Weekend of Oct 24th

The trip started with meeting up with my hunting partner Rich Howarth, Friday night at our ranch.  We loaded his gear in the pickup and headed up to the hunting area.  We probably left at 9:00 pm.  By 1:00 am we arrived at the camp site of another one of my local contacts, also named Rich.  For story telling purposes he will be OLD Rich.  Old Rich had hunted this country since he was a teenager, and had 40 years of experience.  At first light we had loaded up in the pickup and went off to the spots he thought we needed to know.

We went to sleep under the stars like the weekend before.  This time with the acorns falling each time the wind blew.  

We spent the morning  learning more access points to the rugged areas we wanted to get to.  Each landmark had a hunting story, and forty years of history unfolded as Old Rich told of bucks taken and bucks that got away. 

We stopped back at camp for a bite of lunch.  Young Rich and I went for a walkabout that afternoon.  We only found a dead coyote, but we had boots-on-the-ground experience and found some vantage points we hadn’t seen previous.

That night young Rich panfried up some potatoes and onions that he served with bear backstrap from this years bear.  It was outstanding.  It was a testament to how good bear meat can be if prepared properly. 

The next morning we delved deeper into the fringes of our go-to spot.  We saw deer hanging in camps and heard shots.  We even spotted a doe and fawns feeding midday. 

We finally packed up at mid-day and bid fare well to Old Rich.  Since it was the last day of the Rifle season the road had a number of hunters headed home as well.  After a couple of stops to chat with other locals about our up coming hunt.  Each had a nugget of advice we filed away for future reference. 

We made it back to the ranch in the dark, and Rich still had to go home.   For the next 3 weeks we will stay in contact as we pull together our camp gear and make plans for a week long hunt.

After traveling 1200 miles in two days, it was anti climatic to head out on the dirt and gravel roads in search of speedgoats and to get a lay of the land and formulate a plan for how I was going to get into archery range. 

As a horseback and afoot type hunter in my usual mountain hunts, it was different to be driving at 50 mph and “hunting”.   It is foolhardy to think that you are going to set out on foot from camp and cover enough ground to see antelope.  These critters live in wide open country and even though they are prolific, it still can be a couple miles between sightings.  So if you are going to spot antelope, you are going to be burning fuel in some motorized conveyance. 

With the wetter than normal rainfall the area received, water was plentiful.  I had my doubts about setting up on a water source.  both because the ranchers have developed abundant numbers of pipelines and windmills for the cattle, and the fact that every low spot seemed to have a small body of water in it.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday

In the first three days (OK 2.5) I concentrated on spotting pronghorns from the road and trying to execute a stalk.  In that amount of time I attempted over 20 stalks.  Never did I ever think I was in my effective range. 

I tried decoying bucks with harems and I tried decoying lone bucks.  I got their attention but they could see all they wanted to see from 150 yards, and didn’t feel the need to get any closer.  The rut was not on yet.

I tried to find bucks on the back side of a hill for a stealthy approach, but the long sloping topography made for a long shot once I crested the hill.  Inevitably, I was spotted before I could get into range.

So I resigned myself to finding a water source to set up a pop-up blind and wait in ambush.  In my travels I spotted a ridge that separated a large chunk of public land from view from the road.  I walked the 1/2 mile to the top of the ridge and spotted a buck with a group of does in a draw.  On the ridge behind them was a galvinized steel watertrough.  “AH-HAH!”  I thought.  “I’m going to set up on that trough and catch that buck when he comes to water.”

So I went back a mile or so and parked at another trough on the pipeline.  I loaded up the blind on my backpack and hiked to the trough.  As I was setting up the blind, a sharp eyed doe in the draw spied my movement and the whole bunch ran over the ridge I had spotted them from.   So I set up in the blind in the hopes the speedgoats would return. 

Well, it wasn’t a fun experience. I’m used to “runnin’ and gunnin’” making multiple setups for critters and hiking between attempts.  Sitting in a small tent for the daylight hours was contrary to everything I have come to love about hunting.  The first afternoon I did not prepare by having reading material.  That was a mistake.  Cabin fever set in early and I was a twitchy mess when the sun set.  When I hiked out to the pickup I saw  the herd I spooked feed back behind my blind into another draw.

