Method of Madness

There was no commotion causing container, but the cops did pay a visit last night 
 

Walking my dogs last night, around 10:45, I came across a wallet lying on the grass next to the sidewalk. I thought, “Woohoo, payday!” No, not really, I’ve lost my wallet before and someone was kind enough to return it to me fully intact, and I thought that this was my opportunity to pay it forward. However, upon searching the wallet for identification (some kid by the name of Drake Aragon), I came across a little baggie of powder.

My first impulse was to smell the powder to see what it was. No, I’m kidding… the last time I did that was in 7th grade when I found some clumped-up powder in my jean jacket. I broke it up on my desk (at school) and took a good hard sniff. Ever had laundry detergent up the nose? I spent the rest of the class controlling the tears coming out of my eyes due to the burning in my olfactory organ! I’m not claiming that I was the brightest kid… Up until I found the little baggie I was considering just finding the kid’s address and going and dropping off the wallet (putting it in an envelope with the kid’s name and dropping it on the front porch, due to the late hour). But, figuring that I was dealing with some illegal substance, I thought I would let the police handle it.

Upon my arrival at home, I checked Google maps to verify the address where I found the wallet, wrote it on a sticky note, and Audrey and I drove to the new Highlands Ranch Sheriff’s Department sub-station near the corner of Broadway and Highlands Ranch Parkway. Wouldn’t you know… closes at 5:30 PM. So, I drove to the likely places where I’ve seen Douglas County’s finest at night – King Soopers parking lot, Shea Stadium parking lot, etc. I mean, it was Sunday night in Highlands Ranch, how busy could they be? But I didn’t find any likely suspects, so I turned on to my street, only to look in the rear-view mirror and see a cop waiting at the light behind me. I flip a U-turn, but, the cop had already taken a left-turn down a residential street. I zoomed off in that direction (after the light changed to my favor) but couldn’t find him (or her… I don’t want to assume that only male cops work the tough beat on the mean streets of Highlands Ranch). So, I drove home.

I found the Douglas County non-emergency number and explained the situation to the woman on duty at dispatch. She asked me what the substance was, or why I thought it was drugs. I told her that even though I had long hair, it didn’t mean that I was used to identifying foreign substances in random wallets, but based on the location of the baggie in the wallet (it was shoved in an inner slot behind the kid’s driving permit), and the contents (would a kid randomly carry around a baggie of laundry detergent in his wallet?), I could make a pretty good assumption. She told me an officer was already on the way.

Not that I keep a messy house, but, as we were having a guest over, I thought (as Audrey did) that we should probably pick up a little bit. I cleared Audrey’s laptop off the dining-room table, put a few dishes in the dishwasher, and wiped down the kitchen counters. Then I thought, “Really? Is the cop going to care if I have a spotless kitchen?” I suppose if I was used to having cops over more often, I wouldn’t worry about how the house looked. Maybe I was concerned that he would think, “Wow, maybe this guy is just looking to get rid of some stuff and doesn’t know how to flush it down the toilet, so he stole some kids wallet and planted evidence.” I know, crazy, right? No, I really didn’t think that, but, maybe it was that I was concerned about the neighbors looking out their window and seeing a cop car in front of my house. I could imagine them shaking their heads and thinking, “Uh-huh, yeah, I thought so. That guy and his pickup truck and his long hair… it was only a matter of time.” Not that the neighbors would see the inside of my house either, but, if they asked the cop as he was leaving my house about how it looked inside, he could at least report that it was spotless.

Figuring I couldn’t do anything else to calm my nerves, I sparked up a fatty. Just kidding – I’ve never rolled a joint in my life. I actually went downstairs and watched the end of “Iron Chef America.” It was one of those rare episodes where the guest chef actually won the competition. Iron Chef Garca just didn’t cut the mustard. Or, maybe he did, but it wasn’t enough to convince the judges that he was the better chef.

The knock on the door was quiet, but, loud enough for my White Shepherd, Ilse, to hear it and perform her best “alarm bark.” I opened the door, and the guy (Sheriff in his 20’s) was standing about three feet back from the entrance, body angled slightly with one hand on his hip (near his gun), so I explained to him that the dogs were friendly. He came in and said that he was officer Solo. No, that wasn’t his real name – I forgot what it actually was, but he looked a little like a young Harrison Ford, and his last name began with an “S” so I just merged the two in my mind.

After letting the dogs smell him, I had to state for the record that it was actually the dogs that had just perfumed the air (I think Ilse got a little excited). Luckily Audrey keeps a little spray can of cinnamon for just an occasion and aromatically cleaned up the foyer as I brought Officer Solo over to the freshly-cleaned dining room table. He made some notes regarding the location where I found the wallet, a description of the wallet, and what I stated I found in the wallet. He had his flashlight out, and turned on, as his other hand picked up the wallet. Then, putting the flashlight away and stretching the examination gloves over his hands, he opened the wallet and pulled out the kid’s CO State ID. “Looks familiar,” he commented. He then pulled out the first baggie. Unwrapping it, he examined the powder at the bottom. He then pulled out a second baggie – it contained a small round pill. “Yeah, that’s not a breath-mint.” I asked him what he thought they were. “Well, the round pill is probably ecstasy. The powder could be coke or heroin.” I suggested that it might be meth. “Yeah, could be. I’ll need to take it to the lab to find out exactly what it is. They have one over here at the substation.”

Officer Solo then had me fill out some paperwork, just in case I needed to testify in court before they sent Drake to little-kid jail. He also indicated that he could call me and let me know what the substances were after he did his testing, if I was going to be up for a while. Being that it was close to 1 AM, I thought, “Sure, what’s another hour?” With the paperwork filled out, he thanked me for having him over, that he had a great time, loved the warm hospitality, and that he would have the two of us over sometime as well. Well, no, it wasn’t exactly like that, but I think he appreciated us for turning in the wallet. I watched him walk to his squad car. No neighbors came up to him asking questions about the cleanliness of my house.

About an hour later, I checked my iPhone. It showed I had missed a call. D’oh! I had turned down my ringer earlier and had forgotten to turn it back up again. I called the number back and spoke with dispatch. “Uh, hi, uh, my name is Leif, and, uh, I missed a call from an officer that just came over to my house, and , uh, he said he would call me to tell me what types of drugs I’d found, and, uh, I had my ringer off on my cell phone…” and I just stopped talking right there. If I had actually thought about what I was going to say, before I said anything, I might not have started to sound like a moron. Being the late hour that it was, my attempts at not sounding like a dweeb utterly failed. What am I talking about? I didn’t make any attempt what-so-ever. I just imagined the woman on the other end rolling her eyes as she said, “I’ll just patch you in to his phone.”

“Hi, this is Officer Solo. Thanks for calling me back!” I apologized for missing his call, and he said that the pill was indeed Ecstasy, and that the powder was meth. Hey, all of those episodes watching, “Dog the Bounty Hunter” finally paid off with my drug identification knowledge! I asked him what would happen next. “Well, we’ll contact the kid’s parents, and the kid, and see what he admits to. Then we’ll destroy the drugs.” I asked if they could bring him up on charges. “Well, we’ll see what he says. If he admits to having the drugs, we can go from there.” I said, “And, if he gets a lawyer, the lawyer can claim that I planted the drugs.” “Yeah, any half-decent lawyer would claim that because the kid wasn’t in possession of the wallet at the time, they can claim that the drugs didn’t belong to the kid.”

I thanked him for following up with me and let it go at that. I’m glad that I was able to get an infinitely-small amount of drugs off the cold hard streets of the suburbs, rejoice at the fact that some stupid druggie kid might make a different choice in his future as a result of this incident, and that I had a clean kitchen and dining room table in the morning for making breakfast.

Wounded Knee and the Trailer of Tribulation

Wounded Knee and the Trailer of Tribulation
Sacred Buffalo Hunt 2010

Pictures: Warning – Graphic! Do not view pictures or video if the sight of blood bothers you.

Day 1:
Day 2:
Day 3 and the trip home:
Video 1: Around the herd
Video 2: Leif’s 2nd Buffalo
Video 3: Doctor getting his buffalo
Video 4: Leif’s 3rd Buffalo
Video 5: Leif’s 4th Buffalo
All Pictures: (the above-albums have only a selection of images)

Login: Snapfish@Live.com Password: Buffalo1

To tell the Tale of the 2010 Annual Buffalo Harvest, I must first tell the tale of my last elk hunt…
Late-Season Elk 2009

As you may well know, I like to hunt elk in the dead of winter. There’s nothing like going out in the below-freezing temperature to really feel alive. It’s just you and your wits against the freezing cold and the wily Wapiti. Well, at least that’s what we as elk hunters like to tell ourselves to justify going to the extreme measures that we do in order to do what our non-elk-hunting friends call ‘crazy.’ And we’re really not crazy… and if we keep telling ourselves that, it will, eventually, be true!

There we were, meandering around the ole hunting grounds, when I thought I saw some quarry. We were employing our tried and true ‘spot and stalk’ hunting, where you spot the game animal and stalk up on it without being detected. Of course, with my new rifle and scope, I don’t have to stalk as far – I can let the flight of the bullet do my silent approach for me.

Having spotted the mark, I stop the truck and sneak up a hill for a shot. I lie down in the deep snow and set my rifle on my bipod. But, putting my rifle down on the ground, it sunk into the snow and, what I thought was going to be a great placement for the barrel of my rifle ended up being almost buried. Luckily, my dad was there and volunteered to go back to the nice warm truck to get my pack to lay my rifle on. It takes an extremely steady hold to make a long-distance shot and my backpack would make a perfect rest.

