Hunting has always been a family tradition, just
as in many other families. It was one of the very
few times during the year when we all got together
at the same place, at the same time, with the same
focus. Nobody had to run off to class, to the office,
or to some other appointment. There was no football,
baseball, or wrestling practices, and no projects
due. It really was our favorite time of year. We worked
as a unit on scoping and stalking, and then shared
each exciting moment. These were the times that we
would share the rest of our lives. It was just plain
fun to the core. It made no difference if we were
filling a doe tag or a buck tag, the adrenaline pumped
and the thrill was always there. This is not to say
that a nice buck wasn’t something we all kept
an eye out for, but it wasn’t “why”
we were there. But, for the most part, we were probably
just going to fill the freezer, rather than parade
a trophy around like the macho bunch who were from
God-knows-where and just had to show off that forky
horn on their drive home. The male bonding thing is
way over rated. I’ll take a family hunt every
time.
Unfortunately, family has a way of growing up and
moving on to other parts of the country. Consequently,
for Sue and me, it was now just Ma and Pa until the
boys and the next generation of hunters get back to
Montana. We love our mule deer and antelope hunts,
but our hunts had become a tad different since it
was just the two of us. We did our best to get up,
have some breakfast, have all our gear ready, and
be out hunting before … well, before noon.
The Montana ranch we hunt is a beautiful, native
bunchgrass and sagebrush ranch. Plenty of yucca and
plenty of cactus to take home as souvenirs in your
knees, elbows, and elsewhere. But trees were scarce
at best. In some areas, broken country with deep draws
allow a hunter to put on elaborate sneaks. However,
this country also allows critters to sneak out the
back door through what we fondly call “star
gates.” In other areas, that we call the “Serengeti,”
the sagebrush and cactus flats seem to go on forever.
Here, sneaks are a lot more challenging. In either
country, we often find ourselves taking the time to
enjoy the diversity of plants, wildlife, and geologic
formations that surround us.
Although we have been fortunate to get permission
to hunt this ranch for many years, for the past five
years or so it had been closed to muley hunting. The
owners are true stewards of nature, who understand
and implement proper management of both domestic livestock
and native wildlife. This year was different though.
Now, because of the good increase in mule deer numbers
and our excellent rapport with the owners, Sue and
I had received permission to hunt deer. We were excited,
to say the least. We did not expect any record-book
deer as we had never seen any on this ranch (or anywhere
else during hunting season for that matter), but we
had seen some nice bucks for the past few years. We
each had a tag for either sex deer. For a change,
we were up bright and early.
As we drove in the early light towards an area of
the ranch where we would start “hoofing it,”
Sue spied a muley doe in the distance and suggested
we put a sneak on her. I suggested that we not take
a chance of spooking the bucks that may be nearby
since this was opening morning after a five-year hiatus.
Fortunately, I caught myself falling into the “big
buck” mentality and had second thoughts. What
better way to get over any buck fever, than to fill
a doe tag.
Sue has this horrible habit of waiting waaaay too
long before taking a shot, which usually has me pulling
what hair I have left … out. She says she likes
to “feel at one with my shot.” Not only
does this put ME on edge, but I have also even seen
CRITTERS staring at her wondering to themselves why
she hasn’t shot. We have countless video of
a nice deer or lope standing broadside with me whispering
in my most exasperated voice, “Take it...shoot...take
it now...” Once I saw a forked horn turn into
a 3x3 before she finally pulled the trigger.
Since there was only one doe, I decided to follow
Sue with the video camera while she stalked. Sue was
taking the lead towards where she saw the muley doe.
The doe was on a small bench, not more than half a
mile away. Just beyond was a draw, then more hills.
Very slowly we crept up. As we began to crest a hill
overlooking the bench, Sue saw that the doe had moved
away and appeared nervous. As the doe stepped out
further, a small buck came into view. He had appeared
from a cutbank from just below our position. He, too,
seemed alarmed. The buck walked over to the doe whose
ears were now perked. Then something else caught our
attention; it was another buck. He was a nice one,
with a nice spread. I’ve seen a lot nicer, but
never here and never in my scope. Just as we caught
our breath, out stepped a third muley buck. I don’t
believe his true size or uniqueness really registered
with either of us, except that he was bigger still.
Although they appeared somewhat nervous, they simply
stepped off the bench and into the draw as a group.
With hearts thumping, we watched them cross the draw
and then go out of sight over a hill.
Sue was about to head off down the hill and up the
next after them, but I stopped her. I figured we could
get around them and ambush them since they had not
seen us. The fact that I realized I had the darn video
camera in my hands, rather than my rifle, and that
I could swap the camera for the rifle when we got
back to the truck on our way to head them off, had
no influence in this obviously altruistic plan. Possibly,
we could each get a muley buck. I knew that big boy
would be mine. We dashed for the truck. I had my rifle
in hand and pack on my back before the camera hit
the back seat. Since we were at the head of the draw,
we were able to sneak around behind a series of small
hills fairly quickly. Once we determined that we were
ahead of the deer, we slowly, but deliberately, moved
down through the sagebrush and grass along a hillside
where we anticipated they would step out. We were
now opposite and almost ¾ of a mile from where
we first saw them. We moved down towards the expected
spot of their appearance and set up the ambush.