That night I delivered “the girls” to Greeley to spend the next three days with the kid’s  uncle and grandmother.  While I was hunting on the Grasslands they would be at the Denver Zoo, and Rocky Mountain National Park.  I had a chance for a quick shower, and a shopping trip to outfit myself for a long three days of blind sitting.   That meant snacks, and reading material. 

Thursday, Friday

I sat and looked at a yellow prairie and a silver trough at 20 yds. for fifteen hours from dark ’til dark. 

At 8:30 I had a pronghorn buck come into 160 yards and feed in my direction.  I really thought he was going to come to water and offer me a shot, but he fed past, out of range. 

I read a 400 page novel TWICE before I had any more action.  As the sun dropped down to the horizon, a buck with three does came out of the draw behind me headed for the trough.  When they spotted the blind though their female intuition held them out at 130 yards.  Not liking what they saw, they went over the hill.  I never saw them again before dark.

I was back in the blind the next morning before daylight.  But the resident buck was nowhere to be found.  At 2:00 pm I spied a travelling buck out 400 yards from the trough crossing the prairie.  Just then loud bellows erupted behind me as three range bulls came lumbering past my blind into the neighborhood. 

The three bulls proceeded to drink their fill and then started raising a ruckus, pawing and shoving each other around like 2000 pound teenagers.  When the dirt started hitting the side of my blind, I decided I didn’t want to become collateral damage.  I boogied out of there with 4 hours of light left.

I decided to relocate to a pasture that didn’t have any cattle in it.  There was a creek oxbow that held water a few miles away.  I set the blind up and counted three bucks in the vicinity driving to and from the waterhole in the evening light.

Saturday

I arrived well before daylight hoping the evening was enough time for the resident speedgoats to become accustomed to the blind.  at 10:00 am a group of does and a small buck fed by well out of range.

Other than that, and two bucks who blew in alarm a few hours later, The only other excitement was the bird life at this natural waterhole. 

As the sun set, I resigned myself to another meal of tag stew.  The silver lining to this hunt was that I had a chance to spend it with my wife and children and still get a hunt in. 

I would break down camp the next morning and begin the trip home with the family.

This trip was a unique one for me since it was the first time I have included my wife and 3 daughters (aged 11-9-3) in an out of state big game endevor.  When I go on a trip “with the guys”, it has a tendancy to be less than fully orchestrated, and the creature comforts are less than you might need for three young daughters and a wife.  This was going to require more equipment and planning to be sure it was an enjoyable trip for all.

We had planned on leaving within an hour after I finished work on Saturday.  I thought I would arrive home, throw my bagin and roll.  WEEEELLL, after we put in the pillows, and “blankies” and stuffed animals and DVD’s, it was two hours before we got on the road.   

We fought our way through the Sacramento area weekend traffic and made a quick stop at the Reno Cabela’s store to purchase our shelter for the week.  At a cost of seven hotel nights, we were pleased that the staff threw in a pair of cots with the purchase. 

We found a nook in the pile of supplies in the bed of the pickup and continued on to Winnemucca for the night.   Traveling with the kids seemed to add about 10% to the travel time needed.  We didn’t make it in time for the Basque dinner at the Martin Hotel I was planning, but went straight to sleep.

We were on the road the next morning as the sun came up with threatening clouds overhead.  For the next 14 hours we hit sporadic showers, and in Laramie and Cheyenne, Wyoming  we were treated to a lighting show the high plains are famous for.  That sealed the fact that we would be spending that night in a motel as well.  

The girls got to see their first antelope in Rawlins when we made a pit stop.  The town buck was tending does just off of the highway, feeding on the landscaping outside of the DOT building.   It was a thrill for the girls to see a new critter.

The thunder and lightning ceased that night, and bright and early we drove to the Crow Valley Campground near Briggsdale, Colorado and set up our camp on a bright sunny morning.

We were fortunate to find an unreserved campsite in a  shaded spot, as the weather was bright and sunny in the 80’s.  For most of the week we were the only residents in the 12 spot campground.  We missed the weekend rush, and had a nice lunch before we ventured out on the prairie in search of an antelope.