I pull out rangefinder to check the range, and my wind meter to check the crosswind. While a wind meter only checks the wind at the spot, it gives a good idea of the effect of the wind on the bullet in flight. If you remember back to high school physics and Newton’s first law of motion, you recall that an object set in motion tends to stay in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by a another force. Two forces act upon a bullet in flight – wind and gravity. However, the wind that acts upon the bullet in the first 300 yards is going to affect the bullet for 70% of the wind drift. So, the hold for wind based on the wind speed at the location of me firing will still be an accurate hold, for the most part, for any object within or past 300 yards. Additionally, you can look at the affect of the wind on the vegetation at the target compared to your location to further assist you in doping the wind. As far as gravity, the counter-affect is dialing in the distance on my Ballistic Drop-Compensating turret. I can dial in any distance and hold the crosshairs right on the object. The only other affect, the rotation of the earth, only affects the flight of the bullet if facing north or south, and, if you are shooting more than 1000 yards. Being that I was facing east, and the object was around 500 yards, I didn’t have to account for that in my shot (air density/humidity, altitude, and temperature also affect the flight characteristics, but not enough to have to compensate for these variables at that time, as my turret is calibrated for 7000 feet at 30 degrees Fahrenheit, and the characteristics of where I was matched pretty closely).

While my Dad went to go get my pack, I grabbed a bullet from my shell carrier (on the stock of my rifle), opened the bolt, and fed it into the chamber. The bullet slipped into the chamber, and, as the rifle was pointed in the air and ‘downrange’ I began to close the bolt. The bolt went forward just fine, but, on the downward motion, the bolt was a little stiff. So, I pushed harder…

BANG!

Uh-oh. Actually, I said something else. I won’t inconvenience my audience with what I actually said, but think of something similar to “moldy spit.” The rifle discharging was the absolute last thing I expected to happen. Generally speaking it’s not a good sign when your rifle fires when you’re not looking down the barrel/scope. As a matter-of-fact, it’s downright scary. Talking with some guys later, the issue may have been many-fold as to why this event happened:

• Ice formed on the edge of the bullet when I was lying down in the snow (my shell carrier on the stock of my rifle may have allowed the bullets to touch the snow – my rifle previously had been in my 80 degree truck, and, it was close to 0 degrees outside. It wouldn’t surprise me if the warmth of the bullet melted the snow, and then it quickly refroze).
• The trigger was an extremely light trigger. It was maybe a 1 or 2 pound pull (1-2 lbs of pressure against the trigger making the firing pin engage).

Needless to say, after the firing any chance of getting off a clean shot was gone.

We tromped back to the truck and loaded up to find more elk. My dad and I drove to the north end of the unit and found a herd. As I set up, they came within 870 yards and I was in prone position with that exact distance dialed in to my scope. There were some other hunters around me and the hope was that the herd would move closer so that we could all get some shots. Unfortunately, as is often the case on public land, other hunters screwed up the shot. A crew full of yahoos thought they could actually drive up on the herd and were barreling their way down a two-track on the opposite side of the herd. The herd scattered and took off; we never saw them again. Sadly I thought to myself, “Here endeth the elk hunt.”

The Waterfall

After the elk hunt, the Remington was dispatched to the gunsmith. It was early January, and I was going to be leaving for Montana in 10 days. “No problem,” I thought as I walked up to the counter. After quickly explaining my situation, the gunsmith looked it over and said, “Six weeks.” “Six weeks? Are you kidding me?” I queried. “Why, is that a problem?” was the smithy’s reply. “Yeah – I’m leaving in 10 days to go on a Montana buffalo harvest, and, I still need to sight it in for short-range!” was my emphatic reply. His response was to put a ‘rush’ order on it - with the obligatory ‘extra charge’- but, at least I knew that my rifle would be perfect for the trip. I was willing to pay a little more in order to feel confident in my rifle again. The last thing I would want is a random shot going off around the buffalo!

Finally the day came when I called them and they indicated my rifle was ready. YAY!!! But I needed to get down there and pick it up, and I was in a hurry but still needed to wash my hair. Washing my hair is quite the undertaking, as the only time I can comb it is when there is conditioner in it (I prefer Infusium-23). But, even to get it to the point where I can comb it with my fingers, I need to let the conditioner sit for 5 minutes or so. During the wait, I used a salt-water rinse (like a neti-pot) for my nose (nasal irrigation). Up one nostril, out the other, then switch. The first time I did it, years ago, it felt like I was water-boarding myself. However, after awhile of regular usage, I got used to it and enjoyed the benefits of it (clear breathing is always a good thing. If you live in Colorado, you know the humidity is about 10% or less – i.e., it’s really dry! Doing the neti-pot keeps your air passage moist and fights any allergies).

Dressed and primped I set off to Bass Pro Shop to retrieve my rifle. Upon arrival, I inspected my rifle. They did several repairs: replaced one of the screws in the trigger, tightened another one (and put a post in it to keep it from slipping), and the trigger pull weight was then at 3 ½ lbs. Now, that’s okay for a standard rifle, but, when you have a fine-tuned tack driver, any undue pressure on the trigger can throw your bullet off at extended ranges. As this was for the buffalo hunt, where the shots are generally less than 100 yards, it would be fine.

The way Bass Pro Shop is set up, you get your bill, walk next door into the Fine Gun Room, and pay. Then you return to the gunsmith window, show them your receipt, and they hand over your firearm.

Now, if you’ve never been into a Fine Gun Room, you immediately become aware of how incredibly intimidating it can be. The cabinetry in the Fine Gun Room is exquisite; the wood must be burled walnut or teak or some kind of crazy-expensive rare wood. You feel as if you are walking into a museum/fine china shop, and are compelled to hold your hands behind your back as you know your mother is hovering nearby, ready to slap them away if you reached for anything. The rifles and shotguns in these Fine Gun Rooms are typically between $5,000 and $100,000 dollars. And it’s not a gun collection… it’s a gun library. Yeah… not one of the places where I typically hang out.

Walking up to the Elizabethan-styled desk with my bill in hand, I notice that the desk itself has a beveled-glass window looking down into the contents of the desk. Additionally (and what really caught my eye) was the rifle in the rifle-rest on the desk. This had to be one of those $20,000 rifles, just sitting there and the man sitting behind the desk (you’d expect him to be wearing a plaid smoking jacket with corduroy patches on the elbows, donning a derby cap, speaking in a voice similar to Sean Connery) was busy with paperwork, probably related to this exquisite rifle before him. He took my bill and credit card and set it down on the desk, saying “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

I took the opportunity to more closely examine the masterpiece of gunsmithing in front of me. I leaned over (hands still behind my back) to read the writing on the barrel. Then, to get a better idea of what was before me, I leaned over further to read the other side of the barrel. Now, recall the neti-pot treatment I had just before I left the house as you picture a cup of salt-water cascading out of my nose and all over the rifle, desk, and paperwork. In my excitement, I forgot to ‘drain’ before I left.

Looking up in shock, the gentleman behind the counter glared piercingly at me (and pulled it off) demanding an explanation. My first thought was to look up at the ceiling and say, “Wow. That’s quite a leak,” or point to the door and say, “Look! That kid just shot me with a squirt-gun,” but all I could manage was to lamely say, “Oh, sorry… it’s just salt water that drained out of my nose. Um, I use a neti-pot…” as if that would explain all.

I can honestly say I’ve ever received a more vicious scowl as he quickly grabbed my bill and credit card and stomped over to the machine to process it. Meanwhile, back at the desk, I tried to wipe the water/snot mixture off the rifle barrel. All I managed to do was smear it. I tried to wipe it off the beveled-glass on the desk. Like the rifle barrel, all I managed was to smear it worse. I was going to grab the paperwork on the desk to try and dry it off on my pant leg, but I figured the result would be the same, or worse. So, I just tried to nonchalantly wait while my bill was processed. After millennia of waiting, he came back and thrust the receipt and credit card back at me. I thanked him, hastily signed it (accidently putting the copy in a wet-spot on the desk to sign), turned tail, and beat a hasty retreat to the door, not wanting to look back and see the path of destruction and how the poor man was going to clean all that up.

No junk - 2010 First weekend

I sighted in my rifle later that week (I could keep the Huskemaw scope set at 200 yards, as there was less than half a quarter-inch between 50 and 200 yards on my 7mm Remington Ultra-Magnum Sendero with Berger 180-grain bullets pushed by 91grains of Hodgedon’s Retumbo powder, ignited by a CCI-250 Primer). My buddy Eric, who would join me on the second weekend, accompanied me to the range. I also sighted in my 12-gauge with slugs as I would be providing security for some archery hunters.

The Friday came where I picked up my buddy Matt and we loaded into the truck to head north. It was an uneventful trip (thankfully), stopping only for gas, food, and tobacco in Casper. We use the tobacco in ceremony and we give it as gifts to Tana and Joe. It has special meaning in the Native culture to pass tobacco to elders, or, those in a position of authority, as a sign of respect. We arrived, driving up Tana’s 3-mile driveway, to find a dog ready and willing to greet us. I found out later that it was Joe and Denise’s dog “Lobo” – a Res’ dog that needed a home. It jumped into the truck with us and we pulled into the driveway.

I met Denise, Joe’s lovely fiancée, and greeted Joe and Tana with tobacco in hand. Following dinner, we had pipe ceremony to bless the journey of the buffalo (especially the ones that would make their transition), to bless the land and give thanks to the native elders, the Ancient Ones, the Seven Directions, etc. It’s an involved process, not to be taken lightly. After we were done, morning was coming soon and the next day I would be harvesting two buffalo.

For accommodations, Matt and I had the downstairs bedroom. There was one bed – a double. I wear boxers, but Matt usually goes commando. Yeah, he slept in a comfortable pair of pants that night.

Bright and early, after a quick breakfast, Don Keever (nationally acclaimed taxidermist and all-around good guy) arrived and Tana smudged all of our rifles and equipment. Don was sure to give me a tour of his new Buffalo truck - a refurbished Army pickup, repainted all in camouflage with his “Anglers and Antlers Taxidermy” logo. It was a beast of a diesel truck as I was to find out the next day.

