Wyoming, Once Again.

Wyoming, Once Again.

You can smell it as soon as you open the truck door. The sagebrush is everywhere and it’s a smell that tickles my nose and energizes my senses. This smell is commonplace to westerners, but for me it symbolizes something special, something that I wait an entire year for, it’s like a drug that clears my mind and makes me feel like I belong in this place, not just for a single week out of a long year, but for all time. Wyoming calls to me, it’s always there in the back of my mind, flashing images of the antelope laden grassland, the winding North Platte River, the rocky bluffs, the deep drainages and yes, the sagebrush.

Chance and I arrived in southeast Wyoming on Friday evening to the warm welcome of our dear friends Dan and Denise. Dan has known Chance since Chance was a wee little boy, and offered up their home about four years ago, in case we ever decided we wanted to give “western hunting” a go. They had moved to their Wyoming cattle ranch from Indiana and told us that we would fit in just fine out there based on how much we loved the outdoors and hunting lifestyle. The very next winter we were putting in for tags.

We had each found success with mule deer, Chance both years we have tried, and I got my first muley last year. This year Chance decided to put in for an Antelope tag and was successful. It was for a unit encompassed by our original mule deer unit, so it was going to be convenient as far as logistics were concerned. But we felt a fair amount of pressure knowing that we had 5 days to fill three tags. It seems that I am usually left hunting on the last day, right up to the last minute, trying to fill my tag. It’s a bitter feeling driving fifteen and a half hours back to Indiana with nothing to show for the expenditure of the non-resident tag, I really didn’t want to experience those feelings again.

We fine tuned our rifles on Saturday, and let me tell you, I wasn’t feeling too confident at 300 yards, I am never even comfortable at 300 yards. I think that we all must find a distance that works for us individually, and my “feel good” range is right around the 200-yard mark. I have a full understanding that my .270 caliber rifle is good far beyond that, but for me, I like things a little more personal when it comes down to me and the animal. So, after our typical bickering session we have when it comes to sighting in our guns, we finally called it good, and honestly hoped for the best as far as my shooting was concerned.

After sighting in the guns, we made our way up onto one of the three buttes that our hosts are blessed to have, basically in their backyard, so we could take in the sunset, the views of the countryside, and see if we couldn’t glass up a coyote. We never laid eyes on the coyote that had been "finding its way too close to the house", according to Dan, but we did find a bachelor group of mule deer that have been passing through the ranch periodically, especially during the later summer months. Dan and Denise both told us that if we wanted to shoot the two large bucks that were hanging around about every third day, we were welcomed to do so. After seeing them on Saturday evening, we were left stunned at their size and just their presence. However, we didn’t have to say a word to each other, we each already had our reasons for our individual desire to go elsewhere for our mule deer, despite was was on the ranch this year.

Chance knew that Tim, a neighbor and close friend to Dan and Denise, had been watching those deer and had even been out with his bow, hoping to have a shot at one of them. Tim has given us pointers the last few years on where some good public land was located, and this year, where to go and what to look for, for Chance’s attempt at his first antelope. Chance liked the idea of venturing out and exploring as well, but essentially left the monster bucks, out of respect for Tim. My reasons were a little different. While I also have respect for Tim and his pursuit of one of these two massive deer, I already had it in my mind that public land was the only option for me, when in Wyoming.

For me, there is a certain appreciation for the “suck” that comes with hiking eight or ten miles a day, through rough rocky terrain littered with sage, yucca and cactus, while trying to locate a deer, that you may or not ever even get a shot at. I love the possibility of what could be just on the other side of the next ridge. The silence of daybreak is almost loud in the way that you are listening so hard but hearing absolutely nothing. You can almost hear the static of white noise. It takes a morning or two to relax and settle in to the exquisite quietness of these lands that all of us own, but so very few will ever step foot on. We live around 840 feet above sea level back home in Indiana, we hunt, hike and climb in an area of Wyoming that is roughly 4,800 feet above sea level. While that may seem minor to the mountain dwellers, I am most certainly a flat lander and part of the “suck” I mentioned previously, is when you are gasping for air, and feel your heartbeat in your head as you are pulling that loaded game cart up the monster hill, on the way back to the truck. You feel like you are going to die, and you question why in the hell you do this every fall, knowing that you are going to suffer great discomfort. But you do it because those public lands keep calling you back, they make you believe that anything is possible, they mesmerize you with their beauty, they hold on to you with their mystery. Some people think I’m crazy for passing up an opportunity at a buck of a lifetime, right there, just waiting for me on our hosts ranch, but I say you’d be crazy to pass up the sights, smells and “suck” of hunting on public land. 

