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

Hunting Mule Deer in the Backcountry of Colorado

Where Generals Are Made

Shaun and I are tucked into nature’s umbrella, a shallow cave set unto the rocks 12,000 feet above where the dolphins play. It’s downright brutal out. Man evolved into what it is today, solely to stay out of these heinous elements, or at least this is what I’m telling myself at the moment.

We’re up here testing our grit in attempts to find elk, mule deer, and if all goes right, perhaps possibly sneak an arrow into a bear if the situation allows. We walk into this full well knowing that we would be punished by nature for having the audacity of challenging it’s wrath. There will be no mercy for the stupid on this trip.

The night before we started our leisurely stroll at 3:00 am. This would give us enough time to hike the necessary six miles back to start glassing before sunrise.

“I can’t believe they’re out in this weather.” I whisper to Shaun as I see three buck mule deer appear out of the clouds.

“Since the beginning of time they’ve been doing this same routine. Eat, sleep and avoid hunters. They don’t have the luxury of sitting on the couch and ordering a pizza when mother nature decides it wants to have a pissing contest.” is Shaun’s response.

This reminds me what a severe disadvantage we have over them. They spend every day honing their skills of survival, while I sit in front of a computer and slowly become less and less like my badass, wooly mammoth slaying ancestors.

“Yea, we’re screwed. Our chances may only be about 10%, but I tell you what, they fall to 0% if we’re home sitting on our respective couches, watching hunting shows of what we should be doing.” I throw back at him.

“Agreed.”

So that ends our long list of pre-rehearsed excuses that both of us had squirreled away for just such and occasion. Either do or don’t. That simple.

So we do… and then we don’t. We sit and plan stalk after stalk and have them fizzle out for one reason or another. On the third day an opportunity arises and we devise a plan that just might stand a chance.

Escape routes. I’m tattooing this on the back of my bow hand so I can see it every time I’m at full draw. If you hunt with a partner, this is one advantage you have in the woods that otherwise is diminished by not just one bumbling fool stumbling through the woods, but two.

Know where that animal will retreat to when person A blows the stalk. That way person B is in their direct path. And I happen to be person A in this situation.

We make the 1,200 foot drop from our glassing area into the valley that separates us form the 800 foot climb that holds the mulies. This grueling transition gives a nice incentive not to screw up, because if you do, you’re doing it again tomorrow. Get the job done right the first time and avoid the stair master the next morning.

The plan runs through both our minds until it is burned in. On our descent, we repeatedly stop and make sure the landmarks we picked out to keep us in the correct positions don’t become warped by perspective like a Funhouse mirror. As our angle changes so does the look of the landmarks. These repeated stops keep everything in check.

Fists are bumped and we go our separate directions. I’ll be making the stalk, Shaun will be lying in wait in their escape route. Neither of us are military, but we feel we should both be promoted to Generals because of our flawless tactics.

I make the climb, taking about 45 minutes to get into position. The steps are laborious, the angle of the mountain looking like GoPro’s recent stock gains.

I arrive. I can’t believe I actually hit my mark. Now, this seems like an easy thing to do when looking at a perfectly two-dimensional perspective from across the valley. But this flat map of a world from over there turns into a three-dimensional nightmare over here. Everything looks different. But the time we spent memorizing our landmarks paid off.

There he lays. One of the three. A abnormally wide 2x2. A rack as disproportionate as Dolly Parton's. I thought either one of the other 4x4s would be my pick, but man this guy has some character. And I love character.

I push in as the wind swirls around me. I’m feeling invincible after getting two amazing animals this season with my bow. I’m on fire right? That’s an asshole thought can give you asshole results.

I move in slowly with a juniper tree between us for cover. I watch my feet as I attempt to keep them on solid granite to silence my steps. Ten more yards and I will have this guy covered with my 30 yard pin. That’s what would happen if I took the time to check my wind.

I’m at my mark, however, he isn’t. Not a sound, not a blurred movement. Just gone.

Like a college student slipping out the back door of a less than inspiring one night stand, he’s gone.

"I was never that slick." I think to myself.

Now I sit and wait, hoping that my dreams of becoming a General don’t slip away with my botched stalk.

You’re on Shaun.

