Archery Bighorn Sheep Hunt in Colorado

I drew, illuminates the words on my phone’s screen.

I set the phone down and drew a deep breath and I closed my eyes.

Mordor… I’m going back to Mordor.

A mountain range with a close likeness to a line of shark’s teeth protruding from the valley floor that is as inhospitable as it is unpredictable. I swore these mountains off after years of brutal hunts that made me question if I was better setting down my bow to take up knitting.

But when you have a friend ask for help, you help. Especially if that friend has spent selfless weeks in those mountains with you on your own torturous bighorn sheep hunt. If you’re looking to test the loyalty of a friend, ask them to go with you on a sheep hunt. After you're done wading through the excuses of why they can’t make it and the dust finally settles, the ones still standing are the ones willing to go to the ends of the earth with you.

I picked up my phone and tapped on the screen. See you on the opener.

Life gets hectic and this year was no exception. Try as you may to get the hunting season lined up with work and family life, rest assured that you’ll find stress, making you want to fold and turn your tags back in. We were working on moving down to Arizona, getting the house ready down there, lining up new products for the company, getting the kids enrolled in school and I found out I had two spectacular tags of my own in Colorado that needed scouting of their own.

When you look back at years past, life seemed much simpler. Let me assure you however, it wasn’t. We humans have an amazing capacity for remembering the good times and formatting the harddrive on the bad ones. 

Don’t think about it, just do it.

A cloud of dust settled as I put the truck in park and standing there with endless gear strewn about the bed of the truck stood Joe and Braden.

Braden was another kindred soul that didn't mind the endless punches in the dick that Mordor loved to dish out. It takes an odd breed of person to want to come back for the punishment year after year, but he was another one of them. I’m sure if we all had therapists they’d have a field day analyzing why we chose to take vacation time to consent to this torture.

We loaded up the packs with eight days worth of food and mentally prepared ourselves for the first two miles lovingly deemed the sandbox. You’d expect Lawrence of Arabia straddling a camel to come cresting over the ridge at any point on the hike. After you conqueror that section,  it was smooth sailing as you gained four thousand vert through blowdown after blowdown while trying to navigate the long overgrown game trail that pierced its way up the basin.

Braden had killed his bighorn sheep in this area the year prior and between him and Joe, they knew it well. We knew a band roamed the numerous cuts that made up the valley, it was just a matter of finding them out in the open.

We set camp down low, close to water, wanting to stay out of sight of any rams looking down from up high, but this also meant we would need to hike up twelve hundred vert every morning to get to a good glassing spot.

Laziness doesn’t work when chasing bighorns, so we thought that we might as well set the precedent right from the beginning and accept this daily chore.

There was still some adrenaline left over in the tank, so after setting up camp we made the move to our glassing spot to see if the next day opener was going to be a bust or not.

The hunting gods shined upon us. We were in them. Excited murmurs passed between us as we sat squinting through spotting scopes. Three shooters in the bunch and one standout. 

You can’t play poker by yourself and you can’t hunt animals without unwilling participants. At least now we were in the game.

We sat around waiting for the sun to retire and to see if these rams would produce the one peculiarity that I’ve only ever known sheep to do.

They held true to their species as the shadows enveloped the mountain. They exploded into a sprint like they were being looked over in the NFL Combine.

There seems to be no rhyme or reason to it. Something in their head tells them that the next valley over is filled with an endless grass buffet and promiscuous ewes and off they go.

We noted the direction they headed for the morning and then made our way back down the mountain to slide into our sleeping bags and wait for our alarms. As per usual, it came way too soon.

It was hard not to envision a ram laying at our feet before the sun had its chance to melt off the morning mist. I am forever an optimist on how long a hunt should take and I am forever brought back to reality by how long it will actually take.

We caught a glimpse of them at first light but they disintegrated into the mountains as we made our way over to the side valley.

Mordor swallowed them whole.

The rest of the day and the following was a futile attempt to turn them up until the evening when we saw an unfamiliar blob appear on a mountain top. I’m not a rugby enthusiast, but if you’ve ever seen a scrum, you won’t forget it. This is exactly how they appeared. Thirteen rams in a circle with their heads together, moving in one synchronized pile.

Plans were formulated for the next day. Branden and Joe would head up to where they last saw the rams, while I would venture up the valley to see if they snuck that way overnight.

My day was uneventful as I pounded coffee brewed from clear mountain streams to help my eyelids from winning the battle. I had hoped the guys hadn’t thrown themselves off a cliff out of boredom.

The plan was to meet at camp if the hooting and hollering from success didn’t occur first. 

I was sitting at camp swatting mosquitoes, debating if I needed to call in the medics for a blood transfusion when the fellas came trudging in.

No blood on their hands, first clue. The next clue I looked for was in Joe’s quiver. Four arrows.

I have far from a lock-tight memory, but I know he was using a five arrow quiver. Five take away four would leave one missing. Feel free to check my math, but I think I carried the correct remainders, divided correctly and took the Coriolis effect into consideration and I came up with the conclusion that Joe had either had to defend himself against a methamphetamine crazed marmot, or he took a shot at a ram.

Assuring me my math was correct, and by the demeanor in his voice I could tell he was pretty bummed out.

“The big guy,” I asked.

“The big guy,” he replied, “I pinballed an arrow off a rock right between his legs.”

The story continued and from what I could tell the whole lot of them made their way for another zip code. If he had shot at anyone of them except the leader, they would have slowed up a valley over and reconsidered their options. With the big guy coming precariously close to being the backboard of a carbon missile, he decided this neighborhood had gotten too rough for him and told his companions that if they valued their hide even the slightest bit, they had better do the same.

The next few days the place was a ghost town. Mordor was officially closed for business.

A good reset was necessary to re-up our supplies and get our morale in check. We left camp and headed back to civilization to lick our wounds. The rams needed a little alone time as well as the hunters.

It’s amazing what a shower, food that doesn’t require hot water to rehydrate and a soft bed can do for the soul. A few days out of the mountains and the previous week seemed to be seasons ago.

With our hiatus over, we numbed our minds to the hike in and got after it. The packs were light as most everything was left at camp so we made record time.

If they weren’t back in the basin at this point they likely weren’t coming back. The next morning proved to us that this was the case. The thirteen rams were nowhere to be seen. 

Joe and I headed up the hill a bit to get a better vantage.

We were no further than a hundred yards uphill when we heard a whistle from Braden. He waved us back. Apparently we missed something in our initial glassing.

Five rams appeared glowing in the freshly lit mountainside. It never ceases to amaze me how a little sunlight can make an animal’s coat radiate. 

The game was set, we had to wait for them to analyze their next move so we could counter it. Patience kills animals.

As the earth warmed, they looked for a spot to bed. They sought someplace that would give them all the advantages and none of the vulnerabilities. You don’t survive in the wild for long by sheer luck. You stack the odds in your favor and then let God decide the rest.

Joe started organizing the yardsale of gear we had laid out. Flagging instructions were repeated just for sake of clarity as Braden and I set in for a long day of surveillance. The 2D world of glassing at distance quickly turns into a 3D labyrinth once you insert yourself in the game and it was our job to make sure we could help Joe interpret that landscape.

We pulled on extra layers of clothing and dawned on mosquito nets to prevent any distractions. If given the option of being roasted in an oven of clothing or death by a thousand mosquito bites, I’ll take the former.

The rams held sanctuary in a field of talus, splaying out in different directions, ensuring that Joe was going to have some serious work on his stalk. There wasn’t going to be any freebies on this hunt.

The twelve hundred feet down into the valley below took Joe no time flat, however the climb uphill to get into position was another story. The participants of this hunt, author excluded, involved two of the strongest guys I know in the mountains. If Joe was slow going, it only reiterated how steep the mountainside was that he was climbing.

Braden and I switched back and forth with one person watching Joe’s progress and the other keeping an eye on the rams. From time to time Joe would glass over at us and we would give him the thumbs up signal letting him know the rams were in the same spot.

He navigated his way to the cliffs that were above the rams and eased his way through the maze. 

“He’s getting close,” Braden informed me as my eyes strained from staring through the spotting scope. 

I was on the rams at this point, particularly the one that Joe wanted to shoot. This could be a long wait. If Joe is anything as a hunter, he is patient. He wasn’t going to just rush in and hope for the best.

“He’s up,” I informed Braden.

The ram knew something was amiss, but by his body language he wasn’t sure what. Most likely the sixth sense kicked in and he could just feel something was wrong.

I intensified my stare, hoping that in some way I could read the ram’s mind. What was he thinking, what would he do?

And then, it didn’t matter.

“Holy shit, there’s an arrow in him!” I said.

The ram reeled and was instantly wobbly. I could see the life spraying from his wound. He was dead on his feet, his brain just hadn’t registered it yet.

Braden and I gathered our rats-nest of gear and made our way over to Joe.

“We can get off this godforsaken mountain now,” Joe said as he welcomed us.

It’s funny what hunters will say when success finally hits. This was perhaps the oddest I have heard so far, but there was a ring of truth in it that we were all feeling.

We could finally leave Mordor. I promised myself on the heavy hike out that I would never see this canyon again. I knew it was a lie, but my back and legs thanked me for the attempt.

// Fred Bohm

Saddle Hunting

Saddle Hunting - Is This Latest Rage Justified?

Jump on social media these days, look up your favorite whitetail hunters and chances are you’re going to see a decent proportion of them hanging from a saddle at some point. Not all are converts, but as time goes on it seems more and more are being lured into the cult.

Justified? Who’s to say, but I’ll give it a try.

I too jumped on the saddle hunting train last year and managed to shoot my biggest whitetail buck to date. I won’t go as far as saying I owe it to saddle hunting, I owe it in great proportion to luck! But the more I look back on it, the more I think my style of hunting greatly matches up with the run and gun style that is offered up by the craze that is saddle hunting.

I’ll also be the first to say that it’s not for everybody. There are certainly situations where I’d want a standard lock on style deer stand. For some people it just doesn’t make sense to go this route. I’ll run you through where I thought it was helpful and where I think the more traditional stand would be more practical. 

Advantages of Saddle Hunting Vs. Tree Stand Hunting

Speedy Setup and Less Bulky

I’m a big fan of run and gun style of whitetail hunting because I hunt public land and never know how bad the deer have been pressured or if I’m going to find another hunter in “my” spot. There are so many variables at play when it comes to competing with the swarms of hunters that visit our public lands that you need to play it loose and be willing to adjust. Saddle hunting is a perfect way to accomplish that. You’re not lugging around a heavy stand through the woods. Likely you’ll be wearing your harness in and carrying a tiny platform in your pack along with some climbing stick. Stealthy and quiet and the setup and breakdown time seems to be way faster.

Last year I lucked out and drew a Missouri Breaks tag in Montana for elk. With it being a record breaking drought year, finding and sitting water was paramount. I was hiking a long way to do that and there was no way I was going to carry a tree stand that far. It was an absolute perfect situation for saddle hunting. I could hunt my way in like I typically would and when I got to the waterhole I could set up in a tree.

I can fit all my saddle hunting gear in my backpack for western hunts.

Trees Don’t Need to be as Straight or Thick 

I’ve set up tree stands in less than ideal spots because I couldn’t find a tree straight or thick enough to hang the dang thing on! This problem can be the difference between success and failure when you can’t get to the spot you know a buck is likely to be.

Saddle hunting won’t completely solve this problem for you, but it is a step in the right direction. With the standard deer stand needing two attachment points that space fairly far apart, a somewhat straight tree is needed to safely hang them. Saddle hunting platforms have much shorter attachment points allowing for more variation in the tree. 

So when I’m out scouting an area and I see the trees look like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, I know I’ll be hanging from a saddle in that particular area.

Gives You More Shooting Options

Hunting from a saddle gives you more directions to shoot when compared to a tree stand. In a standard tree stand you are often limited by the tree you’re attached to. This isn’t always a problem if you know the area the deer will be moving, but if you know Murphy as well as I do, there’s going to be one sneaking in the way you least expect it.

Hanging from a saddle in the right setup can give you 360 degrees of shooting. Now of course lanes need to be cut and all the other necessary adjustments need to be made to make this a possibility, but it is possible. 

Disadvantages of Saddle Hunting Vs. Tree Stand Hunting

You’re now a convert! You’re on Craigslist as you read this selling all of your tree stands and praying to the god of saddle hunting to accept you into the cult. Not so fast (unless you got a screaming good deal on that almost new tree stand, then send me the link)!

With the good, usually comes the bad. Here’s what I found to be some disadvantages to saddle hunting and in some cases when I refuse to use them.

Comfort

I’ve read it all and watched it all on “how to make saddle hunting as comfortable as tree stand hunting”. Propaganda.

There are ways of making it less uncomfortable, but you’ll never turn a bar stool into a recliner. I’ve fallen asleep in some of my deer stands, let me assure you, I’ve never done that in a saddle (maybe that should go in the advantages section?).

If I’m in an area that year after year has produced dependable movement on nearby trails and trees allow it, you can bet I’ll be hanging a tree stand for long sits. 

You Need to Practice

That should go without saying, you need to practice from the ground, from a tree stand or any given scenario. But you REALLY need to practice shooting out of a saddle before you hit the woods. I almost lost that “biggest to date” deer I spoke of earlier because I didn’t practice enough from the saddle and made less than an ideal shot because of it.

My home setup to practice shooting from my saddle.

You’re hanging from a rope up there. That gives you the versatility of movement but it also gives you less stability when it comes to the shot. This rope is also in front of you as opposed to behind you like the safety line from your harness on a tree stand. You will need to learn how to shoot to your left, right, behind you and all that with your feet in less than ideal positions.

Your anchor point can easily change if you aren’t disciplined enough to be aware of it, so practice before getting into the field!

Tendency To Move Around

Whether it be from adjusting your position to get more comfortable or the fact that you’re hanging from a pivot point that is the rope you're tied to, you tend to move around more in the tree in a saddle. This can be solved by being cognizant of the situation, but discipline is needed to keep your movements to a minimum.

Saddle Hunting Gear

If you decide it’s right for you, saddle hunting can be a great piece of gear in your hunting arsenal. There are a lot of situations that I feel it’s invaluable. So what will you need to build out your kit? Here are some of the essentials. A lot of what you have from your tree stand gear can be used out there as well.

Saddle

Who would have thought that you might need a saddle when saddle hunting. Could you use your safety harness that you use for your stand? No, not really. You will be hanging from the harness so the attachment point will be different. Besides that important fact, saddles are meant to be hung from for hours and because of this fact they make them in a way to disperse your weight. 

Look online and find some options and reviews. I personally use a Tethrd Phantom. It’s been bombproof so far.

Saddle Hunting Platform

You can go without one and stand on the top rung of your climbing sticks, but boy, you’re more of a man than I. A nice small platform gives you stability and a way to take weight off of your harness. There’s standard platforms that look like a mini stand all the way to ones that have little platforms that wrap around the tree, giving you more options to move around.

I use a small platform that allows me to stand on it like a tree stand but is small enough to fit in my whitetail pack.

Climbing Sticks

You may already have these from your tree stand kit. If so, repurpose. No need to buy what you already own. I’m a huge fan of the speed and safety climbing sticks offer over the old school screw in pegs. Plus some public areas won’t allow you to use the screw in type to prevent damage to trees.

Saddle Hunting Accessories

Some other gear to think about. Some of these you may already have from your tree stand gear. All the better.

Lineman Belt - You likely have this from your stand gear. Safety first!

Tree Tether - Your safety tether from your stand gear could work here. Use this to anchor yourself to the tree.

Ascender or Prusik Cord with Carabiner - this is how you're going to attach your harness to the tree tether.

Daisy Chain - Wrap it around the tree and it gives you a bunch of loops to hang your gear off of. 

Saddle Pouches - A great place to stash gear.

There’s the long of it. Is saddle hunting the end all be all answer? No, nothing will ever be because of all of the variables at play. I would say that I use it more these days than I do my tree stands however. If you’re down for trying something new, give it a go. If you’re old school and stuck in your ways, what are you doing on the internet?!

Hope this helps in some small way.

// Fred  Bohm

Diary of a Draw Unit Bow Hunt in Colorado - Part 2

September 23rd

It absolutely downpours for 3 days so I took a bit of a break to regroup. I got to the trailhead of the next place I was going hunt just before first light. There were two trucks in the pull off, one having a horse trailer. Not ideal. But I’m committed for at least a few days at this point. 

Hiking in I notice the a mule standing out in the open like an abandoned dog. I think he must have gotten away from his owner until I smarten up and look around. Oh yea, there’s his owner’s tent. I guess I was just surprised to see pack animals being used and only being 2.5 miles in. 

I set camp and jump up some elevation to glass. In a ten minute scan I see two bulls I would take. One freak 5x5 with super long beams. I’m a bit partial to giant 5x5s. 

I headed up further and the going as steep. When I finally got to the top, I plopped down and gave a glass. Almost instantly I came up with fur. A cow. There had to be a bull close by. 

I looked down in an open meadow and there getting a sip of water is the biggest bull I’ve ever seen! A 7x7 with beams as think as your forearm. And as a bonus us he’s got drop tines hanging down off both his thirds. What I wouldn’t pay to be teleported 40 yards downwind in a bush right by him. I’d been practicing a good bit recently, but a 650 yard shot with my bow might be a far stretch. 

He and his cow move over the ridge into the next bowl and I made a move for it. The wind was good. As I popped over the ridge and get down to the trees the wind pulls a 180 and blows my stink down to where he’s hanging.

