brant89
Well-Known Member
I've decided to start writing down some of my adventures for posterity. Its a bit of a read, but hopefully you guys will enjoy it...
We arrive in the Bighorn Mountains around 1PM on Friday, October 14th after driving 22 hours straight from southern Michigan; a drive made even longer thanks to an ongoing gastrointestinal infection, courtesy of my 2-year-old daughter. The Bighorn Mountains are a steep, rugged mountain range that rises abruptly from the rolling sage flats in north central Wyoming, with its highest peak topping out at just over 13,000 feet above sea level. What our drive time doesn't include is the 15-mile crawl through rough mountain roads and two-tracks to the point where the trails become impassible for Mike's Ford F150, which takes nearly two more hours. It is at that point we decide to check zero on our rifles, have a snack, and unload the quad. Going from 1100ft to nearly 9000ft in less than 24 hours leaves us noticeably winded, even with minimal exertion, and no amount of training can prepare you for the low oxygen levels at high elevations. Once we confirm that our rifles are shooting as they should and we consume some calories, we load our packs on the quad and ride another 4 miles to the end of the two tracks in a deep basin, shielded by sheer cliffs on the north and south.
By the end of our ATV ride we have dropped nearly 2000ft in elevation, and we are relieved to have a little more oxygen for our 1.5-mile hike into the backcountry, where we plan to stay for the next three days. Less than a half mile into our trek we spot our first sign of game – a cinnamon phase black bear less than 100 yards off the cattle trail we are following. At nearly a mile from the ATV we start hearing the unmistakable call of a mature bull elk bugling on the ridge above us, and it isn't long before we realize we have hiked into a herd of nearly 200 elk. With the sun beginning to set, we have no time to find a new place to camp, so we are left no choice but to sleep with the elk that night. While setting up our tents beneath the cover of two large pines, a curious satellite bull decides to investigate. The 5x5 bull elk stands a mere 40 yards away as we prepare camp for the night, and the elk sing us to sleep from the dark timber above us late into the night.
The next morning, we rise with the sun. The sub-freezing temperatures make it difficult to pull ourselves out of our warm sleeping bags. After re-packing our gear, we start off deeper into the wilderness in search of mule deer. About halfway to our destination we are forced to seek shelter in the rocks as the clouds drop so low we could nearly touch them, and a light mountain rain begins to fall. This is a good time for a cup of coffee and some oatmeal.
When the rain finally passes, we don our packs and continue side-hilling the steep, rocky slopes to a grassy meadow about 1.5-miles from camp. On our journey we are treated to another small herd of elk, wild horses, and coyotes, but find very few deer tracks and zero mule deer. The key to being a successful deer hunter is to hunt where the deer are, so we make the decision to head back to camp for a good night's rest before making the return voyage to the ATV that now sits 1000 feet above us, behind miles of thick timber and dark canyons.
The next morning, we pack our bags and descend into a deep ravine to filter water from a cold mountain stream for our return trip out of the basin. The hike to the quad is uneventful, and as soon as we ascend past the 8000ft mark we start seeing mule deer. it is apparent to us that the deer have not begun their fall migration to lower elevations – this will be a high-country hunt. When we arrive at the truck around noon, we are greeted by three mule deer does and a small buck. Mike is eager to fill his tag, so we circle downwind to attempt a shot. When we get into position where we believe we should have a shot opportunity, the deer are nowhere to be seen. We glass the timber to the north for an ear flick or tail flash – anything that might indicate where the four deer have disappeared to. Within seconds of looking through the binoculars, deer begin to materialize in the dark pines less than 100 yards away. I am always amazed at what a good set of binoculars can reveal, and even more amazed at how easily deer can vanish in plain sight. After a couple minutes of studying the animals, we locate the buck, and a shot rings out from Mike's .243AI. The fork-horn stumbles at the shot and attempts to make an escape. His efforts are in vain as he quickly succumbs to the fatal wound and lies down in his final resting place in a bed of pine needles and green moss. With the buck still in sight, we are eager for trophy pictures, to forever remember our triumph over nature. When we are satisfied with our photoshoot, we move the buck into a small patch of crusty snow to keep everything clean as we break the animal down into quarters for transport back to the truck. One tag filled, meat in the freezer.