We headed out from the ranch up the hill to the pasture where the buffalo were roaming. And, they were roaming. We had to drive around a bit to find them. After driving to an overlook, we spotted the herd and Joe headed their direction. The buffalo came right up to the truck. As I readied my rifle, we waited for a buffalo to separate. One particular cow kept itself separated, and although not the biggest, there was no doubt in my mind that she was the one making the offering. With crosshairs just behind the ear, I dropped her without hesitation. She transitioned immediately, and we moved to surrounded her.

Now, as you’ll notice in the videos, I don’t simply raise my rifle and shoot. I wait for the perfect shot. I will not rush the shot, and, I want to make sure everything is ‘perfect’ before I squeeze the trigger. Sometimes the buffalo will take a step, make a head movement, etc., So – I wait. I’ll reposition myself to get a better shot, etc. I want the head to be clear, the neck clear, and the animal either not moving or just barely moving (a completely still buffalo can be rare thing). I owe it to the animals to make every shot a perfect shot. I also ensure that I have someone as my backup, ready to take a second shot in case something goes amiss.

The other buffalo really took no notice as they seemed to know it was harvest season. I wasn’t the first one up this year and I wouldn’t be the last. Tana has had to step-up her processing this year to keep up with the growth of the herd, and, the amount of land available to her to feed the herd. Don worked out an agreement with her to find people who wanted to participate in the Sacred Buffalo Hunt and in exchange, he would get the business of skull/hide prep/mounts, etc.
After the first buffalo was harvested, we looked to find the rest of the herd. The buffalo that were at the gate were just a small contingent off the main herd. They were quickly moving back to join the rest. We drove to try and get close enough to see if another would wait to be harvested, to no avail. They crossed a deep gully and went to a pasture known as “The Moccasin.”

To get to The Moccasin, we had to cross “Middle Crick” (creek). I left my truck on the west bank, and hopped into Joe’s truck, which has the lifter arm on the back. Matt climbed into the Diesel Beast and we negotiated our way down the gully and up the other side. It was a butt-clinching good time as the road was narrow and we mowed over some small saplings on the way up the other bank. Don made it through following behind us and we drove up to the main herd.

Buffy, the herd matriarch, came up to greet us as we scanned the herd for the right buffalo. One was lying off to the side (about 150-yards away) simply looking at us, not a concern in the world. It was away from the herd by at least 25 yards. Based on my experience, it couldn’t have been more obvious that she was The One. With guidance from Don as to where to hold the crosshairs at that angle, I held true and squeezed off the round. Another perfect shot and she laid her head down. We surrounded her with the vehicles, said prayers, offered tobacco, and began processing.

It was great having the snow. When we skinned the animal, we could put the hide down directly on the snow, skin-side down, and it would wash the blood off as we dragged it along. Matt was especially good at that; he could grab it by the head and drag the hide behind him. However, after dragging the skin, he went about 25 yards away from the truck towards a gully, and came between a portion of the herd and the truck. That same portion of the herd then became interested in Matt, as they were separating him from the trucks.

When harvesting a buffalo, we use the trucks as a barrier; a place of protection if the buffalo get upset and starts crow-hopping or become unruly. If that happens, the last place you want to be is out amongst the buffalo alone – unless you’re Tana. And being that Matt isn’t Tana, we waited for a break in the buffalo movement and I walked out and raised my arms towards the buffalo (this action makes the buffalo pause) while Matt scooted back to the truck. I’ll bet he never does that again.

On the way back, I tried to get a picture of Matt and Don coming through the crick, but at the camera angle I was in, the image doesn’t do the scene justice. We made our way back to the ranch and cleaned up. Don drove home and we cleaned / organized the house for the next day, when the film crew would arrive.

That night as we readied for bed, Matt asked if he could borrow a pair of boxers. I always bring extra, so, I happily gave him a pair and told him he could keep them – I didn’t want them back. (Personally, if I really needed a pair of underwear, I wouldn’t care who had worn them before. But, if I was okay in that department, and someone wanted to give me a pair they’d worn previously, I don’t know. I’d probably be checking for stains or leftovers or anything out of place where their junkpile had been. It would just be uncomfortable and I’d probably throw them away anyhow.) Apparently Matt didn’t share this bit with his wife, Burch, after he got home because she called me and said she ‘had my panties’ cleaned and ready.

No Fences Outdoors

A couple of archery hunters from No Fences Outdoors (Ben and Jesse) and their cameraman (Chad) came out the next day. They were filming a hunt that they would be broadcasting in 2011. I believe they are getting enough hunts in to have at least one or two complete seasons before they go ‘live’ as it were. They arrived with Don around 5:00 the next morning and Matt was not happy about having to wake up at 4:00 to get ready. (He’s not a hunter and having to get up that early, no matter the reason, seemed like blasphemy.)

Joe, Don, Matt, and I have new “Happy Heart Ranch / Sacred Ground International” jackets, made especially for this day. The idea is to promote Tana’s ranch and the work she is doing for the buffalo/the land as much as possible, bringing back the native grasses, etc. The jackets turned out really well and the logo on the back really stands out.

After introductions and familiarization, they filmed the opening sequence where everyone was smudged inside the ranch house and then the camera equipment, the trucks, etc, outside. We headed up the hill from the ranch into the unknown.

And really, it was just about the unknown. We had hoped to get some video of the sunrise over her land but the fog was too thick. It was so thick that there was no hope of even seeing the sun. Additionally, as we climbed higher, where Joe hadn’t driven, Don’s other truck (not the diesel – I was driving that one) became stuck. I pulled him behind with a chain as we continued up the hill. Then the chain came off. We spent 30 minutes walking the snow road, looking for it, until we realized that it was still attached to Don’s front bumper and he was pulling it underneath his truck.

It wasn’t until about 8:00 that the fog lifted enough for us to really even see where we were going and be able to find the buffalo. They emerged from the fog, walking towards us. That was a cool sight. Unfortunately, they weren’t filming at that point, but if they were, I would have told them to call that segment Buffalo in the Mist. It was that cool.

As we stopped the trucks to set up, I grabbed my 12-gauge and loaded it with some 430-grain slugs. I wasn’t expecting any trouble as Tana’s buffalo are pretty tame as far as wild buffalo are concerned- but she hadn’t, up to this point, had many archery hunters. How the buffalo would react to this method of harvest was an ‘unknown.’ The idea behind the perfect archery shot is to penetrate both lungs with the arrow. As death with an arrow shot is not instantaneous, the wounded buffalo can be unpredictable. Buffalo that you think are dead are the most dangerous. It’s best to be prepared and the 12-gauge helps considerably.

The first archer, Jesse, waited for a 3 ½ year old bull for his shot. As he readied his bow, we waited for a bull to present itself. Sure enough, one separates and the archer lets his arrow fly. The arrow strikes cleanly, sinks in and the shaft is buried as the buffalo goes to the ground almost instantaneously. I’m on watch to ensure none of the other buffalo get too excited. None of the buffalo reacted strangely and we waited for the bull to expire. We again do the prayers and tobacco, process the buffalo and set up for Ben.

The herd is still nearby and Ben readies his bow. I’m back on watch. The buffalo are naturally curious about the area where we processed the first buffalo and the herd moves up towards that point. Another 3-year-old bull passes without stopping on his way to the spot, following the other cows and bulls. But, almost as if asked to stop, he turns right around, walks 40 yards back towards us, and stops, broadside, about 30 yards away. The archer could not ask for a better shot – and he takes it.

Unfortunately, the shot wasn’t a clean one. The arrow hits a rib and goes in only about 4 inches. “Great,” I think, “now we have a wounded buffalo!” I’m on high alert as the hunter readies another arrow. However, less than a minute later, Ben sends another arrow, a double-lung and straight pass-through shot. It was ultimately a killing shot. However, to be safe, Don puts a round from his Pre-64 Winchester 30.06 just behind the ear and the animal drops. His thinking was smart; a wounded buffalo, full of adrenaline, may not have gone down quickly and then becomes dangerous to all. It’s better to have a buffalo on the ground than walking wounded, even if death is imminent.

With the second buffalo now down, we surround it and begin the process of prayers, tobacco, photographs, etc. We hoist it in the air and skin/disembowel it, and put the stomach in a plastic bag; it was promised to a Native man in Billings – a friend of one of the archers.

We head back to the ranch house and I end up futzing around with something in the shop. I don’t recall what it is, but, when I come up to the ranch house, they’re busy filming the wrap-up and Tana is showing her buffalo blankets and buffalo-horn jewelry. As everyone is inside, I don’t want to interrupt the filming, so I hang out outside. Lobo is there to keep me company and he keeps busy wrapping himself around my legs, biting at my shoelaces. After what seems like an eternity, I see that they are done filming and open the door. Don, ever the funny man, is quick to say, “The adults are done talking now, you can come in.” Nice… And I really have to pee.

Matt and I decide to follow Don and the crew to the butcher/meat processor as I hadn’t been there before. After the 45-minute drive off the Crow reservation to Billings, then on to Huntley, we arrive at the place. I’m really impressed at how clean it is. I walk into the walk-in freezer and see my buffalo hanging from the day before. They are really clean and well hung, aging nicely. The floors are clean, the walls are clean; everything is in its place. Very nice. If I had a butcher shop, this is how I’d want it set up.

Matt and I head back to the ranch, saying goodbye to the No Fences Outdoors crew and Don, saying that I would see him the following week. Matt and I head back to Denver the next day without incident. I drop Matt off and head home myself to get ready for my next trip.

Herd of Turtles – 2010 Second Weekend

I pick up my buddy Eric on Friday, and, we’re off like a herd of turtles. We had to stop at Gander Mountain to switch out a ‘skinning/gutting knife’ Eric had picked up. The one he initially bought was too small for the buffalo hides. I showed him the one I had. He said “Jeepers! I better get that one!” Or, something like that– even though I’ve never heard him utter the word “jeepers,” he might have used it during his tour as a law enforcement officer. Also, since I’m writing the story, I get a little bit of freedom as to what I think others are thinking.