I fucking hate the wind. We are mortal enemies. Time to back out. 

I went and sat on the other side from where he went over at a wallow he was working.  I sat there all day listening to a far off bull make his way towards me. As the sun dipped behind the mountains and the shade fell over me like a blanket I threw out a few weak bugles to let the newcomer know where I was at. He came in screaming but only ended up being a small 6x5. He walked. 

I make my way towards my tent with little light to spare. A bull is sounding off at his cows but it’s just too dark to make a play. Until tomorrow!

September 24th

Being this many days into a hunt, it’s hard not being frustrated with a person’s lack of improvement when it comes to calling. I’ve tried every trick in the book to pull them into range but it just doesn’t work. I’m the king of getting them hung up out of range and then walking away. It’s your setup you say? I would agree with that to some point. Being a solo hunt it’s a bit rough to call and get in a decent spot, but some of these setups have been lock proof. 

So I need to return to what I’m good at. Spot and stalk or ambush. The bugle tube will play its roll for location, but after that it’s time to play a ninja. 

Midday and the world is dead. Not a creature moving, talking or farting. Bluebird day doesn’t seem to be helping. Gotta get some cows in heat around here. 

I pop around the other side of the hill mid afternoon and hear a few bugling. As I’m lounging in the sun glassing I pick up a few cows. Out comes the spotter and wouldn’t you know it, the monster is back out. As the day wanes he starts piping off. A few bulls down valley respond and I take a look for them. Two shooter bulls. One bladed out on his sixes and the other with a nice whale tale. 

The two down valley seem like the highest percentage chance so I decide to go for them. I drop a thousand vert and keep what little trees that aren’t burned between us. 

After an hour of sneaking I finally make it to the row of trees I needed to be at. They ghosted me and left me with four cows instead. Finally had the wind right and they just disappeared. I’m at my whits end at this point. Time for food and sleep. 

September 25th

I felt the devil in me today. Beat down, a bad attitude. It’s something I work hard to avoid, but it happens from time to time. 

I climb up an ungodly steep downfall area. A bull is screaming it’s head off up above me and I follow like a little puppy. 

The going is brutal and he eventually goes up over the mountain and at this point the thermals have me dead in the water. I sidehill to the area I’ve been seeing the majority of them. Silent as a cricket fart. I’m done with this place. 

It makes sense to move out. If I shot one, I would be 8 miles in, that’s 16 miles round trip. I’m solo hunting so it would take me 4 or more likely 5 trips to get camp, meat and a head and cape out. 4x16=64 miles on the low side, 5x16= 80miles on the high end. 

At this point I need meat for the family. Anything goes. Thoughts of a herd bull are for early season. Time to shorten the hike as well as the expectations. Time to move to a spot that I know well. 

September 26th

I’m back at the first spot I hunted. Nice day hike in this morning and the bulls were talking early. Got into three of them talking and managed to pull in a 5x5 but I couldn’t get an open lane on him. It’s the last few days, nothing gets a pass at this point. The family needs elk. 

The herd bull was with his ladies and I tried to slow play him. Standard result, he picked up his ladies and took off. I’m not sure why I keep trying that tactic, I’ve gotten the same exact result every time. These animals really don’t want to be talked to. The only time calling has worked is if I was under 100 yards and it was the first time I blew the bugle. Otherwise it’s the other direction for them. 

I’m sitting on a well used wallow now, throwing out some cow calls. Let’s see if they’re interested.

A couple people have said that the later the season gets the better the action. I haven’t found that to be true at all. Mid month was insane. Now it’s pretty dead except for early morning and last light. (In hindsight, I was completely wrong, it gets WAY better)

I left the wallow to chase some far off bugles. After a few miles I end up in the middle of three bulls wailing away. I send out a few bugles of my own to let my presence be known. The clouds open up overhead and starts pissing on me. I find a dense pine tree to weather it out. My rain gear is in my tent doing absolutely nothing. 

I hear a scream close by and get set. He takes his time through the openings, not sure where the bull went that was just bugling at him. I hold steady and he makes his way to 28 yards from my hideout. He pauses after I went full draw and lets out a bugle. 

Tight squeeze, but I sent it. I heard a crack and he takes off. I didn’t see an exit wound on him. Not good. 

I wait an hour and then curiosity got the best of me. I found my arrow but by with only blood was on the broadhead. No penetration at all, a direct ball joint shot. I looked for blood to be sure and don’t see a drop. He’s gonna have a pretty sore shoulder, but he’ll make it just fine. 

I head back to the wallow just in time to see a bull having the time of his life in there. Bad timing. I sat the rest of the evening hoping that one of the nine bulls I hear bugling come in for a mud bath. The evening ends with a concert but no appearances. 

September 27th

I went back to the wallow in the open park a good bit before sunrise to see what was about. Some were talking but in the outskirts. I followed some bulls with their ladies up the hill but nothing came of it. 

Mid day was absolutely silent. So I set up and had a little cow party. Eventually a branch antler bull came in and I spooked him while drawing at 20 yards. 

Towards the end of the day I stagger into an absolute rutfest. It was bananas. There had to be 30-50 bulls absolutely loosing their minds. I did everything I could to keep up with them but the were charging uphill through downfall and I lost light. How is it possible to have that many bulls around, be that close to them and not see a single bull. God that sucks. Tomorrow is another day. 

September 28th

I woke up in the cold damp tent and told myself today had to be the day. There were only a few days left in the season and the family was expecting elk meat. 

I ventured out to where I left the rutfest the night before. I don’t know how it could be possible, but they multiplied. It sounded like when they are wrangling up cattle. Just endless bugling, fighting satellites copping a feel when the big fellas weren’t looking. 

The video doesn’t do it justice, but it was an absolute rutfest up there.

I got up as high as I could. But being we were at tree line I could only hang out on a edge and hope one passed by with a shot. I was more in awe actually caring if I got a shot. I will be telling a story to my grandchildren about this day. 

They moved off in the opposite direction and just not feasible to follow. So I waited where I was to see if anything else hung around. Across valley was a bull that hung around with his cows, thinking it wiser to keep them to himself instead of jumping into that melee. 

He screamed a good bit but he was on the other side of an open park so there was nothing I could do. His talking started others from my side yelling back at him. This could get interesting. 

I planted myself behind a row of pines and waited to see what would unfold. The screaming got more intense as I added some cow calls to the mix. Both sides started to close in on me. I stood like a statue, fingers aching from the cold as I held my bow. 

I could practically feel the herd bull’s spit when he bugled behind me. He couldn’t have been more than 30 yards behind me and slowly heading to a perfect lane to arrow him at 20 yards. 

If it wasn’t chaotic enough originally, it certainly turned that way. Five or six bugles exploded and the cows went into a frenzy. My herd bull took off downhill to chase his cows. The pile of them started to move away. 

I had to get aggressive. I moved in closer and closer, blowing some spikes out but not caring. 

One branch antler ran behind a tree right in front of me. He stalled out as I went to draw. It was a Mexican standoff. He got nervous and headed back the way he came. I stepped out causing him to pause. The arrow released right in the boiler maker. A few steps later and he was in the dirt. 

He was down, there was going to be meat in the freezer and I can honestly say I had the most epic hunt of my life. 

// Fred Bohm

Arizona Coues Deer OTC Hunt

Don’t kid yourself, this ain’t going to be easy.

I let this thought sink in as my spotting scope gave me a voyeuristic view of a buck’s nose firmly planted in the doe’s rear end. 

Ok, I guess the rut was finally on. That or this fella lost his keys in there.

Finding them only gets you five percent of the way there, the rest relies on sneaking within shooting range unchecked. 

The rut is a double edged sword. On one hand you’ll never see so many bucks out in the open, not a care in the world, but on the other, how the hell are you going to intercept their path?

The rut with any animal can be erratic, but with a Coues deer it can be damn right silly. Unlike the whitetail of the midwest that can be patterned and depended upon to cruise trails in the river bottoms, the wide open desert where Coues deer call home leaves little in the way of dependability on a particular path they’ll take.

Picture the flight pattern of a fly and then add in a turbulent wind storm. Sure they have trails crossing through the broken hills, but they look more like a spider web than they do the straight arteries of their larger brethren.

Of the past ten years or so I’ve been chasing these little whitetails, I’ve only managed to kill two with my bow. Twenty percent success. Not impressive if you understood the amount of time I spend in the woods. 

I don’t know what attracts me to this hunt year after year. A guaranteed tag in my pocket? Sure. Warm weather while everywhere else is in the throes of winter? Yup. Other hunts winding down after a ferocious rut while this one is just getting started? Absolutely.

But with the good comes with the bad. In this case, hyper alert miniature deer that are as mysterious as the hills they roam.

But what’s a hunt without a challenge? 

There was no chance of catching up with this particular buck as he was pushing the doe at a breakneck speed. She darted back and forth, but this wasn’t his first date. Like a good cattle dog, he reigned her in and took control of the situation.

Just once I’d love to see them push in my direction.

Glassing from a high point is well and great, after all you get to see plenty of deer, but that’s about all you get to do, view them from a distance. 

I wasn’t on a nature watch. I’m a hunter and I was there to get in on the action.

Over the last few days I noticed that this particular hill I’d been glassing was a hotspot for activity. It was time to insert myself into the center of this dating game and see if they would make a mistake.

Wind be damned. I had a consistent gust, but to call it a good or bad wouldn’t make sense seeing that there was no rhyme or reason to their comings and goings.. Get yourself in there and hope for the best. Not a particularly great strategy, but it’s all I had.

The walk over to the ridge was a clinic on how well these creatures can blend in. Out of the tall grass I flushed numerous does that were bedded down to avoid the prying eyes of the over-sexed males.

There wasn’t much to do but to keep pressing on and find myself a thorny pile of brush to tuck into.

It may have been winter elsewhere, but no one seemed to tell this particular patch of earth. The sun was relentless as it beat down on the earth. Movement felt forced and shade was becoming a priority. I crawled my way threw a thorny mess to the reprieve of a nearby bush.

The spot seemed to be as good as any.

I made a temporary home next to an ant pile. For the time being at least, the seemed preoccupied with their tasks at hand and decided I wasn’t an immediate threat. I wondered when their curiosity would become too strong and our temporary truce would be broken.

I nocked an arrow and placed my bow next to me, release at the ready. With everything laid out there was nothing left to do but to let the mind wander. Hunting certainly can be a proactive endeavor, but the older and therefore theoretically wiser I get, the more often I find myself just sitting and being quiet. Lord knows I make enough mistakes in the woods, so I try to stack the odds in my favor by just sitting still and shutting up.

The stiller I am the more I notice what isn’t. My mind took note of the repeated movement of the grass blowing in the breeze. It registered it in its unconscious memory bank as irrelevant.

Potential paths of movement were noted without consciously thinking of them. Funnels and paths of least resistance mostly. If they are going to walk through, it should be there, there and there.

I schootched deeper into the shadows of my blind, knowing that the darkness should make it tougher to pick out my outline.

An hour into my endeavor I noticed brown movement out of the corner of my eye. My brain signaled for an adrenaline dump, leaving my muscles tense and allowing me to feel every pump of blood throughout my system.

A waste. A few javelina root around then crest over the hilltop. My body dissipates the chemical and goes back into energy preservation mode.

The rest of the day withers by with no action in my vicinity, foreshadowing the rest of the season. There is plenty to look at from a distance, but I wear a force field that repels anything within shooting range.

It’s hard to complain however. A month slides by without an arrow leaving my quiver, but I’m all the better for it. The season had been successful thus far and one more kill might inflame my ego. 

It’s good to know that I’m not king. I’m just a passerby that gets to share their domain from time to time

// Fred Bohm

The Transformation - Bowhunting Whitetail Deer on Public Land

He materializes out of the woods as a different creature. The thicket of locust trees acting as a time machine, advancing his age by years. 

In walked a girthy eight point deer, what walked out was a freak of nature.

My vertigo had subsided as the gale force winds died with the onset of evening. I felt more stable in my harness along with my chance of a shot unfettered by nature’s turbulence.

Now if he would just walk my direction to the scrapes I had strategically placed myself downwind of...

His indecision gives me time to think back at how my season started, very much like the wind moments ago, pushing and pulling me in whatever direction it chose. I felt unstable, mostly due to the self imposed pressure that seemed to rise exponentially over the last few years. Hunting was getting too serious, I cared about the results too much. Feelings like this sneak up on you, it’s never a punch in the face, rather a grip around the throat that is tightened ever so slightly over time so that you don’t notice the increased pressure. A few years go by and you’re red faced and gasping for air.

Scouting for a big whitetail

So the pressure was relieved by being conscious of it at first. Once realized, you can pull the hands away with relative ease, the hard part is keeping a steady vigil against your tormentor so he doesn’t again settle his grip unnoticed.

Lack of experience and maturation often produces these feelings. My whitetail career is still in its infancy and I still have a lot to learn about this creature. This is a fun stage in any hunters career as often you see bountiful increases in knowledge over a relatively short time period. 

Upwind of deer bad, drawing while deer isn’t looking, good.

He turns his head and looks over his shoulder, giving me a show in the process. He’s a supermodel on the catwalk and plans on getting a contract with every worthwhile designer within view. I can tell you he certainly has my attention.

A beautiful but perhaps undeserved Kansas whitetail deer. Photograph by Joe Kavanaugh

A year ago I would have set my stand on the corner directly upwind of him. My thought process being that I could see more of the standing corn and catch him in the act of skirting the field.

That would have flunked me out of Whitetail 101 on the first day of class. There’s never a perfect answer, but you can certainly start to narrow down what an old buck will do given the pressure of public land.

God bless the Drurys and the free information they provide, but how deer act on private land versus public land is about as similar as the two BLMs.

He finished surveying his domain and satisfied there were no up-and-comers gunning for his position in the pecking order, he picked his way through the thorn encrusted barrier of the locust forest. 

His nose is to the ground sucking in faint fumes of the fairer sex. 

Calling the family to give them the good news. Photograph by Joe Kavanaugh

Years back I would have walked that trail in to my stand. Either from pure negligence or outright laziness, it mattered little, the result would have been the same. One nostril full of my stink and he would have creeped out the back door like an unscrupulous lover, leaving me swaying in my saddle wondering why I was such an unlucky hunter. Oh well. I might as well fire up Candy Crush on the ol iPhone, there’s nothing moving in this woods anyway. 

I’ve learned it’s all the little things that start to add up. Not monumental mistakes like hunting your downtown city park (though the Seek One boys might just have proven that this would be the ideal place), but the little silly things that end up red flagging your presence. 

I noticed movement. Two more steps and his head would be completely covered. As he blindfolded himself for the fraction of a second I needed, I drew back and settled into my anchor. 

This crucial step I often neglected. When antler comes walking towards you it’s easy to throw the thousands of arrows you send down range with perfect form into the dumpster. Your bow rests  in your hand the same way, string touches your nose in the same place, knuckles envelop your jaw in the same spot. Nothing changes because there is a trophy in the line.

His trajectory will place him fifteen yards in front of me. The altitude sickness I’m feeling reminds me that the elevation I placed myself in the tree, coupled with the short range he’s soon to be at, will equate to a steep shot. Total Archery Challenge, Snowbird, Prime Course, Cliff Shot type steep. 

Getting my hands on him for the first time.

I did everything I could to keep my concentration off of his oversized coat rack. Concentrate on where you want the arrow to go, not which wall in your house is going to show this behemoth off.

Sucking great volumes of air into his sniffer, he was too preoccupied to notice that death was hovering fifteen yards away. I stop him with the world’s worst impression of a buck grunt. In this scenario, horseshoes and hand grenades count.

He paused, unsure why he hadn’t seen this intruding buck.

I heard the “click” as my hinge release letting me know she was about to tear loose. 

The telltale sound of a pumpkin being walloped by a baseball bat resonated through the crisp fall air. He pounced off and then continued in a trot. Not good. I see the entrance wound and am not impressed with it.

My brain started to make the calculation of where I went wrong as I watched him walk into the cornfield and lay down. I knew the shot was deadly, but I also knew I screwed up and the deer would pay the price of a slow death for my mistake.

I ran through the process from drawing my bow, to the final release of the arrow. Everything felt perfect. Where was the outlier?

I looked down at the harness I dangled from, the position of my body and the angle of the shot. There was only one thing that stood out in my mind.

This was the first time you ever shot from a saddle.

Your arrogance caused this. Not lack of knowledge, not lack of general practice… just the excess of arrogance in your ability to shoot your bow in any situation.

Driving your truck to and from work everyday doesn’t qualify you to drive a race car. Shooting my bow at the range almost daily also doesn’t qualify me to shoot while dangling out of a tree by ropes. You need to practice that particular scenario.

Shooting on the ground does not equate to shooting from a harness.

When you pay the price for your mistakes it becomes a hard lesson. When somebody or something else has to accept the consequences of your negligence, it’s unacceptable. 

I watched him lay there and struggle until the coming darkness graciously hid my mistake from me. I slipped out of the woods under the cover of darkness, and proceeded to do the walk of shame back to my truck. 

I knew I would be playing back the scenario like a bad horror movie on the backs of my eyelids tonight. A small penance to pay for such a costly mistake. 

The buck wouldn’t be so lucky.

From black to purple, purple to the gray of predawn, the day started and we began the search. Bed after bed, knowing that the night had taken him but not knowing where he would find his final resting place. 

