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
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
Javelina Bowhunt in Arizona's Backcountry
“When does a kid ever get to sit in the yard with a stick anymore? You know, just sit there with a fucking stick. Do today’s kids even know what a stick is? You sit in the yard with a fucking stick and you dig a fucking hole … I don’t think there are any sticks left.”
Solitude. The need to walk into desolation and for a few days, just listen to nothing. No chatter, no flashing pictures pulsating from the tiny world we keep in our pockets, no validation from social media “likes”, no ambitions of creating a “better” future for ourselves. Just silence.
Creepy, maddening, terrifying silence. I mean the kind that you hear the blood pulsing in your ears and the howl of the wind becomes your friend and enemy all at once. The kind where you talk to yourself out loud in order to stay off the demons. The kind that any person who wants to advance beyond their current self should demand of themselves at least a couple of times a year.
I was in the Arizona desert, chasing javelina and mule deer deep in the backcountry with my bow in hand. Braving the heat on what was a solo hunt, self-induced vision quest.
I sat in the desert with a stick in my hand, poking at an anthill. They didn’t seem to mind much, whatever I destroyed they appeared to fix without complaint, or at least that’s what I would have liked to believe. From time to time my binoculars made their way up to my eyes in what was a forced show of focus. I knew the mule deer wouldn’t be moving in the heat of mid-day, but I had to put on a show, to prove to myself that I wasn’t in need of constant entertainment. To prove that I could just sit, with a stick in my hand and enjoy the present moment.
The heat waves made the glassing even more of a ridiculous endeavor, my effective glassing range couldn’t be more than a few hundred yards. Still…
The day wore on as did my expectations of seeing movement. Out here there is a god of movement. That god is a fireball in the sky that dictates how and when a creature gets to expend its energy, usually occurring when his shift is over.
While out here, I was under the command of this same god. I sat in the midday heat under its control. Sit and wait it out was the only option. Camp was a few miles away as well as the only liquid to be found for more miles than I cared to admit.
I swished my remaining water in my Nalgene, trying to calculate the portions I would divy out from now until I could find some more.
It wasn’t looking like I was going to have a chugging contest with myself anytime soon.
With little else to do my mind wandered back to the previous four uneventful days of sitting in the broken Arizona desert. Little was happening around me and I suppose that is the exact reason I was here. For nothing.
It usually took at least a day to release the neurotic thoughts of work. The constant jockeying for my brain’s attention to fix problems that weren’t really there, just something I create to occupy my time and validate my existence. Typically I can beat this out of my system by a brutal hike in, release it with the city sweat that pours out of my body.
This trip however it had proved to be a lengthier process. After four days in however, I was really there, enjoying the moment and caring about little else.
The sun was about forty-five minutes from getting some shuteye so I mustered myself up and slowly straightened my spine. I remember begging for younger days when being sore was something that my father complained about, not me.
I started off slow, taking four steps and pausing to scan the scrub bushes that fought for their existence in this arid environment. They really had to have wanted to be here to put up with this brutal attack from the sun day in and day out, or perhaps they just didn’t know any better. There is no “grass is greener” syndrome if you don’t know the grass is different elsewhere.
There has to be something alive out here beside bushes. All the sign I had found so far was proof of it.
The miles dragged on and with it my focus. Water, dehydrated food and a sleeping bag was my incentive to to keep the feet churning.
The hill where my temporary home existed was within a stone’s throw. A final push of my creaky bones and I would be sipping on hot water that had also been on the defensive from the sun all day.
That’s when they appeared.
The movements came slow at first. Almost like a chess game, dark figures advanced, moved laterally and retreated.
Then with a cry from a single javelina came the chaos. They split in every cardinal direction, some came dangerously close to toppling me over like a bowling pin.
All but one. He stood his ground. This was his territory and whoever this bipod was, he wasn’t going to intimidate him.
I nocked an arrow all the while looking straight into his eyes, praying he wouldn’t move.
As I drew back he stood defiant, holding his ground. The arrow released and that sought after and distinct “thud” put a smile on my face. With a squeal he was off.
He tore up the ground and made a death run in the direction of my tent.
