When It All Comes Together

“42 yards” my father whispered as I reached full draw and filled my peep sight with the golden tan of a 5x5 bull. My pin settled behind his second to last rib, the shot broke perfectly. My green nock flew through the early evening shadows, right to the spot I was aiming. Liver, offside lung, 20” of penetration, and 50 yards later the bull was done. Photos, prayer, and celebration, then the realization that my father and I had less than an hour of daylight left to get this bull broken down.

A true trophy: an elk backstrap

We have thought about this moment all year long, the chance to put our knives and backs to work. As the light faded we were nearly halfway done. Utilizing the gutless method of removing meat makes for a much easier process, essentially working from the outside in. Slicing along the spine and using the hide as a “tarp” to work on, we remove backstraps, quarters, neck and rib meat, then lastly we go in behind the last rib to get the prized tender loins. Meat goes into game bags and is hung in trees or set on top of logs to cool.

The night has now closed in on us, 9pm finds us finished processing the bull. We load up the tender loins, backstraps, and rear quarters in preparation for the 2 mile hike back to camp, all uphill from here! We’ve made this hike dozens of times both this year and years prior, so following the trail etched into the hillside wasn’t difficult. The heavy weight and darkness made our progress slow, but steady. The trail splits off in several spots going in multiple directions within the canyon bottom. We find ourselves in an unfamiliar looking clearing, backtrack, only to stand on the edge of a swamp. Where the heck were we?! Backtracking again over thick deadfall with heavy packs and weary minds in the dark made for an uneasy feeling. We got back on the trail and ended up back at that clearing, the moonlight now illuminated the open hillside, my dad reflects “I think we’re on the downhill side of the clear cut!”. Breaking into the clearing and heading uphill, his thought is confirmed. All that lies ahead of us now is a steep, but short climb up “the hill”.
The hill is a 40 degree, lightly timbered logging road from years past. Our weary bodies trudge through the moonlight upward towards our camp. Stopping periodically to let the lactic acid burn subside, we are nearly there. The road flattenes out and we can see the white of the camper through the pines. 11:30pm finds us slinging our heavy packs off onto the ground next to the camper. The hike from the bottom of the drainage to camp should not have been a two and a half hour ordeal, but we made it. Tenderloin for dinner to replenish our exhausted bodies then bedtime, the remaining meat and antlers would have to wait until the following morning.

Looking up the hill towards camp

It required two more trips to get the bull up to camp, each load was roughly 75-80 pounds on my meat frame, and 35-50 on my dad’s. High noon found us at the bottom of the canyon loading up the final bags of meat and the head of my bull. Roughly 800 vertical feet of elevation and 2.3 miles separated us from camp, not an excruciating pack out, but we have had easier ones. When loading the meat in your pack or on your frame, it is important to secure the meat tightly and keep it as close to your back as possible. 80 pounds of meat will make you terribly unstable when traversing uneven terrain, and if you fall, the added mass will make the ground feel a lot harder. It seems easy to want to be a hero and load as much weight as you can into your pack, but in the long run, you will only be damaging your joints and feet. Taking care of the meat at the kill site by hanging it or propping it up on logs to allow plentiful airflow will nearly eliminate the possibility of meat spoilage. It took us three trips to get the bull out, and after it was all said and done, I gave my dad half of the bull for his help packing it out.

Triumph, the last trip out

The beautiful struggle of packing out an animal harvested with your bow is unrivaled by anything in the world. Filling the freezer with meat you have procured through your own hard-fought effort is a fantastic accomplishment. Every time you eat the meat from a game animal, it is difficult not to relive the hunt, envision the shot, think about the pack out, and reminisce on the journey that got that animal into your freezer. This is why we work so hard all year, shooting our bows, learning our gear, testing our limits, to maybe taste that success at the end of a hunt.

A Buck Amongst The Void

The arrival of my 2019 archery season brought familiar feelings of excitement, anticipation, and joy as the sun rose on opening day. This year I had drawn a limited entry archery Pronghorn tag in a great unit, an archery mule deer tag, an OTC archery elk tag, and a NE archery either species deer tag. My schedule was full from mid August through late November. My pronghorn hunt provided multiple encounters, and even a few shot opportunities, but despite 16 days afield, I came home with an empty cooler. My mule deer tag was not a hunt I had budgeted much time for and with only a day and a half to hunt, it’s of little surprise that it also ended without success. Elk season was here, the last seven days of the season were mine to chase bugles in the wild, golden aspen sea of late September. After several vehicle problems, and next to no elk activity, the season came and went. Just like that, nearly 25 days of hunting had yielded nothing. One more hunt to go, this is the story of my first whitetail buck.

The voyage East from the foothills of Colorado to the heartland of rural Nebraska is now an annual tradition that I hold sacred. This being the third year I’ve been hunting our Nebraska properties, I decided it was time to hold out for a buck, eight points or better. The five hour drive was filled with conversation amongst friends, a time when we can let go of all the stress and weight of daily life from work, and civilization. The bright reds and oranges of a Midwest sunset now echo into the golden corn fields and pour onto the asphalt in front of us. Arriving at the farm around 10pm, our stiff muscles relax as our feet hit the gravel in the yard. The deafening silence is broken by a familiar voice, my buddy’s father in law, Jerry, calls out to welcome us. After lugging our excessive amount of gear into the house, we sit on the couch, taco beef on the stove, a traditional meal that tells us we made it. Whitetail season is here.

The farm

The farm is 640 acres, made up of rolling hills, and a dry river bottom filled with massive cottonwoods and juniper thickets. Both mule deer and whitetails call it home. Most years the property is surrounded with corn or soybean fields and often a section of winter wheat right in the middle, a perfect place to grow big deer, right? Well, one small detail seems to hinder that idea. Throughout most of the year, up until late October the property is leased out to cattle grazing. For some reason, the deer and cattle do not get along. The game goes like this: October 1, we head out to set cameras, observe sign, and hang a couple stands. October 31, check cameras, and adapt or add stands in reaction to the new intel. The problem is, until the cattle are off the property our cameras often are devoid of any deer. Lucky for us, we have a second property without cattle.