Photograph by Joe Kavanaugh

Each circle of matted grass and the small pools of blood in it was a reminder of my mistake. A reminder that perhaps I had learned enough to get me a shot at this monarch, but I had so, so much more to learn. 

// Fred Bohm

High Country Mule Deer Hunt

I’ll put this out there and just say it. What makes me polite in society makes me terrible at hunting with a partner.

Let me elaborate. I see time as the most precious commodity we have, so I go out of my way not to carelessly waste other peoples. Borrowed items are easily returnable, but not time.

Time, that thing we never get back. Money, happiness and even health we can work to recover, but time…

My personal faults are endless so I try not to cast stones, but we all have pet peeves, and I’m neurotic about this one.

But as with everything there is a ying and a yang. You need balance in life or your inflexibilities can end up working against you.

I value a person’s time to an extent that it can backfire on me when it comes to hunting with a partner. I worry that a stalk may not pan out and therefore will be wasting my partner’s time, so I rush in. I force stalks that would be better played cool, slow and methodical.

Essentially, I suck at hunting with other people. The chances of me succeeding on a plus one hunt is about as minuscule as an ant's private parts.

Leave me out there on my own, and my chances increase. Solo, I know that my only schedule is to get it done by the predetermined day I am to walk out. Time becomes irrelevant, and I don’t know where else in my life I could say the same thing.

A claim like this needs backing up, so let's go with my most recent hunt.

The hunting season was getting more and more complex as opening day was approaching. By complex I mean time constraints were going to be a major issue. My family and I deciding to sell our house in September and plan for a five month road trip is daunting under normal circumstances, throwing vehicle troubles for both me and the guy I was supposed to hunt with and the hunt was looking bleak. (A suicidal deer decided to attack my truck while driving back from a scouting trip… trust me the irony is not lost on me on this one, his downfall was when he decided owning a Ford was a good idea).

It was getting complex and at the last minute I decided I needed some peace in my life. I had four and a half days of hunting before I had to head out for my son’s birthday (did I mention we decided to have a kid right during the pinnacle of hunting season a few years back? You see where this self-inflicted complexity complaint is going, right?). My time constraints weren't fair to my hunting partner and to be honest I didn’t want the pressure.

So I packed up my backcountry gear, grabbed my bow and headed into a basin I saw during scouting season that looked like it had potential. But to be honest I wasn't sure what I was getting myself into, I just knew there was peace and quiet up there and that was my number one target.

The mountains evaluate the commitment of its trespassers and the day before the opener was no different. The tumultuous sky opened itself up, testing my rain gear the moment I left the truck.

Starting a hunt in rain and the guaranteed damp clothes for the foreseeable future can crush the spirits if you let it. Months of preparation and waiting for this day had my mind in the right place however and I took the conditions in stride. A week of it and I’m sure I’d be singing another tune.

Opening morning I was awoken by a potent mixture of excitement and the sounds of rain trying to poke holes through my tent. I begrudgingly slid into the wet rain gear from the previous day and tried to warm up with a few pints of mouth searing coffee.

The deer were about as excited as I was to get out of bed. The morning was slow going as I raced to peek through the openings in low hanging clouds. As clouds dissipated in random spots I would whip my glass into them, never giving me proper time to glass the area.

The rest of the day was spent running through fog thick enough to cut like a cake. There wasn’t much point moving around, but just the potential of running into a deer had my legs pumping me up untold vert.

The day ended in dark and having to use my GPS to find my way back to shelter. Sleep comes easy to the exhausted.

The next morning I woke with nature at full tilt. Apparently all other living creatures had their espresso already, cutting lines across the mountains like jets across a busy airport. There were multitudes of bull elk with hopes of participating in the upcoming orgy and more bucks than a fella deserved to lay eyes on.

There were forkys, spikes and an array of up and comers that grossed in the double digits, but nothing that my back could justify hauling off the mountain.

There’s a direct correlation between the distance I have to haul the animal out and the size of its head gear. We all have our self-imposed rules, for me, spikes just don’t get shot four miles in.

I watched a group of eight tempt me at stones throw distances, knowing they were there to test my size/distance maxim.

A day like this comes by few and far between and is not to be wasted waiting for a big one to fall in your lap. I grabbed enough gear for the day and headed for the next basin.

The air was thin but I kept my pace steady. I looked down at my map and noticed I had knocked out a thirteener inadvertently on the approach to my glassing spot. High country mule deer hunting can quickly turn into peak bagging with little effort.

As the basin approached, I went to the ground on all fours, avoiding the cardinal sin of skylining. A bright neon sign being carried by a marching band would have little more effect of advertising oneself than exposing your outline to the onlookers of the basin.

I found an area with scree and use that as my backdrop to break up my outline. No sooner did my butt hit the ground and the glass come my eyes did I see velvet peeking out of a patch of willows. Eight furry missiles pointed towards the sky, ready to take flight at my first mistake.

I settled in to watch. 

There’s no schedule, no meetings to make, no timeline to adhere to. My calendar was cleared for the next three and a half days.

“You’ve got all day, just sit and observe,” I told myself.

I assessed the situation. There’s no reason for him to move at this point, he has shade.

Now look at his immediate surroundings and see if there’s any other bucks that could interfere with your stalk.

Nothing.

Evaluate the terrain between you and him. What’s the most likely path to take that will keep you concealed and upwind of him. Where will you stop to shoot from that will be in reasonable range?

On and on the questions stacked up and they all needed answers before I was willing to budge an inch. I methodically went through the list of questions, coming up with the answers that would best lead to success.

Most of all I was giving myself time to get my nerves in check. I was 380 yards away from the goal I worked 364 days to obtain. It’s a fine line of applying enough pressure to oneself in order to enforce a well thought out plan and applying too much pressure that inevitably will frazzle the nervous and cause silly mistakes.

I spent the next hour observing him. He didn’t budge an inch, telling me he was quite comfortable where he was. His head periscoped from side to side, but most importantly, never towards me.

Thermals were following the laws of thermals this day and blowing straight uphill at a consistent but manageable speed.

The ground was still wet from the previous day’s storm, leaving it as quiet as carpet for a stalk.

The willows created a perfect maze of protective walls that would allow me to crawl in undetected. I could see a clump slightly elevated on a hill that would allow me the advantage of higher ground, a perfect sniper’s nest.

I ranged the anticipated point of attack, 317 yards. If my C+ in third grade math serves me correctly, that makes it a 63 yard shot.

Knowing how looking from a 2D vantage point turns quickly into a 3D landscape when stalking, I made contingency plans for different routes.

Lastly I marked his position, using a particularly white rock close to his vicinity. Unless that thing grows legs, I should have his location pinned down.

The plan was made, the only thing left to do was execute.

I rolled into my backpack and grabbed my bow. I once again reminded myself to shift gears from everyday life speed to you-wanna-kil-this-buck-so-put-her-in-low speed.

A crawled down the loose scree depending on the wind and distance to cover any dislodged rocks that may spook him.

Three spider-steps forward and glass to see his reaction. If all is well, repeat.

I go went this process for the next hour, testing every last bit of patience I had in the tank. From a world where you’re expected to task, multi-task and multi the multi-task, it can be hard, nay almost impossible to take the foot off the gas and let yourself coast to the finish line. 

I meandered through the willows like my kids through a Halloween corn maze. Hit a dead end, work my way back, try again. All the while trying to keep my eyes on the velvet tips that appear closer and closer.

I saw my sniper's nest and made for it, crawling through seeps and wet grass to get there. By the time I got to my destination I looked like a toddler with a relieved bladder. 

I aligned myself for the optimal shooting position and nocked an arrow, laid my release next to the D-loop and meticulously arranged my instruments of death.

The dump of adrenaline washed down my body like an acid bath, starting from the tip of my head and settling in the soles of my feet. When occupied with other tasks, it’s easy to forget everything but the next step. When your next step is to accomplish the goal all the aforementioned steps add up to, that’s when the deep bite of panic can set in.

I peeked over the willow, squinting through the pinky-nail sized leaves in order to catch a glimpse of velvet.

He was still there. I eased up a little higher and got a range. Sixty-three yards, nuts on.

I dialed in my site with the required yardage and attempted to keep busy, numbing my mind off of the inevitable task at hand.

“Stay patient, let him make the next mistake. Patients kills,” became my mantra.

I saw another willow about twenty yards ahead that might allow me to get a shot at him in his bed. It took every fiber in my body to fight the urge to risk a crawl forward.

“The wind is perfect, he has absolutely no idea that death is lurking a football’s throw away from him. Let him make the last mistake,” I said.

My lips were now sounding out the words. I looked the part of a penitent man clutching his rosary and mouthing the words of his prayer.   

Time passed on, made obvious by the shadows shifting in the willows. I watched the makeshift sundial and him out of the corner of my eye. Over and over again I picture drawing back, and slowly increasing the pressure on my hinge release. 

Concentrate on the complexity of the perfect shot and there’s no room in there to allow thought of what may or may not be. Discipline equals freedom and in no way is that more applicable than shot execution.

I cluttered my mind with these thoughts to paralyze my brain from over-analysis. 

Then, movement in the peripheral of my eye

He was up.

The perfect array of equipment in front of me is ready for action. In one smooth motion the bow came up and I was at full draw. He stood broadside and was looking away from me,  I had all the time in the world.

The muscles tighten in my back. The pin settles and a second later I hear the click of my hinge. 

The tension cut loose as the arrow screamed its way through the thin mountain air. 

I saw him spin, startled by the impact of some unforeseen snakebite. He ran downhill a short distance, confused as to what just happened.

As I pulled my binoculars up to my eyes to get a closer look, I saw that he was staggering, unsure of his feet. Blood poured down from his armpit, collecting in bright crimson pools below him.

I watched him lay down, sucking in the last few breaths his lungs would ever hold. 

Sitting back, I let out a huge sigh of relief. For the weight off my shoulders, for the love of what I choose to do with my life and for the utter and deafening silence. 

Most of all, I’m thankful for my time out here. Time that is only measured by the rotation of the earth and not by the money it can make you or the goals you can accomplish within it. To live and breathe in the present moment, not to scour over the past and predict what will happen in the future.

Time for being a human.

// Fred Bohm

The Ego Stroke - OTC Colorado Archery Elk Hunt

I pack the truck with mixed feelings on the upcoming hunt. The wounds are still festering from the failure of my archery ram hunt and no amount of care seems to speed up the healing. It burns deep and will so for some time. Accept the pain and move on.

I have a few days to chase OTC elk with my bow and figured I’d be one pathetic hunter if I squandered the time feeling sorry for myself and sitting this one out.

A few days to pull off what typically takes me a whole season to accomplish, if I do at all, is about as likely as me winning the bronze medal in the women’s steeplechase. In all likelihood, it ain’t gonna happen.

But that’s the quitter’s talk. There’s always an excuse to sit on the sidelines.

I tell the woman and kids I’ll be back in a few days as a new man. There’s nothing like some leg-screaming mountain hunting to cure the grumpiness that attaches to self-pity.

Ahh, Colorado’s OTC archery tag. If you haven’t hunted it, let me paint a picture for you. Go to an NFL game. Replace the fans with hunters (that’s about the numbers you could expect to see), the jacked athletes that you have no chance of chasing down are the elk and the roaring crowd is about the decibels you can expect from various hunters smashing on their Hoochy Mammas and freshly bought elk calls. It’s a sporting event of the highest competition and you’re planning on showing up with a bad attitude and a grudge against all wild animals and hoping against all odds for success. No one ever proclaimed you to be a smart man.

My truck knows the path well and rolls up to its resting spot for the next few days. I’m surprised by the lack of vehicles on the drive in, suspecting most will be hidden a few hundred yards from where I’m parked.

I lay out the sleeping bag in my poorman’s hotel with my backpack and bow getting its own rest next to me, we await the deep purples of early morning.

Spending more nights this year in my fart sack than underneath the covers of my urban bed, it takes little time before I’m shaking hands with the cousin of death.

The barking of technology pulls me out of the deep and I go through my morning ritual in autopilot.

I’m crunching through the aspen’s exfoliation, cursing my human clumsiness well before the sun thinks of breaking the sky. Just me, my thoughts of failure of the not so distant past and the hopes of redemption in the near future.

There’s no greater equalizer to the human ego than hunting an animal that’s only daily chore is avoiding the likes of you.

The wind’s gentle push presses against my face assuring me that the science behind thermals still applies today. Good to know there are some things in this world that aren’t completely based upon emotion.

I work into a basin of densely spaced aspens with a solid wall of evergreens on the north facing slope. I know of a wallow nearby and know that elk are a big fan of this area.

I pause to let my ears pick up on the sounds that my heavy feet are covering up. It takes a minute to decipher the typical morning sounds from the abnormal.

The snapping of a far off branch being such a sound that I’m looking for. Being a simple request, the hunting gods grant it to me.

The quiet chaos that can only come from a herd of elk become more prominent as me hearing clears itself of the city life and adjusts to what has helped allow humans to survive this long.

I hear their movement and know that this is no solo cow coming home after a late night of partying. And if there’s a herd of them in here, there’s bound to be a fella with some weapons on his head that is tending to them.

The faint mews come more often as the herd starts to move on to their bedding area.

I think of my options. I know there’s a bull in there but his lips are sealed. By my Sherlock Holmes-like reason of deduction, there are no cows in there in the “mood” quite yet so he’s saving his voice.

Bugling would be counterproductive.

I opt for a more subtle approach. Seeing a thick pine in the middle of the aspen glen, I let out a few sexy mews on my reed and make a mad dash for said pine.

Pulling from my memory bank of stupid hunting mistakes, I remember to get in front of the pine and let my camo do the work. There’s nothing more fun than blowing an opportunity because you decide to place the one object you can’t shoot through between you and your target. It only took me a decades worth of repeating this mistake to get it firmly pressed into my memory.

I tuck myself in and get ready for the show.

I hear some more urgent breaking of branches and know the bull has heard my unfamiliar cow calls. He’s on the move hoping this newcomer doesn’t have a “headache” like the rest of his harem.

I pull up my binos and am rewarded with a glass full of antler. He’ll do, oh he’ll do just fine.

I steady myself for the onslaught of impatience that plagues me in these situations.

I range him at 80 yards.

Don’t even think of looking down at your site dial. You’re not taking an 80-yard shot, especially when he’s walking right at you.

The first test is passed. I let him continue his path right to me. I struggle to keep the rangefinder out of my hands. Instead, I calculate his direction and see a clump of aspens that coincide with his trajectory. The perfect cover for the long and drawn out draw cycle that only a bowhunter knows.

I allow myself to range the clump of aspens. Thirty yards.

Stay patient and you will be rewarded with a chipshot.

He comes in with his nose up, pulling particles of love out of the air. From time to time he stops and allows his gaze to sweep the woods. He knows there’s a lovely lady lurking nearby and was hoping she wouldn’t play hard to get.

He continues on, never for a second suspecting a two-legged creature with malicious intent upon his well-being hiding in the shadows nearby.

He continues on, looking away at a perfect angle to allow me to adjust my site wheel to the coveted thirty yards.

In he comes, never deterring from his path. Predictability is a sure path to death in nature, this being a mistake he never even knew he committed.

I start to shake, a shake that only comes from this amount of time awaiting the approach of a much sought after trophy. I know it will be corrected by the tension created at being at full draw, but this knowledge doesn’t completely squelch my doubt.

His head disappears behind the clump of trees that didn’t realize their only purpose in their creation was to allow me to draw my bow undetected.

He steps out and within a few steps knows his mistake. There thirty yards off to his side is something that wasn’t there a second earlier.

There are times we know our mistakes and can correct course, and then there are times that our mistakes catch up with us.

There is no knowledge of me releasing the arrow. Hundreds of generations of hunter lurking within me take control of my body and perform on their own. I’m just there for the ride.

He bounds off a few yards with pink mist fouling the air. Like so many of us humans, he is dead on his feet but hasn’t come to recognize it.

He piles up and a great relief overcomes me. My knowledge that providing for my family what they’ve come to expect is part of that relief, but it would be a lie if I were to say it was the biggest part.

My ego is restored. Say what you want, knowing that you can succeed at the thing you most love and work towards when the moment counts gives us the reassurance that we are the person we think we are. That the maniacal effort put forth for such an endeavor can actually meet success. That in some small way you are worthy of those that came before you, that the tradition of self-sufficiency won’t die with you.

// Fred Bohm

Hunting the Big Island of Hawaii - How to Plan a DIY Hunt

The bow hunting and rifle season ends when you want it to end. It’s as simple as that. Some like the finality of closing day after a long season. Soon after they can rest, plan for the next fall and get after some of the chores we neglected during go time.

However there are those of us that absolutely loathe it. We can’t fathom not hunting for the next eight months. We pace, we get the nervous sweats, our spouses want to stick a sharpened pencil through our ear. To put it mildly, we’re a pain in the ass to be around in the offseason. No amount of e-scouting or shed hunting will cure us. Once you’ve tasted blood, the wine is just too thin.

Luckily there’s a cure for the obsessed. 

There are some states and countries that take pity on our poor souls. Places that let your drive and ambition determine how long you’ll spend in the field, not regulations. If there were a heaven on earth, these places would be it.