On the Second Sunday of the California A-Zone General Season my father, and our pointers, Jake and Gator were successful and connected with a Blacktail buck.

Dad was hunting with a group of us as we made a traditional deer drive in Northern California. California permits the use of dogs (one per hunter) during the firearms season, and it is one of the few ways that hunters on the coast can root the secretive blacktail deer out of the thick coastal brush in the steep canyons.

The morning hunt started in a canyon that had a fire some years prior and the brush has grown back with a vengeance. The brush runners entered at the top of the canyon, while other hunters watched the historic escape routes. Old Jake (13 years) made long forays into the steep canyon,and after bringing out a doe, was done in. Luckily he was smart enough to go back to the truck and shade up, so Dad gave him some water and the rest of the day off. Returning to the canyon,Gator wanted to dive off the point of the ridge,but Dad called him to the left side to investigate a likely looking patch of brush. He rousted out a small forkhorn that ran past a hunter on a stand who let him go by.

Young Gator came back, looking for more action. Dad followed Gator down into the patch that had interested him earlier. In a matter of moments he started barking wildly and made a run far down the canyon. Shortly after, the buck apparently circled back up the ridge and came out of the high brush weaving through some lower stuff up towards Dad. His first shot missed and the buck turned and headed up and across the ridge. The second shot entered the top of the shoulder, angling through the neck. Gator made the scene shortly after. Dad remarked “It was just a quail shot” referring to the instinctive follow up snap shot that successful California deer hunters just seem to master with the fleeting opportunities the coastal blacktail offer.

So young Gator got a buck, as seasoned dog runners would put it. With 4weeks left in the season, it’s anybody’s guess as to what the canyons hold,but I think there is a pretty good chance he will roust out a few more before the season is done.

The Long Story….

 It was a challenge getting ready for this hunt. Physically, mentally, and organizationally. I was preparing to go to a new area that I had never set foot in.  I applied at the invitation Jerome, who has hunted elk with my family and I in Wyoming.  Applying with me was my hunting partner Cal Farnsworth, one of my archery mentors, and good luck token. 

Once we found out we were successful in the Draw, it was a scramble to coordinate schedules.  Jerome volunteered to do the cooking, and shopping, as well as contribute a wall tent, folding woodstove, riding stock, and pack animals.  His  25 years of hunting expertise contributed greatly to seeing the number of deer we did on the trip.

We met Jerome at his home on Friday.  We packed coolers and panniers for the 3 pack horse loads, and organized our tack for the morning.  We ended the night with a meal at a local Basque restaurant complete with lamb, sweetbreads, garlic and Picon. 

In the morning we were at the door of the local supermarket at opening  to purchase dry ice and cubed ice for our insulated panniers.  Then we drove to our hunting area, finally arriving at the trailhead in the afternoon.  We had horses saddled and packed and hit the trail at 5:00 pm.  By 8:00 pm we had the tent pitched and a fire started in the stove for a hot dinner as the moon rose over the aspens.

The next six days consisted of many miles covered on foot and horseback from 8500 to over 10,000 feet in elevation. 

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(to the tune of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer)

“Lenny, the crazy horned antelope,
Had some very goofy horns… ”

Kelly, the Bullwinkle Slayer, told us about a hunt she was on with her husband in 2007.

In 2007 my husband drew a coveted antelope archery tag. I didn’t have a tag but you think I’m stayin’ home when there is a good hunt to be had? No way.

I was the designated glassing person. I sat on a high bluff above to watch “in coming”. What a show I had every morning and afternoon!

There was one buck that I named Crazy Lenny (I name everything…that’s a story in itself for another day). He was a young buck with goofy horns. One went forward and the other went backwards and they were just WEIRD! Apparently the other bucks thought he was weird too. He would always be alone, which was odd because many of the younger bucks always had a bud or two with them.

Anyways, whenever Crazy Lenny would show his self, the bucks would gather in a group of anywhere from 4 to as many as one time, 15 and they would stand there looking at him and all at once say ‘THERE’S CRAZY LENNY….GET HIMMMMM”! No, I couldn’t audibly hear them say that but I just know they did. They would chase him from one end of that prairie to the other and back again. Poor Crazy Lenny.  I really did feel sorry for him…when I wasn’t cracking up at the sight.