The view in front of the “two man” stand at Turkey Creek

Turkey creek is whitetail paradise, 100 acres of river bottom with CRP on each side. It has three established and proven stands in place all year, and any camera intel provided always harbors deer, often BIG deer! It is here that we focus our efforts until mid November. This year was no different, our first two trips out were focused on hunting Turkey Creek hard. I would sit in the “two man” stand. A 15 foot, two person ladder stand on the north end of the property. The stand faces north and is on the eastern edge of the river bottom, with CRP to the east and an old, overgrown road 10 yards to the west, right through the thick bottom. 50 yards in front of the stand is an active mineral lick and an often active scrape line, a deer highway through thick bedding area with feeding areas nearby. Plus with the additional space in the two person stand, it is very comfortable, often too comfortable as I find myself asleep frequently. Throughout the several trips, I had several encounters.
Whenever there is a northwest wind, this stand is perfect. The deer come through the thick bottom, hit the road, and walk right by the stand until continuing south to bedding. Several individual does, does with fawns, and a yearling buck all came by. One of the most memorable days I have ever experienced in the stand occurred on the second trip. A doe and fawn appeared out of the timber and wandered around the mineral lick. I stood, in the event there was a buck trailing them. As they made their way towards me, another three does came out of the thick stuff to the north, followed by eight more! Fawns, does, and one “excited” forky buck were literally right under my stand. The forky was practicing his rutting behavior until the unwilling doe would turn around and kick him. Two other does reared up on their hind legs and began kicking each other. Deer vocalization and behavior were on full display 15 feet below me. One doe even stopped to smell the ladder of my stand. Unfortunately no bucks showed up, so I was left with only a memorable morning in the stand.
That evening, after a midday lunch and nap, I returned to the stand. With little action, I was left to sit and absorb the silence, the sun now casting it’s rays parallel with the horizon and stretching the shadows into long and looming shapes in the timber. About an hour before sunset I saw a flash of brown in the timber in front of me. Getting to my feet and grabbing my bow, I was ready. An 8 point buck arrived on the road, hugging the edge of the trees, he passed in front of me at 21 yards. I hesitated to draw as there was no cover between the buck and I. As he passed behind a tree, I drew back. The buck turned and walked directly away from me for 15 yards, stopping at 30 to feed. Having been at full draw for over a minute I decided to let down and regroup. The buck continued walking, finally turning to the left and presenting a broadside shot. Approaching a tree I had ranged at 35 yards I let out a “MEH”, he didn’t stop, another one, “MEHH!”

The difficult shot I was presented with at 35 yards

He took another step and stopped. His vitals framed by a tree and an overhanging limb. I pulled through the shot and watched my nock illuminate a path right into the buck’s vitals. Having held low and watching the buck drop nearly half his body height, I knew the shot was lethal. He bounded away then stopped. I waited, listened, thought, recalled. Twenty minutes passed without a single sound. I climbed down from the stand and approached my arrow, upon arrival, I saw the buck, not 15 yards from where I had hit him! A feeling of uncontrollable joy flooded my body, and a sense of ease overcame my mind. I had provided a fast, ethical death to a beautiful deer who had tested my patience, stealth, and accuracy, a truly worthy adversary. After a prayer of gratitude and a clumsily taken photo, I drug the buck to the road and waited for my buddy Brandon to arrive. We would get the buck to the shed, hang him, and remove the guts. Two more days left to fill a doe tag and for Brandon to fill his tag passed without success. On the last afternoon we returned to process my buck before heading home.

The true look of joy when I found my buck

A great trip is certainly a successful one by definition, and for me, the success of a first whitetail buck is a valiant one. But the season prior to this notched tag was still a success, not in the sense of a full freezer or antlers on the wall, but because of the challenges and pitfalls I overcame. Maintaining a positive attitude through a difficult hunt will be rewarded, maybe not now, maybe not the next hunt, but it will come together one way or another. The time we spend afield is never wasted, but should be cherished and interpreted as a lesson. Each day amongst the trees, each morning we get to watch the sun slowly illuminate the forest, each evening we are allowed to listen to the silence of the wild is the most profound gift we as hunters can receive, and whether or not your tag gets punched is merely a bonus.

My first whitetail buck

The Ones That Got Away

Success in bowhunting comes to those of us who can persevere through challenges and pitfalls that often encompass an archery hunting season. For many of us, sharing the stories of triumph and success come easy. What we do not often do is address, or even more seldom, share the stories of our failed hunts. In this article I will be reliving all of the most memorable misses, blown shots, and situations that I simply screwed up. My hope is that the reader will learn from my mistakes and take something useful from them.

September, 2006:

The woods were dark as my father and I left camp in pursuit of elk, the moonless sky echoed the darkness over the plateau as our legs carried us into the void. Dawn broke just as we hit the timber and began to approach the trail that went to our secret “elk hole”. A small opening became visible in front of us with a row of chest high pines on our right, forming a corner to go around to make the meadow fully visible. Upon hitting the second to last tree, I saw him. The largest bull elk I had seen in my young life stood broadside at 15 yards. Main beams sweeping back for what seemed like an eternity, brow tines well over 16 inches in length hooked up towards the twilight sky. I ducked down behind the trees to nock an arrow, as I rose the bull took off. Had I nocked an arrow without moving my entire body I could’ve at least had a shot opportunity, but in my inexperienced nature, I blew it. It is important when approaching an animal that can see you to move as slowly and as little as possible. Their eyes are made to pick out movement, so remaining still as long as necessary is crucial to getting a shot opportunity.

