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.”

— George Carlin

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

Mistaken Identity - Hunting Hawaii's Big Game

“I’m only going to touch off if he’s a monster.” I told Hazel as she drops me off on the side of the road and heads into town with my visiting mother and our one and a half year old son. This has often been the scenario on this one month hunting adventure. Drop me off and let me navigate my way through unfamiliar territory, hunt, then navigate back to a predetermined pickup point and time.

Not the ideal backcountry hunting that I’m used to, but when given the constraints, you work within the parameters. It had been a rough go at first, but I had started to catch my groove.

I had taken a small nannie goat the weekend before in desperation to put my first animal on the ground for the trip. I took me two freakin’ weeks to put an animal on the ground, but since then everything started to click. Animals were spotted and successful stalks were developed. I was getting the hang of it.

I’m now standing over a medium sized goat with the last of my tags wrapped around his leg wondering where I went wrong. A classic case of mistaken identity with an innocent bystander dead at my feet.

“Shit. I’m sorry little fella, this arrow had another goat’s name on it.” I whisper as the last of his breath leaves his lungs.

But this is putting the proverbial cart in front of the horse.

Shortly after being dropped off, I hiked into a deep valley of lava rock and long waving grass. Standard billy goat country for Hawaii. I caught a glimpse of black movement out of the corner of my eye as I crouched down to peer over the top of the grass. Just what I had hoped for, a herd of goats feeding on the hillside.

To my disbelief, they hadn’t caught my clumsy movements yet. With the way I was stumbling around the hidden lava rocks below the hip high grass, I figured I had lucked upon a school of goats for the blind. At this point, I’ll take charity however I can get it.

I found a small ravine not far from my location and used it to conceal my movements. All the while, I heard the goats chatting with one another, leading me to believe I was in a rather large herd.

When I reached the top of the ravine I sat back and watched for a little bit in order to determine the direction they were feeding, then made my way to an intersecting location.

“Slow it down big guy.” I thought to myself. “There is no rush. Enjoy the moment, but mostly just don’t blow it.”

I popped my head up to see the herd moving where I had planned, with several large billies in the group.

“Just make it to that rock outcropping twenty yards ahead, use it for concealment and you’ve got an easy shot at your pick of the group.” I remember thinking to myself. Simple as that.

I inched my way forward with my eyes on the shield shaped lava rock, black as the soul of the devil himself and perched on the side of the grassy hill.

Fifteen yards...ten yards. The distance closed in as adrenaline pulsed through my veins. I could hear the throbs in my ears quicken as my heart picked up the pace in anticipation.

Seven yards…

At six yards out the rock came to life. The jet black body of a monster billie was indiscernible from the black rock it was hiding behind. I saw a blob of black and I saw two massive horns that reached for the heavens.

“Holy hell. He’s a monster and he’s only six yards away.” I thought to myself.

I froze in place like a kid playing “Green light, red light”. He was looking over his herd down the valley and hadn't noticed my partially hidden movements. His vitals were blocked by the same lava rock that was supposed to be hiding me, making him safe for the moment.

I had slowly bent at a ninety degree angle with my hips while on my knees and drew my bow without even realizing it. As I raised up he sensed something was wrong and took a step out of concealment to see.

A mistake he paid dearly for. Crack! My arrow smashed into his shoulder and he took off down the valley in order to disguise himself amongst his brethren.

A smart move on his part as the confusion of the herd protected him from a follow up shot.

“Sit down, breath and wait.” I told myself.

At six yards, I was blown away that he didn’t topple right there. What surprised me even more was that the arrow only seemed to penetrate about four or five inches in.

Sunscreen mixed with sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging them as I waited in the blazing sun. I let it beat down on me as I kept telling myself that it would be a short tracking job.

I waited until the heat was unbearable as well as the anticipation. I needed to get moving to get some air flowing over my body or I was going to freak out.

I found the turned up ground from the herd making a hasty exit. Straight up a small cliff band and all I could could think to myself was how sure footed and agile these little beasts were.

“Sticky rubber feet.” I thought to myself.

I scrambled up the cliff cursing my clumsy human movements. We may have gained opposable thumbs and reasoning during the evolutionary process, but it was doing me little good. I was out of my league in their environment.

Immediately I saw signs of what a two and a quarter inch expandable broadhead could do to a animal. It looked like a sloppy painter who forgot to put the lid on a gallon of red paint was walking along swaying his arms carelessly. Globs of red splattered the ground.

I picked my way through the goat tunnels beaten down in the four foot tall grass, cursing every time the unseen lava rock shifted underneath me causing me to look like a drunk, staggering his way home from last call.

I was convinced that at any moment he would be lying on the trail, completely bled out. Nothing could withstand this bloodloss.

I moved on, thoughts on if I would Euro-mount or just go for it and pay for the full shoulder mount on this beautiful representation of this species.