We spent the night in the truck on a high peak where we have seen deer in years past, as the 20-mile drive afforded us no time to set up a proper camp. As morning approaches, we are greeted not by the warm light of the sun cresting over the peak behind us, but by the sound of ATV's and LED headlights in the rearview mirror. We will not be the only hunters on this mountain, and we are going to have to work harder than everyone else if we are to be successful. With that realization, we agree on a path that is rougher and steeper than many would willingly endure, and we crest the rocky peak before us at an elevation just shy of 10,000 feet. The hard work reaps little reward, as we spend the day watching does feed lazily across the basin below, and bed down in the shade of the tree line to escape the heat of the mid-day sun. Not an antler to be seen among them as the sun sets over the Tetons in the distance.
The following day we change our tactics and run the quad through miles of rough mountain two tracks in search of better hunting grounds. A bull moose greets us on the roadside, and we do manage to locate two spike mule deer, but I am not so desperate as to take a spike horn yet. After a long day on the ATV, we settle on a high mountain meadow to glass for the evening. As darkness approaches, deer begin to filter out of the forest in front of us. Among them are two sets of antlers, and our efforts are about to pay off. I settle in behind my rifle and align the crosshairs behind the buck's shoulder as he feeds into the meadow. With a gentle squeeze, my 300 Win Mag roars and the buck collapses into the sage brush. The excitement is overwhelming, and the adrenaline sets my hands to shaking. We quickly gather our things to make the cross-canyon trek to retrieve the deer before we are left in complete darkness. When we arrive at the kill site, we are greeted by nothing more than some hair and a scant blood trail into the dark pines and deadfall in the valley below. My heart sinks as I know all too well how difficult it can be to find game among bottomless piles of fallen tree. We back out to resume our search the following day.
The next morning, my fears are realized as we scour four miles of mountain forest and turn up nothing but squirrels, magpies, and a large set of black bear tracks. I do my best to bury my discouragement and press on into the evening, hoping to turn up another opportunity, but knowing that we have likely blown all the game out of the area, and bucks are already a scarce sight. The disappointment must have been clearly visible as we slowly march back across the canyon, into the setting sun. To add insult to injury, we arrive at the quad to find large chunks of foam and leather torn from the seat, with the culprit leaving their unmistakable prints at the scene. A young black bear had mauled our vehicle while we were away.
The following day is set to be our last on the mountain and I'm left with little hope and zero prospects. The best we can do is return to the area where I had shot the buck two days before and pray for a miracle. This morning seems to be the coldest yet, and my fingers feel just as frozen as the water hose to my hydration pack. We arrive at the meadow just after daybreak and we are immediately greeted by the spike horn from three days earlier. I'm torn between two equally dissatisfying outcomes: going home with an un-notched tag and an empty cooler or notching a tag on the smallest legal buck we have seen all week. I have all but decided that I will notch the tag IF I can sneak within handgun range and kill the buck with my revolver, when a slightly larger fork-horn buck emerges. He is not a trophy quality buck, but certainly worthy of tagging on our last day in the mountains. I shoulder my rifle and squeeze the trigger, *click*. I rack another shell into the chamber, but the bolt won't close. I try again with the same results. I throw the bolt back to investigate the issue and subsequently eject my third and final round onto the gravel at my feet. The large temperature swings from the warm truck to the bitter mountain air have created frozen condensation on the bolt head of my rifle, preventing the cartridges from chambering fully. I quickly wipe the ice from the bolt face, pick up one of the rounds near my feet, shove it forcefully into the detachable magazine through the open action, and thrust the bolt forward. It closes. I relocate the buck in my scope and squeeze the trigger again, *click*. I lift the bolt and slam it down hard, hoping to reset the firing pin - *click*. I eject the round and inspect it, only to discover that the primer has no strike mark. I turn my attention back to the rifle, knowing that each second the buck is moving farther and farther away, as are my chances of filling my Wyoming mule deer tag. I immediately identify the issue. In my haste to clean the bolt face, I had inadvertently jammed a piece of ice into the firing pin hole. A couple more swipes with my fingernail and it appears clear. I chamber a round, settle my crosshairs on the opposite shoulder of the young buck that is now quartered heavily away from me at over 200 yards. With bated breath I squeeze the trigger for what I know will be the last time, regardless of the outcome - *BOOM*. The buck lurches forward at the impact, manages a few more steps, then reals backward, head over heels, and disappears into the sagebrush.