This happened everyday without fail. I had 5 solid days of glassing and enjoyed every second of it.

Funniest thing I’ve ever seen…well, one of the funniest.

As I was cleaning out my old photos that had not been put in an album, I came across a stack of photos from my days at the University of Idaho.  Among the pictures of my fraternity brothers and events, I found a photo of a successful hunt. 

The photo was from a Sunday evening in November after I had returned from Thanksgiving break.  I was one of three guys who got in Saturday despite the snowstorm that cleared out Sunday morning.  Jeremy McNeal, Brad Warr and I all conspired that Sunday on our plans for the last day before classes resumed.  We all still had unfilled deer tags and there was a couple of days of the whitetail season left.  With a fresh blanket of snow on the ground, we loaded up in my 1977 GMC and drove out of town to a logging deck where we started walking softly through the powder. 

Brad and I went East while Jeremy went West, just following skid trails hoping for a fleeting shot to fill our either sex tag.  Fresh red meat was a scarce commodity in our house of 60 guys and a venison barbecue was always welcome, no matter the time of year. 

We had started hunting in the late afternoon, and I was working a skid road back towards the truck.  Deer tracks from does and fawns were evident, but I had not seen any animals.  Suddenly I heard a shot ring out back towards the truck.  Just a single muffled shot.  When I reached the truck I began to follow Jeremy’s tracks and ran into him a few minutes later, bloody handed and grinning.  He recounted the story that he was following a skid trail and was immersed in a set of bobcat tracks that followed the same direction.  He looked up and a buck jumped to his feet out of his bed, and stared at him no more than 30 yards away.  His shot from the .300 Winchester Mag (I remember because I lent him the shells), took the buck through his left eye and dropped him in his tracks. 

We got the buck loaded up just before dark, and made it back to the fraternity house just as many of the brothers were returning from Thanksgiving with their families.  Brad was kind enough to snap the photo for us 

Bar none this was the biggest buck killed by any of the members of the fraternity.  The buck had 10 long unbroken tines, and a rut swollen neck.  Since Jeremy was my roommate, I got the chance to stare at that beautiful symmetrical rack over the next semester, and think about my unfilled deer tag from that season.

What really made me stop and think was the date on the photo.  It was 15 years ago.  I am not used to thinking about my hunting experiences in that long of a time frame.  But I suppose more and more of my hunting stories will begin to reach that double digit age.  That is despite the fact that many of my hunts are a new experience for me and I feel like I am still learning. 

Since then, Jeremy has settled in the area not far from where he shot that buck.  Someday I hope we can get together and hunt the skid trails of Northern idaho again.

This weekend I performed at the Fall Gathering, in Loomis, California. The Blue Goose Fruit Shed was filled as I opened the show to a sold out crowd of 400 aficionados of the cowboy poetry, music and storytelling. I performed four poems, including my latest “Shotgun and a Shovel” which I will share in a future column I promise.

The highlight of the weekend was that my good friend Kirk Edgerton, invited me to bunk at his house. I didn’t expect the short notice bear hunt we went on that Sunday.

At 4:30 Sunday morning we met up with Mike Hoppis, a successful hunter, predator caller and peace officer from the Sacramento area.  When we reached the hunting area in the Sierras, we were greeted with eight inches of snow, and 25 degrees at daybreak.  We hiked the first three miles of trail with no sign of big game.  The freshest tracks were the chipmunks and tree squirrels who were still caching pine nuts for the deep snow that would accumulate at 7000 feet.  At Kirk’s and Mike’s urging we walked over a small rise and and spied a large patch of Manzanita, across a steep ravine, and a few hundred feet lower. 

Now Manzanita berries are a favored food source for bears in California.  So we took off through the brush and rocks and trees to look for signs of Yogi.  By this time the fog was rolling in and out intermittently, and it had warmed up to 35, maybe 40 degrees.  The fresh snow in the trees and on the brush began to melt and it was a full blown downpour under the trees. By the time we reached the likely looking area we were all wet. 

After an hour of maneuvering to this good looking real estate, we begin to see bear sign. 