I’ve gone over how to take advantage of New Zealand’s amazing year-round hunting in previous blog articles. Here are some links in case you missed them:

DIY Bow Hunting New Zealand - Part 1: Pre-Plan an Unguided Hunt

DIY Bow Hunting in New Zealand - Part 2: Equipment List

DIY Hunting New Zealand - An American Bowhunter's Post Mortem

New Zealand can be a pretty committed hunt. How about we stay a little closer, a little cheaper and still in the good ‘ol US of A? 

Hawaii

Hula skirts, luaus and roasting pigs on a beach right? For us hunters, at least one of those is correct. Take the pig, add in some goat and a few sheep and now we’re talking. Hawaii has a long history of hunting. The origins of the animals you will be chasing is still debated, they were originally brought over to by either Captain Cook or the Polynesians before him. Either way they are now firmly planted in the Hawaiin culture and lucky for the rest of us they allow us outsiders to partake in their tradition.

The Big Island of Hawaii to Be More Specific

Almost all the Hawaiian Islands have hunting, but I will concentrate on the Big Island of Hawaii in the article. Why the Big Island you ask? This is a poor man’s guide to expanding your hunting season. It’s meant for those of us that prefer the DIY experience on a budget. This isn’t for those looking for a guide to show them how and where to hunt. This is public land, burning boot leather for the self-sufficient hunter that wants to get the most bang for their buck.

Here is a list of reasons I chose the Big Island:

1. Flights can be flying into Kona Airport.

2. Lodging is reasonable.

3. Car rentals can be obtained.

4. Tons of public land.

5. It doesn’t feel touristy.

If you’re a family man like myself, you can’t find a better option in Hawaii than the Big Island. We take the kids, rent a house and car for a month and have at it. Logistics are fairly simple. 

If you got a couple of buddies together that want in on the trip, it’s even cheaper. Splitting a house and car is the way to go. 

What You’ll Be Hunting

Feral sheep, goat and pig is the name of the game. Mouflon sheep can be found, but aren’t as plentiful and if you’re there during the right time of year, you can hunt turkey as well. They’re here and they’re in abundance. From what I hear the upland hunting is pretty awesome as well, you just need to hit the season right.

For those wanting to hone in their spot and stalk abilities, this is the place for you. Whereas you could spend a whole season chasing elk and only get one shot opportunity, this typically isn’t the case in Big Island. But don’t be fooled, it is still hunting and these animals still don’t like to have a pointy stick shot into them. They will run and they will hide. They certainly can be elusive at times. That being said, it isn’t a high country mule deer hunt either. You should see plenty of animals and get a few good shots in there once you get a feel for things.

For all the details on the hunting seasons and locations and where you’ll find specific species on the Big Island, you can check it out HERE.

Now although there is hunting year-round, you’ll need to know the when, what and how many you can kill in each individual public area. You can almost consider each area as a GMU. What you can hunt in each area can differ. Also, times you can hunt during the week will change from area to area. Some you can only hunt on weekends, some are 7 days a week. 

There are areas, like the Puuanahulu Game Management Area, that have OTC tags that are only good for certain times of the year. So although there is hunting year-round on the Big Island, this doesn’t hold true for all public land.

And speaking of public land, there is plenty of it. Here is what you’ll be working with.

You can find this map as well as more detailed maps of the individual hunting areas HERE.

OnxMaps also has all the public land overlayed on their app. At this point, if you’re not using OnxMaps, you probably should be.

What You Need to Do Before You Go

Like any other state, you’ll need a hunting license. The great part about Hawaii is that the license covers all big game hunting except for a few areas and species. Here’s the cost breakdown:

Non-Resident Hunting License: $105

Puuanahulu Game Management Area Non-Resident Sheep & Goat tags: $25/tag

Turkey Non-Resident tags: $20/tag

You will need to get a hunter education letter of exemption form before you can actually get your license. Fill it out online. Not a big deal.

Bring some hunter orange as well. Unless you’re hunting in an archery-only area, you’ll need to wear it.

Camping

Price: Camping: $18/night, Cabins $50-$90/night

Unfortunately, it’s almost non-existent. It’s not like the mainland where you can camp on pretty much all public land. All hope is not lost if this is the direction you want to go however. With a little planning ahead of time you can reserve one of the few camp spots on the island.

You can reserve sites HERE.

I’m trying a couple out on my upcoming trip. I’ll write individual blog articles on them so keep an eye out in the near future.

AirBnB

Price: $40 ish a night for a private room. $50 - $150 a night for an entire house. 

Controversial in Hawaii, but there are still plenty of homes available. They can book out fairly quickly, so plan on reserving them a few months out from your trip.

This is a good option if you plan on splitting it with a few friends. If you’re planning on an extended stay, this can be the cheapest way to go. A lot of hosts offer discounts for staying a week as well as a whole month. On the home we reserved for our 2020 stay, we received 37% off for staying the month. 

The Hilo side (east) of the island is typically cheaper for lodging. There’s also a hell of a lot more rain than the west coast. The Hilo side feels way less touristy, but still has all the amenities that you’ll need. 

Rental Car

Price: $25 - $100 per day

The pricing on this can be absurd. But it’s an island after all, so I guess the supply and demand model I learned back when I was picking boogers in grade school rears its ugly head. 

You can get away with a standard size car for most areas you can hunt. But for those of you that will want to dig in deep and get back in there, you’ll probably need a Jeep or something with high clearance. Most spots you can hike in from pavement, but some of the cooler spots require a little bit of offroading.

Besides your standard rental options, check out Turo. It’s like AirBnb for cars. The prices seem comparable to most rental companies, but like AirBnB, the owners often offer hefty discounts for one week or longer rentals.

What to Bring

Depending on how you’re going to be spending your nights will depend on whether you’ll need camping gear or not. Camping certainly adds a little to the complexity as you’ll need to bring a tent or hammock with a rain tarp, sleeping pad, sleeping bag or quilt and all the other things that you’ll typically need for camping. It’s more to bring on the flight, but it also is going to save you some cash.

Here’s a quick list of things you may not have thought about:

1. An old pair of boots - The lava rock that you’ll be hunting on can tear up a pair of boots faster than a belt sander. Don’t destroy your good backcountry boots hiking around here. Something with decent support is a must as trying to avoid twisting your ankle will be a daily challenge while hopping around the lava rock.

2. Warm clothing - Not something you might think while hunting a tropical island, but depending on where you decide to hunt, you could be hunting as high up as 10,000 feet. Some of the volcanos exceed 13,000 feet, so take it seriously.

3. Rain gear - Rainfall is highly dependent on what side of the island you’re hunting. The eastern side receives an average rainfall of 130 inches a year whereas the Kona side is closer to an average rainfall of 18 inches. So if you plan on hunting the eastern side to the middle of the island, expect to see some rain!

4. Hunter Orange - Unless you’re hunting an archery-only area, you’ll need to wear hunter orange. Even if hunting with a bow.

5. Snorkeling/Spearfishing gear - I mean, come on, you’re in Hawaii.

6. Backpack - These are big chunks of public land. There’s no issue spending a full day hunting without heading back to the car. Plan on long day hunts.

This should get you started on your path to broadening your hunting universe. There are options out there to make this a year-round sport, you just got to dig.

I’ll follow this blog up with a few stories while I spend the next month bowhunting in the Big Island of Hawaii. After that, I’ll do a post mortem and fill you in on all the things I forgot in this article and screwed up while on the trip. Stay tuned and follow along on the day by day adventures with me through my Instagram Stories → @fredbohm

// Fred Bohm

An Analog Hunt - Chasing Whitetail Deer in the Midwest

If there is one thing I’m certain about is that I’m certain that I don’t know if I’m a trophy hunter or not. I know I like success just about as much as I like killing big animals. The two rarely coincide. If you want to walk out of the woods with a monster you have to be just as willing to walk out with regret in the likes of “shoulda, woulda, couldas”.

I have yet to determine what side of the fence I place myself on.

Of course, it’s not always black and white. Some hunts are meat runs, some I can be more selective and some I make up my mind while at full draw. I’m not the cliche “You can’t eat the horns!” type of guy. That sounds lovely to the masses on social media and often will get you accolades, but it just ain’t the case with this fella.

I’m also not the guy that says, “It’s a 200-inch deer or nothing.” Often that’s a built-in excuse just like the stickbow revolution on why people walk out of the woods year after year empty-handed. Give yourself a cop-out as to why you can’t succeed and your ego will thank you for it.

No, I’m much worse than that. I’m the indecisive type that often walks into the woods with no plan at all. I’m sure this is the part where some Boyscout will chirp in that “Failing to plan is planning to fail”. And they would be right.

Sometimes.

I had just finished up a successful hunt in South Dakota chasing whitetails in the hills. Again one of those indecisive times where I wasn’t sure if I was there for a trophy. The rut hadn’t kicked in and I was getting impatient. Success was going to be determined not by the size of the deer or the need of meat, but rather a reward to a perfect stalk. The reward came to fruition.

With that animal’s death came my freedom to explore the next state, where rumors of rutting bucks being passed around on social media may have enticed me to slip an arrow into the aforementioned buck.

I had been planning nine days on the road and I still had five left. With a cooler packed full of meat, I let the arrow-straight Midwestern roads guide me to my next destination.

I slide through small town after small town where the only restaurant to be seen shares space with its sole gas station. I watch enviously as old farmers sit by the windows, chatting and sipping gas station coffee as the sun breaks the horizon.

It’s nice to see that there is still a culture that takes a minute to converse face to face, to pause before the start of the day. There is a world that is still analog.

Maybe one day.

I pass through the last town as unnoticed as the tumbleweed lodged in its fences. This is my second deployment to the area, the first being far from successful. I do what feels most comfortable and head for the hills, wary of sitting in a treestand. Staying stationary hasn’t produced so far this year, so I go back to what I’m comfortable with; stalking. A miserable way of attempting to learn and become proficient at hunting from a stand.

You can’t dip your little toe in the water to see if the temp is just perfect. You grab your shit, take a running head start and dive headfirst into the deep end. If you drown so be it, not all Indians were meant to be hunters, some had to gather water for the tribe after all.

That’s a weak way of thinking and you know it. Man up and learn something new.

I pull a 007 with the truck, spitting up a dust cloud that reaches for the heavens on the rain thirsty dirt road.

I know of a spot that looked amazing the last time I hunted the area. Hell, I had a tree picked out with perfect shooting lanes. Better yet I had a trail cam that had been sitting in there for more than three weeks. If the hunting sucked and I had picked a horrendous location, at least I could update the local Audubon Society on the tweety bird count that zig-zagged in front of my game camera.

As I pull into the parking area I see a rather luxurious camp set up and what appears to be a fully dressed elk hanging from the meat pole.

I recheck my map and make sure that I didn’t blackout while driving and end up back in the west. As I’m doing this a burly older fella pops out of the condo-sized tent. 

He approaches with a big smile and outstretched hand instantly making me like this guy. He has the type of presence that makes him instantly feel like your friend.

“That’s a monster you got hanging there,” I say as we shake hands.

“Oh that? Yea that one is my sons,” he replies as he looks back over his shoulder admiring the beast hanging from the pole. He shakes his head, obviously still taken back by the sheer size of the thing. 

He invites me over to take a look at the display he and his two sons have acquired in the last few days hunting. Three monarchs lay on a cooler. Bone reaches towards the sky like the gnarled fingers of some long-dead giant. If I were a buck roaming the woods in search of some action, you could be sure that I’d be looking over my back for any one of these monsters to attack.

We talk for awhile and the ex-marine tells me that this is a tradition for him and his sons. They come together to hunt whitetail every year. Water may repel oil, but with a little convincing it always makes its way back together to unify as one.

This hits deep as I think about my two young ones back home waiting for their father to come back from the woods.

I tell him my plans of where I will be hunting and then promise to stop back  to meet his two sons when I call the quits for the day.

I load up with gear and have a flashback of reading Tim O’Brien’s, The Things They Carried in highschool.

The spot I had previously picked out is a pinch point. Twenty yards from a river and in thick cover. A great spot for searching bucks to cruise for does. A couple of fresh nearby scrapes let me know that the area has been frequently visited. My trail cam pics validate it further.

I climb the perfectly spaced cedar branches and giggle to myself. A far off time thirty-something years ago I was doing the same thing at recess in a little school in rural New Jersey. Many things have changed, but the important ones haven’t.

I set up and settle in. Three hours out until sunset, I relax and let my mind wander. 

There was so much hope in the man’s eyes. He talked of this hunt as if it saved him. As if this is what kept him going. Not this particular hunt, but just hunting in general. Not even hunting, but hunting with his sons. There was a purpose behind these yearly hunts.

Age eventually breaks down the bullshit. I look to my elders often as a litmus test. In the end what’s important, what isn’t. Like any scientific test, the samples used are an important part of the step to get an accurate end result. Find a miserable old man beaten down by life for this test or you may get an ugly result. Unlike a real science experiment you are looking for a particular end result, you just need to find the right variables in order to get there.

This guy was the variable I was looking for.

I hear crunching behind a cedar not forty yards away. I stand up and grab my bow.

I listen for a second set of crunching, hoping a buck might be pursuing the doe that is making her way towards me.

Me and my assumptions. My hypothesis is way off. I’d make a shitty scientist.

Antler pops out of the cedar and attached to it is my “doe”.

What the hell is it about this place? Do they only grow them one size?

I don’t have time to panic. He’s on the move with more pressing matters than giving me time to lose my shit.

I draw back and give him a bleat. A half-second pause is all I need. My arrow punishes him for his mistake.

Forty minutes from leaving the parking area and I am on my way back loaded down with my gear. Dragging this beast out with all my gear was not an option. It was time to lighten the load.

“What did you forget?” comes the welcoming call from the ex-marine.

“Bad luck I guess. Had a shooter come in not ten minutes after I sat down,” I explain.

“My sons will be back shortly, hold up for a little bit and they’ll give you a hand,” he offers.

We sit around and I pry my variable for more about his life until his sons show up.

The apples don’t fall far from the paternal tree. Just like their father, upon introduction I instantly like these guys. They offer up help with my buck as if I’m doing them the favor. As inconvenient as it may have been, they show no signs of feeling that way and gladly go out into the setting sun to help me break down the buck.

Perhaps the true experiment should not be on the original variable you had sought after, but rather his offspring. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he raises his sons and daughters. You can hear words come out of a man’s mouth after years of refining them and be impressed. Raising children doesn’t work that way however. You have years of showing by example to help mold them. They are the true result of who you are as a person.

We work into the evening, knives out and hunting stories being thrown around like we were old college buddies. A perfect way to end an analog day in a digital world.

// Fred Bohm

Luck - A Lesson in Hunting

“The harder I work, the luckier I get.”

— Samuel Goldwyn

“So tell me how it went down,” I ask.

Moments earlier I saw the telltale sign of a successful hunt, a man leaned over at work with blue latex gloves busily moving about. Right in the epicenter of where I made a long circumnavigation to where I had planned to meet up with a buck I had been chasing. 

“It was complete and total luck. I mean I walked over the ridge, saw him bed, walked up slowly from below and shot him,” comes the reply of a man standing over a mule deer I’m all too familiar with.

“How far was the shot?” I pry on.

“Thirty yards. He never got out of his bed. Hell, I think the arrow skipped off the ground and ricochet into him,” he answers.

Son of a bitch. I haven’t been able to get within 95 yards of the bastard and this guy pinballs one off the ground at spitting distance.

I’d been working this mesa on and off the last several days. I had got to know this particular buck quite well. We were quite intimate. I knew his quirks and he knew mine. He knew to hightail ass when he heard the now familiar clicking of my torn up ankle, I knew to look off in the distance for his does to find him laying about overlooking his harem.

Luck, huh? I want to believe you but I know it’s not completely true.

“Again, congratulations. That’s a damn fine buck. One any archer would be proud to wrap his hands around. I’m not so sure about that luck thing, however. Old bruisers like that don’t die by luck,” I say as we shake hands and I let him get to work. 

I start the long trek off the vista and back to camp for a cup of black soup. I need the caffeine and I need to regroup. Most of all I need to make sense of what just happened.

Luck.

I mumble that word over and over as I kick steps in the loose dirt that inhabits the descent. It’s something that I’ve been grappling with for a long time in its relation to hunting. I’ve always felt uneasy about that word. Notoriously a cop-out for failure and an ego-crushing recognition often owed for success. 

But after each and every kill’s postmortem, I would hurriedly skim over certain details not wanting to focus on the presence of luck. I knew it was part of the equation, I just didn’t know what proportion I owed to it.

I, like everyone else, want to believe that I have complete control over the outcome. Put in the time, put in the effort and eventually success will follow. That’s not luck, that’s determination.

So here’s a scenario. Two men hunt the same woods. For simplicity’s sake, we’ll say they are on the same skill level (that’s a far reach I know). One doesn’t kill in five days worth of effort, the other kills his first hour in. 

Luck?

Isn’t that really just rolling the dice, hoping for it to come up sevens? Roll enough and you’re damn sure to eventually come up a winner.

I ponder my own accomplishments in the field as I zig-zag my way down off the mesa. 

How many of my kills are owed to being at the right place at the right time? Blindly fumbling around the woods only to have some unsuspecting buck curious about the commotion and make the unfortunate accident of standing within range. 

Was it luck? Or was it the sheer magnitude of time I spent in the field to make the encounter inevitable? What part did skill have in it?

We like things in black and white. It’s either this way or that. We are Republicans or we’re Democrats. We root for this team or that team. There’s no middle ground, we are or we aren’t. Success is derived from skill or its complete luck. It helps our simple brains understand complex issues. It allows us to put things into categories, process that information and move on.