August 2019:

The dawn had just broken as I arose from the memory foam bed roll in the back of my 4Runner. The sun had yet to cast it’s rays onto the prairie grasses. As I stood outside admiring the view and thinking about the day’s hunt, a truck approached from the oil worker camp to my north. He called out from his window “do you have a buck tag? There’s a nice buck right off the road at the bottom of the hill.” I replied with a yes and headed down the road to the lip of the hill. As I got closer, I dove off the road into the ditch on the right side. Upon arriving at the lip, I looked out into the vast prairie to be rewarded with nothing. I took a few more steps to confirm, and there he was, a very respectable 70” pronghorn buck at the very base of the hill, looking right at me. I ranged, 104 yards, nocked an arrow, got to full draw, and released. I had committed the cardinal sin of archery, peeking up from behind my peep right after the shot broke. The arrow hit in the dirt at the buck’s feet. No matter the situation and how close or far your target might be, it is vital to always pick a spot, the smaller the better. I also could have potentially gotten closer if I had played the situation more cautiously, however, I didn’t know how to interpret the fellow in the truck’s word. Nonetheless, always assume the animal you had located is still there until you can confirm they aren’t.

August 2017:

Opening day of archery deer season in Colorado had arrived just as I had to the familiar trailhead of the backcountry basin I had spent all summer scouting. The early morning air was cool, anticipation and excitement buzzed through my mind as I laced up my boots and strapped on my pack. I hiked in just under two miles when I was greeted by a pair of hunters on horseback. The were stopped on the trail at the bottom of an immensely steep hillside covered in aspens. The sun’s rays had just begun to cut through the trees, casting long shadows that made spotting anything nearly impossible. The hunter leading the pair asked if I had a deer tag, of course I said yes. As they were hunting elk, he revealed to me that he had spotted a nice 4x4 muley buck bedded on the hillside 200 yards off the trail. After several minutes of looking with his assistance, I finally saw the deer, bedded down, only his head visible. I wondered how the heck he spotted that buck! My amazement subsided and I began to formulate a plan, slowly walking back the way I came, using the pair of horseback hunters as cover to get around the bend of the hill out of the buck’s view. I then ran down the trail, arriving at a cut in the hillside large enough to hide my approach. I began working back towards the buck, glassing every few steps until I crested a small rise, another smaller buck was bedded down with the large buck, and was staring right at me, I froze. The buck eventually turned away and forgot about me, so I removed my pack, nocked an arrow and got down to all fours. I was even with the bucks in elevation, the smaller buck was at 85 yards, the larger one was several yards beyond him. Painstakingly slow was my progress as I inched closer in the hip high grass, trying to keep a tree between us. I rose to my knees and saw the smaller buck was now up and feeding. I began crawling forward, stopping behind a tree to glass, the large buck was now also standing, staring at me. The gig was up and soon then both bounced off after a loud snort. The lesson here is patience. My approach could have been much more calculated and slow, but the excitement of stalking in on a buck got the better of me and I pushed the issue. The correct thing to do in that instance would’ve been to simply observe the bucks and wait for them to make the move. I was in a good spot to stay downwind and the thermals would not be a problem since I was at the same elevation as the deer. Lesson learned, as Brian Barney says, “patience kills the buck.”

August 2018:

After fourteen days of hunting an over the counter unit for antelope in northeastern Colorado, my last day to hunt had arrived. Dozens of stalks had come and gone and I found myself sitting atop the roof of my Camry, glassing the expanses for signs of pronghorn. I glassed to the north, a fence line cut across the top of a plateau and dropped down into a prairie dog town. A flash of white and tan caught my eye. As I focused in, I saw a buck chasing two does, game time. If I drove down the road another 500 yards, I could park out of sight of them, my car being behind a large rolling hill. I got out, bow in hand, and dropped down into the small valley, prairie dogs barked as I walked past, surely tipping off the antelope that I was approaching. I arrived at the base of the plateau, only 15 feet of elevation different from where I was in the bottom, but spot and stalk antelope hunting is a game of inches. At the top lip was a hip high yucca bush, I belly crawled up to the bush, the antelope were still there and had no idea I was there! The does were walking directly at me, the buck trailing 75 yards behind them. I rose to my knees next to the bush, the does arrived at the lip to my right, my rangefinder said 39 yards. They continued towards me, eventually spotting me and running out to the buck. I now had his attention, he came straight to me, I ranged multiple times, 117, 96, 79. My fast eddie double pin was set for 67 and 79. He kept coming, I ranged one last time, 69. I came to full draw as I counted two more steps that he took. As he turned broadside, I began to settle my pin, the shot broke and I saw my arrow impact the ground right behind where the buck was standing, he had literally ran out of the way of my arrow! Shooting 278 feet per second, my arrow got there in .75 seconds. The lesson here is, antelope are really REALLY fast. I licked my wounds and went home to a cold bowl of tag soup.

November 2019: I saved the best (worst) for last.

The afternoon started slow, I was sitting in a tripod stand, overlooking river bottom to the west with a large CRP field behind me. The tripod stand offered zero cover and in all honesty, was set up for rifle hunters. Coming off of a successful Nebraska hunt, my confidence was high as I sat there in the fading daylight, silence echoing through the unseasonably warm air, it was 76 degrees in north Kansas, on November 20th. The evening was boring but peaceful until 5:21pm. I saw him coming from the south, a flash of ivory through the scrub brush, appearing and vanishing with the contours of the terrain. Then I got a good look at him, a GIANT 8 point buck. He was walking the edge of the CRP field dropping down into the scrub brush just outside the tree line. I rose to my feet when he walked behind a large clump of bushes a hundred yards away. There was a large white bloom on a bush in front of me, my rangefinder told me it was 44 yards away. The buck continued on his path towards my shooting lane. One last large bush allowed me to get to full draw. The buck stopped and ATE the blossom I ranged, I knew exactly how far he was. He took two more steps, the stopped again, my pin settled behind his shoulder. There’s a moment at full draw, right when you know the shot is going to break and you can feel the sear of the release let go to send the arrow on it’s way. At that very moment, I saw the buck take a step. My arrow impacted behind the last rib, not where you want to hit a whitetail. As I watched my green lighted nock bounce away through the trees, I felt sick. I knew I had hit that deer poorly and he was going to suffer. We backed out for the evening to begin tracking at first light. We followed blood for nearly a mile, eventually losing the trail onto a neighboring property we couldn’t access. The feeling of disappointment, anguish, and failure weighed increasingly heavy on my mind. As a hunter, we want to provide the quickest, most ethical kill we can, and unfortunately, that simply does not always happen. The lesson here is that bowhunting is hard!

