It was his first big game hunt. My stepson, Graham, had drawn not just
a deer tag for the 2009 Junior season which coincides with fall break,
but also a javelina tag for the same area at the same time. Due to
school commitments we did not leave until very early of opening Saturday.
He had chosen to pursue javelina first, since they tend to be easier to
bag, if you can find them.
When he exited the 4Runner all the enthusiasm of a fifteen year old
was bottled up within him, propelled him. We proceeded to climb small
knolls, from which the binoculars were employed. Nothing showed up in
the first two hours.
Arriving near a steeper mountain, it happened. Graham busted out what
looked like a fine specimen of a mule deer buck. Not a stupid one,
either, because this big boy did not waste any time putting distance
between us. Tough shots soon rang out since Graham took them anyway.
None connected. The deer disappeared over the next ridge. And with
him he seemed to take much of Graham’s good spirits. Here was a
perfect example of how reality can deflate a guy. The disappointment
of not getting that buck lingered for quite a while.
We returned to the vehicle, a mere speck in the rugged landscape,
encountering neither deer nor pig. After lunch a change in location
offered other possibilities. There had always been pigs at that
mountain, and occasionally also muleys. At the price of climbing
steep, brushy slopes we did flush out a javelina, but Graham did not
even get this runner into his scope. And to test his resolve even
more, at last light two more porkers emerged briefly from the brush,
but he could not find them in his optics.
At dinner I had one exhausted, disappointed, christened-by-reality
young lad on my hands, who’s ideas of hunting had just been thoroughly
set straight.
We left for the woods near Prescott the next day. After one more
frustrating afternoon and evening his luck changed rather quickly.
Very early Monday morning a forkhorn cooperated, only bounced off for
several yards after we crossed paths. Graham, armed with a sporterized
Springfield that his Grandfather arranged for him to use, sent one 165
grain softpoint that put the buck down, but not out. That job, from
fairly close distance, got accomplished with a downloaded 110 grainer.
I congratulated him on his first big game kill.
His moment of pure happiness was short. Graham also did the field
dressing and soon thereafter the skinning. In the mean time I had
moved the Toyota within about a hundred yards of his kill. Since a
perfect oak tree happened to grow where Graham had killed his buck,
we pulled the deer up in it. When all the work was done and some
morning breeze had cooled his muley down nicely, we carried the meat
in an ice chest back to the Toyota. At that time Graham simply wanted
to go home, ‘had enough of nature for awhile’, as he’d put it. So we
did.
I’m not sure about it, but I believe Graham is beginning to understand
that this trip wasn’t just about hunting. It was an adventure,
unstructured activities in the great outdoors. It required hard work,
and provided a taste of this wild and rugged Arizona. Nature threw out
some of her challenges, examples that a man constantly faces some sort
of struggle, and deals with it. Graham may have complained a lot, but
he took action nonetheless. I’d hunt with him again. But that week he
opted to not pursue a javelina.
Fast-forward ten days, to another deer hunt. In case you don’t know,
I’m a lucky guy. After killing a cow elk last year, on my application
I opted for a new hunt unit in 2009, one with better drawing odds, and
drew another cow elk permit, for 19A. But this is about deer. Since
I had never hunted in 19A, choosing this unit for first choice deer made
sense, so I could scout while hunting deer. Yep, I’m a lucky guy … I
got that 19A deer permit as well.
There were three of us on this hunt. On opening day, Ron and I carefully
approached a nearby waterhole. We decided to wait in ambush at that water
source.
We saw nothing. An hour later we split up. Not five minutes later I
detected a small group of deer, some three hundred steps away, up a gentle
rise, slowly drifting through the junipers.
I couldn’t be sure if one of them was a buck, and never saw them again.
This was mostly juniper country, where open terrain was rare. “3X”
country, where a scope is almost a handicap. Distances are short, shots,
if you’d get one, would be fast. Better dial to 3X. I slowly moved in
a wide circle back to camp.
Right before noon a whitetail buck provided brief excitement. He came
busting out from under a tree, knew what he had to do, panicking down
the steep slope. All I had in the scope was the last two or so inches
of his grey back, for a fraction of a second before Mr. Whitetail was
completely gone from sight.
Not five minutes later a shot roared. As it turns out, it was from our
buddy’s .300 Win Mag. This Ron (we had two Rons on this trip) had chosen
a different strategy for that morning. We had cell phone coverage up
there. Soon mine buzzed. Ron excitedly reported that he had played cat
and mouse with this big buck for about an hour. He had seen him four
times, in a space of maybe a hundred and twenty yards squared. He had
finally been able to take a shot on their fifth encounter.