I wait for what feels entirely to long. Then he’s there. Shaun comes walking up the only chute that slashes the cliff the deer were only moments ago sleeping on. He has a smile on his face.

“Yea?!” slips out of my mouth.

“Well, yeah. And no. Both.” comes his response through his camo face mask.

“Enough with the mysterious horse shit. Spill it girlfriend.”

“The plan worked. After you blew the stalk (dammit, he knew...) they sauntered down the trail. I drew back, aimed at the closest…. And he proceeded to do his best Jessie Owens impression just as my arrow let fly. I missed, but I shot at my first animal ever with my bow.”

Success. Our plan worked-ish. No prize to hold in our hands, but that wound only lasts a heartbeat. We put a plan together, stuck to it and it worked. We were not able to control all the variables so the end result wasn’t a guarantee. I wouldn’t hunt if it was.

We walk out of the woods with smiles on our faces and an uncontrollable urge to get home. There should be a parade and some snooty dignitary waiting there for me. Time to get some stars pinned.

The General, over and out.

// Fred

Bowhunting Coues Deer in Arizona's Blue Range Wilderness

I Need You To Be Strong, Lizard, a Storm is Coming

Five days in the deep and you’ll start to talk to anything that is willing to listen. I don’t know if he is a consenting audience, but the lizard makes no move to leave the sunbaked rock, so I take it as approval. I knew a solo trip is what the soul ordered, just me in my own head. So what better place for isolation than deep in the backcountry of no-mans land, the primitive wilderness of Arizona. I figured there would be a few beer swilling, ATV hunters roaming the one road that runs into the Blue Range Primitive Area. I knew they wouldn’t prove to be competition once a mile off the road. The predictability almost knocked me off my high horse as I look back at the throttle twisters with Bass Pro bow racks lashed on. This was going to be easy.

Words like these tend to punch you in the face repeatedly. I came out of this one like I just took 5 rounds with Pacquiao.  Easy and Coues deer don’t belong in the same sentence. This was the prey for the next five days of my life and I can honestly say, I can’t remember having more fun getting my ass handed to me. Everything I did, these little coked up fellaswere two steps ahead of me. They were hypersensitive almost to a point of being spastic. There was nothing within a hundred yard radius of which they weren’t aware. If a butterfly took a dump and didn’t wash it’s hands afterwards, they knew about it.

So my tutelage began; As I stalked them deeper into the backcountry, everything else in life faded away. Work, stress, the drama that we inflict to make ourselves feel important… all just gone. So simple, so stupid; To chase animals like I did when I was 8 years old, and acquire that same mentality. Life is as complex or as simple as you make it, the decision is yours.

Alright, you’re not here to listen to my philosophies on life. Off the soap box, on back into the dirt.

The learning process was accelerated due to the fact that this place was crawling with deer, although holy hell did they make you work for it. The first set I got to was about 5.5 miles back, and right at the top of the ridge. It felt like I was back in Colorado hunting high country mule deer.

Stalk after stalk, these little fellas proved entirely in control of the situation. I stood little chance. Get in close enough, and they just sensed you. No real explanation, they just knew you were there.  However, through the amount of practice they so graciously gave me, I learned to get closer and closer. Things were starting to come together. My mentality on big game hunting has always been, “If I get a stalk in, the trip was a success.” I got more stalks in on this trip than all the stalks of my short hunting career combined. So yea, I could officially check this one off as a success.

Fred's Coues deer, still in velvet.

Lizard and I’s conversation leaves the superficial and gets more profound. We were deep into the realm of double-slit theory, when he pointed out that yes, two beings can be in two different places at the same time. I was about to counter his point when, “Holy shit, your right…” squeezed out of my throat. The buck that I had chased in the morning and was supposed to be hundreds of yards away had materialized back in the valley. “No freaking way.”

The ambush was on. I slid my ghost feet on (more on this in another article) and hauled ass to a choke point in the valley that he had to go through. No slipping by me this time. I sprinted down the mountain and came sliding into my contact point. I checked the wind, as I knew I couldn’t possibly go unnoticed with my aroma. Five days in 98 degree heat… I could knock a buzzard off a shit-wagon by now.

Getting the stank off.