The heat and my cockiness from the blood trail was clouding my judgement.

As I cleared a small ridge I notice my goat getting up, fully aware of my presence and taking off for higher grounds. He wasn’t distracted like I was, he fully understood that being in the present moment could be the difference between life and death.

He was wise, I was a fool.

“Shit.” I thought to myself. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. I’ve been burned by not chasing down an animal when I should and now I’ve been burned by not letting them lay and bleed out.

“I guess you have to experience them all to be a well rounded hunter.” I told myself, but I knew I was really just trying to console my wounded ego.

I gave him a bit and then followed pursuit on what is now a thinner blood trail. Since he was pressured, he sped along leaving less blood for me to track.

I was soaked through my merino top and well into my backpack by this point. The heat sweltered, making my thoughts cloudy. I pushed on.

I momentarily lost the blood trail and started to grid the area. A couple of minutes into my search, I looked up and saw my goat lying down on a hilltop, perfectly exposed. I imagined him severely wounded as his head is down, only leaving his body in clear view.

I creeped in closer, my objective was to get another hole in him. Just put him down and out of his misery. The part of hunting that I hate, a long drawn out kill.

I tried to suppress thoughts of him hanging on my wall. Will I let his long billie goat beard flow naturally like the Samson of his species or will I prison braid it to bring out his inner gangster? Only time will tell.

“Get back in the moment knucklehead.” I told myself in reprimand.

I snuck within thirty five yards, directly behind him. A quartering away shot, I knew this will be quick.

The arrow rifled through the air and reached its terminus with the tell tale dull thud as it entered his body.

Previously unseen heads immediately popped up as the whole tribe came to life.

“Shit.” I breathed out.

I was in the whole pack of them again. This wasn’t a solo wounded goat looking for a place to lay down and die, this was a perfectly healthy goat at the wrong place at the wrong time.

He ran a short distance and toppled over, all life drained from him.

I’m back standing over top of him. It’s hard not to feel disappointed. I was after a big, mature billie and I now stood over his medium sized brethren.

I let the disappointment fade as I realize the importance of this goat’s life.

“You’re a dick.” I chastise myself. “You took a creature’s life and here stand disappointed that he wasn’t big enough for you. Get over yourself.”  

With that, I realized that my ego has always played a role in my hunting and I’m afraid it always will. I know that I am chasing the biggest and most badass of every creature I hunt. It’s what many of us hunters do. To be perfectly honest, it’s part of the thrill. To take the biggest and most often the wisest animal out there, proves that we are the smarter and wiser. It gives us a feeling of superiority and self importance.

Now this is a very simplified version of why some of us hunt. I can also say that this isn’t the only reason I hunt, but it certainly is part of it.

But killing is killing. One animal is not more important than another. If I kill something, I damn well better be grateful for that creature's life, no matter what it sports on its head.

Mistaken identity or not, this was a damn fine animal that will feed my family and I. This is the most important reason I’m out here anyway, the meat and my connection to it.

I leave the arrow in him as I start the process of breaking him down. Perhaps subconsciously this was my way of saying that yes, this arrow was meant for you; that you are good enough for it.

I call Hazel on my cell when I’ve finished.

“Let’s rendezvous a little earlier. I got meat for the table.” I say with a smile.

There’s my trophy.

// Fred Bohm

The Selective Memory Hunter

Six days in and I’ve seen one small pack of goats in total. Watching four kids suckling nectar from momma made this new father steady my bow before adrenaline took over and I orphaned them all.

Not quite the numbers I was hoping for.

Three dozen pointy sticks made it into my luggage with high hopes of flinging arrows like a battle scene from Braveheart. Hell, I wasn’t going to lose the fight for lack of ammunition.

Overinflated expectations is a repetitive pattern for me. Or maybe it’s just a really short term memory of what is actually the reality of hunting. The scene may change, but the story never does. I hear wild tales of of lactic acid filled arms from sending scores of arrows towards overpopulated prey. Hunters collapsing from exhaustion, not able to pull their bows back one last time.

Perhaps my brain plays these tricks on me to keep me traveling to unfamiliar hunting grounds to satiate my wanderlust. Or perhaps it really just likes to humble me when I’m getting a bit too cocky. Either way I find myself a stranger in a strange land.

This one month adventure starts off slow. I underestimate the time it will take to analyze my new environment and its inhabitants; to learn the creature’s habits. A deer at 11,000 feet above sea level in a sub-alpine environment will naturally pattern differently than a pig at 1,500 feet in a rainforest. It’s just the way it works. One I know how to find, the other I haven’t the faintest clue.

I reign in my expectations and commit to the long term. Learn, then succeed.

Like a steam engine leaving the station with its wheels spinning out on the slippery steel tracks, I throw a little sand down and slowly gain traction. I start moving forward, it starts to make sense. A pig won’t come out until near dark. A goat moves around during the hottest part of the day. Sheep jump around on the lava rocks in the early morning.

