MISSED

 

 

          The tenth annual Wyoming Snow and Avalanche Conference was in Jackson this year. The trip from Rawlins to Jackson passed through two general mule deer units with open seasons. With this knowledge in mind, I packed for the conference and departed two days early. The plan was simple: spend one day hunting outside of Lander and another day hunting outside of Jackson. It would be an adventure, exploring new country in hopes of finding a big mule deer. Realistically, my odds were not great. I had never hunted either area before. Nor did I know anyone that had. But for me, the adventure of a hunt was (and always will be,) the priority. The chance to explore brand-new territory had me excited. Hours of poring over OnX maps had left with me several waypoints to check, and I eagerly hit the road.

          The first waypoint was just west of the picturesque town of Lander, where the Wind River range slopes down to rolling sagebrush flats. I had picked a remote walk-in hunting area in the Shoshone National Forest, hoping to escape any hunting pressure. The drive through Lander was beautiful, with the colors of fall in full splendor. It was not long before I was winding up a dirt road, leaving the houses behind as the road climbed higher and higher, eventually turning into a set of switchbacks that brought me into the national forest.

          Shortly after entering the forest, the well-traveled dirt road turned into a rock-strewn two-track. Navigating cautiously, I found a relatively level clearing to park my truck. Above me, the sun of late afternoon shone brightly on the gentle foothills, the high-country sagebrush interspersed with aspens and pines as the ground sloped up towards the west. Below me, a steep ridge of sagebrush dropped down severely before meeting the agricultural clearings of hay fields and grazing pastures.

          Shouldering my pack, I began my hike, working my way north towards the walk-in area. An old two-track wound its way up the slope, paralleling the deep ravine that was Mexican Creek. An opening presented itself in the aspens and I split from the two-track, working my way down the ravine, crossing the creek at the bottom. No deer, but plenty of sign. Climbing up the other side, I sat down and set up the spotting scope. The bare hillside offered a spectacular view of the open sage fields that spread below the scattered pines. It was not long before the glassing turned up several deer, working their way along a line of timber into a clearing. Too far to discern buck from doe, I packed up and resumed my hike, working steadily higher.

          Gentle ravine followed gentle ravine as the hike brought me farther north, sage and pines interspersed with swales of tall brown grass. Working my way above the tree line, I once again pulled out the spotting scope. Does. While no heavy-horned bucks joined them, watching the does and their fawns slowly graze into the setting sun was tranquil. After a half hour or so of waiting for that big buck to wander out, I collapsed my tripod, stowed the spotting scope back into my pack, and continued my hike north.

          It was not long after entering the next sloping finger that I spotted another herd of deer. Repeating the same glassing ritual, I quickly spotted ten deer, with one small buck accompanying the does and fawns. While not big enough to place him in any danger, I spent the next hour or so watching the herd move out of the timber and into the grassy opening until it became too dark to discern their shapes in the evening gloom. Turning south, I started to hike back, glumly realizing I was four miles or so from the truck. That meant I was at least an hour from a hot freeze-dried meal and a warm sleeping bag. As I was dejectedly contemplating this turn of events, a set of headlights pierced the darkness below me, slowly moving along the old two-track. I worked steadily downwards, hoping they had seen me, and, knowing how remote we were, would offer a ride. I was pleasantly surprised when, finally making it all the way down, they did just that. 

           “Figured I’d see if you wanted a ride, seeing how far back you are,” the man driving the UTV smiled as he pulled up next to me. “You have no idea,” I laughed as I tossed my pack in the cargo bed, thanking him profusely.

          The miles rolled pleasantly by as the UTV wound its way back down the mountain as we talked about mule deer, elk, and how the hunting was much better last year (as it always was.) Dropping me off at the truck with a handshake, he took off down the mountain, the taillights of his UTV leaving me alone in the high-country darkness. Pulling my camp stove out of my truck, I whipped up a tailgate delicacy; freeze-dried spaghetti and a cold beer. Snuggling into my sleep bag in the bed of the truck, visions of giant mule deer flashed through my head as I drifted off to sleep.

          As comfortable as sleeping in a truck can be, I was grateful when my alarm finally went off. Rolling out of my sleeping bag, I slipped into my pants, pulled a fleece over my head, and scrambled out of the truck. Full dark still hung upon the mountainside as I hiked in, the glow of Lander lighting up the night sky below me. The first several hours of morning found me perched on a rock overlook, spotting scope in hand, enjoying the warmth of the sun creeping across the hills. Several does and fawns wandered out of the scattered pines, feeding up the hillsides, but, much to my dismay, no trophy bucks followed them.

          I decided to spend the remainder of the morning hiking the steep sagebrush ridges below my truck. It was not long before I started to spot deer. A doe. A fawn. A small buck. They materialized out of the sagebrush like gray ghosts, watching me from about 150 yards away. The buck was small, much too small to shoot. I enjoy watching wildlife as much as anything, and spent several minutes watching the three deer before they melted into a thick pocket of sagebrush. Resuming my hike, I crested the next finger of sage and immediately spotted a deer skylighted below me. A buck. He stood about 200 yards away, the morning sun glinting off his rack. Slowly crouching down, I pulled out my spotting spoke to get a better look. He was pretty, with three points on his main beams and prominent eye-guards. I debated whether to shoot for several minutes before contenting myself with just watching.