I sat down in the encroaching dark, allowing him to have solitude during the last moments of his life. Perhaps he would want to be with his tribe during his last breaths or perhaps he would want to leave this world how he came into it, alone. Or perhaps I was attaching human traits on this animal because I’d been sitting in the desert for the last four days with little else to think about.
I let the solitude fade out of my system and bid it a welcome goodbye, if just for a little while. I powered up my sat phone and heard the warm voice on the other end.
“You got one? So you’re coming home?” She said in way that could only come from someone who understands you.
A smile crept on my face, knowing that my self-enforced isolation had come to an end.
“I’m coming home.” I said.
With that melted away the need, at least temporarily, to walk alone and I was ready to go rejoin my tribe.
// Fred Bohm
Arizona Mule Deer Hunt - The Tea Party
The tea was poured for my imaginary party. I had my pinky up in true form, pulling my first sip through tight lips to keep from burning my palette when I saw him out of the corner of my eye. My pity party was rudely interrupted by an uninvited guest. Well he was invited but his arrival couldn’t have come at a worse time.
Minutes earlier I plopped down on a rock in disgust with the morning. I wasn’t getting my way and I wanted everyone to know it. A few mulies had been seen, but nothing to my liking. The ailments of a first world hunter.
I looked down at my bow laying next to me warming itself like a cat in the mid morning sun. Passing up the four arrows perfectly lined up in my quiver, I reached down to the one laying on my rest and plucked it off the string.
“My fingers are filthy.” I murmured to myself. It was true, six days in the backcountry and every surface and crevice that wasn’t covered in clothing looked like it had taken a mud bath.
Ten minutes into my spa day and I had finished nine digits of my manicure. God damn I was looking fine.
As I dug into my last finger that’s when my guest decided to make his appearance. Now this honestly shouldn’t have come as a shock to me. For the previous six days I dreamed up vivid stories in my head how one day I was going to be that guy where sheer dumb luck was going to set a giant animal into my lap.
You know the story. Some dipshit in sweatpants and a Packers jacket that stumbled off his four wheeler half hammered draws his wife’s bow back and takes the state record… that sort of story, although perhaps less bitter. This was that day.
“Hello dipshit.” Came the voice of a well racked mule deer.
“You gotta be kidding me.” I don’t dare mumble as our eyes lock.
He had beelined it towards me on a path I must have missed during my sulking session. He didn’t pretend to know I wasn’t there, but he also didn’t know exactly what to do with me either. I mean he obviously had a rendezvous with some sweet little thing further down the trail and if I wasn’t going to make a move, well then he aimed to keep that appointment.
I kept telling myself not to move my eyeballs. Stay still and let him make the mistake. Well, that was part of my brain telling me to do that. The part that never wins.
The bigger part of my brain (maybe that should be read “smaller”) saw myself doing a forward roll, scooping up my bow, loading the arrow (oh, and finishing my manicure mid flight) and launching myself horizontally through the air as I drew back, blew a kiss to my endearing fans while my arrow split his heart in two.
What actually happened was none of the above. I tried to sit there still, but the deer didn’t need a sixth sense to know that I was up to no good.
He spun on his hooves and started his trot to the outskirts of the field.
“Well sitting here looking stupid isn’t gonna help the situation.” I coached myself as I reached for my bow and sunk the arrow into place.
I saw the arch he was on and had a good idea where he was going. If he stayed on the same trajectory he would be within shooting range in a few seconds.
I reached for my rangefinder and pre-ranged the spot I expected him to appear at. The grass was tall and made for a bit of a guess job as to where I actually had the crosshairs.
Sixty-seven yards. Doable if he did the typical mule deer thing and froze when he saw me again.
Just like I had hoped for. He crossed the aforementioned spot, slammed on the brakes and looked over at me. He froze like he was looking at Medusa herself.
Bingo.
I slowly dialed my sight in. Sixty seven on the dot.
My shot sequence went off without me knowing it. The pin was centered.
“Squeeze your back man. Pull through the shot.” I thought, trying to keep that rack out of my peripheral.
My draw arm flew back indicating that the shot was off.
I watched through my housing as the arrow increased its revolution, screaming towards the course I sent it on.
Crack!
“That didn’t sound good.” I mumble to myself as I watched the mule deer high-tailing ass out of the country.
I looked at my bow as if demanding an explanation.