After we get the knife, we stopped to get breakfast burritos and hit the road. We’re about an hour in, nearly to the CO/WY border and Eric then says, “Golly, I forgot my camera battery charger!” We stop in Cheyenne and attempt to find a shop that has a battery charger for his super-duper-megapixel-high-res-uber-quality-digital-camera. At least I’m pretty sure that’s the name of it. (It could be ‘Canon’, but I might be wrong.)

As we’re hunting for the right place to find this thing, Eric cautions me about the cop we just passed (He used to be “one of them” so he’s got super-duper ‘cop-sense’). I didn’t think anything of it as he gives me directions to turn right on this particular street (but crossing a solid white line to do so). I make the turn and Eric says, “You’re about to get lit up” and before I can truly respond, I see the pretty twinkling lights Eric just mentioned in my rear view mirror. I pull over and convince the Deputy that no, we’re not drunk, yes, we are from out of town and it’s all his (pointing at Eric) fault. I said, “He’s the navigator and he’s not that good.” Eric was kind enough to wave at the Deputy to accept the blame and he let us go. We finally find a shop where Eric can find the charger and I look at the clock on my dash. 12:30. I think the time must be incorrect, but, a quick check on my cell phone. Yep – it’s really past noon, and we’re only to Cheyenne. At least Eric’s roommate loaded him up with a bunch of pogey-bait for the trip (and the burger joint next to the camera joint didn’t hurt anything either).

This was Eric’s first trip to Montana (where the destination was Montana and not just passing through at night on his BMW 1150), and he was excited to see the scenery. The Bighorn Mountains were snow-covered and spectacular, but, crossing into MT and onto the reservation, darkness fell, and the land was black. This Crow reservation isn’t exactly well known for being well lit at night, or, having guard rails, and you can easily come around a bend and find a herd of cattle in the road. Caution is your best friend crossing the Res’ at night and Eric used plenty of it as he drove us onward.

Caution is also needed when opening bags of chocolate-covered sunflower seeds. Unfortunately, I didn’t use any and as Eric piloted on, I opened the bag and ripped it halfway down the seam, spilling the contents all over me, the seat, and the floor. Fantastic! I was worried, and, sure enough, the next time I got out of the truck, there was a large brown smear on the seat where I was sitting. Let the sheer beauty of that sink in.

We arrived at the ranch and Tana, Joe and Denise were quick to greet us and welcome Eric to the ranch as a first-timer. Tana is always quick to have any newcomers drink a glass of water, fed from the abundant springs, to connect them to the land. Eric happily lapped it up. Good boy, Eric, good boy.

Early the next morning, after breakfast, we put out all the equipment to be smudged while waiting for Don, who soon arrived with his buddy Rick. Also joining us was a Billings doctor that wanted to harvest his own buffalo. Don, Kirk, and the good Doc added their equipment to the table and Tana smudged it all. We set the expectations of what to find in the field for the Doctor as well. In a show of wanting to become part of the full experience, Tana asked Eric to smudge the vehicles, an opportunity I am happy to report that Eric took on with great enthusiasm. That done, we headed up the hill.

It’s always great to have others out to experience the harvest and be a part of the process. Tana has even started a program for young men, a ‘rite of passage’ hunt, where a 12-16 year old can come and harvest as long as they are accompanied by their father/grandfather/older relative or guardian, and they can demonstrate that they have the ability to shoot accurately. They are then introduced into the ‘sacred hunt’ that Tana offers with the buffalo on her ranch. There has been nothing but positive feedback from all who participate.

We got in the truck, and Eric must have thought, “Gee whillakers, we’re heading out!” (on a side note – Eric is the absolutely last person you would expect to hear that kind of talk from – and certainly not the “Golly Wally, Gee, Beav” type.) The buffalo were once again waiting at the gate and Eric took some incredible pictures with his super-duper-megapixel-high-res-uber-quality-digital-camera. After we crossed the gate, we pulled off and the Doctor readied for his shot. The animals settled a bit and we waited for one to separate from the herd. Sure enough, one meandered over to the fence line, away from all the others, and the Doctor, fully prepared, kneeled and took aim. His shot was carefully-placed, the animal dropped, and we surrounded it with the vehicles. We offered tobacco and prayers and processed it quickly. The time from shot to having it harvested and loaded in the back of the truck was maybe 35 minutes. Don was able to take the Doc back to the ranch house and get the animal to the butcher right away.

The rest of us stayed in the field as I had two more to harvest. As we stood by the trucks, a small herd came up from the gate area. One paused and stood there, looking right at me. “Thank you,” I said and quickly set up for the shot. My shot was clean and dropped her. After the tobacco and prayers, we hoisted and started processing. As we were busy skinning the buffalo, Don returned, just as Kirk was explaining that he was the Sporting Clays champion for Montana and Wyoming, beating out a guy from Texas. He couldn’t afford to go to the national event, where, the guy from Texas won. I guess he’s a pretty good shot (and former Army infantry). We were able to compare stories with me being in the Marines. It was good, clean, “man-fun” out in the pasture.

My second buffalo proved to be a bit of a challenge. The herd was on the move, and waiting for an animal to separate itself out was time consuming. But, it’s the way it is. We would follow the herd, stop when we thought the herd would stop, get out and wait for a shot. Then none would stop. We did this 3 times. Finally one stopped, looked at me, and lowered her snout into the snow covered grass, waiting to be taken. Of course, others were moving in and behind her, again and again, fouling the sight picture. Eventually I had a clear shot and she fell with a single squeeze of the trigger.

We surrounded her and set about with tobacco and prayers. While we processed the buffalo, Eric took the opportunity to take some pictures. Snow had begun to fall heavily, and with the fog, Pryor Mountain in the background, he tried to capture the magic of the land. That worked well until the buffalo started taking interest in him and they were slowly working their way over to where Eric was shooting pics. He was about 100 feet from the trucks and I mentioned to him that he probably would want to make his way back to the truck. Eric’s a smart guy and communicated that he was watching them watching him and started to move back toward the safety of the trucks, taking pics as he walked. Then Don reiterated it, and, perhaps he picked up on the urgency in Don’s voice or maybe it was the, “Eric, their tails are rising. Rising tails is not a good thing.” As Eric had never been around the buffalo before, and has never seen them riled up, it’s easy to take them for granted, or not to take enough precaution when out and among them. In Eric’s case, his angle of view did not show the rising tails of an aggressive animal. He learned the lesson that Matt experienced, too.

That night we had some buffalo chuck steak and made preparation to leave. The next morning as Eric and I prepared to leave, packing bags and gathering our gear, I took a moment to jump up on the bed, butt-first. It collapsed. Ironically, this is the same bed that Audrey and I had slept in during our visit to the ranch previously, and as the fates would have it, I broke it then as well. I asked Joe to help me repair it and he was kind enough to not give me too hard of a time about it. Tana laughed when the story was revealed, having remembered the last visit, too. We had breakfast, cleaned up, loaded up, and bade goodbye to Tana, Joe, Denise, and the dogs Sadie and Lobo. Crossing the reservation, we saw some ditch parrots (pheasants) and stopped to take pictures. Then, outside of Sheridan, we saw a flock of turkeys. We also stopped to take pictures of bald eagles, deer, antelope, rock formations, and state signs.

The Trailer of Tribulation

Between the time that the second buffalo were completely done with processing and going to pick them up, my grandmother Hanson made her transition from this world to the next. Audrey and I made preparations to attend the funeral in Mitchell, SD and, on the way back, we would dog-leg through Billings to pick up the buffalo. That meant hauling 14 150- and 120-quart coolers behind us on our trip, in my dad’s 4x8-foot trailer. It made for a bit of wind resistance, but at least it was a relatively light load heading northeast from Highlands Ranch.

After spending time with family, and offering blessings and prayers for my Grandmother’s continued journey, we made our way to Billings via Rapid City, Sturgis, then northwest through Broadus and Lame Deer, across the Northern Cheyenne reservation. We settled in Billings for the night.

Early the next morning we met Tana and Joe for breakfast. As Audrey and Tana continued to chat, Joe and I went to pick up the buffalo. The trailer was slowly loaded up. Returning to the restaurant, I picked up Audrey and said goodbye to Tana and Joe. We gassed up and I checked the tires. The passenger-side tire was low so I filled it. With the weight of four buffalo, you don’t want anything going wrong with your tires.

If I had actually spoken that, they would now be famous last words. Instead, I remained silent and south of Casper, I noticed that my trailer was lilting to one side. I pulled over to check it out and sure enough, the passenger-side tire was shredded. Being prepared, I took the spare off the side of the trailer, got out my high-lift jack, and changed the tire. We were on our happy way again before too long.

Not to be completely done, just south of Chugwater, Wyoming, I again looked and noticed that my trailer was lilting to one side. I pulled over to check it out; the passenger-side tire was shredded.

“Okay – who did I piss off?” I thought, “What karma am I balancing?” In being prepared, I may carry one spare tire for the trailer, but not two! Who does that? I drove to the next exit as my plan was to dump the trailer. I didn’t want to set it alongside the highway – not with that much buffalo. I drove to Exit 40 and pulled off. Audrey got on the cell phone and started calling around to tire shops in Cheyenne. As it was close to 8:00 PM, no tire shops were open. Sam’s Club indicated they had a tire close to the size so we drove as fast as the snow/ice on the highway would allow us in an attempt to get there. Although the store itself closed at 9:00 PM, the tire section closed at 8:30. Yeah – we were too late.