But there was cream in this coffee.

Hunting, however, is different. We aren’t dealing with constants. We are dealing with individual creatures that to some extent can think, reason (I’ll use that in loose terms) and sure as hell learn to stay away from danger. And just like humans, they all have different capacities in doing so. What’s more than that they are susceptible to good days and bad days just like the rest of us.

Hell, some days they are just off. Occasionally the oldest and wisest of bucks stumble around and fall into our laps, oblivious of the numerous mistakes we made.

In hunting, we don’t always get what we deserve. There is just plain old dumb luck.

So in my equation that my little brain has put together so far it goes something like this.

Luck + Time in the Field + Skill = Success. 

There’s never been any use harping on what we can’t control. Luck is luck. You have nothing to do with it so take it out of the equation. The only thing you can control is the amount of time spent in the field and your skill. Skill takes a long time to develop and can only come through the experience time in the field provides for you. So the one that looks like we have the most control over would be Time in the Field.

There it is. The more time you spend out there the better your chances are at success. I think I have just written down what could be the most obvious and well know way to achieve success in hunting. I hope I didn’t make you dumber for reading it.

However, I needed to come to this realization on my own. I’ve never been one to learn from others.

So maybe that quote I stole at the beginning of this little story should read more like: The more time I spend in the field, the luckier I get.

I guess I was just lucky enough to figure this equation out and be able to put it to use in future hunts... 

// Fred Bohm   

Bowhunting Arizona Coues Deer - A Trade in Ivory

The debate has been going on since I squirted out of my sleeping bag. I finish the last drop of cold coffee and as I flip flop back and forth like a politician pandering for your vote.

I mean your just adding weight making an already strenuous hike all that more difficult. Besides the damn things are awkward.

The sky starts to show signs of waking up, turning a slightly lesser deep grade of purple. Shit or get off the pot.

Com’on man. You’re an athlete!

To hell with it. I strap in a pair of rattling antlers to the outside of my pack and heft it on. I instantly feel the extra weight added and question my judgement. Now these are no ordinary rattling horns, oh no. I’ve received odd looks from encroaching hunters passing by my deer stand as they look up to see what appears to be a set of elk antlers dangling from my bow hanger.

Now technically a Coues deer is a whitetail so the same rules should apply right? I had never rattled in a Coues deer nor have I heard it being done before. But these little tweekers are notoriously skittish and I figured I’d up my chances of success if I could convince them to come to me.

I stuff the remnants of my gear and move out for higher ground, pushing up from the river bottom into the finger ridges of Arizona’s backcountry. When in doubt go up.

Struggling to get my creaking legs to function properly, I avoid cactuses with the grace of a drunken orangutan as I head up the mountain. From time to time I stop and peak ahead with my glass in hopes of finding some brown fur attached to some browner antlers in the predawn light.

I aim for a cliffed out ridge and make for the top. The sun peeks over the edge of the earth with the endless chore of starting the day. I put it in park, plop my butt on the ground and settle in for the morning glassing session.

Predawn glassing can be great, but when that sun hits the hillside it might as well be adding animal location waypoints to my GPS.

Huh... Mule deer. Wasn’t expecting them up here.

A thick beamed four by four peacocks its way across the hillside, thrashing at bushes that dare to stand in his path.

His harem of does meanander a bit taking little notice of him and settle in for a morning snooze. Waiting for the buck to bed, I find a stick close at hand and start to clean the sweater that has formed on my teeth.

After prepping my teeth for a Colgate commercial and seeing the buck’s head nodding, I hump on my pack and take a long about way to the backside of the ridge they’re using as home base for the morning.

Being that they are near the only patch of trees on the whole mountainside I feel good about my chances of finding them.

The sweat stings my eyes as I push deeper into the backcountry and higher up the hillside.

Next year I’m only truck hunting. I’m over this backcountry horseshit.

A common promise to myself that I know will never come to fruition.

I crawl up the rolling ridge wishing for a steeper angle that would hide me better. The wind seems to have held out so far, but I know that the transition over a ridge can be unpredictable.

My pack comes off for the home stretch as I go to my belly for the last fifty yards. I make it to the bush where I guessed at a forty yard shot.

Empty.

A swing and a miss. I stand up in time to see the whole herd clearing out the other side of the canyon. I don’t know how the hell I did it, but once again a blown stalk.

I head back to where my pack lays grinning at me in the dirt. It knows to many of my embarrassing secrets; the amount of antler I’ve watched bounce away from me.

Don’t give me that look. Do your job, hold my gear and don’t give me any lip.

I continue my way up in elevation. When in doubt, go… well no need to be redundant.

I follow the ridge up, not caring about skylining myself in the midday heat. At this point I’m looking for any shade on the mountain knowing that this is where any rational deer might spend the heat of this sweltering afternoon.

According to my map there is a nice looking bowl with some potential a mile or so ahead. Twenty minutes and several thorns later I get a good peek at it.

Trees. Now we’re talking.

I pull out the spotter and get settled for a long sit. Within seconds I have an explosion of gear surrounding me. It’s a disaster really. What I would imagine if the local REI were hit with a missle.

My glass no sooner hits my face when a deer pops into view.

Well that was fast.

I watch as two small coues bucks dick around by some does. I know that there has to be a dominant buck nearby. If this is the varsity team, the does have some slim pickings for genetics.

And as if summoned by my logic,  he materializes like a ghost. He pushes his way closer to the JV team and scatters the wannabes to the wind.

That’s my boy. That’s the one I want.

I scoop gear into my backpack while making a plan. There’s enough trees in the bowl to slide in to a reasonable distance. Then perhaps I’ll put the elephant tusks I’ve been lugging around to work. I carried the damn things all the way up here, I might as well make use of them.

Once again I sneak behind the ridge to use as cover. I find my mark and slip over top into the bowl.

The overhead sun projects shadows from the cedars as black as ink, allowing me to slip in with ease. I tuck into a particularly thick bush full well knowing that if the buck takes the assumed path he’ll be blinded by the sun and oblivious to me lurking in the shadows.

I marvel at my cleverness as I drop my pack and get out the two ship anchors I use for rattling.

Bow laid out in front of me I clang the antlers together. I’m not sure if it’ll send him charging in or running in terror.

I place the antlers to the side and take my bow into my hands. The minutes fade away.

And there he is.

Like a gymnast on a balance beam he walks a straight line never veering from his path. The problem is that that path leads to the bush off to my side that is as thick as a Brillo Pad.

I’m pinned and I know it. If I reposition he’ll bail. If I let him continue on his trajectory I’m screwed. His head disappears behind a thick branch and I draw. Maybe some unwarranted luck will come my way and he’ll recalibrate his path to stand in front of my site.

No such luck, he continues on as my arm starts to shake under the stress of the fully drawn bow. Perhaps less vanity days at the gym replaced with more practical exercises is in order.

Holy hell he’s getting close.

Sweat beads down my forehead as the stress of the moment and the strain of my bow becomes almost unbearable.

He doesn’t stop and getting a full view of his bladed rack with a kicker or two doesn’t help my situation.

Within moments he’s five yards away on the opposite side of what might as well be a brick wall. He pauses, finally understanding that I am not what I originally appeared to be.

He turfs the ground sending a wave of dirt my direction, making safety before I can blink an eye.

And there you have it. Why the hell would you put yourself behind any obstruction? This isn’t the first time you’ve blown it in this exact scenario. You’d think you learned… I hope that damn backpack didn’t see what just happened. You’ll never hear the end of it.

So it goes. If I got overly mad at myself every time I screw up I’d have quit  this game long ago. Perhaps that’s what makes a successful hunter; the willingness to be completely ignorant of one’s shortcomings.

I grab my gear to have a peruse of the bowl I’m loitering in.

It’s a beautiful day and there’s no use feeling sorry for myself. Besides there’s no one out here to hear my whining, so what’s the use?

An explosion of fur yards in front of my pulls me back from from my musings. I had totally forgotten about the other two bucks wandering around and managed to stumble right into a bedded one.

He takes off and for whatever reason decides to hook around and see what spooked him to begin with.

He stands perfectly broadside with his head behind a tree, not seeing me standing out in the open like the idiot I am.

My rangefinder tells me he’s at a doable 45 yards. I know I don’t have long to debate, he’s not the big one I was after but…

Carbon is in the air before I come to a conclusion of the situation. I guess instincts told me this was the right move.

He bounds off after giving me tell tale donkey kick of a mortally wounded animal.

I walk over to sniff the arrow and look at the blood. He’s dead, it’s just a matter of how far.

The tracking job starts slow as I pick my way through the steep terrain, but eventually the blood trail picks up. I’m feeling pretty good about myself, thinking of the lectures I will offer on blood tracking at the various ivy league colleges when I get back home. Then the trail goes cold.

How could it just stop?

I search the ground for the remnants of a needle and suture, but I come up empty.

I scan the direction the trail was going, knowing that they don’t often change it once injured. I continue to look down hill when I receive my first clue.

The rocks are disturbed and some dead branches on the ground appear to be pushed to the side. But they’re thirty yards below me so the math isn’t adding up.

I slide my way down the steep hillside and to the area of the disturbance.

Good Lord, this guy is an acrobat.

We typically rely on past experience to make sense of current situations, but this one was a new one to me. This I hadn’t seen before.

The spear like tips of a massive yucca plant is stained with blood. Not how you would normally see however. Not the sides but directly on top the protruding spears look like a painter’s mixing dowl, covered half way with a brilliant red paint.

Further down the hill is another disturbance, then another, all at great intervals. The scene comes to a conclusion at the bottom of a brushy tree where my coues deer is wrapped around the trunk. Back broken and with multiple body punctures, he looks like a torn up piece of seaweed clinging to a rock from the currents of the tide.

At least the meat will be tenderized…

Pulling him out by his hind legs to a semi-flat spot I get a good look at his antlers.

Jackpot.

They are perfect. I imagine these beauties in my hands, rattling my teeth as they come colliding together. I imagine the scores of whitetail that will succumb to irresistible purr of their elegant calling.

Even more than that, I image how light my pack will be without those God awful heaps of bone I’ve been lugging around.

“Don’t worry, you’ll make fine chew toys for the dogs,” I say to the antlers on my pack.

A double victory in the backcountry of Arizona.

// Fred Bohm

Bow Hunting Mexico's Carmini Whitetail - An Affirmation

The wrinkles become more pronounced on his sun darkened face as laughter overtakes him. A face that has seen 92 revolutions around the sun. A face creased from the worries of hard times, but also one that has witnessed love from generations of family.

It’s also a face that lets me know there is hope for the longevity of my obsession.

His story continues, temporarily interrupted from time to time by the roaring laughter of friends and three generations of family that have encircled him.

I catch the gist of the narrative through his body gestures and the little spanish I remember through higher learning and restaurant kitchen classrooms.

We are all back from our morning hunts, me empty handed, the old man with a fine specimen of an 8 point Carmini whitetail. He’s ecstatic, as if he were an early teen with his first buck in his crosshairs.

I’m thrilled, both for him and for the affirmation received while watching him tell his tale. For some time now I have been questioning how long this can last, how long can an obsession burn before blinking out into oblivion. A hot fire burns out quick or so the saying goes.

Here in the deep backcountry of Mexico I find my answer in the face of this old man. Apparently this feeling is a feeling that doesn’t die with time.

The story winds down and I step out of the walled tent to the consistent growl of the desert winds. I pause and look at the panorama in front of me. What I see is three generations of hard work and dedication laid out before me.

Taming this land would be impossible, hell not desirable to tell the truth. But the camp I now stand in shows a family’s vision to integrate themselves into a hostile landscape through sheer willpower and effort alone.

Bumping down switchback after switchback that was hand carved out of the mountains that guard this valley on our approach the day before proved that willpower can move mountains. Willpower, calloused hands and a vision.

I thought I came to Mexico seeking Carmini whitetail deer. Shortly after arriving I knew my subconscious intentions were different. I was here to see how a single purpose can bleed down through three generations of family.

I came here to prove what I was personally seeking in life could and had been obtained by others. I am here for inspiration.

Gustavo the mastermind of this ten thousand acre playground pops out of the tent and clasps me on the shoulder.

“This evening you will kill a big Carmini,” he says to reassure me.

I smile to myself. I have five more days here and the last thing on my mind right now is sinking an arrow into a deer. My goals have shifted. I’m here to learn how something as beautiful as this can happen and how I can translate it and take it home with me to replicate with my family.

“This evening it is,” I reply.

I know it’s a lie and that I don’t want to shoot anything yet, but I play along.

I settle into the stand, the heat from the day still pounding down on the desert floor. I push back into the cedar tree as far as I can to eek out any shade it has to offer. There isn’t much to be had so I accept my punishment for heading in too early.

The image of the old man’s laughing face once again pops up in my head. I can’t shake it for some reason and I know if has more significance to me than what I am currently understanding, I just can’t peel back the layers at this point to know why.

He’s happy because of hunting, I get it. Why is that so important to me at this point in my life?

I sit back and look inward, letting my breathing slow to the pace of the desolate land. Everything here is slow, there seems to be no rush and I let that calm me and relax my thinking.

The creases of the old man’s face come back to me. Moreso the look of admiration from his son and grandson burrow their way into my brain.

“Three generations of shared vision,” I repeat to myself.

Not just shared vision but action. For vision without action is just a pipe dream. Long hours of cutting trail and forming the earth to meet their needs. The foresight of an end goal and the patience required in seeing little progress towards this goal. In the world of instant gratification this is its antithesis.

This is twelve years of three generations working this land to create a family legacy.

With that last thought it all sinks in. Legacy. To create something that will be enjoyed by those you love long after you’re gone.

Legacy. This seeps through my body as my thoughts wander to what my children are doing back home. How are they feeling about the absence of their father? Is my intended purpose of teaching them that you have to give every last ounce of your soul to obtain your dreams getting through or do they see my absence as a slight against them.

You’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t.

I’m here to find out how it’s done. To see how a legacy is formed. How to replicate it in my own world.

I see the headlights of the side by side cruising along the trail, headed to pick me up. Caught up in my own thoughts I almost forget where I’m at.

Oh yea, treestand. Don’t fall out.

Gustavo and his son park beneath the stand as Gustavo calls up to me.

“See anything?”

A donkey wearing a sombrero could have been playing the tambourine below the stand and I wouldn’t have had the slightest clue. I was lost in my own head.

Feeling I owed him some type of response I shot back.

“Just a couple of small ones. Tomorrow morning I’ll get one for sure.”

I hop in the back seat of the side by side and we slither our way back down the windy trail towards camp.

I notice the admiration in Carlos’s (Gustavo’s son) eyes as he talks to his dad in the front seat. He points out at different locations along the way about where stand should be placed or maybe a better spot for a trail. Normally it would have passed right by me, but I’m looking for it. Looking for the relationship between this father and son.

There’s admiration in his eyes. One that I know comes from a son being inspired by a father who thinks big and grabs the world by the balls.

I smile to myself. More affirmations. I came to Mexico seaking Carmini whitetail, I’ll go home with a better understanding of legacy.

// Fred Bohm

To find out more about hunting Carmini whitetail in Mexico, check out Aqua del Oso Safaris.

South Dakota Whitetail Bow Hunt - Come Home As a Killer Or Don't Come Home at All

“You got three days. Come home with a deer or don’t come home at all,” Hazel says to me as she pops her head into my office.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I smile at her as I shut down my computer.

The smile wasn’t returned.

Shit. She’s might be serious.

With family coming for the holidays, the list of wild game recipes stacking up on the fridge and the way we blow through meat like a socialist blows through other people’s money, I was taking this as a threat, not a suggestion.

“Let me rephrase that. Can do,” I say as I kiss the kids goodbye and headed for the packed truck.

Three days, a snowstorm coming, a tag in my pocket that has the ghost of four previous misses on it and I didn’t need much more motivation. But I received it anyway.

I gas up the truck up and look east to the wall of steel grey clouds building over the plains. The smell of cow manure clings to my nose hairs. Any Denverite knows the smell all too well. A surefire sign that snow is coming by the winds screaming across the cowtowns to the north.

An hour into an eight hour trip and I’m already in four-wheel drive at a breakneck speed of twenty-five miles an hour.

This may take a while.

I pass the time by looking for roadkill as a backup plan as Hazel’s last words echo in my head.

The extended drive time due to the ice skating rink that I’m now driving on also lets me replay ad nauseam the multitude of misses from my previous South Dakota foray a few short weeks ago. Certainly not long enough to let the wounds to start scabbing over.

Deep down I knew I needed to prove to myself that I wasn’t building a bad habit of folding under the pressure of a kill. There was a bit of redemption attached to this trip, but mostly it was way more simple than that.

I. Love. To. Hunt.

Plain and simple, I love to hunt. I don’t care if it’s chasing rabbits with my bow, pounding the mountains with my bird dogs or hunting big game. This is why I am here, this is what I planned my life around and this is what I do. I hunt.

Thirteen hours later and I’m looking for lodging. Being that it’s fourteen degrees out, the bed of my truck isn’t looking too appealing. I look for a hotel where even the cockroaches are afraid to sleep, you know the type of hotel where you sleep with your boots on. My kind of place, cheap.

The next morning I slip and slide my way to the killing fields. I don’t want to set a stand in the dark so instead I sit on a hill and watch where the deer make their way back into the security of the trees.