No matter how many arrows you shoot in preparation for hunting season, how well tuned your bow may be, how excellent your shooting form and mechanics are, the animals don’t always read the script. It is up to us as hunters to put in the effort to be as ethical and respectful as we can, but the ways of the wild are unpredictable. Situational ethics are a very difficult concept to convey through words and paragraphs, but time afield, and experience in the wild will teach you when and when not to let an arrow fly. Hindsight is always 20/20, and given the opportunity, I would approach each of these situations with the added knowledge of situations past. In the end, if you haven’t missed a shot, lost an animal, or blown a stalk, you haven’t been hunting long enough. It’s part of the journey, and as long as you learn from your mistakes and implement those lessons, you will always be a better hunter than you were before.

Confessions Of A Novice Backpacker

It’s safe to say that hunting the backcountry is a dream everyone has had once or twice. High mountain peaks bellowing out to you in the early morning twilight as you arise from your tent with nothing but solitude around you is truly something to behold. For many, the thought of being alone, truly alone, is not a comforting thought, and before attempting a backcountry adventure, you really need to consider the logistics of doing so. If you can get past the fear and uncertainty however, I promise you there is nothing quite as liberating. In this article I will recall several of my very first experiences and lessons learned in the high country of my home state of Colorado, enjoy.

I was first drawn to backpacking four years ago, when dreams of velvet muley bucks filled my mind and pulled at my soul. Mid March had me choosing a unit, simply by looking at google earth and various other online map resources. Come June, my tag arrived in my mailbox, this was really happening. A week later I was heading out to the trailhead to get boots on the ground for that first voyage into uncharted wilderness. I had chosen an open basin three miles from the trailhead to begin my scouting. My arrival was greeted by snow covered peaks and sloppy trail conditions, but my enthusiasm carried me to my predetermined destination. Spotting some bucks along the way, I saw their velvet antlers were still small with much growing to do. Breaking through the timber to lay my eyes on my basin for the first time, my jaw dropped and my breath was taken from me. I had never seen anything so beautiful and had never felt so small. I was a mere 3 miles away from my vehicle and felt like I was in the middle of nowhere, just the wilderness and me.

A first taste of the backcountry

Two days and 23 miles later I had wandered much of that basin, seeing very few deer, but learning a lot about my new backpacking gear and how it all worked. Every creek and spring was absolutely raging with the ice-cold waters of late spring, the emerald green foliage that contrasted the still snow covered peaks captivated my soul and beckoned my return. Two weeks later I found myself breaking through the trees to view that magnificent sight I had seen the previous trip, the same feeling of awe rained over me. This time I decided to venture further back into the valley and by 8:00am I was five miles back and growing weary from the 43lb pack I was carrying. Finding some shade on the steep hillside I shed my pack, used it as a pillow and laid down for a short nap. When you have nowhere else to be, time is of very little importance, so when I arose at 9:00 I decided to eat lunch. One of the most unique aspects of backpacking is that you always have everything you need to survive right there on your back. Food, shelter, and water, all right there and waiting to be deployed at any time. Well, that whole water thing sometimes isn’t so cut and dry.

When venturing deep into the backcountry, water is typically procured from sources out on the mountain. Seeing as it is so heavy to carry, transporting more than you need for a day is illogical. The following year I decided to go back to that same valley, only this time I was going to scout up high on the peaks and ridges above tree line. I had located a spring on my map about 100 feet below where I had intended to camp. A grueling 4 mile hike, gaining 2500 vertical feet placed me at the bottom of an alpine basin at 11,000 feet. Sparse grasses and clusters of pines covered a seemingly unexplainably steep face which towered above me in the late morning heat. I had packed in 24oz of water to get to the spring where I would filter water and refill my hydration bladder. Crossing the basin I arrived at where the spring appeared on the map, but it was dry! At this point I had traveled 5 miles, and had been hiking and bushwhacking for nearly four hours. My water was gone and I was exhausted. I knew there was water about 1200 feet below me at the place I had camped last year. Begrudgingly I started my descent. The mountainside was steep, and by steep I mean if you reached back behind yourself, your hand was on the mountain. I arrived at my final obstacle, a rock slide, remnants of an old mine.

The view from atop the rockslide

Peach pit sized gravel covered the 50 degree slope for some 150 yards. I took my first step, sliding down a few inches. Proceeding forward I was successfully traversing the slide, then the size of rocks shrunk, making travel much more unstable. The slope grew steeper as well, each step I found myself sliding several feet downward before stopping. The next flat spot below me was 75 feet down. My muscles clenched tighter with every step, knowing that at any moment my feet could slip out from under me and I’d be tumbling with my 40lb pack propelling me downhill. As I approached the edge of the slide, a small willow reached out it’s branches as to offer me a hand. I jumped, upon landing my feet slid down the hill. So here I am, in the middle of this breathtaking landscape, on my belly, hanging from a 5 foot tall willow. Sometimes solitude is priceless. I would make it down to the spring unscathed except some light bruising to my ego. Exhausted, I sat, drank some water and decided to pitch camp.