“What gives?” I ask it, feeling betrayed. I was dead on and rock solid on the shot, this I knew, but the arrow sailed over his back.
With no response forthcoming, I got up and walked over to where the buck had been standing only moments before.
Turning around and ranging my backpack which was making my shooting location and this genius had the mystery of the century solved.
“Fifty four yards you say?” I said as I shook the rangefinder, figuring this would fix whatever was wrong with it.
I re-range it, with the growing fear of my stupidity.
“Yup, it’s official, you’re dumb.” Is all I could say to comfort myself.
After collecting my arrow that was a perfect 10-ring in a tree, I walked over and grabbed my gear.
I looked at my watch.
“Shit, your late for your next tea party.” I said as I walk off to find another place to sulk.
// Fred Bohm
Bow Hunting Whitetail in Nebraska
There’s an awkward moment of silence. Neither party is willing to speak.
Finally the sheriff decides to make the first move. I guess they are more accustom to these types of situations.
“Sir, are you still on the line?” I hear her ask.
“What do you mean “No”?” I stammer into my cell phone.
“I’m sorry sir, but that’s just what he said to me, no.” She replies.
“ I see. Uh… well that’s heartbreaking.” I reply, followed by more silence. “I thank you for your time.”
And just like that I have my answer.
No.
Hours earlier I had been hunkered down in my stand, not willing to move. The forest was still in that desaturated phase of pre-dawn. There were deer flowing past my stand like the currents of a calm river.
I looked to my right out of my peripheral. A monarch of a buck was staring through me. How he saw me only God knows.
He walked off, almost nonchalant. He knew it was too dark for me to try my luck at him.
As the dimmer on the earth’s light source was increased, the deer started to dissipate into the shadows. They had this timed perfectly. They knew when it was safe to be seen and when it would cost them their life.
I let out an exhale to push the morning’s events aside. There would be more.
I peered over at my backpack, wondering if it was safe to pull out the canister that held my lifeblood, the thick black water that would keep me wired for the morning sit.
“Better hold off.” I thought to myself.
Wise choice in hindsight. Moments after my internal battle for immediate gratification with the coffee I hear a rustle in the distance.
“Time for a little rattling.” I said as I grabbed the monsterous mule deer racks I use for rattling.
After a short session where I managed yet again to smash a finger, I put down the headgear and grabbed my bow.
The far off rustling steadily grew. He was beelining it for me. He wanted in on the action.
I positioned myself as best I could for the window I was hoping he would stop in.
I saw him out of the corner of my eye which immediately set my heart into overdrive.
“He’s small, he’s small. It’s not a big deal Fred, just a small little buck that you might as well shoot while you’re here.” I chanted to myself.
God I must be dumb. Somehow over the years I’ve been able to convince myself of my own lies.
He was huge.
He moved in like he was hooked and being reeled in by a market fisherman.
Just like I had planned, he stopped in the tiny window carved out of the trees at a spot I had sprayed with synthetic piss.
He sniffed.
I shot.
Blood sprayed in all directions. He made his final death sprint, thinking the further he was from the spot that caused him pain, the safer he would be.
I sat back in relief, playing the whole sequence back in my mind to burn the time. The shot was right where I requested it to be, but out of respect for his will to live, I gave him time.
A half hour later a climbed out of my stand and walked towards the scene of the incident.
It was a murder scene.
I followed the blood, trying not to slip on it.
Fifty yards later I came to a barbed-wire fence. The one direction I prayed that he would not go and he did.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Of all the places you could have run…” I muttered to myself as I looked over the fence to what might as well have been North Korea.
Private property.
No problem, hop on your OnX map, find the landowner’s name, call him up, recover the animal, take pics of your accomplishment.
Simple enough strategy in my mind at least.
Several hours later after attempting to call the owner, going to visit his house, talking to the local game warden and finally talking with the sheriff to see if they could get a hold of the guy I was sitting dumbfounded in my truck.
It would be like the a toddler kicking a beach ball into the neighbor’s yard by mistake then the neighbor refusing to let him retrieve it. Oh and then stabbing the ball with his pocket knife and taking a dump on it (maybe I got a little carried away there).
I was heartbroken. How could I have been so dumb. I knew you were walking a fine line by playing so close to private property and I got burned. Worst of all I knew that there was going to be a rotting carcass lying on the other side of that fence that I had caused.