The sight of a buck vanishing into the sage is all too familiar, and the bitter taste of losing a buck two days prior still lingers. I am apprehensive; suspicious that the sight of the buck falling to the ground might be my last sight of him, and that it will be another sour memory to haunt me for weeks to come. But that apprehension and suspicion prove to be unfounded when we walk up on a young buck lying dead in the sagebrush. Mike congratulates me on my first mule deer, and we proceed with the standard trophy pictures, with rifle in the foreground. I've already prepped my kill kit next to the buck but have to make another trip to the ATV about 60 yards away to retrieve my tag. That's when I see him – standing in the open no more than 50 yards away is a bear.
The young boar lifts his nose skyward while making chewing motions with his mouth and standing occasionally in attempt to locate the source of the smell of fresh venison that's being wafted directly towards him on the mountain breeze. As he paces back and forth, he inches his way closer to us, testing our resolve to keep the deer for ourselves, and growing bolder with each step. A line has been crossed, and it is time to show him that we will be the ones eating venison this day. I unholster my .357 magnum revolver and approach the bear, making my intentions known, all while shouting and raising my arms in the air. It works, but only for a moment, as the lumbering black beast almost immediately returns with renewed interest and boldness. I up the ante, firing a warning shot to the left of him which seems to get my message across.
Another hunter passing by on the trail notices the dead deer at our feet and stops to congratulate us. We warn him of an active bear in the area, which he seems dismissive of since black bears are not known to be nearly as troublesome or aggressive as their large brown cousins. "He's back!" I exclaim, and our new friend's dismissive demeanor is startled out of existence. The bear is clearly more apprehensive with three men standing between him and a meal, and it take much less effort to run him away for the third and final time. With the bear out of sight once again, we decide it would be best not to push our luck. We drag the deer over to the ATV and drive several miles away to continue skinning and quartering the carcass.
With both our tags notched and our coolers filled, we return to camp to pack the truck, and begin the long drive toward home. Meat, antlers, and pictures won't be the only things we take home with us this year. We have unforgettable memories and experiences and have learned the valuable lesson that each day in the mountains is new, and your luck can change, for better or worse, at any moment.
We arrive in the Bighorn Mountains around 1PM on Friday, October 14th after driving 22 hours straight from southern Michigan; a drive made even longer thanks to an ongoing gastrointestinal infection, courtesy of my 2-year-old daughter. The Bighorn Mountains are a steep, rugged mountain range that rises abruptly from the rolling sage flats in north central Wyoming, with its highest peak topping out at just over 13,000 feet above sea level. What our drive time doesn't include is the 15-mile crawl through rough mountain roads and two-tracks to the point where the trails become impassible for Mike's Ford F150, which takes nearly two more hours. It is at that point we decide to check zero on our rifles, have a snack, and unload the quad. Going from 1100ft to nearly 9000ft in less than 24 hours leaves us noticeably winded, even with minimal exertion, and no amount of training can prepare you for the low oxygen levels at high elevations. Once we confirm that our rifles are shooting as they should and we consume some calories, we load our packs on the quad and ride another 4 miles to the end of the two tracks in a deep basin, shielded by sheer cliffs on the north and south.
By the end of our ATV ride we have dropped nearly 2000ft in elevation, and we are relieved to have a little more oxygen for our 1.5-mile hike into the backcountry, where we plan to stay for the next three days. Less than a half mile into our trek we spot our first sign of game – a cinnamon phase black bear less than 100 yards off the cattle trail we are following. At nearly a mile from the ATV we start hearing the unmistakable call of a mature bull elk bugling on the ridge above us, and it isn't long before we realize we have hiked into a herd of nearly 200 elk. With the sun beginning to set, we have no time to find a new place to camp, so we are left no choice but to sleep with the elk that night. While setting up our tents beneath the cover of two large pines, a curious satellite bull decides to investigate. The 5x5 bull elk stands a mere 40 yards away as we prepare camp for the night, and the elk sing us to sleep from the dark timber above us late into the night.
The next morning, we rise with the sun. The sub-freezing temperatures make it difficult to pull ourselves out of our warm sleeping bags. After re-packing our gear, we start off deeper into the wilderness in search of mule deer. About halfway to our destination we are forced to seek shelter in the rocks as the clouds drop so low we could nearly touch them, and a light mountain rain begins to fall. This is a good time for a cup of coffee and some oatmeal.