A well deserved rest after the rockslide

A real, quantifiable concern when hunting or exploring the backcountry in the summer and early fall is lightning, particularly at high elevations. Being closer to the sky comes at a price, that price being heightened responsibly and awareness of the potential dangers a lightning storm possesses. My first experience with a high country lightning storm in the backcountry occurred on my third trip out. The hot midday sun was beginning to give way to afternoon clouds, growing darker by the minute. 4pm found me at my camp spot at 10,500 feet of elevation. The sky had grown increasingly dark as I scrambled to set up my tent and tarp. At 4:30pm the first crack of thunder erupted over the peak to my west, shortly followed by the flash of lightning. As I sat under my tarp holding a cup of freshly brewed coffee, the rumbles grew increasingly close until the storm was directly on top of me. As I prepared to take a sip of the coffee, the thunder cracked, causing a ripple inside my cup. My ears rang, and hair stood on end. FLASH…BOOM! FLASH..BOOM! A light rain began to fall, increasing in strength by the second until I found myself getting pelted with dime sized hail. In a matter of minutes the ground had been covered with hail, appearing as if a snow storm had come through. As fast as it came, it was gone and the sun had returned. Unfortunately for me, my inexperience had compromised my gear. I had placed a second tarp under my tent in lieu of a ground cloth. The tarp essentially funneled the water from the storm directly under my tent. My down sleeping bag was soaked. Reluctantly, I wadded my wet gear into my pack and hiked out with a feeling of defeat and a newfound respect for the mountains echoing through my mind.

The setup of my demise

It would take two seasons for me to find hunting success while backpacking, and coincidentally it was a last resort trip that yielded a notched tag. The 2018 deer season had arrived and my plan was to hunt an area conducive to car camping. My ultralight backpacking gear remained at home, since I wouldn’t need it. As I pulled up to the turnoff to head to my spot, a flashing traffic sign read “ACTIVE WILDFIRE AREA…NO PUBLIC ACCESS TO FOREST.” One of the most prolific wildfires in recent history raged literally over my planned hunting area. I had no backup plan, and scrambled to come up with a solution. The one thing that I had going for me was that my tag was good for six different units, essentially a 75 mile stretch of north and south running highway was huntable to me on either side for 10 miles each direction. I drove to the northernmost unit and began to hunt. Failing to find any deer, I traveled south unit by unit until I had reached the last evening of my allotted hunting time. I had one morning left to hunt and I was back to square one, my backcountry basin. As the day dawned, I found myself at 10,500 feet, right where this all began. I took the main trail back towards the parking lot, cutting off and heading up the mountain into a small meadow. Large aspen trees cover the hillside, each one only 2-3 feet apart. Once the sun rises, the shadows cast make it nearly impossible to see a deer before it sees you. Lucky for me the sun was still behind the mountain and the dawn was just beginning to break. I hiked to a large bench that runs along the hillside like a belt around a lumberjack’s waist, 50 yards deep, and 1/4 mile long. Catching movement I froze and looked up the hill to see a doe staring at me at 56 yards. She circled downhill and now had a large pine tree directly between us. I was only two feet behind the tree when a pine squirrel appeared 3 feet away from me. He began to sing his song of betrayal, doing his best to give up my position. The doe, now looking in my direction, decided to come investigate. She came downhill directly at me, stopping at 12 yards before bounding back up the hill. I remained frozen, she turned back, circled again, this time going past me walking to my left. She cut through an opening I had ranged at 39 yards too quickly for a shot. Then, she turned around AGAIN, coming right at me, I ranged a tree in front of her, 28 yards. She stopped a few yards past it, at what I had guessed 23ish yards. I was already at full draw, I released, only to watch my arrow hit her high in the spine. She dropped, then began kicking and rolling down the mountain. I ran around to her downhill side as fast as I could, stopping at 15 yards, then sending an arrow through her vitals. She expired in seconds. My heart was pounding out of my chest, adrenaline was racing through my entire body. I had succeeded, after a hard five days of hunting it all happened on the last morning.

The steep aspen hillside where my doe was taken

The next step was figuring out how to get a full deer, and my camp off the mountain from three miles deep. Since originally I had not planned on backpacking, my gear was not the specialized, ultralight equipment system I had developed through trials and multiple trips into the backcountry. Typically with my ultralight kit, my pack will weigh approximately 35 pounds for a 3 day trip, on this occasion it was north of 50. I started by deboning the deer and putting the meat into game bags, then propping it up on logs and large rocks to cool. I then made the 3/4 mile hike back to camp with an empty pack, upon arrival, I tore down my tent, tarp, and other gear and returned to the place where I had cut uphill. After stashing my pack and bow in the bushes beside the trail I hiked back up to my doe with my meat frame on my back. The slope is incredibly steep, in some places it is nearly 60 degrees! After loading up all the meat, I stumbled down to the trail to reattach my pack to the frame. A full deboned mature mule deer doe, and my 50lb pack made for an entertaining spectacle as I tried to get the pack onto my back. Lying down on top of the pack I strapped in, then rolled onto my stomach, finally doing a push up and using a tree to reach my vertical position. The trail out is well maintained and downhill, however my pack was over 100lbs and the progress was slow. Nonetheless, I had filled my tag and had nowhere to rush off to, victory had been achieved, one trip, everything out.

The challenges of the backcountry are some that I have learned to overcome in my still limited experience, however, through meticulous attention to detail and stringent assessment of my gear and skill set, I feel confident in my abilities. A new backpacker will always bring too much gear, so learning what you do not use is crucial to getting your pack weight down to a manageable weight. There are also items that need to be in your pack no matter the weight, as stated in a previous article (The Western Mountain Gear List), you will need to decide where your loyalties lie and where you want to make sacrifices as far as heavier gear. For me, my sleeping pad is not ultralight, but it is comfortable and I always sleep well on it. My Platypus Gravityworks water filtration system is also heavy, but the ease of use and ability to store water is worth it. Backpacking is a pursuit that does not yield a quantifiable measure of progress, but always possesses different challenges each new trip. The mountains are unforgiving, beautiful, rugged, and command respect. When it comes to knowledge and experience with backpacking the wilderness, there is a lesson to learn every single time your boots leave the trailhead.