Hunting isn’t clean. Hunting isn’t always pretty. Hunting can be heartbreaking.
//Fred Bohm
Bow Hunting Whitetail on Public Lands of South Dakota
“10% of the hunters kill 90% of the game.” Goes the saying. A year of training, scouting and flinging carbon was put forth to eek my way into that ten percent.
This was my year to make it happen. Invest the time, become so obsessed with getting the result I wanted that failure would not be an option.
Let me tell you a little about the last part of the previous sentence. Failure is an option, it’s always been an option. Whether you like it or not, it’s the truth. Quoting some superhero from an action movie doesn’t make it a reality.
Failure is an option for us because the consequences aren’t dire. If we don’t kill an animal, we can stop by the supermarket on the way home and pretend we did.
Now the creatures on the other side of this equation… For them failure is not an option.
For them failure means death. From what I can tell they have a little more incentive to be on the winning end.
Overthinking it a bit you say? I agree.
As you can see, I was down in the dumps from my 2017 season so far. I got my butt handed to me by elk, deer and a wide assed bear I had been chasing for the last 20 days in the backcountry. I was having a bit of the “whoa is me’s”.
It was time to switch up my game. Switch up the animals I would be chasing and hopefully change up my luck.
It was time to hang up my worn out treaded hiking boots. Time to air out the tent, give my backpack a rest and recover my lungs with some lower elevation hunting.
It was time to chase whitetail.
My buddy Joe had reintroduced me to chasing whitetail the year previous. It had been some twenty-five years since I sat in a stand, waiting for the always skittish, air sniffing whitetails to walk on by.
At first I thought I’d be bored out of my mind. I was used to chasing velvet clad mule deer in the high country, creeping in on them, forcing the situation. I was more into the proactive side of hunting.
I didn’t think that I was prepared for all day sits in a small little piece of real estate waiting for the action to come to me.
Just like the “Lefties” thinking welfare is a good idea, I was wrong.
That first year back in the stand taught me that this style of hunting was just as hard as any high-country hunt, perhaps not as physically hard, but certainly it was just as much a battle of wits.
This year I went into the whitetail season with the anticipation of any man in desperate need of redemption. I had to prove to myself that I was still a hunter, not just an outdoor enthusiast taking my bow for a walk.
I wanted to kill and I wanted to do it on my own accord.
The plan was that Joe and I would head up to South Dakota the weekend before our nine day hunt and hang some stands, do some scouting and see how the animals were recovering from EHD.
The truck was packed as we sped out of the frigid temps that had sneak attacked Denver from the north. Our bodies were fueled by anticipation and the rocket fuel of whatever energy drinks that was being absorbed in our stomachs and shortening our lifespan.
We had some areas in mind that we had hunted the year previous. We’d hang some stands in those areas as a backup plan, but our ever adventurous minds had pushed us away from the familiar and into some unexplored areas.
We pulled up deep in the night and rolled out the sleeping bags in the bed of the truck. Lights out.
Waking up to frost on my pillow and snot frozen to my face had me wondering why I was so damn cheap and didn’t just get a hotel room.
“Whatever, suck it up buttercup.” I thought to myself as I started dressing inside my fart sack.
Time to get glassing and see what this state has to offer.
The deer had obviously made a comeback. We saw more deer that morning than we did in all of the nine day hunt the year previous.
Plans were made. Stands were hung in the regular haunts and we sat and ate some lunch as we prepped ourselves for the evening sit.
The area we were about to walk into probably hasn’t seen a hunter in years. It was only a mile or so off the road, but more importantly it was denser than a tropical forest during monsoon season. No man belonged in there. Hell, no deer belonged in there either, but we knew they would be with all the pressure they’d been receiving over the previous month and a half.
Bags were packed. Gear, piss bottle and books. All the necessities for a whitetail hunter.
We crossed the river and peeled the waders off. I looked at the patches and yet again questioned my cheapness.
“Well I ain’t buying new ones” I said to Joe as he looked at the wet spots on my pants from the leaking neoprene. “Looks like Hefty garbage bags will be getting my business from here on out.”
We made a plan to meet at this spot at the river at dark. Like two explorers at odds, we headed off in opposite directions looking for our lost city of gold.