When the rain finally passes, we don our packs and continue side-hilling the steep, rocky slopes to a grassy meadow about 1.5-miles from camp. On our journey we are treated to another small herd of elk, wild horses, and coyotes, but find very few deer tracks and zero mule deer. The key to being a successful deer hunter is to hunt where the deer are, so we make the decision to head back to camp for a good night's rest before making the return voyage to the ATV that now sits 1000 feet above us, behind miles of thick timber and dark canyons.
The next morning, we pack our bags and descend into a deep ravine to filter water from a cold mountain stream for our return trip out of the basin. The hike to the quad is uneventful, and as soon as we ascend past the 8000ft mark we start seeing mule deer. it is apparent to us that the deer have not begun their fall migration to lower elevations – this will be a high-country hunt. When we arrive at the truck around noon, we are greeted by three mule deer does and a small buck. Mike is eager to fill his tag, so we circle downwind to attempt a shot. When we get into position where we believe we should have a shot opportunity, the deer are nowhere to be seen. We glass the timber to the north for an ear flick or tail flash – anything that might indicate where the four deer have disappeared to. Within seconds of looking through the binoculars, deer begin to materialize in the dark pines less than 100 yards away. I am always amazed at what a good set of binoculars can reveal, and even more amazed at how easily deer can vanish in plain sight. After a couple minutes of studying the animals, we locate the buck, and a shot rings out from Mike's .243AI. The fork-horn stumbles at the shot and attempts to make an escape. His efforts are in vain as he quickly succumbs to the fatal wound and lies down in his final resting place in a bed of pine needles and green moss. With the buck still in sight, we are eager for trophy pictures, to forever remember our triumph over nature. When we are satisfied with our photoshoot, we move the buck into a small patch of crusty snow to keep everything clean as we break the animal down into quarters for transport back to the truck. One tag filled, meat in the freezer.
We spent the night in the truck on a high peak where we have seen deer in years past, as the 20-mile drive afforded us no time to set up a proper camp. As morning approaches, we are greeted not by the warm light of the sun cresting over the peak behind us, but by the sound of ATV's and LED headlights in the rearview mirror. We will not be the only hunters on this mountain, and we are going to have to work harder than everyone else if we are to be successful. With that realization, we agree on a path that is rougher and steeper than many would willingly endure, and we crest the rocky peak before us at an elevation just shy of 10,000 feet. The hard work reaps little reward, as we spend the day watching does feed lazily across the basin below, and bed down in the shade of the tree line to escape the heat of the mid-day sun. Not an antler to be seen among them as the sun sets over the Tetons in the distance.
The following day we change our tactics and run the quad through miles of rough mountain two tracks in search of better hunting grounds. A bull moose greets us on the roadside, and we do manage to locate two spike mule deer, but I am not so desperate as to take a spike horn yet. After a long day on the ATV, we settle on a high mountain meadow to glass for the evening. As darkness approaches, deer begin to filter out of the forest in front of us. Among them are two sets of antlers, and our efforts are about to pay off. I settle in behind my rifle and align the crosshairs behind the buck's shoulder as he feeds into the meadow. With a gentle squeeze, my 300 Win Mag roars and the buck collapses into the sage brush. The excitement is overwhelming, and the adrenaline sets my hands to shaking. We quickly gather our things to make the cross-canyon trek to retrieve the deer before we are left in complete darkness. When we arrive at the kill site, we are greeted by nothing more than some hair and a scant blood trail into the dark pines and deadfall in the valley below. My heart sinks as I know all too well how difficult it can be to find game among bottomless piles of fallen tree. We back out to resume our search the following day.
The next morning, my fears are realized as we scour four miles of mountain forest and turn up nothing but squirrels, magpies, and a large set of black bear tracks. I do my best to bury my discouragement and press on into the evening, hoping to turn up another opportunity, but knowing that we have likely blown all the game out of the area, and bucks are already a scarce sight. The disappointment must have been clearly visible as we slowly march back across the canyon, into the setting sun. To add insult to injury, we arrive at the quad to find large chunks of foam and leather torn from the seat, with the culprit leaving their unmistakable prints at the scene. A young black bear had mauled our vehicle while we were away.
