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| Our Campsite |
Opening morning finds me up early and driving to the rifle range for one last check on the weapon and scope. The first thing I notice is that its unreasonably cold and windy, but I fling some lead anyways, probably to calm the nerves more than anything. I have a lot of packing to do before I pick up my father at Sky Harbor at noon. Mike and Joe should be driving in around 5 pm, and then Remi lands close to 7 pm.
The packing takes longer than I expect, despite having packed nearly identical gear lists for any number of previous trips. I am excited. So excited in fact, I haven't eaten or showered yet, and its now time to drive to the airport. I grab a snack and get in the truck.
It's good to see my dad again as I pull alongside the curb of the airport. True to tradition he already has indulged in his annual tobacco allowance and offers me a dip. Smiling I decline, but we compromise on finding a watering hole and partaking of some frosty libations. We catch up on the details of our lives from the past several months and discuss the anticipation of the coming hunt. The food was hot, the beers were cold, the company grand. This was going to be a great hunt!
Mike and Joe arrived later and between the four of us we put our collective 15 years or so of engineering education to use to try and fit our gear into two pick up trucks. We were nearly successful until we realized that there was still Remi and his gear that needed to be added to hap-hazard caravan that would've looked more appropriate coming north from Mexico than it did heading south towards the border. Some rearranging and a quick shower and we were off to the airport one last time to pick up our final compadre.
Four hours later and we're driving a dirt road towards the camp site. Its amazing how things look different at night when you're the only one who knows where to go. We hastily set up camp in the dark and it is freezing cold. Remi just spent the last 3 months in the ice box of Montana, where the daily highs were in the teens. When I saw him shiver I knew it wasn't just me - it was really cold. Perfect weather for deer hunting, poor weather for sleeping, though with the excitement building I didn't figure on catching much sleep anyways.
Dawn breaks frigid and clear, with only the faint touches of color that come from a sunrise after a still night in the desert. We're running a few minutes later than I had hoped, but we are together: four rifles, four tags, five good friends. This is going to be a fantastic hunt. Single file we walk up the back of a hill from which we will glass for deer. I can only imagine how suspicious this train of people wearing backpacks and dark clothing must look to any of the Border Patrol agents in the area.
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| My Buck and Another Eating from a Barrel Cactus. |
We pause for a minute before reaching the summit to catch our breath and survey the surroundings. Mike points to the adjacent bowl and comments about how this is really good deer country when suddenly a buck busts out of the draw below us and runs up the opposite side of the bowl. The white flag of its tail is thrown up and I can see the frame of a good buck as it skylines momentarily before disappearing over the other side. Suddenly there are more deer, bucks - four of them, following the first in like manner, long, white tails thrown up and waving side to side, standing out in such stark contrast against the ocotillo and prickly pear hillside that even a blind man would be able to spot them. Mike and I both chamber a round and follow the deer as they disappear, but neither of us shoot. We quickly run to the ridge and relocate the deer as they continue to run through the draws and ravines of the mesquite country and up towards a large open hill side.
After a little while the bucks calm down and begin to feed out in the open about a 1000 yards away. We settle down behind the glass and spend some time looking over the bucks and discussing possible plans of stalking in on them. There are at least two shooters in the group, and one in particular that catches my attention. I intended on taking a mature representative of the species, viz. a three point with eyeguards and a basket frame. This buck was exactly what I was looking for. After some discussion, Remi and Joe aren't interested in pursuing these bucks for the first day of the hunt, so Mike and I decide to head after them. Mike generously allows me the first shot.
The bucks bed down for the morning while Mike and I work our way into some rocks about 300 yards away from the deer. After relocating the buck I wanted, I got set up using a backpack laid on top of a rock for the rest. After hours of reloading and shooting, spending time trying to memorize the ballistics for my rifle, I really felt that I could make the shot. I set the horizontal post of my scope's reticle to where I could just barely see daylight above the buck's back, figuring that should accommodate the 6 inch drop that my bullet would sustain over the shot distance. I work into the trigger pull, focusing on my breathing. One final breath, let it halfway out, first pad of the index finger on the trigger, squeezing... the rifle cracks loud in the morning quiet and I momentarily lose the buck from the recoil. But there is no tell-tale echo of an impact. I missed!