Wind, check. Visuals, check. Nothing could get past me at this point without me noticing. A roll reversal. I was the hypersensitive hunter and I knew their game. I see him move across the far side of the choke point with two of his drinking buddies. Just a little more… and… a one-eighty. Back up the valley.

I could feel lizard’s eyes watching me, not judging, but wanting to see if the student had learned. I got into the stream bed and worked up to a cutoff point in a patch of trees. They were wary at this time of day, so I knew they would be using the trees as cover. I used the stream to keep me lower than the rest of the valley as I sprinted up to the aforementionedcutoff point.

Feet as silent as a mouse fart, I workinto the trees edge. I hear a snap. I come up out of a crouch about 3/4 of the way up. I see velvet, then I see eyes. He has no idea what I am, as I’m sure he has never seen a human within 8 yards of him. The equation goes like this, if a human is within a hundred yards of me, I know it. So I didn’t know you were there, therefore you are not a human. I draw my bow low, side-step, aim (if you can call it that from 8 yards) and prove to him that I damn well am human.

I look up the hillside and lizard is pleased. He learns that humans can in fact learn. I learn that lizards have an uncanny knowledge of quantum physics.

Coues deer.

// Fred

Desert Mule Deer in the Arizona Backcountry

"So now what? This can’t be the end of my season.", I say this as I’m standing over my southeastern Colorado antelope, officially completing this year’s hat trick. This was my first real season of big game hunting, and obsession wouldn’t even begin to describe how I attacked it. When map porn ousts the good old fashion version, well my friend, you’ve got a problem. Or is it the other way around? Anyway. This fall I was either in the woods looking for animals or on the web learning and searching maps of where they might live. So this was my problem. My Colorado season was now officially over. This was not going to stand, back home the computer came back out and the research began to find a way to extend my season.

A text goes out to Shaun. “Up for an adventure?” No questions asked, the response comes back in. “Where are we going?” God I love this guy. There are talkers and there are doers. I like to align myself with the doers. Shaun is one of them. He is also one of the three originals in the “kick in the balls pact”. After graduating college at the University of Delaware, Shaun, another buddy and I all swore that in 6 months time we would all be living in Colorado, or the aforementioned balls would be swiftly kicked by the others upholding their end of the bargain. Needless to say all three of us have our balls fully intact.

I digress… hunting, right. After finding out that Arizona has a bow season from mid December until the end of January, my mind is made up. Plans are made for a desert hunt for mulies. Shaun doesn’t have a bow (also read money) so he agrees to go along as entertainment and to help out with the 14-hour drive from Denver. He’s passed out like a baby in 5 minutes time. I make sure to apply random break checks throughout the night in attempts to send him into cardiac arrest. This only rocks him into a deeper slumber.

We arrive at the trailhead, Shaun fully rested and wondering why I looked so sluggish. Twenty-seven hours since I last saw a wink, what’s another ten? Let’s go find some deer! The area was everything I hoped it to be, rugged, dry, not in the fits of winter like Colorado and not a person in sight.

The first day we hiked in, pretty mellow compared to the Colorado high country we were used to. I can’t say how many times we said how beautiful this country is, but I’m sure it’s higher than what my mathematically challenged brain can count. I also can’t say how completely different this style of hunting would be from what we were used to. No amount of research or scouring maps would prepare us for what we were getting ourselves into.

We found ourselves a great little camp spot at the top of an arroyo, where we could easily climb a hillside to glass for the evening. Not a thing was stirring… not a bird, not a cricket and sure as hell not a deer. Ahh well, we hike back to the tent content with just being out here to enjoy the sights.

The morning glassing proves to be the same as the previous nights. We pack up and head in deeper into the wilderness area. Easier said than done. There are no sloping surfaces; it’s either flat ground, eroded ravines or straight up cliffs. We both have a solid climbing backgrounds so we throw caution to the wind and get after it. We head to a water source I found on an old Arizona water catchment map. It’s there to my amazement and we decide to set up camp about a mile and a half away. This camp proves to be the sweetest camp I have had the pleasure to come across. It’s a cave tucked into the top of a mountain with a perfect overlook of the valley, near a water supply and even with a soft sand floor to rest our sorry asses on. This thing would be perfect for a mountain lion (as I was assured there were plenty by a BLM officer).