Since we were positioned prone on a slope, Sue had
one-leg of her bipod fully extended and the other
only partially extended. Her riflescope was set for
what we expected to be a close shot, perhaps 50 yards.
I was more than ready for what I knew would be the
largest buck I had ever shot. We didn’t have
to wait long. The doe stepped from around the far
end of the hill on which we were laying in wait. The
doe was walking slowly, occasionally stopping to feed.
The forky horn came into view next, and fed alongside
the doe. They looked back a couple of times …
at the other bucks, I hoped … but probably to
make sure danger wasn’t following. We weren’t
following, we were comfortably watching them through
our scopes. After a couple of minutes of extreme anticipation,
out stepped what I knew was Sue’s buck. It was
the one with the nice spread that had taken our breath
away just twenty minutes earlier. My buck would be
soon to follow. In spite of Sue’s habit of waiting
so long before shooting, this time I wanted her to
wait. I was afraid that she would shoot her buck with
the nice spread before mine appeared, leaving me no
opportunity. Just in case, I was ready to stand and
dash around the hill for a shot. The doe and forky
horn continued moving to our right. We were in absolute
plain view, but prone and motionless. They glanced
our way and I didn’t even breath. “Please
don’t spook,” I prayed. They began feeding
again. Sue’s buck with the nice spread was broadside
and out in the open feeding. I anticipated her shot,
but she waited, as usual. The doe and forky horn were
slowly moving out of our field of vision by the time
my buck finally fed into view. I now knew that Sue
had waited so that we could both squeeze off a shot.
“Wowsers, here comes my buck,” I said
to myself. I didn’t count the points, didn’t
care. How do you count points during a buck-fever
attack anyway?
“Now is the time to take your buck, Sue, and
mine will fall right behind yours,” I hoped
she was reading my thoughts. Suddenly, POW! Sue shot
… the buck bolted … and then dropped.
He was down! YES! He was down! My buck was down! Wait,
I hadn’t shot! Up I jumped. There was the widespread
buck looking back as the doe and forky horn ran off.
I shot and dropped him. Sue’s buck? What had
just happened? Sue was excited, I was dumbfounded,
but we both stayed in our positions making certain
that nobody except the doe and forky horn ran off.
We then went over to our deer. Mine moved and I placed
a finishing shot. Sue’s buck was dead before
it had hit the ground, as usual (it was irritating
how she always did that). Thoughts of a mule deer
hunt from years past flooded into my mind. I stood
there reminiscing … hearing Sue’s voice
fade into the background. We were on a different
ranch. The boys were with us and we were strung along
a grassy ridge above a draw. We had flanked this ridge
a couple of times on the way up to the head of the
draw. On the last approach I saw the top of a cottonwood
tree and I knew that was where my buck would be waiting.
As we slowly crested in unison, my eyes focused under
the branches of the cottonwood. There was my muley
buck, as if on cue. I raised my rifle and placed the
crosshairs on him. I had an excellent shot. I had
the safety off and my finger on the trigger, keeping
him in my scope all the while. Suddenly, he dropped
as I watched him in my scope! An instant later I heard
the report of a rifle. I looked to my left. There
was Sue, fist clenched and held high. Her mouth opened
and closed and another instant later I heard an excited
“YEAH” drift my way. Sue had shot my buck.
You could have knocked me over with a feather. She
had really shot my buck. I had the crosshairs on him
… was squeezing the trigger … when SHE
fired and shot MY buck. The kids even seemed excited
that Sue had shot my buck. The brass tag on the antlers
I mounted for her as a Christmas gift that year read,
“Dad’s buck, shot by Sue.”
Now, here we were again, deja vu. Sue’s voice
now returned to the forefront of my mind. She was
counting the points that stuck out here, there, and
everywhere ... “and there’s the sixth
point on this side, it’s a six by six!”
It was a non-typical six by six. It was not a record
book muley, but it was nice … very nice. Certainly
the nicest buck I had seen in my scope. I got out
the weight tape; a handy little tape measurer that
is supposed to give live and dressed weights based
on chest circumference. I measured the chest and looked
at the corresponding weight; 275 pounds...dressed
weight. The tape must obviously be flawed. Getting
the critters back to the truck, however, suggested
the tape was right on. Still, the tape wasn’t
long enough for Sue’s grin; a record-book grin
by any standard.
Back home we pulled the backstraps, which melted
in our mouths. In fact, both large bucks were delicious.
It was an unexpectedly great trip among the great
trips we have had. Friends marvel at Sue’s mulie
and the plaque below it that reads, “Another
of Dad’s bucks, shot by Sue.” But I really
do feel good about my buck, especially because, as
Sue says, “it has a really nice spread...for
a three by four.”
