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
 

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

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