The following day is set to be our last on the mountain and I'm left with little hope and zero prospects. The best we can do is return to the area where I had shot the buck two days before and pray for a miracle. This morning seems to be the coldest yet, and my fingers feel just as frozen as the water hose to my hydration pack. We arrive at the meadow just after daybreak and we are immediately greeted by the spike horn from three days earlier. I'm torn between two equally dissatisfying outcomes: going home with an un-notched tag and an empty cooler or notching a tag on the smallest legal buck we have seen all week. I have all but decided that I will notch the tag IF I can sneak within handgun range and kill the buck with my revolver, when a slightly larger fork-horn buck emerges. He is not a trophy quality buck, but certainly worthy of tagging on our last day in the mountains. I shoulder my rifle and squeeze the trigger, *click*. I rack another shell into the chamber, but the bolt won't close. I try again with the same results. I throw the bolt back to investigate the issue and subsequently eject my third and final round onto the gravel at my feet. The large temperature swings from the warm truck to the bitter mountain air have created frozen condensation on the bolt head of my rifle, preventing the cartridges from chambering fully. I quickly wipe the ice from the bolt face, pick up one of the rounds near my feet, shove it forcefully into the detachable magazine through the open action, and thrust the bolt forward. It closes. I relocate the buck in my scope and squeeze the trigger again, *click*. I lift the bolt and slam it down hard, hoping to reset the firing pin - *click*. I eject the round and inspect it, only to discover that the primer has no strike mark. I turn my attention back to the rifle, knowing that each second the buck is moving farther and farther away, as are my chances of filling my Wyoming mule deer tag. I immediately identify the issue. In my haste to clean the bolt face, I had inadvertently jammed a piece of ice into the firing pin hole. A couple more swipes with my fingernail and it appears clear. I chamber a round, settle my crosshairs on the opposite shoulder of the young buck that is now quartered heavily away from me at over 200 yards. With bated breath I squeeze the trigger for what I know will be the last time, regardless of the outcome - *BOOM*. The buck lurches forward at the impact, manages a few more steps, then reals backward, head over heels, and disappears into the sagebrush.
The sight of a buck vanishing into the sage is all too familiar, and the bitter taste of losing a buck two days prior still lingers. I am apprehensive; suspicious that the sight of the buck falling to the ground might be my last sight of him, and that it will be another sour memory to haunt me for weeks to come. But that apprehension and suspicion prove to be unfounded when we walk up on a young buck lying dead in the sagebrush. Mike congratulates me on my first mule deer, and we proceed with the standard trophy pictures, with rifle in the foreground. I've already prepped my kill kit next to the buck but have to make another trip to the ATV about 60 yards away to retrieve my tag. That's when I see him – standing in the open no more than 50 yards away is a bear.
The young boar lifts his nose skyward while making chewing motions with his mouth and standing occasionally in attempt to locate the source of the smell of fresh venison that's being wafted directly towards him on the mountain breeze. As he paces back and forth, he inches his way closer to us, testing our resolve to keep the deer for ourselves, and growing bolder with each step. A line has been crossed, and it is time to show him that we will be the ones eating venison this day. I unholster my .357 magnum revolver and approach the bear, making my intentions known, all while shouting and raising my arms in the air. It works, but only for a moment, as the lumbering black beast almost immediately returns with renewed interest and boldness. I up the ante, firing a warning shot to the left of him which seems to get my message across.
Another hunter passing by on the trail notices the dead deer at our feet and stops to congratulate us. We warn him of an active bear in the area, which he seems dismissive of since black bears are not known to be nearly as troublesome or aggressive as their large brown cousins. "He's back!" I exclaim, and our new friend's dismissive demeanor is startled out of existence. The bear is clearly more apprehensive with three men standing between him and a meal, and it take much less effort to run him away for the third and final time. With the bear out of sight once again, we decide it would be best not to push our luck. We drag the deer over to the ATV and drive several miles away to continue skinning and quartering the carcass.
With both our tags notched and our coolers filled, we return to camp to pack the truck, and begin the long drive toward home. Meat, antlers, and pictures won't be the only things we take home with us this year. We have unforgettable memories and experiences and have learned the valuable lesson that each day in the mountains is new, and your luck can change, for better or worse, at any moment.
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