As we gazed across the ravine we had just crossed, I saw Kirk’s eyes get wide.  Back below, where we we had glassed across to the ridge we stood on, now a BIG bear was walking across an opening.  All hands scrambled for their rifles, and I took the first shot after Mike ranged the bear at over 400 yards.  Kirk followed with a two shot volley, and the bear disappeared into the timber, seemingly unhurt. 

Well, we three were cold, wet and had just missed the only bear we had seen all day.  As punishment for our poor marksmanship, Kirk decided we needed to go check for blood across the ravine we had circled earlier.  So he dropped off into the jaws of the beast across slick rock faces and through ankle snapping brush.  Once we crossed the creek it was back up through more of the same, to where the bear was standing when we opened fire.  We didn’t find any blood, and Kirk picked up the bear’s tracks in the patches of snow that still remained. 

We slogged back through the “Rain Forest”, soaked through and boots sloshing.  Even my Gore-tex lined boots were no match for the sheer volume of water that had wicked into my socks.  However each of us sported a smile that we had had an encounter.  As we relived the day over a deli sandwich, we all agreed that it had been a worthwhile outing despite missing the bear.

Chad Robvold of Field Dress sent me this story about his cousin’s elk hunt.  I’m sure you will get a kick out of it as I did.

Every year my father, uncle, brother and I get together for a week of non-stop bowhunting in either Colorado, for elk, or North Dakota, for whitetail. This year is like no other, as everyone had a tough year financially and we decided we’ll have to wait until next year to get together. My uncle’s son, however, finally decided he would like to take up bowhunting and drew both elk and mule deer tags. In previous years, he would always join us in the woods, but he never had the passion for the actual “hunt”. He has been calling me every evening to not only rub it in, but mostly to get advice and tell me about the happenings. The story he told me the other night was one we’ll be telling around the campfire for years to come.

 

He scouted pretty well and had been seeing quite a few cows and a couple monster mule deer on a consistent basis. In the morning hunt, he glassed the area they’ve been in and the valley was alive with activity. The mule deer bucks, herd of cows, and a couple rag horned elk were out. A friend came up the night before and the two devised the route to take. They had radios, a perfect wind, and my cousin set out on his first true stalk.

He decided to go after the rag-horned elk, as they were preoccupied with each other in a morning scrap. It didn’t take him long to get within sixty yards. He feels extremely confident shooting within forty yards and as he stopped to figure out the plan, he heard the familiar “crack” to his left.

Now, the rest might be hard for some to believe, but let me tell you, the boy doesn’t have it in him to lie. He looked down the ridge and there was the grand-daddy bull elk standing forty-yards away through the pines. He set up just in front of a pine and some brush preparing for the shot. He couldn’t tell how big, but could see a mass of horns walking directly to him. As the bull came through the pines into clear view, he counted eight points on one side and as he described it, “horns going every direction” on the other. He also noticed the bull had a limp and realized one of his back legs had been shot off just above the knee. An eight by (?), three-legged monster bull elk on his first elk hunt.

The wind was perfect, blowing directly in his face and the adrenaline was kicking in as the bull kept walking to within twenty yards. Never offering a shot, the bull kept coming to ten yards. At fifteen-feet, the bull stopped to relieve himself and my cousin swore he felt the spray on his face. He absolutely had no idea what to do with a bull that close and continuing to get closer and closer. My cousin was slightly above him, as the bull had been walking up the ridge and fifteen-feet quickly became five-feet and then TWO-FEET.

My cousin closed his eyes to try and calm down and when he opened them all he saw were horns surrounding his body. The bull had put his head down to feed and had he turned his head would’ve hit my cousin for sure. Being an agile young man, he slowly contorted to draw his bow, never realizing if he actually would extend his arm he would hit the bull directly in the forehead with the end of his arrow. As the monster grand-daddy lifted his head, they met eyes and I’m sure they both “shat” themselves. I can’t imagine the feeling of looking into the eyes of such a majestic animal at that distance.

In a moment the three-legged eight-point grand-daddy monster bull was gone and my cousin was left standing to wonder what he could’ve done. To me, it doesn’t really matter. He might not ever get the biggest bull in our camp, but he’ll always be able to keep us captivated with the best elk hunt story ever told.