My buffalo delivery plan included dropping off a half-buffalo on the way back to two people. One of the guys, Linc, I had never met; he was a friend of a friend. I called to tell him that I wasn’t going to be able to drop it off that evening. He said “OK” and asked if there was anything he could do. I said I’d get back with him and called my Dad. Back in Denver, I had a 4x6 trailer and it might have the same-sized tires on it. If so, I was going to see if he could perform a rescue mission – bring me a spare tire or two. He was still on his way back from South Dakota and wasn’t even home yet. After I got off the phone with him, Audrey called and made hotel reservations in Cheyenne. Even with the tire from my other trailer, I wanted to get the two tires repaired before heading back to Denver. But, synchronistically, Linc called and said he was on his way! Wow – right on! Help unlooked for is thrice blessed. I asked if he drove a pickup and by his response, “I do,” he sounded as if I’d asked an obvious question.

I called my dad to tell him that he didn’t need to initiate the rescue plan. It was a miserable night but Linc was on his way. I’d given him directions to the Flying-J gas station and told him to look for a white F150. Audrey and I grabbed a bite to eat. At the gas station I busied myself rearranging the luggage in my back seat in case I needed to put a cooler back there. My plan, at the time, was to load up as many coolers in the back of his truck as possible and put the rest in the back of my truck (I already had two coolers, and, a couple boxes of bones, in the bed of my truck). Linc showed up and after quick introductions, we drove the ice-road 33-miles north to Exit 40. I backed up to the trailer and he pulled in behind it to shine the headlights of his Dodge Diesel 2500 into the trailer.

It was a bitter wind that blew that night, mixed with icy snow, quickly making any exposed skin frighteningly cold. No moon was to be had and the only light was from the headlights. We moved one row of coolers and then sat in his cab to warm up. Heading back into the storm, we moved the rest. All but two coolers fit in the back of his truck, double-stacked. I had a large brown tarp, which, barely being able to hold onto it (it was quite sail-like) we covered the coolers. I used my cargo-straps to hold the tarp down and keep the coolers in place. The last two coolers we were able to fit into his back seat (he flipped the seat up). “Cool,” I thought, “an empty trailer.” No one would be able to come along and help themselves to some Grade-A buffalo that night.

Linc then helped me remove the second shredded tire and it went in the back of the truck. It was nice to finally be in the warm cab and out of the bitter cold. I followed Linc back to Cheyenne – making sure his load wasn’t shifting. All was well, so, I bade him good night and safe travels and we headed to the hotel.

Wounded Knee – No, really…

The next morning we made our way over to the tire shop and I handed them both rims. As Audrey and I breakfasted at the local Village Inn, they put new tires on and we were on our way back north. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the night before. It was windy, sure enough, but not snowing and the sun was out. I jacked up the trailer to get the tire back on and heard the clang of metal on concrete. “What the…” I looked under the trailer and saw a piece of the leaf-spring that clattered on the ground. I deduced that the clip holding the leaf-springs together had broken when I initially loaded up the trailer, or shortly thereafter. Where the clip broke, the spring had also partially broken at an angle and was rubbing the inside of the tire, thus shortening the life of it - significantly.

I put both tires back on the trailer and we headed to Linc’s house on the North side of Denver. Along the way, I called the other person (Martina) who ordered a half-buffalo. I then called my Dad to formulate a plan. We would all meet at Linc’s house. My dad would bring my 4x6 trailer and we would offload all the coolers between my dad’s Isuzu, my F150, and my trailer. I didn’t want to put any weight in the 4x8 trailer with the broken leaf-spring.

When we arrived at Linc’s, I parked the 4x8 trailer on the street and backed into the driveway next to his big black truck. Then Martina showed up while I made room in the bed of my F150. Linc and I then climbed into the back of Linc’s truck to offload the first cooler. I’m guessing that these coolers weighed about 150+ lbs apiece and I couldn’t move them by myself. We drug the 1st cooler to the edge of the tailgate and I stepped to the edge of the tailgate to jump down.
When my ankle rolled out from under me, gravity took over. On the way to the ground, my knee caught the metal edge of the tailgate. Then the skin under my kneecap ripped open for a nice, pleasant three-inch gash. Maybe it was four. I’m not quite sure. I hit the ground, one leg up on the tailgate, one leg on the driveway. I hopped away and pulled my leg down and stumbled to the side of the house to steady myself. I was hoping beyond hope that maybe I just banged it, kind of like a ‘funny bone’ for the leg. Then I saw blood. I pulled up my pant leg and saw my sock already soaked. I looked at the gash and thought, “Huh… that’s gonna need stitches.”

Linc came over with some disposable shop towels and duct tape. He pressed the shop towels against the wound and I held them in place while he wrapped the duct tape around my leg. It wasn’t pretty by any stretch of the imagination, but it worked. I asked where the closest hospital was and off we went.

I called my Dad along the way. He answered his cell and had to tell me all about where he was in relation to Linc’s house, and how he checked Google maps, etc. I patiently waited until he was done to tell him that I wouldn’t be there (I could see the look on his face) and instead I would be in the local ER. Then I had to explain what happened. I asked him to continue to Linc’s and grab as many coolers as he could load and drop them off at my house. By the time that conversation was done we had arrived and I hobbled my way into the Platte Valley Medical Center ER.

I carefully removed the duct-tape (you think I should start shaving my legs with the number of times I end up in the emergency room with leg injuries) and received a whole mess of stitches in the muscle below my knee. They had to sew the muscle up first (buried stitches) and then sew the surface (running stitches). I’ve forgotten the count – but I think it was somewhere around 30-36 stitches. Linc called while the nurse was spraying a concoction of water and baby-shampoo into my open wound. Ah, the joy of pain. Linc heard all about it.

After I was all stitched up, we went back to Linc’s to load up the rest of the coolers and the frozen bones in the back of my truck, and reattach the trailer. On the way home, I thought about the fact that I still had to sort all of the buffalo! I called a bunch of buddies and begged them to come assist me. There was no way I could do this all myself – it’s difficult to sort 1500 lbs of buffalo meat even when you’re feeling 100%!

Luckily I have plenty of great friends who were happy to assist at a moment’s notice. It also helped that most of them were getting portions of buffalo! For those who weren’t, I was sure to give them a few packages of buffalo burger. Well worth the cost for their assistance!
Thus ends the tale of the 2010 Buffalo Harvest.

For more information about doing a Sacred Hunt yourself, please visit

http://www.sacredgroundintl.org/sacred-hunt.php

For information on Tana’s Buffalo Jewelry and Buffalo Blankets, visit http://www.nativevogue.com/

Goose Hunt Jan 2010

I went goose hunting with my Dad on January 23, 2010. It wasn't the first time I'd been goose hunting this season, but, it was the first time I'd been successful this (goose) hunting season.

The day started somewhere in the 20's, but the temperature rose to the 40's by mid-day. The corn field we were hunting in (standing in a 5-foot pit dug into the ground) was muddy, and the ground in the hole was no different. I was standing in mud / inch-deep water the entire morning.

The day started with lackluster excitement as the geese started flying around 8:30, high in the sky, and showed no interest in our decoys. The morning grew progressively slower, to where we would only see maybe one flock, way off on the horizon, every half-hour or so. We’d wave our black flags and call, just to keep ourselves amused, and let the other hunters in nearby fields think that we were going to have some action. Of course, they’d start calling and waving their flags as soon as we started up. Or, vice/versa. Gotta find something to do on cold mornings when the coffee you’re drinking quickly becomes lukewarm to cold in a short time.

Around 11:00, I said we should call it a morning. Another day skunked. I know how unlikely that seems when, in urban/suburban areas, you can practically walk right up to the geese on the golf courses and parks. Why should it be so hard? So, we started putting all of our pit gear (thermos, buckets, ammo, hats/gloves, bags, etc.) up on top of the pit cover, when my Dad says, “Well, there’s one…”

I look to the west and sure enough, there is a goose going in, wings set, aiming to land in the decoys to our north. The guys in that pit didn’t even see it until it was almost on the ground. Then, a series of shots rang out (at least 6) and the goose got the hell away from them! It flew directly towards us. So, I said, “don’t bother putting all the stuff away. Don’t move, it’s going to fly right over us.”

When it was just about to fly right over, I said, “Let’s take ‘em!” and raised my 10-gauge to my shoulder, aimed, and shot. Impact! The goose set its wings and went down opposite the blind in the corn stubble to the south. It wasn’t a mid-air crumple-to-the-ground shot, but, it was at least a hit-the-ground instead of recovering and flying off.

So, I asked my Dad to assist in recovering it. It’s happened more than once that a wounded goose has gotten up and flown away before I could get to it, and I wanted all the assistance I could get. So, we south across the rows of corn stubble looking for the goose, but it was nowhere to be had. *sigh* We walked to the far end of the field and crossed the road, looking at the private land for any sign of the goose. Nothing. So, while I walked back across the rows looking again, a farmer drove by on the adjacent road, stopped, and said, “It’s back there by the telephone pole.” After seeing my confusion, he said, “you’re looking for a goose, right? It’s just back up the road.” “Thanks Mister!”

So, walking up the road, sure enough, there was my goose. I walked close to it, but, it walked further away. So I tried to walk closer. It hid behind some brush. I aimed my 10-gauge at its head and shot. The full choke pattern went just by its head behind the brush. In the mean time, my dad was sneaking up behind it, and was going to try to grab it around the neck. So, as it sat watching me, my dad got within 5 feet, but it then spooked. So, my dad held about 2 inches above its head and pulled the trigger. Needless to say, that was all she wrote (all it honked?).

We went back to the decoys and packed up – my first and last goose of the 2010 season.

Late Season Elk Hunt - 2nd Weekend

Friday night I prepared for elk hunting on Saturday – I only had time for a 1-day trip. Went to bed at 11:30. ‘Slept’ until 1:30, and awoke to get my hunting clothes on and truck packed to leave at 2:00. Dad showed up about 2:15 and we left for Craig. Arrived in Craig about 6:30, and was to the hunting unit by 7:15. Saw one heard of elk in the area – we gave chase. I came within about 500 yards, and, I could have taken a shot – but there were other hunters in close proximity and I didn’t feel comfortable shooting (even though they weren’t in my line of fire, there was one guy to the right of the herd about 100 yards and I didn’t think he would appreciate me shooting in the same general direction). We again gave chase to the herd, but, they slipped into somewhere unknown and we lost them. That was the only herd we saw all day.