I take the river bank as far as it will let before I am forced into the jungle. As I stepped in I saw tunnels in the brush that the deer were using as arteries to maneuver the complex webbing of tangled mess.
I crouch down with stand, pack and bow in hand and crawl along like I’m taking fire from a hostile force.
“How the hell am I going to get a clear shot even if I see one in here?” I quizzed myself.
Well it’s either sit in the river or advance into unchartered territory.
I pressed on, seeing fresh sign and knowing that this is a haven from the madness.
I spotted a few trees that had the potential of holding my 150 pound frame.
Gear was thrown to the ground as I stared the tree up and down looking for the best spot to attach myself to it.
“I think this is how they did it in the Youtube video…” I reassured myself as I checked my wallet to make sure I had my health insurance card with me.
Hey, I’m used to crawling up 13,000 foot mountains to creep up on elk, not lashing myself fifteen feet up to a twig waving in the wind.
I hauled the last bit of gear up to my stand as I looked for the nearest bush to launch myself into in case all went wrong.
I settled in and exhaled.
Silence.
This is why I’m was here, to get a bird's eye view of the deer sanctuary from my reconnaissance stand and to breathe it out from the ever increasing pressures of life.
My mind started to wander when I’m suddenly snapped out of it from the consistent crunch of leaves. Not the quick scamper then sudden stop of a squirrel, but the methodical crunching of a four legged animal with the plan of going from point A to point B.
I peeked over my right shoulder. Thirty five yards away and closing comes a rack with brown fur carrying it.
“Christ, I spent nine days in this deer-barren state last year and saw a few does for the effort. Now comes a respectable deer no more than thirty minutes into my sit.” I whispered to myself in disbelief.
Luck doesn’t make sense. It’s not supposed to. But you seize it when it shows itself.
“Stay calm, don’t move and see what he does.” I chanted to myself over and over.
He did what any smart deer would do. He walked away.
I reached down for my buck grunt and try to remember what those guys in all those terrible whitetail shows would do.
A few grunts came out of the call and through the wall of brush I could see him pull a U-turn.
“This might actually happen.” I said to myself as he crept himself closer.
He wearily came within fifteen feet of my stand, in one of two spots that I could get a shot off. Luck struck again.
He locked up and just stared that million mile stare as if contemplating some deep quantum physics calculation.
Ten minutes went by. Then fifteen. He just stared off into space and in doing so not offering me a shot.
“Stay calm, don’t move.” I reiterated to myself.
He comes back to.
He turned to walk the direction he came from and offered me the perfect opportunity.
I raised out of my seat and spun. My bow came up and I drew at the same time.
He had no idea that death was standing fifteen feet away from him.
As the arrow slid through him he still didn’t know.
He walked off twenty yards and fell over like a title boxer taking a unprotected shot to the jaw.
Was dumbfounded. This happens to guys on TV shows, to first time hunters and people who pay insane money to hunt in high fence operations.
This doesn’t happen to me. I’ve come to expect my kills on the last hour of the last day of the hunt, not the first day of the scouting trip for a hunt that’s supposed to take place a week later. Hell, I almost didn’t bring my bow into the woods on this little foray.
I’m happy and sad all at the same time. On one hand I’ve just taken the only whitetail buck of in my life, on the other hand I know I’ll be missing hunting camp with my buddies the following week.
I contemplate this as I walk back to the predetermined meeting spot with Joe. I break the news to him when he asks if I saw anything.
I answer by holding up my phone with a picture of me and the buck I took no longer than thirty minutes ago.
“Holy hell, congrats man!” He breaks the silence of the woods. “Now you’re going to need to find another tag for next week.”
As we walk back to start the process of turning my deer into meat I reply, “Nah, maybe I’ll stay home and put in some more work. It’s my busy season after all.”
He looks at me with a raised eyebrow.
“Right…” Comes his reply, not hiding that he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.
By the time we’re out of the woods I’m already looking up other archery OTC tags in neighboring states.
“Time to join the 10%’ers.” I say to myself as we point the truck west.
// Fred
The Intruder | Bowhunting Colorado Pronghorn
Persistent little fuckers. His head cranes back, mandibles snapping at me in an audacious display of David vs. Goliath. And if I remember my Bible stories correct, the outcome doesn’t look good for me.
