2007 turned out to be a special treat year. I drew an
Arizona antelope tag for unit 19B. Those who’ve tried know that
such a permit does not show up very often. This would be my first
rifle hunt for antelope. There had been a little confusion between
my ears six years ago, resulting in an archery tag. Some of you may
remember that story. Anyway, the 2007 hunt would be in the same area.
Therefore I had limited my scouting to a single visit a few months
prior, mainly to check road access. It had not changed.
We found ourselves in the intended place late Thursday night. Dan
Martinez had never been on an antelope hunt, and had therefore asked
if he could tag along. Sure thing, most things turn out better when
we share them. He even towed in his buggy to potentially give us more
roaming range during the hot part of the day.
Friday morning plans demanded to rise at 4:45 AM, get ready and be in
position before first light. We managed to do exactly that, walking
maybe a half mile from our vehicles, and hunkering by a juniper to
wait for viewing light. Such light came right on schedule. Despite
intense efforts our binoculars could not detect any critters. Well,
cattle of course.
When enough light bathed the rolling hills we moved further south and
uphill. Not a hundred steps, and we had company. Some hundred and
twenty paces due east there posed an antelope, silhouetted right at
the horizon. And a legal buck at that. He just did not immediately
impress.
Now, I am not a trophy hunter, had no minimum head gear in mind.
However, as stated before, antelope tags do not come easy. I wanted
to at least feel good about the animal I aimed to kill, and it simply
didn’t happen here.
By the way, antelope hunting adds a special flavor to my enjoyment.
It reminds of the old country. Not that there are prairies or pronghorns
near Hamburg. Conditions are similar. In those moist meadows and open
fields you do see roe deer regularly, just as antelope in the prairie.
Both places, unfortunately, are uglied up with barbed wire fences. And
this young buck happened to be near a residence, similar to northern
Germany with its many villages and scattered farms.
Youngster here was free to roam another day. Besides, usually there
would be others of his kind not too far away. So, what about those?
That question got answered rather quickly. The buck eventually ran
off, and by so doing ratted out the herd to us. And looky here,
another buck, bigger. The hunt was on! This boy I did feel good about.
Dan stayed behind, obliterated by one of the few junipers in the area.
I banked on old tactics. Donning full camo, further enhanced at home
for a 3-D effect, gun over one shoulder, shooting sticks held right in
front and above my face to further break up my human silhouette, with
slow and careful steps I approached the antelope across open prairie
with nothing to hide behind. It seemed to work. The herd showed no signs
of fright, going about their business of fetching breakfast.
Big boy had an extra assignment, occasionally keeping the lesser male
away from his babes. No doubt the antelope saw me, but they did not
recognize me. Our game continued for about fifteen minutes. I did not
get significantly closer. Neither did the herd get nervous. They just
steadily moved away from me while feeding.
Eventually, also worried that the soon to rise sun would blind me, with
big boy standing alone and broadside, I knelt, steadied the rifle on the
cross sticks. He looked so far away. I aimed about a hand’s width over
his back, increased pressure, and the shot went right where the crosshairs
had been.
Note to self: “You flaming idiot! We forgot this lesson, didn’t we! In
poor light conditions things look further away than they really are.” I
remembered vividly of having committed the same stupid ‘hold over’ error
on mule deer years prior. “Jerk”.
All seemed not lost, however. The herd, clearly alerted now, had dashed
about hundred yards towards the southeast. They were still within range,
even. But there was a hill between us, and only their ears and prongs
were visible. They didn’t even look in my direction. I would get another
chance.
Well, until a moment later, when they all thundered away, now heading
northeast. The reason? Ah, two other hunters had come over the hill,
completely silhouetted against the sky, and gloriously highlighted by
their orange and pitch black attire. Unfortunately, they were closer
now to the antelope, made their stalk, and missed also. Now the herd
ran further east. My only hope was that they would eventually turn
north and back. I ran that way to be there. Soon the competition fired
yet again, missed again. The herd now headed into the sunrise, due east,
out of sight. Game over at this location. I headed back towards our
vehicles, and the competition over the same hill they had come from.
Dan and I regrouped. Next on the agenda was a waterhole, further south,
still within comfortable walking range. The sun already seemed at full
power. Following a small wash provided a few more shade trees. Stopping
in one of those cooler places, I put the binos back to work. Bingo.
Immediately into view came a lone buck, decent looking at that. He
triggered the ‘feel good’ sensors in me, and without a doubt was heading
straight for the water. I dashed to the next shade when the antelope
disappeared behind some trees. Here a big rock offered a convenient place
to sit. The Remington settled into the sticks again, just in time as the
pronghorn paused.
“Range me!” “240, 300, 240”, Dan whispered back. Huh? The buck had not
moved. Heck, to me it looked like about 250.
No way would I repeat the previous mistake. The crosshairs settled high
in his body when the shot broke.
At times even a fixed six-power scope can reveal too much, even at about
250 yards. And I did not like at all what the Meopta was showing me.
The buck had turned, laboriously limping uphill now, and low in one hind
leg was an obvious bullet wound. Some foul mix of disgust, frustration
and sense of urgency overcame me. Turns out that such emotions do not
aid in accurate shooting.
I missed the next two shots off the sticks, and the last one offhand.
Gun empty. Whispered cursing ensued. Dan’s question of “What are you
doing?!?” did not stabilize the situation one bit, either. ‘How could I?’
hammered in my head as I was fishing for more 6-250 cartridges to fill
the Model 700 back up. As I chambered the thing Dan mentioned “I think
he’s going down.”
I glanced up, only to see the prongs briefly. Now ready again, we headed
for that spot we had last seen the buck at. “Should have practiced more
shooting from cross stick” came to mind. We climbed slightly and entered
open terrain, no place to hide, plenty of options for a final shot.
That wasn’t needed. I found him already down for good, with a bullet wound
very low through his chest. The mood changed instantly, of course. Dan
congratulated, time for pictures, time to give thanks. Then the ‘red work’.
He was a fine pronghorn buck – happy ending (14-incher, for those who care).
Things are indeed better when we share them. And easier when a buddy helps
you carry the beast back to camp.
Schpeaking of help… David Stimens had offered his artificial tree, a modular
design of perforated square tubing that installs into a trailer hitch receiver.
Nearby was an I40 overpass, that’s where we were headed because it offers
solid shade and also a decent draft of air. Here my antelope, now hanging off
the back of the 4Runner, lost its hide and then body temperature. Meanwhile
Dan and I talked about guns and life, mostly life. Around noon the meat was
cool enough. The final act of the hunt came with a few familiar cuts with
blade and saw. Soon all bounty filled the extra ice chest.
So what did happen?! ‘Forensic’ evidence included a wound channel through
the chest in the direction of the first shot, not the three follow-up ones.
The first stomach chamber had a small hole. The exit wound had been filled
with leaf matter. And Dan found a tiny piece of bullet jacket in the leg
wound, where the bullet had completely missed bone. Therefore my first shot
must have done it all.
Going low through the antelope’s chest, the 90 grain Ballistic Tip tore away
the tip of the heart, breaching one of the three chambers. At least one
fragment must have punctured the adjacent stomach chamber. Such hard hit
explains why the buck had moved so awkwardly, and that leaf matter in the exit
wound. After exiting his chest the Nosler also penetrated the offside lower
leg. That is the wound I had seen through the scope. Dan and I never detected
the one low through the boiler, which was possibly hidden by the front leg, or
was simply too low for us to notice.
How easily we doubt ourselves!