On the way back we came across a wounded deer along the side of the road. I hate that – when drivers hit an animal and they don’t stop to put the animal out of its misery and leave it to suffer and die. Yes, I understand nature is cruel and predators will often make sport of wounded animals before killing them. But, you would think that we as humans would have compassion for them and end their misery before they die of their injuries. Then again, probably most drivers don’t carry stuff to put a wounded animal down, or, even if they did, might not have the intestinal fortitude to put it out of its misery.

So, I stopped and approached the deer, and it stopped struggling as soon as I put my hand on its head. In a quick motion I sliced its throat. Then we put the deer in the back of the truck and I drove into Dillon/Silverthorne, and I got a tag for it from the Silverthorne Police Dept (had to fill out paperwork and let them know where the deer was on the highway when it was hit). I was able to salvage 3 of the 4 quarters (the shoulder where it was hit was too badly damaged – broken bones, etc.) We processed the deer in the parking lot behind the Kum n Go, on my tailgate (I don’t gut the deer unless need drives me – it’s easier, but more time consuming, to quarter it and remove the backstraps) underneath a street lamp (it was dark by then). So, I came home with meat from the hunting trip – just not the kind I expected. Arrived home at 9:00 PM and was in bed by 11:30.

Next hunting trip Dec 26/27 – going back for elk. Hopefully there will be more in the hunting area by then.

Death from Above, or, It's Notch Your Elk, Matt: 4th Season Elk 2009

http://s911.photobucket.com/albums/ac312/lkhanson/4th%20Season%20Elk%202009/?albumview=slideshow
Just about anyone who goes tromping around through the woods has names for unique geographic features, sometimes corresponding with the official Forest Service or BLM names indicated on the associated maps. Where we typically hunt near Craig, we have names such as “The Notch, Notch Hill, Bert’s Folly, Shelf Road, The Fingers, the Burn Area” etc. Our 4th season elk hunt includes some of these names… I will include our names for these places in the story, and give a brief description for everyone else who may not be familiar with these terms.

The 4th Season elk hunt typically is a low-success hunt. One of us may get an elk during the 4th season, depending on the year, and the temperature/precipitation. If it has been warm weather and little snow in the high country, it means that the elk herds haven’t moved to the lower elevation feeding grounds yet. If you’re hunting in a lower elevation area (i.e., your hunt code on your license restricts you to a certain geographic area where there is no high-elevation land), your hunt might be a little tough. Sometimes early snowstorms will push a few herds off of the higher elevation areas, but often the elk come down in elevation, wait for the melt, and then go back up, much to the chagrin of the hunters. Other times the herds are pushed down by the snow, and they will hang around in the warmer, grass-laden low country and take their chances with less cover. Additionally, there are what are termed ‘local herds’ – these are herds that hang around in a certain area and don’t follow the migration path as their cousins. They hang around all-year in the rich vegetation and find cover wherever they can. However, these ‘local’ herds are still wary and hang around in the thick junipers or scrub-oak.

For our 4th Season hunt in Unit 3/301, the boundaries are on the east side at Highway 13 north out of Craig, and on the west side by Highway 40 and 318. My dad (David) and Jack drove up on Monday morning. The season started on Wednesday, however, we needed to find a camping spot. David and Jack had licenses both for 3/301, and, licenses for a Ranching for Wildlife program called Deakins Ranch. The RFW programs allow hunters to hunt on private land, and in exchange, the Colorado Division of Wildlife gives the ranch owners extra tags to sell for $$$$. Each morning the hunters need to check in to the ranch house before hunting, with check-in times at 5:30. Because our typical camping spot is a lot further away from the check-in sight, they were looking for another spot to camp a little closer.

Monday afternoon they found a spot about a mile from a cement-capped Uranium mine. Uranium used to be present in the area, in the tufaceous fluvial sandstones of the Miocene Browns Park Formation. Ore was taken from numerous open-pit mines on both sides of US Highway 40 and heap-leached, and the eluate was trucked to Wyoming for uranium recovery. Some of the pits are still open, and some of the areas have a cap with 10-feet thick cement covering it. They stopped mining in 1981; however, I would have liked to have had a Geiger counter to see if I would be glowing on my trip back. David called me and told me the location of the camp site, and I passed along directions to my other hunting buddies, Matt, Blake, and Mike.

Matt and I have been hunting together for about 5 years now, and he has recruited Blake, a 19-year-old who is the son of one of his wife’s friends. Matt had taken Blake hunting earlier this year, and, borrowing my 30.06, he got his first deer. This would be his first time elk hunting. Mike and I have hunted together since 2000, and, he has taken several deer and elk. Jack and David have been hunting together for probably around 25-30 years. Jack and David were on the same hunting trip when I got my first deer at age 14.

Mike arrived in camp on Tuesday afternoon, driving his dodge van and pulling his ATV in a trailer. The van sleeps four, albeit a little tightly. The four chairs up front combine to create two sleeping surfaces, and the back has a flat area where two grown men, sleeping head to foot in sleeping bags, can sleep comfortably (especially if there is 4 inches of memory-foam). Wednesday morning we checked in at Deakins ranch, and there were a bunch of pissed-off hunters in the parking area. I could only guess one-thing, and my suspicions were soon confirmed: there were no elk on the ranch. The guy we checked in with, Jim, said that we could drive around and familiarize ourselves with the ranch, and that we could wait and watch and listen (listen for what? Elk mating season was over – the only elk you might hear would be the thunder of their hooves running away from you). So, we drove to an area that was walk-in only. Mike and Jack went up one side of a draw, David and I walked up another side, where we saw a bunch of antelope and deer, but as Jim said, there were no elk. After driving to another corner to confirm, we checked out and drove back to camp for lunch. Lunch consisted of Vienna sausages in biscuits with mustard (Jack had a PB&J sandwich) and Tostitos with Salsa. Discussing our evening hunt plans, it was decided; we were going to ‘The Notch.’

The Notch is a road that was blasted out between a low point in a hill that ranges about three miles from north to south, and, maybe a half-mile wide at its widest point. The creation of the road, like the Panama Canal, allows traffic between a few key areas that one would otherwise have to travel a long way out of the way to access the surrounding country. We have successfully hunted elk here in times past, and it was our best shot that afternoon. We had heard reports that elk had crossed highway 13 in small herds earlier that week, but we would not have made it to that area long before nightfall. David and Jack hunted Notch Hill, and Mike and I took the Shelf Road over Bert’s Folly. The Notch road formation divides Notch Hill and the hill we call Bert’s Folly – where a fellow named Bert, about 10 years ago, had an opportunity to shoot an elk – all he had to do was wait for this string of 40-50 elk to walk right to him. David and I were watching from Notch Hill. Instead of waiting, in his nice rest in his ground blind to where the elk would have crossed at 50 yards, Bert stood up when the elk were 300 yards away and unloaded his magazine. No elk dropped, and they turned-tail and ran back the way they came. The Shelf Road cuts across Bert’s Folly, and in previous years, it was a scary road under perfect conditions (the road angled at a steep pitch, so that you were afraid the vehicle would just start rolling down the mountain). The forest service improved the road, so now it’s a ‘butt-clincher’ in perfect conditions, and scary when wet and snotty.

We happened upon a couple of guys on ATVs. I got out of the truck to talk with one of them, and he reported that there were elk in the area. There was a herd around his campsite the night before, and he had seen about 9 elk that day while driving around on his ATV. Good news! Mike and I thanked them and we continued up what seemed to be an ATV-only trail in my F150. There is nothing like going through low-hanging branches just waiting to reach out and scratch up the paint job. We pulled into a likely area, with a meadow and outlooks, and Mike took off to the north. I watched both sides of a ridge for elk movement until sundown. No elk were spotted, but, we were both hopeful. Not hearing any shots, we met David and Jack back at camp for chicken-and Rice-a-Roni dinner. Filled with good news, Mike, David, and Jack went to bed. I waited up for Matt and Blake to arrive. The lantern we set out in front of the camp is easily spotted going up the road to the camp, and it was the beacon that Mike, Matt, and I used to get us to camp in the dark. I told Matt and Blake the plan for the next day, and we went to sleep.

The next morning Mike woke up around 4:00 AM and started making bacon. He only brought 6 lbs worth, hardly enough... He made coffee, and then started cooking eggs. I contributed a bag of shredded-cheddar (I don’t really know what it was – it said ‘imitation cheddar’) and we pulled out of camp after getting our fill. Off to The Notch, Mike and Blake were going to start near the south end of Notch Hill and make their way to the top, and then come north. Matt and I drove to The Notch and parked, and walked south up the incline to the top. An ATV trail also goes across the top, and we followed it, stopping and looking down both sides where it was convenient. The land slopes away and provides excellent views. As Matt and I came around a bend in the trail, we see a bunch of hairy tan butts turn towards us and then the front ends ran down the hill. Elk! 30 feet away! And now they’re gone!

Matt and I race to where the herd ran down the hill. The junipers were thick – too thick to see through. We run further up the trail, with Matt in the lead. I come puffing up beside him. He says, ‘the elk are right down there, and you can hear them if you would quit breathing so hard!” I shut my trap and listened. Matt pointed, “There they are!” We saw two elk come out into a clearing. I said, “Let me get a range on them.” I pulled out my rangefinder, I was sure they were 300 – 400 yards away. I whisper to Matt, “228 yards” they were almost straight down hill. I had my Huskemaw optics set to 200 yards – I wasn’t going to mess with adjusting the drop-compensating turret the extra amount – it would only be a difference of about 1/8 of an inch, if that. In a kneeling position I lined up the crosshairs between the shoulder blades with my 7mm RUM Sendero. I waited about 1 second for Matt to shoot. No shot came, so I squeezed off a round using a 180 Grain Berger bullet.

