Some good things do come from a divorce. I could spend my vacation at
will. That quickly led to the decision to visit my son Josh in Bozeman,
Montana. The Arizona big game draw results blessed me with a cow elk
hunt in early December, leaving plenty of time to head north. We
decided on the first weekend in November. On a Wednesday at 5AM the
Toyota began to work. With great tunes from a new CD player, an
investment that on this trip alone ‘paid’ for itself, and awesome scenery
along the way, the hours and miles easily slipped by. Thirteen hours
later I had left Arizona behind, and covered all of Utah. I pulled over
for the night after 930 miles, somewhere near Idaho Falls.
At first light I was driving again, but with virtually a whole day to
spare. When climbing up towards the Continental Divide, the first snow
greeted me. ‘Slow’ was the motto now, nice ‘n slow. At 8AM I entered
West Yellowstone, my first visit of this magnificent park, now after the
fire seemingly overgrown with a billion Christmas trees. Only two roads
remained open there, enough to visit Old Faithful, and 7 hours later
leave at the North Entrance en route to Bozeman. To make it short, I
had seen all the major food groups: buffalo (wanted to touch the bull
with snow on his back, crossing the road in front of my bumper), elk,
swans, geese and ducks, and outside the park antelope, bighorn sheep,
mulies and whitetails.
Montana must be the tittibar for deer hunters. There are deer everywhere
to see. But you can’t touch them since they are all on posted private
land. I took note of one field, however, with over fifty mule deer in it,
because I had just passed a sign proclaiming access to public land. That
wasn’t too far from Yellowstone, so about eighty miles from ‘home’.
Thursday night Josh and I went out for dinner, to visit and talk things
over. He had purchased, as a resident over the counter, a deer and an
elk tag. To make it short, we never seriously pursued elk, because deer
seemed so much easier, with his tag good for any whitetail, or an antlered
mule deer. Turns out it wasn’t easy. Where we did find access to public
land, elevation was way up, and deer population (and tracks) way down.
Around Bozeman you will find mountains in seemingly all directions, and in
November they all sport shining white snow covers, certainly at the higher
elevations, where, if any, the public land can be found.
Friday we followed fresh-looking tracks in the snow until we reached who’d
made them – six mule deer does. We decided on day trips, returning to town
every evening. Saturday we headed low, along the east bank of the Missouri,
not too far from Free Forks, the beginning of this nation’s longest river.
Take note, this is definitely combo country. I did not bring my over-under,
because I wasn’t hunting, but should have. The combo would be good for any
whitetail that might jump, plus be ready for the pheasants, ducks and
partridges we flushed.
In the afternoon we were back in the mountains, in snow. Few deer tracks
rewarded our effort. But on our way back towards the 4Runner we flushed two
grouse, one of them landing on a branch, maybe fifty paces from us, with
several leafless trees in between. The binoculars revealed a clear shot.
“Josh, try for the head or neck”, I whispered. He took aim, for quite some
time, trying to find that bird in the 6X Leupold. Finally the 7 Mag Savage
barked, and the grouse fell straight into the snow below, without that
feared big puff of feathers. The bird seemed completely intact. Only after
plucking did we find the fatal wound. The 162 grain Hornady had barely
nicked its neck. We enjoyed grouse for dinner that night.
On Sunday we decided to head towards Gardiner, where I had seen all those deer
in one field. When we arrived, there was immediate good news – not a single
mulie was in that field. So they must be in the slopes above, also known as
public land!
We hiked in, me all excited with anticipation. And Josh not at all into it,
because to him it looked like a barren hill, where the wind was in our faces,
carrying an annoying drop of rain too often.
We climbed , then headed left along the major mountain. About a mile later
three mulie does showed us their tail end as they left the scene. Josh, now
thoroughly disgusted, suggested we return to the vehicle. OK, it was his
hunt. I recommended to drop lower, near that promising field, on our way
back. We had only one more drainage to cross when a buck busted from that.
“Shoot him, shoot him” ….. “no wait, no shot, don’t shoot now!” Josh did not
get the shot off in the first forty yards. Then that smart-ass mulie had
quit running exactly when he was silhouetted against a handful of trailer
homes about a third of a mile away. Be sure of your target and what’s beyond!
No shot! Absolutely no shot!
Within seconds, he was around the bend and gone. “We have one more chance at
him, he will try to climb to get to safety,” I explained. “If we rush up to
that saddle, we might see him again.”
Now I could see that sonny boy had indeed done some mountain hiking all year
long. He reached that saddle so quick, my heart wanted to burst. When I
reached Josh, breath and heart going wild, he had already made out the
running buck. “Is that him?” he asked. “If he has horns, shoot!” I replied.
By then I had him in the Kahles 10X binos, still climbing and a good 300
steps away. When he hesitated to almost a stop, the Savage spoke, pushing
the buck slightly forward. Then he turned and ran downhill, actually
towards the Toyota, out of sight. Not knowing how far the deer might still
travel, we strategically closed the distance, so we would always have a safe
shot. Not necessary, we found him expired about 150 paces from the SUV.
By Arizona standards that buck, a forked horn with one extra kicker, had a
large body and fairly tall antlers. That did not really matter. It was
meat in the freezer for a student on a tight budget. I taught Josh how to
field dress the critter. He eventually stuffed the 7 Mag back into the gun
case, commenting “I like this rifle.” How could he not! Two shots, two
kills.
We hung his prize for two days to age the meat. I played tourist on Monday,
visiting the birth place of the Missouri, a cliff where Indians used to drive
buffalo to their deadly falls, and a State Park for caves, but access was
closed for the season.
Tuesday was work day, skinning, de-boning and packaging the buck. By then
Bozeman had its first real snow, eight inches. A taste of real winter as the
first deer roast was baking in the oven. The next morning a real frost had
arrived, ten degrees. Even so, we took his roommate’s dog to the nearby park
for some Frisbee action. The dog did not care about winter, plowing through
the snow after the soft disc. We could only handle it for maybe thirty
minutes, then escaped back into the heated house. When Josh had to return to
classes that morning, I pointed the Toyota south. The 4Runner with its
200,000 miles on the odometer and me would be friends for yet another 1070
miles. Auf Wiedersehen, Montana, truly the mountainous Big Sky State!
I’ll be back.