Sunset from atop the highest peak in my hunting area

Ten Years In The Making

   The following story is of my very first successful archery big game hunt. After ten years of bowhunting elk with my father without so much as a shot opportunity, my confidence and, if I’m being totally honest, interest in bowhunting was beginning to come into question. Nonetheless, throughout the five day hunt, I enjoyed the beautiful country of the west, focused on the lessons that were presented to me, and finally got my shot at filling a tag. This hunt is what I attribute my outright obsession with bowhunting, archery, and the pursuit of western big game to. After tasting that irreplaceable, indescribable feeling of triumph, my life shifted to begin revolving around hunting with my bow. I wrote this story in September of 2014, enjoy.

The day started just like all the other Colorado archery elk hunts of the last ten years. Waking up to my father's alarm clock in that old 1960's camper, lying half asleep, secretly wishing for silence as he stands up. 5:00 am shakes my weary body too quickly, it reflects on the ridges and plateaus I forced it to ascend the day prior. Water begins to bubble within an aluminum coffee pot as the darkness tells us to remain inside. Steam pours out onto dry oats as a glass of orange juice stands by observing. The late September air is sharp and brisk as I lumber down the creaky wooden stairs to crawl into my cold, damp hunting clothes, saturated with the morning dew and the scent of pine. Within our changing tent, the Coleman lantern provides some heat, but my muscles remain tight until the initial chill subsides into the warmth of my two layers of camouflage. By headlamp and a small mirror I create the black and green diagonal lines across my face with sticky face paint. It's day five of my southwestern Colorado archery elk hunt.

Home sweet home

  My father John introduced me to bowhunting at the age of 15, when trips were more of an inconvenience than a privilege. As I observed the vibrant yellow of changing aspen leaves, distant glimpses of the golden tan of elk moving through the timber, and the rugged, unforgiving beauty of elk country, I began to see that I had much to learn.

  Throughout the years I'd had my fair share of close encounters, including a spike at two yards, a doe at four, and a 360-class bull at 15. I'd never had an opportunity to draw my bow on an elk, but that was all about to change on the morning of September 25th, 2014.

Descending “The Hill”

   We set out from camp at 7am, the sun supplying just enough light to see our descent down "the hill", an old logging road that winds down a steep hillside lined with head-high pines, and eventually opens up into a large meadow in the bottom of a vast canyon. A small creek runs through the bottom, winding and babbling under deadfalls and alongside pine saplings and vibrant green ferns. Both sides are steep and the woods are thick, the ground still damp from evening's humidity. Trails carved into the hillside provide a corridor for both us and the game we pursue, encircling vegetation forcing me to replace each game track with one of my own. As we follow the creek, the woods close in on us until our route becomes impassible. We head up the daunting hill to our left and hit an elk trail littered with deadfall that only the long legs of a wapiti could overcome. Walking along, a fresh set of tracks catches our eye, the edges cleanly pressed into the earth, soft from the repeated impressions of hooves.
We reach the top of the plateau and begin to walk an old irrigation ditch that winds through thick pines and fifty-foot aspens. As we walk along as slowly and quietly as we can, cutting up and down the hillside around the tree-littered irrigation ditch, down the hill I spot a small spring with what looks like a possible wallow. We head down to investigate. A clear trail heads right down to it with huge pines and trash can-diameter aspens on all sides of us. As we circle the edges of the small spring, our feet leave impressions that appear out of place in the soft moss among dozens of elk tracks. Down the hill we can see the creek trickling through the bottom some 400 feet below between gaps in the massive pines. Suddenly in the distance we hear an elk chuckle. So many emotions occur all at once, hope, skepticism, excitement, nervousness. My father and I creep up the hill to sit beside a few aspens and he lets out a bugle. We take turns cow calling a few times before sitting in silence for around ten minutes. No response. We stand up to move on and then the elk yells back with a bugle that sent chills up my spine and a slight grin appeared on dad's face. Dad bugles back and I walk down the hill to an aspen with a small bush beside me. I nock an arrow and get ready. As my dad rakes a tree behind me to enrich the idea of a bull with two cows, the nerves start to kick in. I picture all the possible entries the bull might appear from. Silence again. "Let's move up." My father says. So I begin to stalk my way forward as quiet as possible, while my dad proceeds to step on every branch in front of him while he advances. I wish he would've told me he wanted to sound like an entire herd of elk before I nitpick my steps around the smallest of twigs. Another bugle sounds off in the distance, he's getting closer! We get to a small clearing with a spring at the downhill end and thick timber between it and the irrigation ditch. I kneel next to a large pine as dad sets up fifteen yards behind me. Another bugle sounds off. This time I could tell he was less than 100 yards away. The shakes start up. My dad answers, then I let out a cow call. I'm kneeling in front of an aspen, with two big pines about five yards to my left and a down tree five yards in front of me. Then my dad whispers three words I'll remember forever, "Here he comes!" That intense, adrenaline fueled chill races through my body like it was shot from an epi pen. I catch movement about 40 yards away on the other side of the small meadow. A cow elk wanders to the edge of the timber and stops. I see the bull trot through an opening in the thick stand of timber between me and the trail above me then out of sight behind another stand of pines. The cow continues forward past a tree I had ranged at 20 yards and into the meadow coming right at me! She stops at 15 yards and has me pinned. My dad lets out a soft cow call behind his back with his hoochie mama call. The bull comes crashing through the timber, I pull back on my 62 pound PSE Nova as slow as humanly possible and look out of the corner of my eye to see the cow still burning holes through me. The bull continues down the hill and stops in a small opening, eight yards away! The two pines to my left are the only thing between him and I. I lift my bow to his vitals and look through my peep sight, only to see a perfect glare from the sun filling it up and making my pins invisible. I look at the bull, slightly quartering to me, look at my pins, look back at his vitals and let my arrow fly. My orange fletchings vanish into the right side of his chest as he crashes up the hill and out of my sight. My dad let's out a bugle and I follow with a series of cow calls. We join up on the edge of the clearing and go over the mayhem that had just occurred. As we're talking we hear a loud crash in the distance. My heart skips a beat. I'd never drawn my bow back on a big game animal, let alone shot at one.