"Shaun, you go in first."

"You’re the one with the pistol!"

"Think of how cool your wife would think you were if you wrestle a mountain lion to death and bring her back the pelt in show of your manliness."

"My wife is a vegetarian."

"I told you not to marry her…"

I walk in with my pistol drawn. I figure if there were a mountain lion it would have the common sense not to attack the guy with the pistol and go straight for the mook hiding behind the boulder. Lions hate cowards. I never go to prove my theory however; the lion must have been up in Colorado on vacation. Good timing.

We settle in and notice a massive amount of deer pellets on the ground. These things are using the caves to get out of the sun during the day, I think to myself.

"They’re Taliban", I mutter.

"What?", asks Shaun.

"The deer, they’re living in these caves like the Taliban man, that’s why we aren’t seeing them.", I reply.

"Sneaky bastards… moving around these cave systems like the NWO in the tunnels of DIA!” Shaun throws back.

"Yea Shaun, just like the NWO…", I smirk.

Despite these earth-shattering revelations we head out to scout for an overlook to glass from. That night and the next morning are spent looking out over the valley.

"See anything?", I ask.

"Yea. Rocks. Ohh and then there was more rocks.”, Shaun spits off with a sarcastic smile.

"Sweet, any look like they’d make it in the record books? Think we could get a good stalk on one?”, I smile. Freaking wiseass. Yea, needless to say there are a lot of rocks out here, but I also heard there are some monster mulies as well.

There were beers riding on the first spotting of a deer, which was hopefully motivation enough to keep Shaun awake behind the glass. Not much luck there. He doesn’t seem to like beer as much as I do but he does love his sleep.

"Got one.”, I say.

"Got one what?", Shaun mutters.

"Got one deer. I mean I got a deer in my binos.”, I reply.

“Well go shoot it!”, he exclaims.

"Can’t, it’s an inny. Needs to be an outty.”, I snicker, finding myself hilarious.

One solo doe meandering her way out of an arroyo has been the most action of the trip.

“Well at least we know there is something living out here.”, Shaun quips.

We head back to our cave, confused as to where they can be, but not disheartened. The next three days prove much the same. Find water, glass it, wait, repeat.

The desert and glassing leave a lot of time for thinking. Some of it involves wondering if the Broncos are going to blow the Superbowl (I’m writing this after the event… yea they do. And in a painful way) Other times I wonder if I can fit my whole hand in my mouth. Sometimes there is even an insight that resembles an actual semi-intelligent thought.

The empty desert has a funny way of throwing you through an array of emotion. The first couple of days it’samazement at the sheer beauty and how lucky you are to see it unspoiled. Later it moves you to feel a bit insignificant as you have absolutely no effect on it’s day to day. Sure I could light it on fire (not really possible) and feel like my actions had some type of significance on it’s overall existence, but over the long run it doesn’t. Kind of depressing. It doesn’t really matter what you’re doing out there or how you’re enjoying it… you are irrelevant. Christ, did Shaun put some peyote in my mountain house? Shut up and go find some deer!

The days go by, there are no deer to be found, but they are no less enjoyable. Just me, my bow and a buddy who truly enjoys the solitude and beauty of this type of environment. Sounds like the ending of a romantic novel I know, but true nonetheless. We hike out no less excited then the day we walked in. After all, Arizona’s Archery-Only Non-permit Tag will be good at the end of December as well.

In our true style, plans are made for December on our drive home. Our typical post mortem is thoroughly broken down on what we need to do to be successful next time as the radio blares warnings of a massive snowstorm pushing through the front range of Colorado. Looks like our 14-hour drive just turned into a 20-hour drive, I think as Shaun’s eyes get heavy in the passenger seat. Not this time buddy.

"Oh yea, I saw the first deer. Fire up that phone of yours and find us a microbrewery in Albuquerque.”, I hit him with.

I got my well-earned beer and drank a second to solidify my position in the passenger seat.

"All yours buddy! I had to much to drive!”, I exclaim as I wonder how Shaun puts up with me sometimes.

"I’ll make sure to knock a couple back before we head out in December", he mutters. He points her north as we speed off into the storm.

// Fred