By Sunday we finally felt somewhat recovered from Friday’s long drive, so we ventured out to that public land that Tim told us might be good for some decent antelope bucks. He wasn’t lying, there was a group of about 20 does and two or three bucks or various sizes. There was one however, that got our attention, he was a larger black faced buck that looked to be the leader of the group. It was a quick scouting trip, once Chance saw that buck, he had made up his mind, which is great if the buck is still there when we went back, but a gamble at the same time because that buck could very well take his ladies and split. We headed back to the ranch after driving around taking in some gorgeous views, so we could get all our gear ready to go for the next morning’s mule deer hunt.

Monday morning came fast, and Chance notching his muley tag happened just as quick. We ventured down into the abyss of this piece of public land that we have hunted the last two Octobers, with the excitement of what could be, but the dread of returning to the truck with an extremely heavy game cart behind us. Yes, that is the “suck” that we have a love/hate relationship with but makes for great stories. There was a thick fog hanging over the entire country side and as we reached our separate spots that we had previously chosen to start our day, we quickly realized that we wouldn’t be seeing anything, anytime soon. We sat about an hour and a half with very little visibility, but when the fog started to burn off, it was gone almost instantly. Chance was on the move, deeper into the piece of land we were on, and I had also decided to get up and climb the ridge behind me and work my way around to the back of the property. Within 10 minutes of hiking, a shot rang out. I sent Chance a text, hoping I had a signal, and he responded that he had filled his tag. It took quite a while, but I finally located him and his muley, and we started the process of getting his deer out. I didn’t see the first buck on Monday, but was wishing I had a doe tag, as I would have most likely tagged out as well. But that wasn’t the case, I had the option of either a Mule Deer buck, or any Whitetail. So, my muley hunt would continue.

We made a serious mistake of not having any extra water with us, other than what was in my Yeti rambler, and Chance drank that when he returned with the game cart. We completely forgot to throw a few bottles in the truck before leaving the ranch that morning. We paid dearly for that mistake. The elevation is tough for us, and it’s not exactly something you can train for in central Indiana, so being dehydrated, was adding insult to injury. By the time we had climbed the final hill to get back to the truck, I was nauseous, Chance was cramping up and we still had a 25-minute drive to the closest gas station. Some mistakes teach you hard lessons, that one taught us enough that we will never make it again.  We found time to laugh about the fact that we were getting older and this process wasn’t going to get any easier down the road, but we were too stubborn to not come back again.

After an eventful Monday, we set out again on Tuesday morning, before dawn to the walk-in area that we had scouted on Sunday, and where the antelope was spotted in all his glory. The sunrise was epic, Chance even stopped on a county road to get out and take a picture, and that NEVER happens, because when it’s time to hunt, it’s GO TIME! We were seeing mule deer all around as we got closer to the area we were going to hunt that morning. No bucks were sighted, but we figured that where there were does, there would most likely be bucks nearby. So, Chance was focused on antelope and I was focused on getting my muley. Wouldn’t you know it, as we drove past the grassy field, the same antelope were standing in almost the same spot, as two days before. We couldn’t believe it. We drove on down the road about 500 yards and parked the truck in what looked like a spot you would park, if you were going to walk in to this hunting area. Being out-of-towners, I always feel a little apprehensive as we walk away from the truck, as it sits on the side of a road, in a ditch. We crested a small rolling hill and almost instantly, there was an antelope squawking at us. I thought we were toast. But then, the unthinkable happened. The entire herd of antelope walked right toward the lone doe that was causing a ruckus, and when they did, the black-faced buck that Chance had his heart set on, led the pack and stopped in a broadside position. I told Chance that his buck was coming, and he was trying to find the buck in his scope, but he was getting hung up in cactus as he was trying to get down into the prone position. Once he was down and ready, his knee firmly planted in the most vicious cactus we had ever seen, he found his target, he squeezed the trigger. I looked on through my binos, and his buck took about three steps, stumbled, and fell to the ground. Chance looked back at me in disbelief. It was over. He had taken his very first antelope, on his very first attempt. It took all of five minutes. He was a little overcome with emotion and even teared up. He had the shakes and said that it felt like the first time he took his first whitetail buck. His reaction was one of relief, and genuine gratitude. We approached and admired the buck, then I headed back to the truck to get the game cart, while Chance field dressed his animal.