Brent is another fellow Pope and Young Measurer from the San Diego area.  His infectious good humor brings life to what ever gathering he is at.  But when it comes to getting down to hunting Brent is all business.  Even though he hunts ducks (aka sky rats) he hasn’t lost his predatory prowess with a stick and string.  The framing contractor has made his bones with numerous hogs at Tejon Ranch and elk and deer hunts in the West. 

Brent got another nickname while on Safari…Bok Baard.  More about that later..

Brent’s note back to folks at home starts out…

I’m bringing home six animals. Five animals taken with five arrows. None of the first five went more than 40-60 yards.

On with the photos…

Brent’s Zebra that was a big team effort on Day Seven of his trip.

A duiker that has 2 1/2 inch bases and 4 inch horns. (Kinda reminds me of my first blacktail) 

a Hartebeest in the morning from the same blind as the Warthog later on day five .

Brent got this impala on Day Four.  It was the only shooter he saw in nine days. 

Day 2 is a story best told by Brent.  I can’t relate it in the same fashion as he can…

We went to a different ranch about 80 miles away. Animals were hitting the waterhole immediately. These critters consisted of warthogs, kudu cows and calves, nyala cows and calves, vervet monkeys, and eland, no shooters. The day was flying by. This stand was a raised platform built on four 5″ round posts. It was huge, maybe 10′x10′ and draped in netting. I was watching the eland, trying to decide if the bull was a shooter. I couldn’t remember all the criteria for identifying a mature bull for a dozen different species. I decided to pass on the eland bull as I really wanted a kudu and a gemsbok …

 In a split second the eland bolted. I could hear something that was big walking into the waterhole. I cautiously peeked out the observation window and was blown away to see a 2000 lb cape buffalo walking in, followed by another. Two monster bulls, dugaboys came into the waterhole and totally blew my mind. After about two hours of the cape buffalo hanging out and preventing any other critters from coming around, I made a call on the radio.

I asked the guide if I should spook the buffalo so they would leave. The guide’s response was that I should NOT do that because the buff might attack me. He said that they would be there just now to sort things out. Well, the buff didn’t appreciate the noise from the radio. They walked straight to my hide and looked up at me like I owed them money. Then, the biggest bull started thrashing a tree that slammed back and forth into my hide. Then, both buff started ramming the posts that held up my blind.

I was trippin’. This was the most exhilirating experience I have ever had. They rammed, slammed and beat those posts so hard that I was standing up trying to keep my balance. I was thinking that this might be the big one. I was planning for the blind to come down hard. I was locating trees that I might scramble to and climb for my life. I thought about shooting arrows into the posts so that I would have something to hang on to if I had to glue myself to a remaining post. Finally, the truck showed up and they rammed and head slammed the buff out of the way. Then, they told me that they had to offload a kudu and would return just now. They drove away.

The buff came right back and started rockin’ the blind again. After about five minutes, they stopped and went back to the waterhole. I was alive! Seriously, I was more alive then I had ever been.

Then, out of the who knows where, a dozen wildebeest came into drink. I picked out the biggest bull, and focused on him. I attached my release, stood up, drew on the big bull and waited for a shot. They were all squeezed in tight to the water. No shot. I let down. Finally, they started to spread out and I drew again. The big bull had the biggest bosses, was wider than his ears, and looked a whole lot bigger than the others. I placed my 20 on his shoulder and took a breath and squeezed slow. I drilled him perfect. He went 50 yds and collapsed. Whew! What a day. Taking photos of this beest was scary as the buff were only a 70 yds away. One guy stood guard with a .375. My first critter was down.

 

After reading about the adventures of my fellow Pope and Young Measurers I stand in awe, at what they experienced in a 10 day safari.   Both Nate and Brent are hard working, self employed individuals who had to save for quite some time to make this trip.  But to see, hear, and read the excitement that both of these hunters only fuels my fire more, whether it is local blacktail or a far flung destination, because these are guys like me, with businesses and families and work obligations.  If they can do it then I can, and you can too!

PS>  The Bok Baard story as told by Nate Treadwell:

Since we had 2 Brent’s the PH’s needed to keep them straight. They started calling Brent, Bok Baard. That means billy goat, due to his scruffy little goatee.