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| Camp Chef and the Griddle |
Fortunately, the buck is none-the wiser, jumping up from his bed and looking around confused. I chamber another round and settle back into the rest but the buck begins to feed now, and I don't have a shot. This continues for some time, until the buck is satisfied with his breakfast of barrel cactus fruit and beds down behind a large yucca plant. Mike and I reconvene to discuss our present options. The buck has now bedded in a spot conducive to a very close stalk that I elect to take, while Mike hangs back at 200 yards to help guide me in to shooting position. The stalk will take me straight up the hillside directly at the buck to a rock outcropping that should put me within 80 yards of the deer. Its a risky stalk, but the wind is right and because of the the angle of the hill I will be concealed from the buck the whole way.
As I reach the rock outcropping from where I anticipate getting a crack at the buck I pause to try and relocate the deer. After a few minutes I can pick out an antler and an ear from behind the yucca. I am close now, but I still have no shot. The wind has become finicky, and I realize if I try to wait the buck out I will probably get winded and the angle for the shot will be poor. If I can gain another 20 yards I should be in a better position to take the shot when it comes. Being a bowhunter at heart I have no hesitation in trying to cut 80 yards down to 60 or less, though this is typically where most of my stalks fall apart. I quickly take my boots off and set them aside to try and close the last bit of distance in my socks. I wonder if everyone else is as amused with this decision as I am. Why use a rifle if you're still going to try and get within bow distance?
The first fifteen yards are easy. I am getting very close to having an angle that will present a shot. I can now see the back of the buck's head and a portion of his neck. His ears bat back and forth, and periodically a shaft of sunlight will glint on an antler. The wind is swirling now, and the last five yards are thick with vegetation and steep. The deer is suddenly wary, alert, and stands up. I shoulder the rifle just as the deer steps forward - right behind the bush. I can't see the buck's body, only the outline of his back. Three times I commence the trigger squeeze, trying to talk myself into shooting through the bush. Its a light bush I say to myself. The buck is only 60-65 yards away, the bullet should have no problem punching through at that distance. But I hesitate, there is just too much that could go wrong with the shot. As if the deer can hear my thoughts it now turns and begins to run up the hill. There are several ocotillo between us now, and I swing ahead of the buck's gate trying to find a shooting lane only to arrive there too late as buck passes through. We're close to the summit of a ridge and I realize that if I'm going to get a shot I'm going to have to move, and move fast.
I begin to run, still in my socks, after the buck, catching a glimpse as he crests the ridge. I arrive there shortly after, looking frantically for the deer. There is grass and rocks, mesquite trees and ocotillo, but no deer. There's too much country for the deer to have covered already, but I can't find him anywhere. Suddenly, I catch movement in my periphery. Tucked low in some ocotillo about 80 yards away the buck is trying to sneak away, with his head low to the ground. I shoulder the rifle and fire. I hear the impact echo back as the buck kicks and begins to run. Another round runs through the Ruger's action and I shoulder the rifle again finding the buck in the scope and swinging through his body trying to match the buck's pace. As soon as my vertical post disappears into the edge of the buck's front shoulder I fire again. The buck lunges forward, his white tail flagging frantically as his front legs buckle and he collides with the ground disappearing into the tall grass not much more than a football field away.
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| My 2010 Coues Deer Buck |
I begin to walk back towards my boots where I will meet up with Mike. I am suddenly aware of how many cactus spines I've acquired in the soles of my feet, but the pain is irrelevant in light of the success of harvesting my first Coues deer. A three year quest came to fruition on the first morning of the hunt, with an off hand shot at a running buck less than 100 yards away. It was entirely different than the long distance prone shot with spotters that I had anticipated, but I couldn't complain. There would be a beautiful set of polished basket rack antlers waiting for me on the other side of the ridge; tenderloins and Crown Royal on ice would welcome us back at camp. My dad was able to witness me take a buck again for the first time in over 8 years. I had great friends to help me, and they still had tags to fill. This was going to be a fantastic hunt.
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| From Left: My Dad, Mike, Remi, Joe, and Myself |
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| My Dad and Mike Enjoying the Fruits of Victory |