They leave the salad bar in droves. Noticing the first one make it in safe, they relax and follow suit.

The fresh snow makes it even easier as I follow them in a few hours later. You might as well of highlighted a trail on a map for me.

I set my stand as high as the climbing sticks will allow. There’s no cover since the leaves are down and being that these whitetails walk staring at treetops more than the ground, I know I’m going to be put to the test to control my fidgeting self.

I plunk myself down and zone out. A half hour before sunset the woods comes alive. On cue the herd makes their way no more than twenty yards from my stand.

They pile through and on multiple occasions I start to draw back on my bow. Death is twenty yards from them and they never know. I let them all pass, doe, fawn and buck alike.

“You see any today?” Hazel asks as the Campbell’s soup comes to a simmer in my Jetboil.

Did I see any? I think the Miss Whitetail South Dakota pageant was held today and the runway was right under my stand.

“Uh, yea a few I suppose,” I reply sheepishly. “How are the kids?”

I throw out the smoke screen. Safe for the moment at least. I know she has faith that I’ll get it done. Me on the other hand I’m not so sure. Passing up a couple of chip shots might not have been the wisest move. I’m on a meat run, not window shopping at the mall.

“I’ll knock one down tomorrow,” I tell her before hitting the sack.

Hell, I still have two full days to redeem myself.

Day two is a bit more challenging as the winds shift to a less optimal direction and the deer decide to visit a new trail. Just far enough away to not be able to get a clear shot, but close enough to reveal themselves and taunt me and my decision making skills.

The sky fades to black and I call an audible. I break down my stand and shift locations for the mornings hunt.

“Nothing came close today,” I murmur as I flick a unidentified bug off of my bed. “I’ve got them dialed now. Don’t be alarmed if you hear a victory scream waking you up in the morning all the way in Denver. That’ll be me as I celebrate the two-hundred inch whitetail I’m standing over.”

“Riiiiighttt,” comes the drawn out response from Hazel.

Stop dicking around, it’s go time.

Damn it. Fifty yards off. Right location, wrong tree. A midday relocation and I’ve got my relationships stability hanging from a tree. I either made the right choice and go home to a happy woman or I start to question how I’m spending my free time.

I settle in and suck in my breath to thin myself against the small trunk behind me. I’m not overly happy with the position of my stand as it puts me smack dab in the middle of the game path, but no other nearby tree was sufficient to accept the temporary residence of my stand.

I throw every layer I own on, knowing that the shivering that will ensue is not going to help my chances.

Stay still, draw your bow back slowly and close this deal.

First I need a deer to walk by.

This comes at the predicted time in a ball of full with legs protruding out like a centipede. They’re clumped up and moving my way, eyes fixated on the green fields behind me.

I pull air in through my nose and slowly exhale through my mouth, slowing my heart rate in the process. With the speed they’re moving this could be tight on time as the forest turns a deeper shade of blue.

All does. There’s got to be at least one buck still thinking he’s got a chance of scoring around here.

They move closer.

Don’t look up, don’t look up.

Poof! She smells my fear and acts on it. A doe’s head rockets up like a periscope and her eyes lock on me.

This grabs the attention of her lady friends and everything goes still. They know something is wrong but not wrong enough to blow out of there.

The head doe gives a few stomps on the ground like she is packing in dirt around a fence post. You can feel the tension in the air and it doesn’t look like this is going to go my way.

How are you going to explain this one to Hazel. A herd of deer not thirty yards from the stand and you can’t kill one?

The drama continues as the doe tries to get a better angle on me, tries to figure out if I’m just a lump in a tree or something there with more nefarious reasons.

Some of the does have enough and decide another trail close by would be the better option to get to the green fields that I’m cutting off. Why chance it?

I catch movement deeper in the woods, a large bodied deer making his way with his head down.

That has to be a buck.

Not just a buck, but my favorite kind of buck, a clueless one. He has no idea what is going on and makes his way to the front of the herd. He moves on as if this theatrical scene hasn’t been playing out for the last ten minutes.

Lights almost gone and this is your last chance. The time for caution is long past.

I lock onto him and slowly raise up my rangefinder. I pick a clearing he is on a trajectory for and angle myself for the shot.

The does don’t like this once still lump moving on them and they let everything within earshot know it.

They scatter, snort and throw a temper tantrum to rival any three year old toddler.

The buck freezes, still not knowing what the drama is about. According to him there has been nothing odd going on and the drama queens behind him are stopping him from a mouth full of green clover.

Come on, come on!

The dark blues of the forest let me know that time is very short now. His vitals are comically located behind a large tree trunk as if he were framing this story with the necessary suspense.

Time moves on and not a twitch from him. So much so that I’m starting to question if I was just seeing things and I’m standing there like an idiot staring at a stump.

I no longer can feel my fingers as the cold works through the bows aluminum riser and seeps into my hand.

Just one more step and this will all be over.

And it is.

He transforms from a stump back into a deer. In one smooth movement my bow is drawn and the arrow is loose.

I hear the telltale “thwack!” as the arrow punches through hide.

With the dimming like and shaking from the cold I’m not sure of the exact location of the shot but I know deep down that it will suffice. A huge exhale is released along with the tension of the pressure to get this job done.

The woods is silent as I pull my cell phone up to my ear.

“You got one?!” I hear on the other end of the line. It startles me hearing a human voice in an area where human voices typically are avoided at all costs.

“Yes ‘mam. Now I just need to find him. I’ll let him sit the night and find him tomorrow. I’ll be home by dinner,” I reply with obvious relief in my voice.

I can imagine her flipping through more recipe books as I’m relaying her the information.

“So I can come home?” I ask knowing this will get a rise out of her.

“I suppose this will get you a free pass through the front door,” she kids back.

I break down my setup in the dark and as I do so an odd feeling creeps over me. I feel like I’m not alone in this woods. That there are thousands of others around me that have done this same exact thing a thousand other times for the same exact reasons.

They were here to provide. To them perhaps they didn’t analyze what they were doing as much as we do these days, but there is a simple connection. We are here because there are people we love elsewhere depending on us to be successful.

// Fred Bohm

Whitetail Hunting in South Dakota - A Lesson in Humiliation and Other Things

It must be a low gravity week.

I’m on my feet in a treestand, swaying with the pulverizing north winds that freezes snot to my face. Moments earlier I’d just released my fourth arrow of the trip. And moments earlier I sailed it high over the back of the fourth deer fortunate enough to be within my range.

“Welcome to Fred Bohm’s school of hunter education,” I mumble to the eight point buck as he heads for cover.

The sting of not knowing what I am doing wrong far outweighs the blast of the northerly winds. I just don’t get it. My brain is not making the connection. It’s not allowing me to rationalize what the error is.

Is it an equipment failure? Is my anchor point off? Has my form gone to shit or am I just getting frazzled.

There could be a litany of excuses, but they do me no good. To blame anything but myself is a way of protecting my ego and God knows I need less of that.

I ease back into the seat of the stand, trying to let the frustration seep from my body. But I know I’m fooling myself if I think it’ll go away.

This just isn’t fun.

You practice year round and base your life around bowhunting. You take it as seriously as anything ever taken in your life. Commitment wouldn’t begin to describe the obsession you have for this sport and come game time you choke. Four Pick-Sixes in a row and GM is making calls to get you traded.

What’s more is the heckling you know you’ll receive, people chomping at the bit, salivating at the opportunity to ridicule.

But perhaps you deserve it. I mean come on… four misses in a row?

I let the evening play out, damn well knowing the hunting gods don’t give fools a second opportunity to embarrass themselves. They’re too compassionate for that.

It’s just the way of it man. If you plan on having a long hunting career you better get used to this. Better yet learn to laugh at it and enjoy the humiliation as a character building experience. It’s going to be a long road and if you let something like this bother you. Hunting is going to eat you alive.

The air is a little less bitter as the day turns to evening. The sounds are peaceful enough and I forget that civilization is only a stone’s throw away.

A horde of sparrows clumped together looking for companionship in the desolate skies. They roar overhead. Alone they are silent passersby, but as a group they make the earth shake.

Why does this matter? Are you, Hazel and the kids going to starve if you don’t get a deer? If that were true you would have shot the first animal that walked by. This is a game. It’s as simple as that. It’s a game where the size of the animal you kill determines your pecking order in the tiny circle of friends and fellow hunters. You’re using these animals as social status.

I know it to be true but I don’t care. Hell, everything we do in life determines where we stand compared to the people next to us. It’s all a show for those willing to look in. One big dick swinging contest.

I willingly participate and know I will continue to do so. I know I’m not just out here for the full freezer. It would be a lie that would receive accolades on social media, but would also be complete bullshit that would make me feel like a phony.

I’m here for the challenge. I’m here to see if I can outwit or more likely out-patience an animal that eludes inept humans for a living. And its merit is based on is the size of its headgear.

I continue to hold my bow, enjoying the deep burn as the cold conducts through the aluminum riser and numbs my hand. Just me, my weapon and my thoughts. Nothing could be simpler and nothing could make what’s laid before me more clear.

It doesn’t matter what you kill. The license allows for the life of one deer, it’s up to me to determine which one. Play your game and the law won’t step in. Media will encourage it. Your ego will thank you for it. Excuses on unfilled tags will abound when you’re hunting giants. Everything is rigged to encourage your to participate.

You’re letting your philosophy, which to be honest is non-existent, on trophy hunting distract you from the real problem here. Incompetent shooting and what it is causes. Missed opportunity.

A spike makes his way cautiously down the trail. His head jerks erratically looking for danger or from the suggestions from the voices in his head. Hard to tell.

I eye him over my neck gaiter that’s pulled up to my eyes. A god looking down on a lesser, determining if he’ll make it through the clearing with his life. Or just as likely spooked by an arrow that skims his back given my recent track record.

Such power. Maybe it’s something we revel in because we know there is something looking down on us at the same moment, determining the same thing.

He walks by without as much as a twitch from my bow hand.

By now the night has dug itself in deep. Things that were once clear only become shadows and memories of what should be there.

I make no move to get up. My hunt isn’t over yet.

// Fred Bohm

The Art Self Control - Bowhunting Elk In Colorado's Backcountry

The herd of cows tear up goat country like hell’s gates just materialized at their heels. Along with them a five by five bull covering up the ass and with him my hopes of success for the season.

Joe stands alone looking over a cliff’s edge into the valley that held them moments before.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me. Did you need to sit on the edge and watch them?” I spew pure anger, “What good did that do? You know the wind is swirling. How in any way did that get us closer to killing these goddamn things?”

I was livid. I had to walk away before the words really started to boil.

Get it back down to a simmer at least buddy. No need to get nasty.

The anger takes on a life of its own. A dark place within festers, threatening to grow and become a life of its own. If I don’t control it a friendship will be lost.

I know I am projecting. That I’m really mad at myself for letting this happen. The blown stalks are stacking up and I need an outlet, a person to try to pawn this embarrassment off on. I happen to have someone ten yards away to hurl insults on and I take advantage of it.

Joe has been hunting elk for a few years, me much longer. I should know better and I should have made the call.

Instead I decide to be an asshole and push the blame to protect my fragile ego. I am weak and I know it.

You’re a scared little boy. Fucking control yourself.

“He was a pretty small five by five, eh?” I say.

My voice calms and I let the emotion wash off and absorb into the earth blow.

The consolation prize. Pretend it’s something that you didn’t want anyway. Pretend that the reason you messed up has nothing to do with your impatience and lack of skill but rather that he wasn’t good enough quarry for you anyway. Pretend that it was someone else’s fault. Anyone else's fault but your own. Lie to yourself.

The inner monologue wasn’t helping so I shut it down.

“On to the next one?” I say.

“On to the next one.” Joe repeats back as if nothing ever happened.

I could tell he was used to dealing with the intensity that can come from a blown opportunity. He takes the higher road and doesn’t come back at me like he deserves to.

We gather ourselves and head for a vantage point, trying not to notice the globs of fresh elk shit and other sign that even a blind man would see.

We push higher up, a common theme when we hunt together.

“Might as well give the valley a good glassing and see if there are any late wanderers headed back to their bedrooms,” Joe says as we walk.

We’re above treeline and the walking is easy. A game trail that could be mistaken for a well maintained hiking trail points us to the next valley over.

We pick a spot to sit and glass that offers us a shot opportunity at any window shopping elk that happen to pass by.

A few cows and a spike graze in the valley directly below. Nothing worth chasing but it’s a relief to know that our efforts haven’t cleared the whole mountain range of four legged animals.

The heavy clouds build up as we set glass to cross valley mountain in hopes of making anything huntable appear out of the still land.

The cooling air negates the effects of the thermals for that time of day and everything comes to a standstill. It’s dead silent as the mountains shut down their eternal wind making machine and drops it in neutral.

“They’re going to switch early today,” I say while continuing to glass.

“Yup,” replies Joe.

Now we just need something to chase.

As if on cue.

“Got those bulls from yesterday. They haven’t moved but ten yards from where we saw them twelve hours ago,” Joe says calmly.

“They’re near the valley floor. That must mean no one is down there chasing them,” I respond back. “How the hell can there be no one chasing them?”

“Dunno,” comes the reply. “I mean the backcountry army that has laid siege to this land must have read on some internet forum that they were using that avy chute to feed.”

Maybe this idea that the more brutal you make a hunt the higher your chances of success is backwards. Maybe we’ve had it wrong the whole time.

“That’s definitely in the cow zone, let alone bull zone,” I say with a twinge of excitement in my voice.

“It’s still eight and a half miles in man. Better than shooting one up here, but that’s a whole lot of elk to get out of here,” Joe responds bringing me back to reality.

“Two elk,” I correct.

“Huh,” he responds

“Two elk. There are two bulls down there. That’ll be two elk to carry out eight and a half miles,” I say.

“Right…” Joe responds. “With the way it’s been, lets just worry about getting one on the ground big dreamer. Let’s wait and make sure the thermals push down the mountain then we can make our way in.”

I settle back into the hillside and peel my eyes away from the two bulls feeding out in the open. I’m baffled by their audacity. They strut about as if they weren’t on public land and as if they hadn’t had carbon and lead thrown their way from the time their eyes opened to the world.

It must be exhausting being seen as a source of food, never knowing if there is something lurking for you behind the next tree. I feel sorry for their predicament in life for a minute, but know this was the hand they were dealt. Better them than me.

The thermals did what they have been doing since the beginning of time. There’s no free will, just science that acts as the hand of god and the wind changes to a consistent downhill pull.

“Looks like we can get in pretty close before having to play our hand,” Joe says as we take a last look at the lower part of the avy chute where the two bulls have just recently bedded back down.

“I’m thinking we can get within a hundred yards of them and do some quiet bugling and raking,” I say. “Nothing flashy, just something to gain their attention.”

“Agreed,” Joe replies.

We make our way down to the valley floor. No easy feat when you’re sitting fourteen hundred feet above and the contour lines look more like a solid line from a Sharpie rather than the well spaced lines I was hoping for.

Once on the floor it will be a hunt of faith. We’d have to push in close without knowing if they backed out. Such is the way of spot and stalk.

We creep our way through the random trees that have fought for solid ground in the swampy drainage that is the main artery of the giant mountains above.

Habit takes over and we both crouch low as we push our way forward. I know that it makes no difference, they will either see us or they won’t. Dropping a foot lower isn’t going to change that, but sometimes you negate the “shoulda, woulda, couldas” before they happen if for nothing else but piece of mind.

Communication converts over to hand signals. Navy SEALS of the backcountry.

We split out thirty yards apart, wanting to stay within sight in case one needs to call for the other.

The air is heavy in the thick in the shade of the pines as we approach our predetermined point of attack. I feel like a stalker hanging out in the shadows of an alley waiting for an innocent bystander to walk by.

We’re in position and we let everything go quiet for a while, letting our ears become accustomed to the deafening silence.

Minutes roll by and I can now hear the flutter of tiny songbirds, the far off rush of the stream below and the blood in my own ears.

I grab the bugle and blow an introductory note into it. Nothing dramatic, just a wake-up call to let the locals know that a newcomer has arrived. Some light raking on a nearby pine to add to the realism and then I go silent.

The constant breeze in my face has me feeling confident as the sun begins to slip away. I don’t see or hear them, but I know they are there.

My eyes scan the open park as if trying to will something to appear.

And then he just materializes. He doesn’t walk out, he doesn’t come in running, but rather just appears as if a wisp of fog is blown away to reveal his presence.

The ambient background sounds are overpowered by the rushing pulse in my ears and the heavy breathing of my lungs.

Control the situation before you do something stupid.

I pull up my rangefinder as slowly as my patience will allow. One hundred and eight yards.

The battle has started and I clearly don’t have the upper hand. He moves along a rounded ridge and I can tell by his body language that he knows something isn’t right. He’s expecting to see some fur behind the vocalization and when that doesn’t appear he walks a perimeter of perceived safety to try and suss out the dilemma.

I know I have to act or I’ll lose him. Sometimes doing nothing is the best thing, but this isn’t one of those times.

Joe has been dead silent behind me, so my guess is he can’t see what I’m seeing. He has no idea that we have a visitor.

I squeak out a quick cow call, full well knowing it will give away my position. But something has to be done.

The gamble is worth it as I hear the cracking sticks from Joe’s movement behind me. He throws out a few cow calls, pleading with the bull to come in.

His attention snaps to where the sounds are coming from. Slowly the yards are shaved away.