I break eye contact to scan the horizon. The heatwaves distort the grass into vertical slithering snakes making every direction I look appear to be the same. The mountains get all the credit for being the domain of badasses, but plains can be just as inhospitable. It’s been a long five days being subjected to whatever the plains had on the menu for the day. From hail to searing heat, hypodermic needle encrusted plants to rusted barbed-wire triplines. I got the feeling it wanted me to leave in a bad way. The hints were anything but subtle.
My shoulders ache, my palms sting from the remnants of cactus quill still stuck in them and my legs ache from the awkward movements that only crawling creates.
Sweat beads down my forehead, burning my eyes, but I don’t mind. Anything to ignore the now enraged colony of fire ants exploring their giant invader; me. Encroaching on another’s territory has seen effects like this since the beginning of time, an all out attack.
150 yards.
I look back down at his red head. He hasn’t moved an inch, but his brethren have. They test their front lines, advancing forward only to retreat. They want to see how interested I am in their game. We study each other, both wondering who is going to be the first to go on the offense.
“Let’s call it a truce fellas. I’ve got no beef with you. I’m only a temporary visitor to your land, a vagabond passing through . My business will be over here shortly.” I whisper in a pleading voice.
120 yards.
My bow looks like it has been resuscitated from the afterlife and came back as some sick monstrous deformation. Ants pouring over it, crawling up the string like gymnasts walking the balance beam, squirming through my peep, and making the limbs look alive with their pulsating surge.
Leave no place unexplored.
85 yards.
“Come on, come on.” I encourage.
I can’t take it anymore, I feel they are looking for exposed skin to sink their mandibles in which puts me on the attack. The best defense is a good offense I suppose.
The palm of my hand slides down my pant leg, crushing the advance sentinels. The living remain unfazed, almost callus as they step over their brother in arms. For every one I kill he is replaced tenfold. Persistent. The individual life doesn’t matter, the protection of the colony does. Great, that’s all I need, John Stuart Mill disciples.
72 yards.
Persistence… right.
This is gonna have to do. War has been declared and I know it’s full time to finish my business and beat a hasty retreat. I’m outnumbered and outgunned.
Head back in the game knucklehead. You’re here for a reason. Twenty four blown stalks and I’m not sure I have the mental fortitude to continue forward after so many screw ups. Failure weighs heavy on motivation. The last few stalks were made out of pure stubbornness.
I peer over the ant infested pronghorn decoy that I so conveniently stabbed into the colony’s home like a planted flag on a new continent.
The buck comes in broadside and he’s confused. All alone for the last few days and now this intruder in his territory.
“Well thanks for coming in to find out fella.” I whisper into the wind.
My stalk ended long ago. My only hope being that the curiosity of this creature would override its good sense to stay away from my nylon decoy. Curiosity, the cat and so on.
The wait for the right moment is never easy for me. I have a tendency to try to force something/anything to happen. Hence the twenty four previous blown stalks. My thick headedness causes me to be slow to learn. I’m not completely hopeless, after that many failures I resolve to try something different; patience. Even with the encouragement of the ants to get the hell out of their home, I succeed. I wait.
I ease the dial of my site to seventy-two. I think of the painstaking seasons I’ve spent getting this bow dialed-in to be a killing machine. Persistent, meticulous effort. Hours upon hours reduced down to this one shot.
I peer over the decoy’s back one more time to make sure all is right, that the stars are truly aligned. It’s perfect.
I anchor back, remind myself to follow through. Don’t pull your head away to watch the flight terminate on impact. Let the animal confirm it was a good hit, only then can you watch what you have just done.
The anchor is right, the distance is right, the animal is right. There’s nothing more to do than to execute.
So execute.
He trots off a short distance and lays down. I can see he is struggling with his breathing. The oxygen is having an internal battle with his lungs, deciding the two holes I just created are more appealing as an exit than staying in that stuffy container. His lungs betray him.
I look down at the ants that feel my body is their rightful claim since I trespassed on their land. They haven’t bitten me and I wonder why. Maybe they feel like we have something in common, we’re both persistent fuckers.
I walk towards the lifeless body I have just created, letting the ants come along for the ride.
“Let’s go see how our persistence has paid off.” I say.
// Fred