  


Once again, I knew I was going to be delayed in my own hunt, because I knew how important it would be to get Chance’s antelope cooled down and back to the ranch. So, we loaded up, and drove the 45-minute trip back to get his antelope hung, and packed with ice, and I also made a wardrobe change due to the warm temperatures. We set back out, me now in my lucky old Wrangler jeans, a t-shirt and fittingly, my public land owner hoodie, to see if I couldn’t maybe notch my tag as well. There wasn’t a lot of pressure, but once again, Chance was done before me, and if this was anything like the two previous years, I was going to take it to the last hour of the last day. Nobody wanted that, believe me.

We went right back to that same area where we just loaded up Chance’s antelope, parked in the same spot, and started back the same edge of the county road, along the walk-in area. We got out of the truck and the wind was blowing right in our faces. It was a soft, comfortable breeze, but it was strong with the scent of sage brush. That familiar smell that made me feel like I was free and more than that, made me feel like I was home. We walked in about two miles and Chance stopped me and said he spotted a doe. We looked closer and realized that there was also a buck bedded down, and it never noticed us. Or if it did, it didn’t seem to care. We ranged the deer and it was a little over 300 yards. My .270 rifle would easily handle that, and I had even sighted it in to that yardage, but I knew that I wasn’t comfortable or confident shooting at that distance. My mind drifted back to Saturday and the uneasy feeling I had as I walked away from the paper targets. I knew I needed to be close to 200 yards to feel good about my shot. I feel it’s important that if we set realistic goals for ourselves, and we have a plan with good reasoning, we shouldn’t abandon that plan due to a little excitement of any given situation. So, I was firm with Chance that this wasn’t the shot I wanted to take. We backtracked about 40 yards and ducked into the field behind the slightest rolling hill and slowly raised up to get the buck in our sights again. We found him quickly, he was still bedded with zero cares in the world. Distance was just under 260 yards.

I had a decision to make. Do I sit at a distance I knew I didn’t like, or do I do something I have never done before and set out on a stalk of this mule deer? There really wasn’t much hesitation, I told Chance to stay put, I shed my binos, and I started crawling on my stomach. The grass was tall, and my rifle felt heavy, but there was a slight breeze in our face, so I felt somewhat safe to be on the move. Then I noticed two other muleys, off to the right of my bedded buck. They were standing just around the bend from the deer I had my eye on, and they were looking right at me. I stopped and waited. Every time they looked away, I moved. Every time they homed in on me, I froze. They started to look concerned and began to move around a little more than I wanted, but thankfully they were out of the direct line of sight of my buck, so he wasn’t alerted to their nervousness. The original doe that we saw in the beginning had calmly walked over the hill, straight away, and out of view. One less deer on the lookout, that I no longer need to worry about. The other two, suddenly got spooked and took off hopping over the opposite hill, but thankfully my buck was still calm and noticed nothing that was happening around him, just around the bend.

It was time for me to get moving again. I belly crawled, I did the side stroke as if I was swimming, I dodged cactus, and fire ants, all while keeping my eyes on the deer that was still in the same spot. Then suddenly, a different buck stood up. I was stunned, because I never even noticed he was there this whole time. He stood broadside, I could hear Chance behind me telling me to “shoot” and then “what are you waiting for”? Well, I was waiting for the buck that I had been watching to stand up, not this dude. This was not the buck I was stalking, but apparently it WAS the one Chance had his eyes on in that moment. After getting slightly frustrated with the chatter from the peanut gallery behind me, and then Chance realizing there was a different buck in the same area, I calmed down and regained my focus. Soon, I was on the move again. I had managed to move not only closer in distance, but I changed the angle that I was approaching from so that if this guy stood up, I was more in line with a broadside shot, as he was positioned quartering away, as he lay there. To this point, having him looking slightly away was good as it kept me safe, but now I was getting close enough that I needed to get lined up a little better. I sat patiently for about ten minutes, constantly watching him. He nodded off, he flinched much like I would when I lay down after a long, hard day, drifting in and out of sleep. He would flick his ears, and look around, but not commit to standing up. But just as I was ready to inch my bi-pod out and scoot my rear up one last time, through the sagebrush and the dirt, he made his move. He stood up and after taking one and a half steps, it was time for me to trust my gun, but more importantly trust myself and squeeze the trigger. I had no idea what my range was, I had no range finder, no binoculars, I was down to just a gray hoodie, jeans and zero camo, as I had shed items along the way, in my stalk.