KABOOM!

The shot pinned the elk to the ground, like how an entomologist would pin a butterfly to a foam board. Matt, recovering his senses after my 7mm Remington Ultra-Magnum went off next to his head, headed down the hill to try and find the other elk that was next to the one I shot. He told me he would meet me at my elk. I surveyed the area, looked for landmarks, and started down the hill. However, what I should have done is take a compass reading. The cover is so thick, and the topography so varied, that, you might start going down and think that you’re walking in the right direction, but it could lead you 100 yards or more to the left or right. Such was the case, and, I lost track of where I was and where the elk dropped. Matt and I maintained radio contact, and he found the field near where the elk was down, but, he couldn’t find the elk. As I was walking towards Matt (he blew his whistle a few times) I stumbled across my elk. I radioed him, and he found me. We then got in radio contact with Mike and Blake to let them know we had an elk down. They said they would go back to the truck to get the meat packs, and meet us at the animal. I checked the bottom of the animal – there was no exit wound. The bullet, based on the angle, went through the spine and shredded the heart and lungs.

Why didn’t Matt shoot? He was waiting for the perfect shot opportunity – he was waiting for the elk to turn broadside. He was also waiting, controlling his breathing, choosing the right moment, taking his time, lining up the crosshairs. I had already made the decision that I was going to take a shot as soon as I was ready, when I could put a bullet on the vitals so that the animal’s transition would be quick and painless, maximizing the damage to the heart and lungs so that it would be instantaneous. Matt’s decision to take a little more time to shoot wasn’t a bad decision. However, we probably could have communicated about who was going to shoot which elk, etc. I was unwilling, though, to let this opportunity to pass by waiting to decide who was shooting what and when, and let the elk slip out of sight.

After taking pictures, Matt and I started quartering the animal. Matt asked if I wanted to gut and drag it. No way. Even though we could have drug it down hill, it’s a lot of work to drag an animal of this size. Quartering was the way to go. Here’s a quick primer on quartering game:

1. Unzip (cut a line in the hide using a Wyoming-knife) the hide down the spinal column from the neck to the tail.
2. Cut a line down each leg on one side and circle the hide at the knee or elbow.
3. Remove enough skin from the shoulder/leg to remove it / + flank steaks
4. Remove the backstrap (like the filet mignon) down from the neck along the spinal column to the hip joint.
5. Continue cutting past the hip joint to the tailbone. Carefully remove all hide (except where attaching evidence of sex) and separate the meat from the hip up to the ball joint. Cut tenderloin where it passes through the hip bone and separate the ball joint and remove all remaining connective tissues.
6. Cut a line along the underside of the spine between the hip and the short ribs, all the way up to the long ribs. Push gut sack down and remove the tenderloin.
7. Flip animal and repeat steps 1-6.

After some communication and directional issues, Blake and Mike found their way over to us. Matt and Mike went back to the truck while Blake held the 1 remaining quarter as I sliced and diced. Something he said reminded me that I needed to remove the tenderloins (I’d forgotten up to that point). I finished just as Matt and Mike made it up the hill (driving the vehicle closer to where we were). We packed up the animal in the packs (all except one front quarter, which we carried by itself) back to Matt’s truck. He drove down a steep embankment to get within 300 yards of where the elk was, and on the way out, everyone got out of the vehicle as Matt drove back up the hill and launched over the edge. I guess none of us wanted to be in his meat-wagon in case he pulled another “Dukes of Hazzard” on us.

A victory lunch in Maybell was in order, and I needed to get more ice for the coolers. After lunch, we went back out to Notch Hill to try our luck again. Although Matt and I had seen two of the herd, the rest of the herd (about 9) ran to the southwest side of the area. I wasn’t sure if this was a local herd, or one that had migrated into the area. I guess it doesn’t really matter, though. I was willing to go back in with them as they hunted, and Mike carried my rifle (just in case a 1000-yard shot presented itself) – I’m always up for more hunting, even if I’m not able to shoot. We walked up the trail and made our way to the opposite side of the hill, along the mile-or-so long stretch, stopping at every opportunity to glass an area. Towards the back (the south end of the ATV trail across the top), we split up. Mike and I took one finger, Matt went further down the trail on another finger, and Blake took a third finger. Each finger angled down from the top and eventually formed a ridge line with narrow valleys in between. Mike and I picked a point on the edge of a finger before it dropped completely down into the basin below, and we had a good vantage point to see any movement on both sides.

After we set up, about a half-hour later, Blake broke radio silence. He indicated that he spooked a herd. Apparently what happened is that he walked down to a finger and started meandering through the junipers. He couldn’t quite find the place where he wanted to stop and watch for the evening hunt. So, he went through a few openings and then the smell of elk hit him, like he ran into a wall. He knew that he had distinguished that unique fragrance earlier – and so he started looking around. Then he saw the elk 50 feet in front of him. The elk quickly moved away. He put the scope on them, but, he had a hard time distinguishing which one was a cow, which one was a bull, etc., and then they went up and over the ridgeline. We heard a shot. Mike and I got up and moved down the trail towards where we assumed the youngest member of our party was hunting. We met up with Matt and Blake, estimated where the elk may have gone, and determined that no one from our group made the shot. We decided that it would be quicker to go back to the vehicles and drive around to the south side of Notch hill to intercept the herd.

Then the rain started and the sun went down. A hunter that had also heard the shot was driving just ahead of us, going exactly where we were going. I took a detour and we went down another road to get to the south edge of the hill. The wind started to blow hard, the rain came down harder, and visibility turned to just about 0 as the sky grew dark. That was it. No more hunting that day. We returned to camp and I heated up my elk green chili, made from my elk from last season. I gotta tell ya – I make some really good elk green chili. Or, should I say, the recipe followed when people make green chili with the elk that I shoot turns out really good. This particular batch I didn’t make myself – a couple of friends made it and I froze it. There was just enough for all of us, plus, Jack heated up some bratwurst. Jack’s stomach stages a revolt when it comes in contact with anything spicier than Lemon Pepper. The last time he ate my elk green chili, he ran out of Tums in the middle of the night. I didn’t take offense when he declined a bowl of green goodness.

The plan for the next day was to get up early and hit Notch Hill again. But, then, Matt had to go and check the weather report. *sigh* Winter Snow Storm Warning. Rain turning to Snow at Midnight. Accumulation 2-4 Inches. Snow throughout the day on Friday - 4-6 Inches. Snow throughout night until Saturday until noon – 4-6 Inches. A second Storm then comes in, around 6 PM Saturday night and snow continually until Monday. And sure enough, that night, around midnight, the rain turned to snow. Jack gout out of his tent to pee after he heard the rain stop hitting his tent, and promptly fell on his ass in the mud as snow came down upon him. The next morning Mike made some coffee in the van and then heated up water. He had originally tried to go over to the cook tent, but the zipper was stuck. I took the tea kettle over to the cook tent and poured the boiling water on the zipper to melt the ice, and unzipped it. I then fired up the coffee and beat the snow off of the roof of the tent, hearing it slide down the tent walls. The tent could have collapsed if much more snow accumulated on it. Cooking my antelope breakfast sausage, I could tell that because the antelope is so lean, the meat wouldn’t cook in its own heated fat content. So, I put in a quarter-pound of bacon to create a base. Then, after the sausages were done, I threw in another batch of bacon so I could cook the eggs. Matt took over the egg preparation and served it up.

During breakfast, based on the weather report, I told everyone my intention of leaving that day. It was easy for me to say – I already had my elk. I had to be back by Saturday night anyhow, for a commitment I had with Audrey on Sunday, and now I had to butcher an elk as well. Everyone else was scheduled to leave on Sunday. But, if it was going to snow as much as predicted, and our campsite was already being inundated with white flakes, it would be next to impossible to get to the areas where we like to hunt. The roads have a habit of turning to utter snot when wet. Plus, trying to get home going over either Rabbit Ears pass or Vail pass might be difficult. I’ve been stuck up there when they’ve closed both of those passes, and I had to get home via Tennessee pass through Leadville in thick falling snow. No thank you.

Everyone else decided that the best idea for them was to pack up camp and take off. I could see the disappointment in their faces. No hunter wants to admit defeat and go home early. Often I will hunt up to the last day, to the last hour, and drive home in the dark. Hunting season is a precious commodity. It is a limited time where hunters spend a lot of time and money preparing for those few days. We savor each little bit, each nuance. But, sometimes, we are defeated by conditions outside of our control. As it was, Mike’s van is 2-wheel drive, and he left first, with Matt following him in his black Dodge 2500 meat wagon. Getting down to the main road (US 40) wasn’t difficult, Matt said, but coming back up to camp, getting up those roads was a lesson in patience and being okay with having a loss of control. He slipped and slid back into camp. We packed up all the tents and equipment in about 2 hours, as the wet snow fell on and around us. We didn’t bother packing up everything neatly – just as long as everything got in the truck, or trailer, we were okay. It would be easier to sort it out later in the week when it was sunny outside.

Vail pass was another story – coming down from Craig to Meeker to Rifle. It took 2 hours to get over Vail pass – curiosity slowdown for three semi trucks that, even with chains, couldn’t get up the hill and were pulled off to the side. Eisenhower wasn’t bad. Going down the other side, though, I passed Mike. He was driving slow, taking it easy in his two-wheel drive van pulling his ATV – he didn’t take any chances. Mike had at least a two-hour head start on us – I’m glad he left as early as he did.

I hung the elk quarters in the garage, using a couple of gambrels. I’ve since deboned them and Matt and Mike came over to help butcher and package the meat. I had a total of around 90 lbs – but about 20 of that was grind/cat food (my parents know someone with a cat who can only eat wild game – all other food type is not digested and is thrown up). Portions of the meat will go to any member of the hunting party wanting some (Matt took about 20 lbs for him and Blake, Mike took about 13 lbs). I will divide it as equally as possible, and everyone gets backstrap, etc. I am elk hunting again in December and will need to save room in my two freezers for more elk, plus the bison meat from January. It’s a lucky thing that there is so many people who don’t mind helping me eat my elk meat!