The old irrigation ditch, now essentially a trail

  Thirty minutes pass and we begin to follow the trail of upturned earth and blood spots. Fifteen yards and the trail disappears. My heart sinks and mind races. Did I hit him good? Are we even going to find him? I turn downhill and find a drop of blood, then another, then a log COVERED with blood. I look to my right down onto the irrigation ditch and see my bull lying dead, on the trail!!

  My very first big game animal with a bow is a 6x6 bull elk that my father and I called in together! We celebrate, take pictures, and thank God. After eight hours and four trips, we had ten game bags full of meat. What a truly amazing experience, after five days of seeing absolutely nothing, we hear a bugle and the events that followed were, in my mind, nothing short of magical. Everything worked, from the calls, to the wind, to the shot (which ended up being heart, right lung, and liver). My first elk ran less than 50 yards before expiring on the trail.

  In years prior, and even this trip, I've questioned if I would ever get a shot at an elk. Persistence and a positive attitude go a long way, and having my father by my side for it is something I'm eternally grateful for. The elk woods aren't an easy place to be, but come September, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

My father, John and I this past season

The Other Big Game Hunt

For many, the dream of heading west to chase big game with a bow is the ultimate goal. Giant mountains, vast open prairies, new animals, and grand adventures await. Many hunters unfortunately never get to experience these amazing places due to the hefty price tag that often comes with a non-resident hunting
license. Most elk tags are upwards of $650, and on top of travel expenses and missed work days, that just isn’t an option. For those of us that live in the “wild west”, our archery seasons are often filled with thoughts of bugling bulls and velvet bucks. All of us, westerners and non, are forgetting one key big game option that often gets overlooked, and for the life of me, I will never understand why.

The Pronghorn Antelope is an iconic staple of western big game. Having survived since the time of prehistoric mammalian predators (North American Cheetah), they are certainly built to survive, as they aren’t extinct like the aforementioned predator that hunted them! Archery Antelope hunting is vastly underutilized as an early season hunting pursuit. With a significantly lower tag cost, plentiful animal densities, and delicious meat, it’s quite perplexing that they aren’t even on the radar of most archery hunters. My hope, however detrimental to my archery Antelope hunting solitude it may be, is to shed some light on just how amazing and attainable an Antelope hunting adventure can be.

Okay, you took the bait and picked up an archery tag for an area you’ve never been. Where to start? From a gear standpoint, it’s pretty dang simple to hunt Antelope with a bow. You’ll either be camping in your vehicle or right next to it, so no need to get fancy there. You’ll also likely be no more than a mile from the truck at any point, so no need to get fancy on your backpack or clothing either. However, there are a few key pieces of gear that will make your hunt considerably more enjoyable.

Let’s start with your clothing. Archery Antelope seasons open in mid-August across most western states, so that means 90-degree temperatures. Your clothing should be lightweight, very breathable, and fast drying. I love a synthetic hooded base layer due to the ability to keep the sun off of your ears and neck. Footwear should be light and flexible, but also durable (you’re gonna kick a cactus or two). Knee pads are a MUST! I use a simple volleyball knee pad, worn over my pants. You can keep them at your ankles until needed, thus doubling as a gaiter to keep the pokeys out. A good binocular chest harness is also a necessity. This is big country and our eyes need the help. I recall a stalk I was on this past season where I was belly crawling towards a bedded buck through a cactus “mine field”. Whenever I would stop, my bino harness protected my chest from the thorny monsters that wished to impale me. A small, low profile backpack comes in very handy on longer stalks or when walking to far away glassing points. I use an Eberlestock H7 Dagger hydration pack, but any small hydration pack will do the job. It should fit a 2-3-liter bladder, a few snacks, and a rain jacket. That’s about all you will need to carry.

Antelope live in a vast, wide open prairie often devoid of any vegetation taller than your knees. They also are equipped with eyesight comparable to your 10x50 binoculars. I want you to imagine trying to stalk into bow range of your buddy, who’s holding binoculars while standing in the middle of a giant parking lot. That’s what you’re dealing with here, sounds easy right? You now see why most “smart” bowhunters sit on a water hole inside of a ground blind. But we aren’t that smart, and there’s nothing more fun than spotting and stalking these critters. The point I’m working towards is: your shot opportunities will likely be considerably farther than you’d have at any other big game animal. Your shooting ability and bow setup need to cater to this.

In my experience, the average spot and stalk shot opportunity at an antelope is around 70 yards. I’ve had closer, but more often, I’ve had farther. In order to increase your chances of success, you need to be proficient out to 80 yards or more, WITH BROADHEADS! This means practicing all year, knowing how to tune your bow, and also having great situational ethics. Ethical shot distance is a can of worms that I will not be opening in this article, I’m just stating the facts of Antelope hunting. In my opinion, being proficient means that you can shoot arrows in a 4-6” group every single time in order to call that your effective range. Okay, you’ve established your effective range is adequate for the task at hand, that means you’re likely shooting a slider sight, and a 10-15” stabilizer. Stabilization is key out at the longer distances, and with the amount of wind you’ll be dealing with, it almost becomes required to slow down bow movement at full draw. Arrow setups are totally up to the shooter and as long as your bow will tune and shoot out to longer distances, you’ll be fine. Broadheads are also very personal, but an Antelope is simply not as tough as a Mule Deer or Elk, so mechanicals are a feasible option.