          Suddenly the buck jerked and dropped into the sage, the crack of a rifle shot echoing across the hillside a split-second later. Rasing my head from the spotting scope, I saw an orange clad hunter, rifle in hand, walking up the ridge to the buck. I strode over to congratulate him on a fine shot. Shaking hands, he introduced himself as Rick. What originally started as a brief congratulatory handshake before continuing my hike turned into an hour-long conversation as Rick removed the entrails of the buck. Rick had been hunting Wyoming for more years than I had been alive, and he regaled me with stories of hunting mule deer in the Greys back in the 60’s and 70’s, when 200” mule deer roamed the canyons “if you knew where to look.” Together we drug the buck through the sagebrush, discussing wily mule deer, good pickup trucks, and everything else two hunters would.

          Reaching a rutted two-track, we left the deer as he walked down to his truck. Pulling up in an old white Toyota, we loaded the deer in the back and he offered to give me a ride back up the ridge. Gladly obliging, we continued our talk as he popped the truck into gear and crawled up the ridge. Eventually reaching my truck, we continued our reminiscences about hunts gone by at the tailgate, finally going our separate ways.  Driving back down the mountain, I stopped in town for a hot meal. Over a plate of café eggs and hot coffee, I decided to try a spot high up in the Shoshone National Forest about 10 miles south of where I was that morning. Rick had told me he had seen some bucks hanging around there during archery season.

          After paying the bill, I was once again driving west out of town, up another set of steep switchbacks, and parking at another remote trailhead. This was bigger country than the last area, with thick stands of pines sloping down to steep grass covered hills. Circling a rocky outcrop, I perched on a high ledge and spent most of the afternoon fruitlessly glassing, taking in the country. Deciding to continue my circumnavigation of the rocky peak, I packed up my spotting scope late in the afternoon and hiked into the pines.

          Soon after heading into the pines, I cam across sign. Trails, tracks, droppings; sign was everywhere.  It did not take long before the deer showed up as well. Slowly making my way down one of the numerous deer trails that crisscrossed the backside of the peak, a flash of movement caught my eye. Looking up towards the top of the peak, I saw the source of the movement; a small buck. And next to him, another small buck. Smiling to myself, I watched them through the binoculars for several minutes. Granting each buck an extended lease on life due to the size (or lack thereof,) of their antlers, I began to hike away. But wait, there was another deer. Straining my eyes through the thick pines, I could make out the chest, neck, and head of another deer. Was that an antler? Grabbing my binoculars, I looked again. Sure enough, a buck. A bigger buck. A shooter buck.

          Snapping my rifle up to my shoulder, I began to rush a shot that did not need to be rushed. Judging him to be about 200 yards, I swung the crosshairs on his chest, struggling to hold offhand. The window through the trees was narrow. I jerked the trigger. Snapped my head up. And missed.

          I stared dumbfounded as the buck bounded off up the pine-covered slope, following the two smaller deer. I pride myself on being a decent shot. Not great, but I know my equipment, I know my dope, and I know my ammunition. I am not saying I never miss, but it is a rarity. Yet here I was, watching the buck disappear over the ridge because I missed. I followed his tracks through the soft dirt for 200 yards, just in case, coming to the top of the peak. Looking down to the east I saw him again, still trotting away, disappearing into another stand of pines maybe a mile away. Shaking my head dejectedly, I began my trudge down the mountainside, dark gray clouds rolling in from the west, ushered in by a blustery wind as darkness fell. Fitting, I thought, as the first drops of rain spattered down.

          The remainder of the hike was uneventful, my mood as dark as the clouds. Finally, I reached the trailhead. Shedding my pack and unlocking the truck, I plopped on the tailgate and fished a cold beet out of the cooler. This is not so bad, I thought, considering my options. If I would have connected, my season would be over. No more hunting until spring bear opened. Cheering slightly, I decided to drive back into town, get a hotel room and a good night’s sleep, and regroup.

          I spent the next day hunting some of the most beautiful country I had ever seen. The jagged peaks of the Tetons provided an awe-inspiring backdrop as I hiked across big country, the Buffalo River snaking through the alders and sage below me. The country itself more than made up for the lack of bucks. 

          Looking up at the stars as I finally reached my truck after a day of exploring some truly incredible country, I began to look at yesterday’s miss in a different light. If I would have shot that buck, I would have never experienced this rugged landscape nestled under the Grand Tetons. Plus, there were still general seasons open into November farther east, I reminded myself. That means I could hunt deer during the rut. 

       Hell I was downright lucky, I thought to myself, missing that buck like that.

       If there was ever such a thing as a good miss, that was it.