He’s bright in the open field of the slide area, me dark below the heavy pine limbs. He struggles looking in, trying to catch a glimpse of the cow causing this inner turmoil within him.

Trust your survival instincts and you’ll live. You’re mating instincts will betray you.

The pull is too strong and he continues towards the darkness. He sees my slight movements but they aren’t enough to overpower his urge to breed.

At fifty-five yards he turns broadside and pauses. He looks back from where he came in case the need for an escape route arises.

I know I’m pressing my luck. I also know that at fifty-five yards he has no chance of surviving.

By the time he comes to his senses it is too late for him. His urges betray him, my fanatical training on the other hand doesn’t.

He catches the arrow in the bulk of his body that releases the tell tale “thud”.

He walks off sick. He shows no sign of feeling the impact, but knows his body isn’t reacting to the demands of his brain.

I lay my bow in the pine needles and watch him walk away.

The sun fades and along with it his life.

My fists pump into the air, expelling the elation of something long sought finally being obtained. The years, the miles, the sore back, the time away from family. Everything balls together and punches me in the face.

I look back at Joe. He has glass to his eyes but it isn’t focused on the bull laying in a pool of its own blood.

Shit. What did I miss?

My head swivels to where he was looking. My binocs go up and in it is the full frame of the second bull, obviously curious as to what all the commotion is about.

I keep my eyes pinned to the glass, full well knowing that the wheels of motion have already been set into place. At this point I’m merely a spectator.

A train locomotive goes roaring high above my shoulder. The impact is breathtaking.

The animal’s head snaps back as if it was rear ended by a texting teenager in their mother’s soccer van.

He takes three steps and is uprooted. His feet go up in the air and position themselves like the tree limbs of some morbid fairy tail.

“This didn’t just happen,” I say as Joe approaches.

We both stand in the fading light looking stupid.

“Two bulls down?” he says.

“Two bulls down,” I repeat.

// Fred Bohm

Analog Elk Scouting in a Digital World - Why You Should Be Scouting

"Why do you spend so much time scouting for elk? You saw them last year, just go to that same spot?" These are often the remarks when another Instagram post goes up about an upcoming scouting trips or from friends who are headed out to BBQ for the weekend instead of the woods.

In my ears I hear, "Why try at all?"

Elk hunting is so much more to me then the days I actually have my bow in hand. It starts months before that day and in all actuality probably never ends.

There’s two ways to hunt in my eyes. Full on or half assed. There is no in between. Either you want it or you just want to be able to talk about it.

This is why I spend my free time schlepping a forty pound backpack around the wild lands of Colorado and whatever other states will let me chase their four-legged creatures. If
I’m going to do something, I’m going into it pedal to the metal with the brake lines cut.

So is scouting absolutely necessary? To me the answer is obvious, a resounding YES!

But the reasoning may not be as obvious as you might think. As with many things in life, it’s not always what you seek that ends up being the real treasure. Sometimes it’s the unseen benefits that are the true rewards to your effort.

Here are some of the reasons you need to be out there wandering the mountains and honing your skills.

You’ll Find Where the Animals Call Home

Well this one is obvious isn’t it? But hell, this is the main reason we’re out there to begin with. All that pre-scouting sitting behind your computer needs to be put to the test. It’s one thing to pour over maps online, it’s another to commit to planting yourself there on opening day.

In a world where we can scout from the comforts of our own home (why lie, I mean office) we’re becoming extremely dependent on technology to solve all our problems. It’s got its place and can give you a strong starting point as to where to begin scouting, but it’s a far cry from the real thing.

I can’t tell you how many times I thought I’d be busting the next elk kegger the upcoming weekend while cruising the maps on my computer only to walk into an elk ghost town with binoculars in hand and wobbly legs from the hike in. The translation from computer screen to real life is sometimes awfully disappointing.  

So if you’re going to be lazy, expect a lazy man’s results. And “But Elk-Killa_69 from huntinglocations.com told me that it was a hotspot!” is not an excuse. It is however a direct indication to your laziness.

Get out there and see what’s producing. Then wear the buttons out on your GPS unit/phone app by placing waypoints on all pertinent information.

• Where are the cows bedding and feeding?
• Where are water sources?
• Look for escape routes like saddles and pinch points where you can set up ambushes
• Mark all wallows you come across
• Camping areas that give you a vantage point yet won’t disturb the elk
• Rub lines
• Heavily used trails

Learning Animal Behavior

You get to see first hand how these animals act in their natural environment before the camo invaders lays siege to the land. Though it is probably more important to know how they are going to act under pressure because that’s when you’ll be hunting them, it’s also invaluable to know what their natural patterns are.

Animals (including us) like routine. It makes them feel safe. They will stick to these patterns until it is absolutely necessary to deviate due to pressure. By learning when and how they like to move you’re setting yourself up for success. Even if you’re not learning the exact patterns, you’re learning how the animals like to behave in general, which could be just the information needed when you’re setting up an ambush in a few months.

Understanding How You’ll Perform Mentally and Physically in the Backcountry

I’ll preach this one all the way to my deathbed. You need to know how you’re going to perform when you’re in the backcountry. Whether that be alone or with a hunting partner this is a great time to see how you’ll perform when you’re alone or if it’s time to ditch that partner who whines every time the angle gets steeper than a parking lot.

If you’re used to the backcountry, then skip ahead as this will be preaching to the choir.

But if you’re new to this game, this little bit of advice can mean the difference of staying in and getting the job done, or tucking your tail between your legs and generating a litany of excuses as to why you bailed early.

Scouting season is your test period. Your bootcamp so to speak. You’re going to learn a lot about yourself during this time. You’re far away from the modern world and all the conveniences that comes along with it.

And it’s quiet. So very quiet.

Some love it. Some hate it. We’ve become so used to the flashing lights, honking horns and constant grab for our attention in today’s world. Not so here. Nobody is trying to sell you anything, nobody is liking your latest witty meme on Instagram and to be honest, nothing really cares about you out here. You just exist.

It may sound like paradise. But when you’re actually in it, it’s all consuming and it can freak some people out. This is the time to figure out if it does and also the time to find out how to combat it.

I’ve written an article on this previously that pinpoints all of these issues so I won’t be redundant here. I’ve attach a link so you can have a read.

Solo Backcountry Hunter

Test Equipment

You just spent all that hard earned coin on a backpack, tent, boots and solar powered speaker loaded up with all your favorite Justin Bieber hits right?

Well what if that backpack digs bloody holes in your back, the tent leaks like an Iraqi submarine, your filp-flops offer more support than the $350 pair of boots you were marketed into and you realize how bad Justin Bieber sucks and now you’re stuck with him on repeat?

If you’re committed to a nine day backcountry hunt you might just be walking out six hours later. Now you have to explain to your wife and friends why you couldn’t man up and make it happen.

The scouting trips are here to help you keep your man card. Two day tests of your equipment is the perfect time to suss out the winners from the losers.

If the tent sucks sell it and get something you can live with. Boots are a fickle creature, so the review you read on them being “the second best thing that has ever touched my feet” might be fine for the guy who wrote it, but then again he might have webbed feet that can handle wide boots.

You see where I’m going with this. Test everything before you decide to take it in for the real deal. You’re getting a trial run here, take advantage of it. I’d test everything if I were you, but here’s a short list of absolutes you must tests before committing:

• Boots
• Tent
• Water filtration
• Clothing
• GPS and/or map app for phone
• Power supply for electronics (I know, I know. But I’m a realist. We all use them)
• Optics
• Backpack
• Food (this one is extremely important to test or you may need to double your TP)

Technology Has A Place

Love it or hate it, but it’s a part of all of us. There will be those that resist and that’s fine. Each his own. But I can honestly say I haven’t come across a hunter that didn’t have some form of technology on him.

And there is no denying it. It can be an extremely beneficial part of our scouting. Lets go over a few of them and how we can use them to our advantage.

GPS

Besides the obvious of keeping you pointed in the right direction, GPS unit or map apps for your phone have crazy benefits.

Coming back to a tent in the dark after a long day of hunting or scouting can feel like trying to finding my kid’s toy he decided to leave on a shelf at the grocery store. It may require grid searching and/or calling in the Navy SEALS for assistance. Drop a pin on the tent and this never again becomes an issue.

When firing up my GPS and having a look at the GMU’s I hunt you might think you were looking at Yelp map. There are pins all over it. I mark everything. Water holes, wallows, saddles, springs, bedding areas, good feed, rubs and the list goes on.

I know my memory is extremely poor if altogether non-existent. I don’t depend on it to remind me where that wallow is that I should be sitting on if the mid-day temps start to rise.

Use this technology while scouting and you’ll rarely have the “what should we do today?” issues when hunting.

Game Cameras

Those whitetail guys where on to something when they starting using these little gadgets. Though you will be committing to a lot more when taking them into the backcountry with you. First there’s the weight issue. Also if you end up setting some up, you best be committed to hunting that spot or you’ll be making an unplanned hike in to retrieve them.

The information they give you however can be invaluable. You can potentially pattern their movements by finding high concentration areas along with times they like to use that location.

Know that and you got a good chance of putting one in the dirt.

Communication With Family

I’ve got kids and I spend a lot of time in the mountains. This one is not an option. I use a sat phone or my Garmin InReach to be able to communicate with the family.

This is a small concession to make if it means being able to live this lifestyle or not. Besides, I miss my kids’ voices and I want them to be a part of the experience even if it’s in a small way.  

Give Yourself Some Time Off From the Hectic World

Remember one of the reasons your out here to begin with. To unplug.

There are those of us that still contain the urge to interact with our natural environment. Not the one that we created but rather the one created for us.

The more time you spend in it the more that primal urge feels natural coursing through you. We become closer to the animals we walk with and we refine the instincts that once was required to keep us alive.

Not all are privileged enough to do what you do and have the urge to do it. We are the last of our kind. The instinct that still courses through us is what got the human race to the place it currently resides. Without it we would have been part of the 95% of creatures that are on the extinction list.

Scouting is just an excuse to spend more time doing what has been done for hundreds of thousands of years before us. Be human.

So enjoy. Feel alive. And stay safe!

// Fred Bohm

The Failed Con Artist - Bowhunting Bear in Colorado's Backcountry

“There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics.”

— Benjamin Disraeli

When you’re blessed with a pile of guts you don’t simply walk by it. You kneel down and thank the gods above for the gift of a reeking, globulous mass. Let that pile turn in the sun for a few days, so much so that it would knock a buzzard off a shit wagon, well then you got liquid gold.

Two days previous I saw this gift unwrapped for me while glassing elk across a deep valley.

“I got one,” said Joe.

I followed the angle of his glass to a steep avalanche shoot about two thirds of the way up the mountain. Of course it’s two thirds of the way up the mountain, everything is always two thirds of the way up the mountain…

“He’s either semi-retarded or he’s trying to give himself a head rush,” I replied as I spotted him.

“Yea, I’ve never seen an elk bed with his head downhill like that,” came Joe’s response.

We waited to see what would unfold. Would he move? Was there something wrong with him?

After a few minutes we realize that there was certainly something wrong with him. He was dead.

Two archers appeared from behind a tree and with one raising a bow to the air in celebration, it was obvious that the animal was sleeping the long sleep.

“That sucks. We were just hunting there yesterday,” came the disappointment from Joe’s mouth.

“Doesn’t suck for me. I’ve got a bear tag in my pocket. That elk is going to turn into an all you can eat buffet in about two days,” I shot back to him.

Standing above the almost picked clean carcass two days later I realized that the bait for the trap was perfect, however the geography wasn’t.

The damn avalanche shoot is a wind tunnel.

The bears had been there, but no matter the angle of my approach there was just no way of getting the wind right. The cliffed out edges of the steep shoot was perfect for cover. I could have been doing back-flips and riding a unicycle and they wouldn’t have seen me approaching.

But that damn wind. No matter how I approached they always slipped away a few seconds before I peered over the edge.

“Same thing as yesterday man. By the looks of it you were all but measuring out a room in your house for that bear skin rug,” Joe commented over another gruel like dinner of Mountain House. “You were all but there before they split.”

I could tell Joe was getting a fair bit of amusement of my early morning trudges up the side of Mt. Everest. I’d glass back at him a mile or so out sipping coffee and occasionally looking through the spotting scope at the spectacle unfolding.

I started to feel that tag in my pocket weighing me down like the albatross. We were here to hunt elk, but when presented an opportunity like this you don’t just walk by.

“Don’t even look to see if they’re there tomorrow. Just go. They’ve been there the last few days religiously. Just get up there well before sunrise and most importantly before the wind starts to swirl,” comes his advice.

Easily said when you’re the guy sitting behind the glass. Spending a third morning up that death slide wasn’t as appealing to the guy with the boots on the ground.

“Suck it up buttercup. Isn’t this what you train for? Isn’t this what makes you an ‘athlete’?” he laughs, knowing what I’m hesitant about.

Ugh. Everyone’s an ‘athlete’ these days. I wonder if chess players have picked up that moniker as well or are us hunters the last to grasp onto that word.

The morning doesn’t come easy. Six days into the hunt and my shoulders and hip are telling me to throw in the towel and head home to a comfortable bed.

What’s on the menu for breakfast this morning? Oatmeal and protein powder? Freakin sweet! I was hoping to have that again. Everything’s coming up Fred.

Stop whining. This is voluntary you big baby. Nobody said you had to leave your warm home stuffed with every type of food imaginable to come out here and live with the squirrels.

I recognized this was self induced suffering, thus falls out of the realm of complaining.

Damn you logic.

I head out into the abyss. My headlamp creates a forty yard bubble of awareness, other than that an all out animal orgy could be taking place beyond it and I wouldn’t have the slightest clue.

I cross the valley floor, soaking my boots and pants up to my knees in the tall, wet grass. I know a thousand vertical feet above me are two bears scraping whatever remnants of meat are left on the elk hide.

There’s not much left of that thing, this will be your last chance to use that gut pile before they wander off to steal their next meal.

My bow is tossed up on my shoulders as I shut my brain down to what’s to come.

I don’t know much in life besides that one foot goes in front of the other. The rest will sort itself out.

The wind stays in my face as the mountain grade gets exponentially steeper. I click off my headlamp and let the sliver of moon help lead the way.

By now I know the route well. I’m one avy shoot over from where two bears of stuffing their faces with the guts of what was a six hundred pound animal.

And you want to sit there and shoot them with a pointy stick? How hasn’t natural selection take you out already?

I look back a mile or so across the valley floor to see Joe’s headlamp moving about like a firefly.

Looks like he’s setting up for the show.

The fire of his Jetboil pierces the dark. Stadium seating for the drama/ tragedy that’s about to unfold.

I dig into the climb and let it sear my legs for a bit longer as I crosscut the mountain. The rock outcropping that was my destination glows white from the pre-dawn light.

Young aspen trees that haven’t developed the years of wisdom to know any better poked through the fractured rock. They make perfect handles to help fight gravity up the last bit of ungodly steep angle.

My pack slides to the ground and an arrow comes out of the quiver.

Wind. Check.

Audience watching from a spotting scope. Check.

Enough daylight to see what I’m shooting at? Well not quite.

I periscope my head over the edge of the cliff. There’s a perfect view of the avalanche shoot and all it contains. The problem is it’s still a bit too early to tell if there’s anything wandering about.

I hunker down and pull on the hood of my jacket. The early morning cool is having its last bit of fun with me before the sun chases it away.

I’ve never shot a bear before, they’ve never been high priority for me. But there’s something about a bear skin rug in front of the fireplace and some exotic meat in the freezer that’s pulled my attention away from the rutting elk.

He’s not laying in front of your fireplace yet buddy. Get your head in the game.

The sun starts to rouse from its slumber. I peek back over at where my fading memory of the elk carcass laid.

Brown. That’s a good sign.

My mind reacts and dumps an extra helping of adrenaline in my system. I can feel it wash its way through my core and into my extremities. Any other time it would be a welcome change to my aching body, but not when I need to count on my limbs to act as directed. Adrenaline has a funny way of taking countless hours of practice and flushing it down the toilet.

Breathe. You know that’s the only way to fight this, so do it.

My nerves settle as much as they’re going to as I clip on my release. On last check through the rangefinder. Thirty-five yards.

Even in my adrenaline-drunken state that should be no problem.

I stay crouched and pull my binos up to see exactly what he is doing. And by the looks of it he’s splayed out on the carcass.

So tired from gorging yourself that you couldn’t even walk to bed?

I try to make out his vitals through my glass. After spending close to fifteen minutes staring at him, my eyes start to pull the contrast out of his contoured lines.

Head. Body. And legs tucked underneath. Not the most common sleeping position, but that seems to be the theme of the animals around here.

I check over to where Joe is watching while I still have the glass to my face and I can see he is now fully emerged in the soap opera that’s unfolding. Leaning forward, eyes pressed to the glass and pointed straight at me.

Showtime.

I stand and draw at the same time.

Level your bubble. Thirty-five pin gap right on the crease. Pull through your shot.

The arrow arcs slightly and begins its spiral. I peek to the side of my riser, though I know that I shouldn’t.

The dull thud of a hit that only comes from an arrow piercing hide.

I watch for the explosion of a creature woken from sleep by the reaper asking for his last wish.

He must not have any because he lays deadly still.

Spine shot? You should have at least seen a little movement.

My binos go back up in attempts to solve the mystery, but nothing changes.

I whip the binos towards Joe, hoping to see if he has any insight on what just happened. He’s pumping his arms in the air, punching at the gods above.