I looked on as this beautiful animal jumped at the moment of impact, I followed him in my scope as he ran, and I panicked. I quickly pulled back my bolt and ejected the spent round and put another one in the chamber in case I would need to fire again. But almost as quickly as I loaded another round, he fell to the ground. I looked back at Chance, who I hadn’t put eyes on for a while, and he gave me the thumbs up after taking his binos down from his face. I was elated, I felt bad, I was exhausted, I felt proud, I was thankful. Never have I pulled the trigger and watched an animal fall to the ground that I am not mixed with a confusing feeling of sadness and great happiness, all at the same time. I had just taken another life, I made a conscious decision to end this animal’s life to provide amazing meals for my family for the next several months, and it’s not something I take lightly. We looked back to where I had started crawling and then where the deer was standing at the time I fired my rifle, and I had made it up to a 215-yard shot. I had no idea how close I was, when it all went down, but I knew it felt good, and knew I felt good about taking the shot. I stuck with my plan, I followed through and I had a beautiful Wyoming mule deer to show for it. I took a few pictures, keeping in mind that success isn’t measured by who has the best “grip and grin” photo, and a picture will never tell the story of the stalk, or describe the emotion or the effort. The photos are for me and when I look at them I will fondly remember the sights, smells and sounds of that day when I worked my tail off, for almost two hours, testing my patience, sliding through a field of cactus and grass and being enveloped in the intoxicating smell of the sagebrush that I have come to love so much. 

We had ended our Tuesday, with no tags left to fill. When we got back to the ranch, the adrenaline had started to dissipate, and we were exhausted. We once again climbed one of three large buttes back behind the ranch house, to spend some time decompressing. Chance took a gun, in case we saw that pesky coyote, but there was never any real effort trying to find it. There wasn’t much said, and there was a whole lot or beauty to look at, so we just sat and looked off at the sunset, compiling our thoughts of the day, and feeling relieved that the pressure was off, long before the last day of our trip.

The following day, on Wednesday, we started the process of butchering our animals. This is where you put in the time and the hard work that quickly reminds you of the biggest reason you are a hunter. We hunt for the food that it provides, and we have a personal connection to this food. We share this meat with our friends and family, and occasionally strangers. We relive the hunt and tell the stories over meals that these beautiful animals have provided. Hunting isn’t the act of going out and killing an animal just because you can. For us, hunting is a process, it is an experience that connects us to our food and brings us closer to nature. Telling the stories in a way that inspires others, whether non-hunters or new hunters, to maybe venture out and explore the possibilities of what the out of doors is all about, is important to me, and I feel it is crucial to help others open their minds to something they may not be familiar with in the present. We hunt for the challenge, we hunt for the opportunity to explore this country’s public lands, and most importantly we hunt for the food it provides us throughout the year. 

We went out to hunt public land not knowing what we might find. We not only embraced the “suck”, but we endured it. Our friend Tim went out on Thursday night and shot one of those monster bucks behind the buttes at the ranch. We helped him drag it out, I took his photos for him, and I held a leg while he dressed it out. This buck was magnificent, it was stout, it still had velvet clinging to the tips of his antlers. He was everything you dream of, when you think of a Wyoming mule deer.

         
But he wasn’t the deer for me. The deer for me, was the deer I stalked and waited for, for so long on Tuesday. I couldn’t be more proud of our Wyoming hunt this year. I am thankful for the animals, thankful for our dear friends and their hospitality, and thankful for the public lands that made all of it possible. Maybe in a weird way, I am most thankful for the smell of the sagebrush, and the year long wait I endure before I can open that truck door, to that familiar smell that lets me know that we are back in Wyoming, once again.