king' s outdoor world - Index

king' s outdoor world - Best of 2007 Feb-March 2008 - Index

steeper since the last time I visited
two years before, thrusting another jab
into my formerly solid, unwavering
confi dence of killing a really big buck.
Somewhere, subliminally, my dream
buck just lost a couple more inches.
“How am I going to pack a
buck out of this country?” ran through
my head. All prior pre-season
romanticism and impracticality (along
with some body heat and a few more
inches from my dream antlers) slowly
evaporated from my psyche while
reality, body aches, and an icy breeze
began fi lling the empty space. I just
left the truck and the weight of my pack
already made my back ache. I still
don’t know why my pack weighed 63
pounds heading into camp; I thought
I had packed light. Let’s see: an
eleven-pound muzzleloader, four days
worth of food, extra clothing, sleeping
material, water, optics, tripod, bullets
- it adds up quickly.
Opening morning was cold,
really cold. I wore seven layers to
bed and still woke up freezing. I
spotted several bucks in the morning
including two that I felt were shooters.
They were loafi ng alongside a small
meadow 2,000 feet lower in elevation
along with nine to ten other bucks and
some does. I thought, “Do I really
want to drop all the way down into the
canyon and then haul the buck out?
OF COURSE I DO!” I slowly made
my stalk for several hours inching my
way through rugged, steep country.
I fi nally belly-crawled to the point
where I felt I couldn’t get closer
without the risk of a pair of eyes
spotting me. I laid 200 yards from the
deer and hoped they would get up and
feed in the meadow between us for a
hundred-yard shot.
The hours went by slowly
until, fi nally, the evening shadows
stretched across the canyon. I knew
any moment the deer would stand and
begin to feed. The largest buck, which
I was hoping to kill, stood up fi rst. He
ignored the other deer and slowly fed
his way alongside the meadow heading
uphill - the wrong way.
I needed a quick change in
plans. That big buck wasn’t going to
“Got ibuprofen?” The author
making his march back to the
truck. “The glory march!”
step foot in the meadow, he was quickly
moving back into the safety of the rough
terrain. The other bucks turned their
heads to observe the big buck, learning
from his astuteness. They stood up and
followed the buck uphill. I needed
to make a decision quick or I was not
getting a shot at this buck. My limit with
my smokepole is around 170-180 yards,
on a good day. I had to close the distance
quickly. I grabbed my fl eece jacket, stood
from my afternoon bed and quickly ran at
the deer through the meadow as quickly
as I could. I knew I would be busted, but
how quickly would they bolt? I covered
30+ yards in no time, threw my jacket
in the shrub, lay prone, and set up my
smokepole for a quick shot.
The does had spotted me and
were leaving the country in a hurry. The
bucks turned to watch the fl eeing does,
not realizing that danger had just snuck
within range. Without thought, without
any hesitation, I squeezed the trigger.
KAPOOOOWWWW!!! Smoke fi lled
the air between me and my prey. Did I hit
him? As quiet as a diesel engine, I hastily
loaded another bullet into the barrel. My
buck stood broadside ready to bolt. This
time all buck fever had left me, I was
upset I had missed. KapooWWWW!!!
The bullet sounded like it hit rock. I
quickly loaded another bullet wondering
if I possibly banged my scope during the
5MULE DEER WATCH5
hike in. I pulled my binoculars up
to get a better look at my buck. The
big buck was staggering and slowly
lay down, his head wavering to and
fro, gasping for his fi nal breath. I
breathed a sigh of relief. I knew he
would die quickly.
There he lay in the evening
shadows, a sight to bring the
satisfaction that only a hunter can
know. He wasn’t the magic buck
that stays alive in the canyons of
my mind, but that caliber of buck
wasn’t what I set my sights on (pun
intended) on this trip. Those hopes
for a dream buck slowly diminished
earlier. Without a doubt, my hopes
for harvesting a monster buck will
again swell while we are looking
over maps, applying for quality tags,
and telling big-buck stories. But, for
the moment, I couldn’t have been
more proud.
Tyler came down to help me
pack my buck out. “I thought you told
me you were holding out for Mr. Big,”
he said jokingly - I think. What is
“holding out” anyway? It may mean
waiting for Mr. Big. It may mean
waiting for the draw of a lifetime. It
may mean waiting for a deer to cross
your path that is absolutely love at fi rst
sight. As for me, it means just that, to
hold out for whatever makes your hair
stand on end, your knees shake, and
your throat go dry. I hold out all year
during preparation for that one single
moment, the moment of the kill, the
moment every hunter lives for, their
own glory march back into camp with
the deer they “held out” for.
Tyler shouldered my gun
and offered to help pack the deer
uphill to spike camp. “Let’s tie the
antlers to the top of my pack,” I said,
ignoring his offer to help pack meat
and antlers. “Right, your glory march
back to camp. I shouldn’t have even
asked to help,” he responded. Two
days later I packed the 102 pounds
of meat and camp back to the truck
which patiently waited for me 4.5
miles away. I tell myself all over
again it will be the last time I will
make that darn trip “holding out” for
that big one, but I doubt it.
February/March 87