement would certainly tip him off, and he'd be able to vanish down the steeper vene with one jump. I'd intentionally delayed this stock until the direct October sunshine would have the day's warming thermal sliding uphill.
I was sure glad of that, as the buck's rack finally began to rotate and wobble again, indicating that he'd return to nibbling the golden delicious colored willow in front of him. It was clear that in these conditions the buck could hear the slightest sound, and even the most careful step was going to draw his attention back to me. My feet just as well may have been planted in cement. If I was going to have a shot at this buck, I'd have to find a way to make it happen from this current scenario, and I couldn't hold my awkward stance much longer.
At half a sloth's pace, I raised my rifle into shooting position, eventually bringing the glass of scope to my eye. I was able to see his head and neck, but the old-growth sage blocked his body. The ground threatened to crunch, and even the slightest shifting of weight from one foot to another. I kept trying to find my crosshairs a clean line of sight to the mass of the buck's body.
I extended painfully high on tippy toes, and leaned as far to one side as I could, craning my neck and torso. I found the shot. For a second I contemplated a checklist, nothing behind the buck to worry about hitting. Yes, I had my tag in my pocket, was sure I was in the right unit.
Yes, it's a beautiful buck, and although I wish the experience of deer hunting could take me exploring longer, I couldn't accept the potential of a buck like this as a haunting memory of hindsight regret. So I let the lead fly. At 70 or so yards and literally no elapsed time between firing and the bullet's impact, the shot was actually too close to hear the definitive thump of a hit. The buck simply vanished from view.
As I approached the spot where he was standing, I expected to find him on the ground, but he wasn't there. Close examination revealed not a drop of blood. Scanning steeply downhill in the direction he'd fled, I could see telltale tracks hauling ass down the draw with enormous gaps between each stride. The narrative in my head had taken a sharp turn.
Dumbfounded, I reconstructed the events and contemplated how I possibly could have missed. I recall the time when I was 13 or 14, and a fantastic non-typical buck with extra points emerged from the thick timber at a similar close range like this. Crystal clear, I remember setting my sights squarely on that magnificent buck. The close range shot felt perfect, one jump and he too fandished out of sight.
Hours later, my dad and I left with shoulders slumped, and my head hung in disappointment and disbelief. Somehow I'd missed the buck completely. I felt so embarrassed and incompetent, totally defeated. It was a common feeling my old man and I knew.
The sour taste of a pill we had to swallow most every fall during a decade or more of hunting together. As with my archery bowl last month, I shook these thoughts out of my head and reassured myself that the shot was solid. I strapped my pack on, chambered another round, and set my gaze to the line of tracks on wrap traveling away from me. When I reached the farthest visible track, a splash of red practically leapt from the sage.
I knew it, I proclaimed to myself. A short distance later, the trail revealed all the signs of a buck hit hard and whirling out of control down the mountain. I could plainly see where the buck had died mid-air, lost his legs, and fell into a tumble. The tracks told the story as clearly as if I'd witnessed it in real time.
I paused and took a knee on the slope, knowing that my dandy buck was expired and somewhere right below me. For many years I dreamt of savoring a moment like this, and I soaked it all in. Just later, I spotted the fella, clearly at peace, and waiting to be claimed. Very similar and slightly larger than my buck last year, this harvest represented tremendous fulfillment for me.
Still far short of true trophy class by any technical definition, I gazed in awe at this buck which was a prize trophy to me. Flat out beside myself with joy and pride, I reconnected with my dad, imagining the things that he would be saying and the beaming smile that would be on his face had he been there with me. Sweat drips steadily from the bill of my hat as I worked a field dress, deboned, and strapped the buck to my overloaded pack. I was overcome with happiness and gratitude.
Now back at my desk I cherish this memory and I look forward to the opportunity to take kids of my own deer hunting one day with the recognition that these are the greatest days of our lives. Stop and soak your moments in. I think you'll be glad you did. Thanks for listening and coming along.