Alright then. I guess he’s dead.

I gather my gear and slowly walk towards the pile of brown. The sun peaks its head out from towering mountains that has been keeping it at bay as long as it could. As I get closer something doesn’t feel right.

I nock and arrow, not understanding why my body went on high alert.

My  previously launched arrow looks like a javelin sticking out of a corpse at a forty five degree angle. It’s not moving which I take to be a good sign.

I move around a small pine brave enough to call an avalanche shoot its home in attempt to get a better view of my would be rug.

“Oh wow. Oh man. You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” I say to myself as an embarrassed smile creeps over my face.

I walk over and pull my arrow out of what should have been a bear. Instead its the carcass of a three day old rotted elk.

I look around sheepishly as if I’m expecting someone to be watching me eight miles deep into the backcountry.

Shit. Joe. A witness.

I hurriedly put my binoculars to my face. He’s packed up by now and making his way down the opposing mountain. Undoubtedly he’s rushing his way over to take a look at my trophy and help with the aftermath.

I scramble for ideas on how not to look like the fool that I am.

I never killed a man and I probably shouldn’t start now. But I wonder if he takes bribes.

I pull my arrow, sling my bow on my shoulders and make my way down the mountain and into the valley. My brain is running on overdrive and trying to figure the perfect lie that won’t get me caught.

I see Joe making his way towards me in a trot.

“Dude! I saw you at full draw! It was perfect. I saw everything go down,” he exclaims in between short pauses to suck in air.

Well not everything.

“Yea,” was all I could manage.

“Well?! How big is he? You must have hit him perfect, I didn’t see him move an inch!” comes the excited comments.

“Oh yea, he didn’t even blink an eye. The arrow went exactly where I aimed,” I say trying to buy time for the feeble part of my brain that comes up with lies to kick in.

“What’s the deal man? You don’t seem to excited?” he says. By now he knows something is up.

“Well. It wasn’t an bear that I shot. But an elk.”

“What?! I didn’t see an elk?” comes his reply. He’s thoroughly confused.

“That’s because there wasn’t one. Or rather it was a dead one. Remember that carcass I was sitting over?” I say sheepishly.

A laughter starts deep within him. Not just quick “Ha!” but one that starts from the marrow of your bones in your feet and works its way through the skeletal system and is vomited out of your mouth.

I sit there and take the well deserved abuse.

If only I were a good liar.
 

// Fred Bohm

The Cousin of Death - New Zealand Tahr Hunting

You take the pain because you ask for it. You love it because others don’t. Complacency and lethargy is the cousins of death, the searing burn that comes from the effort is your muscles telling you, we are still here, we are still fighting the good fight, if only for a little longer.

Stop looking up, keep your head down and eat the pieces of the elephant, don’t try to jam the whole thing in your mouth.

My toe kicks another step into the soft scree, initiating a mini avalanche, sounding like a million gold coins sliding down a dragon’s hoard.

One step up, slide a half step back. The metaphor isn’t subtle at that moment, rather it slugs me over the head like a baseball bat. It’s no different than my life’s path. The mountains tell the truth, or I’ll adjust my perception to make it so.

Eighteen hundred hard earned vertical feet lays below me. And the mountains still tower over, offering up her treasure if I have the will to overpower her. The barrier to entry is high in her game.

But her skin was brittle, peeling away with little more than the weight of a human being.

It’s like wading your way into a storming ocean surf. Your advance constantly being halted by mother nature’s commitment barometer. She’ll let you pass, but not before she knows you really want it.

The real kick in the crotch is that you willingly did this less than ten hours previous. And now you’re back at it. Repeating the motions, but weaponless this time to save weight… After all the deed has already been done. Now all you need to do is finish the job. The easy part is to think back to how you got yourself here, the harder part is completing the task without the adrenaline infusion of the chase.

Three shots rang out. The first followed by the chaos of a known miss. Reload, frantically try to relocate, a smooth pull of the trigger and the reward of a cantaloupe thump from a hit. He’s now walking, not running. A good sign.

A smoking cartridge cartwheels through the air to make room for another. I wonder if these brass bottlenecks know the importance of their existence and how easily they can end one life to sustain another.

One more punch to my shoulder followed by that sweet sound. He stumbles off to be swallowed by the mountain.

That was then, this is now.

Toe in and hope this sucker doesn’t slide burying me in a rock tomb. Go for the finger of rock protruding out of the gums of the mountain like the shattered teeth from an unfortunate recipient of a kick to the face.

The walking gets easier if not more dangerous with the semi-solid rock. It doesn’t slide on you, but if it decides to shed a layer it’s taking you with it in no uncertain terms.

I make it to the spot where one life form was irrevocably changed forever. The spot where with a simple pull of a trigger you would be absorbing one life into your own. I find it odd at that moment that I find the importance of my own existence more important than his. It’s a fleeting thought, as I know self preservation is at the core of every living thing. I’m no different. My life is more important than his and that’s just the way of it.

Not much time is spent on looking for where his body betrayed him and leaked out his life through a penny sized hole.

I know his trajectory well and know the spot where he spent the night alone with his last few breaths wasn’t far away.

Leveling off my ascent, I adjust my altitude and follow the contours of the the mountain. Series of short bursts are used navigate over the scree, looking similar to a boy trying to cross a river without getting his shoes wet.

I peer down the gut of two tentacles of jagged outcrops.

Nothing. Must be the next one.

Another burst of speed to cross the landslide zone and to the relative safety of the next outcrop.

He’s got to be here.

And he is. The grey monotony of of rock is broken up by a thick patch of waving brown hair, alive from the wind, but what lies beneath certainly is not.

I heel into the rock and work my way down to him, taken back by the sheer mass of the piled up animal. A tank of a creature with four short legs to power it through the mountains.

I look out over what his last view must have been. I wouldn’t complain in the afterlife if this was the last thing I saw before I took the plunge.

My camera comes out of my pack to record this short portion of my life. I like to capture the truth of what really happened, not what my ever lessening memory decides to make of it over time.

It’s beautiful, surreal and terrifying. The first two make sense to most people, the last often needs explanation. This exact moment, this exact thing I am doing right now is why I was put on this earth. And to know that one day I will no longer be able to do this whether from dissolving health or unseen circumstances drives deep into me.

The camera snaps a few photos, guaranteeing I can look back to this as it happened.

I sit for a moment and tell myself to soak it in as this may be the last time you ever see this place on earth.

But duty calls and the animal that I killed needs to be broken down.

The camera goes in its case and the knife comes out of his.

I unfold the blade, check its sharpness and stand over the tahr as I make a long slit up his stomach.

Thunk.

Oh shit.

My eyes immediately move to the empty spot where my camera had sat moments before.

No no no no nonono.

I stop myself short from launching off the small cliff I’m standing on. A small black case no less round than a bowling ball picks up momentum and uses it to free itself from the constraints of gravity.

Stay in the case. Please stay in the case.

By now the speed has added significant vertical lift to each bounce.

The camera is obviously smashed to bits as if it were a bag of ice being broken apart by repeated poundings on the ground… but maybe it will hold stay in the case and a least give you back the SD card.

The SD card. The DNA of this trip. It holds all the memories of three weeks packed into a lifetime in its thumbnail sized existence.

Hold together.

The mountains aren’t listening or at least they aren’t taking requests at the moment.

The bag bursts. The contents within race in opposite directions as if they were magnets repelling one another.

My eyes looks for the body that holds almost all visual information from my entire trip to New Zealand. But it is useless. The whole ensemble is now nearly a thousand feet below me in a shredded mess.

My heart sinks.

The cycle is complete. The physical pain is now complemented by the mental anguish.

You’re alive, you have the experience, but damn it, this sucks...

// Fred Bohm
 

DIY Bow Hunting New Zealand - Part 1: Pre-Plan an Unguided Hunt

Making the leap into the unknown. Traveling for the sake of experiencing something new and with the intent of purposely changing one’s perspective. Easier to do today than ever because of technology, but still there is that residue of instinct in us to remain in one place, to stay where we are comfortable and where we know what dangers are nearby. Better to know the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

I decided I wanted to shake hands with the devil I’ve never met by bowhunting the Southern Alps of New Zealand. Now granted, it’s not like I’m exploring some unknown region in Papua New Guinea with the potential of getting my head shrunk by the local tribesman, but it sure as hell does involve a bit more legistics than tossing my bow in the truck, grabbing food on the way and jumping over to the next state for a hunt.

So I did what any smart person would do. I bought the plane tickets first before making much of a plan at all. Commitment. That’s the hardest part, the rest you’ll figure out along the way.

OK, now I know what country I’ll be hunting in, but now what? That’s about as useful as saying, “I’m going to hunt the United States.” Yea great slick, there happens to be millions of acres you can wander through but you might want to narrow it down a bit.

What species? Are you looking to chase the infamous red stag, fallow deer or how about tahr? High or low elevation? Backpack or truck hunting? Bow or firearm? What time of year is best? What gear are you going to need? What’s the permit system entail?

The questions are endless. It’s not hard to fall into “paralysis by analysis” when trying to plan a trip out of the country. Try to answer all of these at once you’re just as likely to get a case of the “fuck its” and giving up on the trip all together.

I’ll try to break it down as simple as possible in a three part series, giving you the info I come across as I find it. This one will cover the pre-planning it will take to make the trip a success, however you define it. I’ll also do one on the gear I’ll be taking as well as a post mortem when I return so you can learn from my mistakes.

This isn’t meant for the guys headed over to New Zealand on a fully guided hunt, chasing monster stags behind high fences. If that’s your deal, good for you, you’ll find resources on plenty of guide’s pages. This is for the DIY hunter trying to do this on a budget.

Here are the things I’m working through/have worked through to get this hunt off the ground.

When to Hunt New Zealand

This will depend on what you plan to hunt and the assumption that you’ll be trying to catch the rut. Know that there are other times you may want to hunt New Zealand, but this will cover the rut. Remember their fall is our spring, so a good time to go will be sometime in March through June. Here’s a breakdown on rut activity according to species.

• Chamois: May and June

• Tahr: May and June

• Fallow Deer: April to mid-May

• Red Deer: Late March through April

• Rusa Deer: July to August

• Sika Deer: Late March to early May

• Wapiti: Mid-March to late April

Buy Plane Tickets

I didn’t do this way in advance, just two months before leaving. A huge help for me was Google Flights. If you’re a bit flexible with timing this site can help you get the best deals on plane tickets around.

Car Rental

It’s actually easy to set up a car rental. Any online service you typically use (Expedia, Orbitz, etc.) can get you set up. The prices seem comparable to the USA. Careful though, apparently they still use lances or swords over there, because these guys drive on the left hand side of the road (that’ll give you something to Google while you’re bored at work).

Find Where You’re Going to Hunt in New Zealand

This one was a bit trickier. Here’s some ideas:

• New Zealand DOC: Great resource that gives you all the public land available (which is substantial. They even go as far as letting you enter the species you want to hunt and then recommending spots to hunt. A great starting point.

• New Zealand DOC Map of Public Land:

• Local Advice: Local advice is the best advice. Here’s the rub, who the hell wants to tell you their favorite spots to hunt. This is where you need to be willing to part with some of your own. Nothing in life is free, and this certainly applies to good hunting locations. I talked with people on forums who were visiting the USA to hunt. I advised them on areas I knew well and they reciprocated. Here’s where the Golden Rule comes in. Don’t be a dick. Make sure you hold up your end of the bargain when the time comes.

Permits and Flying with Weapons

• Since you’re bowhunting life is a lot easier. No firearms permits are needed. Safely pack your bow and you’ll be set.
• If you are hunting with a firearm there is some great information from Big Game Hunting Adventures here.

• New Zealand DOC Permit: It’s free, but you’ll need to carry one on you while hunting. These permits are for open hunting areas. Note: there are restricted hunting areas (much like our limited entry hunts) that you’ll need to apply for in our fall time if you want to hunt those areas.

Passport

Probably don’t need to explain this one, but I’ve had trips delayed because I was a knucklehead and forgot my passport expired.

A preview as to what will be in the next segment. Gear, gear and more gear. This will be an extensive list that will be considered carefully. You only get so much weight when flying and you’ll want to be mobile when you’re there. I’ll break down all the gear I will be taking, how I pack it and why I’m taking what I’m taking. Look for it in the near future. Sign up to my Newsletter to get it sent straight to your mailbox.

// Fred Bohm

Mountain Lion Hunt - A Story of Chasing Cats and Staying Human

I can’t tell you how much I loathe paper, rock, scissors. I mean deep down to the core type of hate. No matter how much I practice, I never seem to get better at it. The countless hours of calculating the odds, practicing until my hands are numb from pain, the relationships that have suffered due to my obsession, all for nothing. I still suck at it.

“Paper. Damn you! Why did I throw rock? Rock is like betting on the horse with the broken leg.” I muttered in disappointment.

For better or worse, I lost the opportunity to take the treed mountain lion’s life.

I don’t know why I would think for the worse. This is what I do, I am a hunter. Whether it be spearing a fish, shooting a deer or in this case killing a mountain lion, the end result is all the same. We take an animals life to continue ours. Whether they are pretty or ugly, it all serves the same purpose, right?

For some reason the charismatic megafauna (excellent description Steve Rinella) have more of a right to live then do the “lesser and uglier” animals. Or at least is what the public pressure indicates.

Many non-hunters appear to feel this way. Hold up a picture of a fish you just caught and they don’t bat an eyelash. Kill a cat or bear and you’re going to be hung up on a cross.

Us as hunters should not be affected by this. Meat is meat and as long as we go about taking it ethically we don’t discriminate. A life is a life.

In theory this is how it should work. Still… I am a product of my culture. Despite me knowing that this is a fucked up and a hypocritical way of thinking, it still had a small grasp on me.

I wanted to experience in a bad way what it is like for the ultimate apex predator (yours truly and hell for that matter, most of you reading this as well) to hunt another apex predator and kill it. Not just a creature that was used to getting hunted, a creature that served the purpose of feeding those higher up on the food chain.

That opportunity would not come on this hunt to be the killer. What did come was the opportunity to experience and document the emotions for three very different people. This is a role that I’ve been taking more serious as of late and enjoying it immensely.

At first as I approached the three hound dogs howling in ecstasy, all I could see was the rear end and tail of what was the first mountain lion I would see in the wild. The fevered pitch of the bone jarring howls came from what only could be an animal that was performing to perfection its sole calling in life.

The cat stared down at the dogs, not exactly knowing what to make of them. Threat yes, but could she take them? That was what she was deciding as we approached her. She must have sensed that there was more on her trail than just the three jabbering dogs.

Then she looked at me.

Not looked, but stared deep into me, analyzing me, deciding who was the apex predator.

Then for the first time in my life came the feeling of being unsure of my position on the food chain. This was the first lion I had ever seen in the wild. This was the first time I had seen something that could make the decision whether to kill me or let me live. This was the first time I felt what it was like to be possibly hunted.

She was not stupid. She calculated her odds and decided one against six was not in her favor. She lept from the tree and decided to try to find a place that would adjust the odds to allow her to come out as the winner.

The race continued and so did my emotions about what I was doing.

Part of me said the only way this would be a fair battle between apex predators was to go at it with here one on one.

Part of what has separated us from the majority of other species is the ability to create and use tools that give us the advantage in any given situation. In this particular situation we are using hound dogs, bows and safety in numbers to our advantage. We are doing what all humans do when at all possible, we are tipping the odds of success and safety in our favor.

She trees but does not feel her surroundings are quite right.

She takes off again.

The dogs do their job and pin her one more time. She knows the gig is up. Running has proven fruitless so far. This is what worries me as I approach.

Fight or flight. Flight was now out of the equation.

We approached the tree. Steam from her forceful hisses eject from her mouth as a warning. I questioned what I would do in order to survive in this situation and the thought makes the hairs on the back of my neck prick up.

I knew I was attaching human traits to this creature and knew the dangers it can cause. But still… a living creature is a living creature and their number one priority is to keep the “living” part in front of the “creature”.

We tie up the dogs knowing full well that they would attack the cat after she was shot. With a broadhead in the cat’s carcass it would not be a pretty sight.

As we circled her she never unlocked her eyes from me. Maybe she is curious to the contraption pressed against my face, recording the last minutes of her life.

Or maybe it was something more. Part of me said she knew I was new to this and therefore perhaps the most susceptible to her pleas. But a bigger part of me said she knew I was the only one not holding a weapon and if shit hit the fan, I was the one she was going for.

The shooter moved in to position and I right behind him. The houndsman gripped a 9mm in his hand with the false sense of security it provided in case he was called upon.

As the bowmen drew back I watched her through the camera. The hunter was becoming the hunted and she showed no fear whatsoever in the end.

I prayed for a clean shot.

My prayers were answered.

She died and with it my question as to what we were doing. We were doing what we have done since the beginning of time. We were as involved as anyone could be in the this freaky thing we call life. We were surviving, like any every other creature in this world attempts to do. We were a part of this process first hand, not hiding behind money and the deaths you can buy with it, not behind hypocritical social media posts that proclaim our superior morals and certainly not disconnecting ourselves from our role in the animal kingdom.

Make no mistake about it, we are killers in every sense of the word. We are ALL killers, whether we know it or not. Some of us just decide to take the responsibility of it into our own hands. We decide to stay as absolutely as connected as possible. We decide to stay human.

// Fred Bohm