At the same time Rich had spotted a real good 4×4 buck with eye guards. “A real wall hanger” he said. He was with about eight does across the draw about 300 yards away. When Rich tried to rattle to coax him in his direction the buck bolted in the opposite direction. Rich was unable to relocate him the rest of the morning.

We met up at noon after I climbed out of the hole I had hiked into. We both were pretty drained, but optimistic since 1) Rich had seen a buck; and 2) I had found a scrape, proof that the rut was on or at least picking up. We spent that evening glassing from the rock we had intended to be at that morning. At five minutes after shooting light, a buck fed out 400 yards away but all we could do was watch as he fed on the small open patch. Two does fed one finger over as well. Besides it being too late, the wind was wrong for a stalk. We hiked out of there back up the hill in the dark with our headlamps on.

The trip began with a five hour drive right after work Friday night. I had loaded everything I would need in old “Mighty Whitey” , the 2001 GMC crew cab pickup. That included the 12×12 Alaknak II, a borrowed tent woodstove and 4 coolers. The coolers were designated “Frozen Food”, “Cold Food” “Drinks and Ice”, and “Cool food”. I had enough to feed four people for nine days or more. Of course I had hunting clothes and gear as well. I arrived in camp at 11:00 pm to a foggy, misty drippy site where Rich, my hunting partner had already erected a dome tent. Without unpacking more than my sleeping bag and pad, we sacked out and listened to the drips hitting the roof of the tent.

Day 1 , Saturday

We hunted right out of camp on Saturday morning. We still hunted and did some rattling through the scrub oak that lined the side of the hills. I caught a quick glimpse of a buck slipping away one ridge over, but we were not able to verify if it was a buck or not. I’m betting it was. We hunted until noon, then returned to set up camp.

By 3 pm camp was set. Rich’s dome tent was the cooking station, and my 12×12 tent with woodstove was the sleeping quarters and dining area. We slipped out for an uneventful evening hunt and to make a plan for the next morning. We had not anticipated the Quail hunters in the area would be so prevalent, and the echoes of gunshots reverberated through out the countryside. We also saw some bear hunters in the area.

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.

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. 

I had numerous stalks that were foiled by brush, wind or other deer busting us. 

On Sunday I got to 33 yards on a 3 point buck who saw me and bounded off before I could get a shot. 

Monday, I stalked 3 bucks with Cal who we watched bed below us.  Swirly winds must have alerted them because we arrived at empty beds 2 hours later.  That afternoon, we spotted a buck below us  who, by the time we got into position, got up to feed, and was spooked off by another buck.  We were caught in the open as the new buck fed across the hillside, oblivious to us. 

A doe bedded above caught our movement and sounded the alarm.  Our quarry stepped off over the ridge not really knowing why.  We named these two bucks “Butch and Sundance” since they managed to slip away. We laughed to ourselves that they were probably asking each other: “Who ARE those guys?”

Tuesday, we went on a long ride to see some new country.  By 9:00 am we had seen 9 bucks.  After letting the horses graze in a patch of aspens for a couple hours we rode up a canyon, spotting bucks in the mahogany above us.  Groups of 3, 4 and 5 bucks peered at us from each finger.  It was amazing despite the fact that the bucks had our wind and elevation. 

We arrived near the 10,000 ft mark, tied the horses below the ridge  and continued glassing for deer.  A group of bucks fed out on the bare ridge 500 yards away.  A bowhunter on foot crested a saddle 500 yards below the deer, unaware that they were there.  When the bucks saw him they spooked towards us, and we ran for a saddle that looked to be a likely escape route. 

The bucks didn’t run through the saddle but stuck to the mahogany and pinons.  He ended up bedding on my right 50 yards away, and when I tried to get in a position to shoot, he spooked then stopped and gave me a final look at 110 yards.  He was an honest 30 -inch wide buck of my dreams that walked out of my life on that hot afternoon.

If that wasn’t enough, I spotted a group of 10 bucks as we rode back to camp feeding on a sage covered hillside, 220 yards away.  I was making a stalk when to my left, a group of 8 bucks spotted either me or the horses behind the hill, and ran through the group of 10 bucks.  Following them was another 5 bucks.  The Herd of 23 bucks all bounded over the saddle in front of me, raising a cloud of dust that stretched for half a mile.  I was dumbfounded.

The day’s total of deer spotted was a Whopping 51 BUCKS.  A remarkable day indeed.

 Wednesday and Thursday we went back to country we had spotted and stalked deer in before.  Once again we pursued “Butch and Sundance” but they managed to elude us each time.  On one memorable stalk I had one of the bucks explode from an open saddle 38 yards away as I was looking at the mahogany patch we had spotted him in days prior. 

Thursday night I sat near camp with binos and spotting scope and watched 4 good bucks feed out at last light.  I marked the tree they fed out into the open from, and made plans for the morning.

Friday morning I woke at 4:00 am and started the 3/4 mile hike up the hill in the dark, gaining 1000 feet in elevation.   I shivered until the sun’s rays reached my hideout just 20 yards back from the crest of the hill the bucks were on.  I spied two of the bucks 100 yards on the other side of the hill feeding in my direction, but in the open.  Then according to Cal and Jerome who watched from afar, the bucks fed back into a rugged steep tree covered draw.   I retreated back down to camp hungry and tired.  After a quick nap, and tending to the horses I filled up on water and snacks and hiked back up the hill, determined to catch the bucks when and if they decided to feed out into the open again. 

The arduous climb was one to remember.  It was 85 degrees in the shade and the sun radiated off the rocks, causing me to consume all my water on the way up to the dry, rocky lookout.  It was going to be a dry, thirsty evening.  By the time I reached the vantage point I had six hours of light left. 

Those six hours were spent searching with binoculars through the cover the deer had fed into.  I followed the faint hint of a trail up into a basin ringed by rimrock on one side and a grassy ridge on the other.  The shadows were getting long when I spotted a buck bedded in the sage, with another behind him.  the wind was wrong, the terrain was open, and time was slipping away.  All I could do was snap pictures as they caught my scent and slipped over the hill.

The day ended without a punched tag, but it will be a hunt I will always treasure.  My first hunt in Nevada with great friends, great country, and more of an appreciation for the value of pre-season conditioning and a good mountain horse.  If the tag allotment will allow it, Cal and I plan to return for Round 2 in a couple of years.  We have some scores to settle.  Butch and Sundance will be saying ” Who are those guys?”  I know it.

“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.

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.

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.