Next hunt report: Late Season Elk 2009.

Playing Baseball: 2nd Season Deer 2009

Pictures - http://s911.photobucket.com/albums/ac312/lkhanson/2009_Deer/?albumview=slideshow

If you’ve been keeping track of my progress over the years of hunting stories, you know by now that I have started leaning towards highly-accurate, long-range shooting systems. I have several products to aid me in my quest towards the ability to be able to connect with animals at a greater-than-normal distance and ensure that the shots are ethical (that I’m not just firing off rounds to see if any of them randomly hit an animal because I don’t have a way to hit them otherwise). These products include:

7mm Remington Ultra-Mag – this rifle, a Sendero model with a 26” heavy stainless fluted barrel is a finely tuned ‘tack driver’ (most standard rifle barrels are 22” or 24” inches – there is a lot of debate whether longer barrels = better accuracy, but, it certainly doesn’t hurt – see http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20071024050459AAt6nbK)

Huskemaw Optics Scope – This is a 5-20 power scope, with a 50 mm lens. That means it gives me a huge picture of the animal in my scope, if set to 20x power. So, essentially, the animal is 20-times larger than what I would be able to see without a scope. Inside the scope it also has windage marks, so that I can effectively make the correct hold for a 10 MPH crosswind, or, a 20 MPH crosswind if I have the scope set to 10-power. All I have to do is check the distance, dial in that distance on my Ballistic Drop-Compensating Turret, check the wind, and hold for that wind with the correct Minute of Angle marks next to the crosshairs. See this long-range hunting article

Berger Bullet - The Huskemaw scope is customized to my rifle, to 1 specific bullet – 180 grain Berger VLD Bullet, in a Remington case, with 91 Grains of slow-burning Retumbo powder, with a CCI 250 Primer. The VLD stands for “Very Low Drag” which means that the bullet is able to ‘slice’ through the air better than a lot of bullets, because of the design of the bullet itself. It tends to out-perform other bullets at ranges longer than 500-yards, retaining more velocity for more knock-down power. The bullet, with that combination, flies at about 3144 feet per second. See “Ballistics for Dummies”

Caldwell Wind Wizard – this little device measures the wind speed for accurate hold. Even out to ranges at 1000 yards, if the wind is different at the target than it is where I’m shooting, the bullet will retain 70% of its flight path over the 1st 300 yards to effectively hit the target. See “Reading the wind”

Leica CRF 1200 – this rangefinder accurately gives me the range to a target within 1200 yards. Any living target farther than that I don’t have any business trying to shoot.

Stony Point Bipod – I have a quick-connect bipod to attach to the front swivel of my rifle, to give me extra-steady prone-position holds, required for long distance shots.

For this deer hunt, I am ready to hit a home run. I am ready to shoot any doe out to 1000 yards, or maybe a little farther.

1st Base
I arrive in Craig, CO., at about 4:45 Friday afternoon. My buddy Mike Finch has already been elk hunting there since Thursday evening, and I pick him up at the Elk Run Inn motel. On the way to my deer spot, he tells me about his hunting thus far: He has found a new area for us to hunt elk if we have a Unit 11/211 elk license. The terrain is steep, but he has found an easy access point. Plus, he knows of at least 5 elk that have been taken in that area during the 2nd season. He had been hiking all over that area for the last day-and-a-half, and found a ton of elk duds (elk poop), plus tracks and game trails and other indications of elk activity. He indicated that cover was really thick, as there is a lot of scrub-oak where the elk travel, and, difficulty seeing the elk when they’re traveling through such areas. But, he’s optimistic that we can find elk after I get my deer.

2nd Base
We travel to an area my hunting partners and I call “The Fingers” – it’s an area where a juniper-covered plateau branches out to a basin below it, and the branches, or ridgelines, which extend down to the basin floor are like long fingers, with valleys between. The animals like these fingers as they provide plenty of cover to travel down to the basin to feed, and then in the morning they can snake back up to the cover and shade of the junipers.

We begin our walk along the base of the fingers, along a fence-line. Our strategy is to spot the deer coming down the fingers, and pick one off as it snakes through the junipers. However, about 300-yards in, we spot another hunter walking ahead of us. Then, as we continue walking, we spot hunters on each one of the fingers. So, we shift our strategy to head over to the main part of the basin where all paths lead down, across the highway, and down to the Yampa river. A lot of the deer like to head down to the river to feed and drink at night. So, we continue on our journey, annoying all the hunters that are up on the fingers (because we’re walking across their viewing area where they expect the animals to cross) and hop a fenceline to get to our area. However, by the time we get there, my watch says there is about 20 minutes of shooting light left.

3rd BaseI pick out various objects and measure their distance, as I’m now looking over this vast plain of long grass. Juniper – 705 yards. Rock – 820. Different rock – 623. I’m expecting to see a deer at any moment. It’s what hunters call “the magic hour.” I’ve hunted this area before and some years you have your choice of deer. Not this year – due to winter-kill a few years ago. But, there should still be at least a few to choose from. The sun is sinking further and further, and the once bright colors of evening are now turning to gray. However, I do spot a big white ass. It’s the Caucasian version of “Refrigerator Perry” in antelope form, streaking across the plains. It must have either heard us or smelled us, and knew enough to get out of Dodge. Five minutes left of light. I pull out one of my bullets from my shell-holder on the side of my Sendero and show Mike how much bigger the 7 RUM case is vs. his 7mm Magnum. You know, because size matters. He then looks at me, looks over my shoulder, points, and says, “Deer!”

Bunt, goes through Pitcher’s legs, Short-stop overshoots the ball and trips the 2nd baseman, ball rolls to a stop just as the runner on 3rd trips over the chalk line but manages to get a finger on home plate as the Catcher misses the ball thrown right over his head

I turn around. Two deer are standing about 90 feet away. I see them, they see us, I raise my rifle and try to find the deer. Now, if I had had the scope scaled down to 5x power, I could have spotted them easily. However, when things are super-huge, and close, it’s difficult to pick them out! I spot one, and fire, but I shoot over it. Stupid. I should have dropped to a kneeling position at least, so that I could have a steady rest. Standing up (offhand) shooting is difficult, as it is extremely unsteady (especially with how heavy my rifle is – it weighs about 14 pounds). The deer squats and runs off like a greyhound. I then drop my rifle down and move about 5 feet to my right. I’m not seeing any other deer, so, I raise my rifle and look through the scope. There’s a deer in my scope! I thought, “No way,” and put my rifle down. I can’t see the deer with my own eyes. But, I raise the rifle again, and sure enough, there’s a deer standing there. It’s amazing the light-gathering power of the scope in low-light situations. I find the shoulder and squeeze off a round. It drops. It’s probably 2 minutes left of legal shooting light. So much for all of my long-range equipment and preparation! I could have made that shot easier with my $40 3x-9x scope on my inexpensive .30-06 rifle.

Mike and I approach the deer. I put my backpack down and am about to grab my knife, to slit its throat, just to make sure it’s dead. Mike pokes the eye with the barrel of my rifle. It doesn’t move. He tells me there’s no need to slit the throat. I then poke the eye with my finger. No reaction. Yep – it’s dead. He then flips the deer to the other side. The shoulder has a hole in it about the size of a baseball, or maybe even a softball.

Oftentimes, when shooting, you can hear the sound of the bullet hitting the mark. On animals, when the bullet finds its mark, you hear a ‘thwak’ sound. But, being that my bullet is travelling at 3144 feet per second, and the deer was maybe 90 feet away, Mike estimated that the bullet hit the deer in 1/35th of a second. And when my bullet, flying that fast, hit the opposite shoulder, the bullet fragmented instantaneously, as if it were hit by a small grenade. The shoulder meat, what was left of it, was absolutely ruined. I’m happy that the deer died instantly. But, as close as it was, I really could have hit it with a baseball, if I’d been able to see it.

7th Inning stretch
I put my headlamp flashlight on, and Mike dug out his small flashlight, and we unzipped the deer to remove three of the four quarters, plus the backstraps (the rows of meat along either side of the spine). I have gallon-sized Ziploc freezer bags for each of the backstraps, and Hefty 30-gallon trash bags for the quarters. I pack a shoulder and the backstraps in my backpack (recently repaired from my previous antelope hunt), and Mike, thankfully, hauls out both rear quarters in his frame-pack. It was pitch-black when we started back towards the truck. Our only guide in the dark is that we know there are some lights from a close-by town to the south, and to the south is where we pick up the fenceline that will lead us east to another fence, which we can then follow to the south back to the truck. Thankfully I knew the area, as it would be easy to get lost.

We pack the animal out, put it in the cooler, head back to town, and settle in for the night. The next couple of days (Saturday and Sunday) we hunt for elk in an area southwest of Craig. I let him borrow my rifle in case we did come across some long-distance elk. I showed him how to use my rifle, and he easily nailed a rock, the size of an elk-chest, at 500 yards. However, although we did see some amazing country, and have some great spots picked out for the next time we have tags for that unit, we were not able to connect with any elk for Mike. There was a lot of climbing up and down, and on three separate occasions I fell flat on my ass. I told Mike it was a “controlled descent.”

Post-game wrap-up
One of my buddies from work is going to turn most of the deer into Biltong. It’s an acquired taste, and not for the weak of heart. But I enjoy it – hardened, desiccated meat naturally seasoned.

Next hunt – 4th Season elk. This has typically been a low- to no-game count season. If, for some reason, we don’t get any animals, the next hunt report will be for my Christmas elk hunt (unless there’s something amazingly cool to report on – but otherwise, it’s kind of like reading a novel and the end of it is a letdown and you wouldn’t recommend it to friends, because of the utter disappointment factor).