You’re shooting great, have your gear dialed in, and are headed out on opening day. A large cooler full of frozen gallon water jugs sits behind you along with 5-8 non-frozen gallons of water. You reach your hunting area, golden waves of grass, rolling hills, and a seemingly endless horizon await you. Upon hitting the dirt road, you instantly spot a nice buck several hundred yards off! You check your map, only to find out he’s on private land. Public land Antelope hunting is a chess match, or should I say a checkers match. Having a good, accurate, mapping application is a must-have in order to sort through the checkerboard of public and private land. Some private parcels have no fence, so knowing where you’re standing is vital to remaining legal. Driving away from the forbidden buck you soon find another group of antelope, a buck among them! As your truck comes to a stop, you’re greeted by every set of eyes in the group, shortly followed by a hasty departure of every last one.

The above two examples are just a few of the fast lessons you will learn on your first day, with many more to come. The best part of Pronghorn hunting is the sheer number of animals you will see. It isn’t unheard of to see over 100 Antelope in a single day. The challenge isn’t in finding your game like Elk and Deer, but in STALKING your game. That’s why it’s so fun, if you blow a stalk, just move on to the next group. A good day of Antelope hunting can result in 5-10 stalks! You’re probably wondering why you don’t just capitalize on one and enjoy the beautiful triumph of success. Believe me, by day two or three, you want nothing more, but due to the Antelope’s annoying instinct to not be shot, they avoid the possibility of that happening as best they can. Another great thing about hunting Antelope is that they’re active all day long. So it just might be you that ends up “bedding down” midday, not them.

A typical day of hunting is as follows: you wake up 30 minutes before sunrise, eat a quick breakfast, and hop in the truck. Most areas where Antelope live are a maze of roads, both gravel, and two tracks. You drive around, looking for antelope until you find some in an approachable (this will become easier to determine with more failed stalks) position, then park and continue on foot. The number one rule of parking before a stalk is to ensure your vehicle is out of their sight. Rifle hunters tend to “bend” the rules on how close to the road you can legally shoot, and this results in the Antelope learning that trucks mean their buddies end up dead. Once parked out of view, you begin moving towards the Antelope. If you are out of their sight, RUN! Once you approach a point where they can see you, get down on all fours or even onto your belly. One thing I’ve learned about stalking antelope is that if you get lazy for even a short stretch, they will see you and be gone. If you think you might be visible, simply don’t risk it. You’ve managed to close a lot of distance, crawling up to a small rise, you peek over to see your target buck has bedded down facing away from you. PERFECT! You range, only to be surprised by the fact that the buck is still 165 yards away. With no point of reference, it’s incredibly difficult to guess yardage so a good rangefinder is a necessity. Crawling forward on your belly, arrow nocked, bow setting on the ground on your bow-hand side, you pick yourself up with your forearms, pull yourself forward as your toes aid in the progress, then slide your bow forward. 12 inches at a time, for over an hour you repeat this, eventually closing in to 74 yards, it’s time to make it happen. As you rise to your knees, the buck whips his head around, then rises to his feet and bolts. You’re dripping sweat, have cactus thorns in your elbows, and have to watch that dang buck run away for several miles. Antelope have a field of view of about 310 degrees. Welcome to the spot and stalk game. Some stalks consume several hours of your day, while others are over just as quickly as they started. The key is to find an Antelope in a vulnerable spot, often meaning the terrain on your approach allows you to remain out of sight until within bow range.

Two seasons ago I was hunting an OTC archery tag in my home state of Colorado, my last day was about halfway over. As I sat on the roof of my truck glassing, I spotted a buck chasing two does about 500 yards away on top of a small plateau. If I drove down the road another 300 yards, I’d be able to park out of view, walk through a large, low draw, and crawl up to the lip of the plateau they were on. As I arrived at the base of the plateau, I crouched down, and inched up to the lip. As soon as the top revealed itself, there they were, less than 100 yards away! Still totally unaware of my presence, the two does were walking in my direction, the buck was about 50 yards behind them. I nestled into a yucca bush that was about mid-thigh height, and got to my knees, bow standing vertical in front of me resting on the ground. I dialed my Spot Hogg double pin to my predetermined guess of how close they may come, 67 and 79, for each pin. The two does continued working towards me as the buck meandered around further up on the top. As the does approached the lip, now directly in line with me on my right, I ranged, 41 yards! They spotted me, and began to stomp and snort. This got the buck’s attention and he was now walking dead at me! I ranged the buck, 86 yards, then 79 yards, my bottom pin distance. I got ready, ranged one last time, 67 yards, my top pin distance! As the buck turned broadside, I drew back, settled my pin, and released. As my arrow left the bow, the buck jammed on the accelerator. My arrow arrived, only to meet the prairie dirt where the buck once stood.

Although unsuccessful, it’s these kinds of encounters that keep me coming back every single season. I can think of so many amazing stalks that almost came together, but one small variable forced the outcome in the Antelope’s favor. In the game of spot and stalk Pronghorn hunting, you need to be perfect. Everything has to come together, the terrain, the animal, your stalk, the wind, and of course your shot. If you want to put an Antelope on the ground with your bow the first year you chase them, sit in a ground blind. If you want to improve your stalking ability, topography interpreting skills, and hunting instincts, get out there and test yourself by hunting arguably THE most difficult game animal to take down with archery equipment when hunting spot and stalk. It isn’t the physicality that will break you down, it’s the mental battle of “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again”. The plains of the west will provide you with solitude, breathtaking sunsets, and lessons in humility that are tough to beat, and if nothing else, those things are worth the price of admission.