Ron's Big Deer
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It was a big-bodied deer with, for Arizona, very large whitetail antlers
above a whitetail face. But his tail was that of a muley. Didn’t matter,
we had a very happy Ron on our hands, and a job to get his big buck back
to camp, which according to GPS wisdom was 0.6 miles away.
With the three of us, this task was finally accomplished by about 3:30 PM.
The other Ron and I took it easy that evening, sitting in promising and
separate places, but not doing any harm to anything.
Saturday we crisscrossed the same hill where the big buck had resided.
But neither of us detected any deer. Meanwhile ‘happy’ Ron left camp,
ended his hunt to get his big boy to a taxidermist. And oh by the way,
there was sign of elk, but very few. None of us ever actually saw one.
Not on this hunt. Not during my five scouting outings, either.
Sunday morning activities began way before daylight. Big game hunting
is a special affair. Unless you enjoy all of it, the preparations,
scouting, camping, physical efforts, fruitless wanderings, and this
rugged Arizona land, you’re not going to like big game hunting. If you
get lucky, encountering an animal that matches your tag, taking a shot,
those things happen in rushing moments. The rest is work.
I left camp in the dark that Sunday morning, fueled by a mix of faith
and passion. There wasn’t much of a moon. Yet the dirt road, back to
the same waterhole from the first day, was easy to follow. As the
eastern light pushed away the darkness, slowly sucked the grey from the
surrounding hills, I stopped more often to let my binoculars do the
walking. Nothing. This time I followed the road past the pond, and
eventually up the hill. Noise could not be avoided, but hopefully
minimized. Not more than a hundred paces up the slope my feet stopped
as my eyes confirmed “deer body”, maybe just shy of a hundred paces off
the road to my left.
My business partner slowly and carefully swiveled off my shoulder – I
carry muzzle down. The first anxious glance through my scope, still at
3X, told me that I had to take one more careful step to see the deer’s
head. That provided the confirmation: antlers! Soon the crosshairs,
having to navigate through some close-by catclaw tangle of twigs, found
the buck’s rib cage, if only somewhat further back than I had wanted.
It always amazes me. No practice, and I do plenty of off-season
shooting, provides the shortness of breath, the noticeable increase in
heart rate that kicks in instantly when those crosshairs cover an
animal’s body.
I squeezed, unleashing 150 grains of lead- free Nosler boattail. As
the Tikka T3 came out of recoil (which I never felt, and neither was
the shot loud), there was no more buck. Only a branch on the juniper
he had been in front of shook noticeably.
I operated the silky-smooth bolt and scanned the terrain for movement.
There was none. Minutes passed. Eventually I picked up that empty .308
case, and slowly approached the juniper. No deer. Just a broken twig
shining amongst the evergreen. But wait, there’s more.
A small piece of what looked like and felt like liver dangled off a
twig right next to the one clipped by my bullet. And a bigger chunk
lay in the dirt at the base of this tree. About ten feet out the buck
had left obvious dig marks from all four of his hoofs. A little
further the first blood stained the desert. Then more. And then, yuk,
some gut content. And more of that. About thirty yards from where
that Nosler had connected I found my muley, expired. I tagged him.
This ‘red work’ had quite a bit of green content, and I apologized.
Oh, yes, the cell phone. Ron answered. He had heard my shot. I talked
him into fetching his pickup and directed him towards me. He helped me
drag the deer back to the road. We loaded my buck onto the Ford’s tail
gate, and this boy was hanging in camp by the time the sun had climbed
the hill to the east. Ron called it a day after that, after helping to
get two fat deer into camp.
That morning the weather invited. Clouds dominated the sky, and a cool
breeze encouraged. I skinned my buck. While he cooled it made sense to
prepare the European mount. Both Rons had left plenty of water to fill
my stock pot. Soon the skull rested in boiling water.
Meanwhile I began to de-bone my buck, enjoying that as well. While
working the meat I could not help but wonder. Wonder at this awesome,
rugged country. Wondered why that buck was where he was, after we had
hunted and disturbed the country for two days straight. Wondered at
the perfect morning weather to process him right here and now.
Wondered at the calming, recharging, encouraging effects nature
provides, if we let her.
By about 1PM, all was done. Time to head home from a great hunt.
Time to thank the Lord.