I sit and watch and realize I can fill a Bible sized book with what I don’t know about hunting and a kid’s coloring book with what I think I know.

I feel the tide slack. I’m not killing anything, but I’m no longer lost with what to do. A plan is formulating. I’m on an equal playing field with my prey now.

I can feel the tension in my immediate surroundings, as if the animals can feel a killer being set loose in their presence.

I’m ready to hunt Hawaii.

// Fred

Instant Karma

I hear my buck call clank its way down every metal screw-in step; disappearing from sight along with any hopes of walking away from this hunt with meat in the freezer.

Moments before Instant Karma himself, Joe, let these wise words of wisdom slip from his lips.

“Let me show you how the pros do it.” Grabbing my grunt call out of my hands and proceeding to show me how a six year old with a case of the tremors would handle the situation.

“That’s how it’s done? Shit… I’ve been blowing air into the damn thing this whole time! I didn’t know I should have been spiking it into the ground like an overpaid NFL wide receiver.” I announce over my shoulder, no need of keeping quiet at this point as the week’s hunt comes to an end.

Giving the guy credit where it is due, he was the only one in our hunting party to have actually put an animal on the ground. Now that his hunt is over, he’s riding shotgun on the double treestands that we have set up. He was here to show this western spot and stalk hunter how to sit still long enough in a tree stand to try to pin a whitetail to the ground.

I hadn’t seen this angle from a tree since I was thirteen years old. In the twenty six years since then, I developed a habit of not being able to sit still. My leg bounces to an unheard rhythm, a case of the Elvis leg. My body finds a way to expel energy when there is nothing to do but sit.

I have to admit that there is something soothing just sitting in a stand and waiting for them to come to you. A sense of knowing that you did the research on the area, found the right spot to hang the stand according to the clues the deer left behind, timed the rut as best you could and now the only thing to do was to wait for them to come to you.

I employed this tactic in grade school with girls and apparently I’m getting the same results now as I did then.

You don’t get this sense of peace with western spot and stalk hunting. There are just too many variables involved and you have to be ready to adjust to them. Perhaps this is the case with whitetail as well, but I’m blissfully ignorant at this point.

Out west, you painstakingly research and scout for months before the season to put yourself in what you think is the best area to mingle with your intended prey. Then you go there and throw all of that out the window as everything you learned over the past months proves to be incorrect.

And I love it.

For a restless soul, the constant demands for changing up the plan that the backcountry offers might as well be Ritalin to the ADD.

But I’m not here to be comfortable with the known, I’m here to get thrown into the unknown and see how I handle it. A test of character if you will. And that is something that needs constant testing, because without it we just float through this world in the cozy little bubbles we’ve constructed for ourselves.

For the past week, I’ve learned a few things from the group I’m with that would have taken me years of trial and error to figure out.

Hunting in two different stands according to wind and time of day? That one would have blown past me like a high speed train.

The approach to your stand is about as important as where you set it? Nope, I would have kicked through every bedding area in the dark and then wondered why I didn’t get any visitors.

The benefits of learning what others already put their blood, sweat and tears into. You have to appreciate guys that are willing to let you profit from their hard work. Selfless acts from those who could just as easily tell you to pound sand.

Teaching is more of a sacrifice to us hunters than it is to almost all other sports (lifestyle, whatever you want to call hunting) because essentially you're creating your own competition. This inevitably happens when dealing with a finite resource.

When I learned from others how to rock climb or mountain bike, there was really no conflict of interest. The teachers could still climb the same routes or bike the same trails as the student. Teach a hunter how to proficiently kill and you could end up taking food out of your own mouth. So I don’t take it lightly when someone offers to show me the ropes. I’m humbled by their confidence in their abilities to produce even when creating direct competition.

How I benefited from learning from these guys:

1. I didn’t hang myself from the tow line in my stand.

2. I got said stand in the tree in the first place without snapping a femur.

3. I learned that hip waders are worthless when the water is waist deep.

4. Me “going for distance” while peeing out of the stand might be amusing, but perhaps the deer think otherwise.

The light fades as the grunt call force field around our stands keep the deer at bay. Thank god, they were looking dangerously hungry for human flesh. Perhaps with Joe’s superior intellect in the whitetail game he saved my life from the attack of these cruel creatures.

The stands come down and we hike out the half mile to the truck. We discuss potential plans for next year and debate whether it will be worth it with EHD devastating the local population.

As we climb one particularly nasty section of hill before the truck I reach back and ask Joe if he wants me to grab his stand.

“Hell no! I’m a certified mountain climber!” He blurts out, proud of his last six months roaming the mountains of Colorado.

If nothing else, the karma gods have a sense of humor as Joe’s feet cut out from underneath him causing him to fall flat on his face.

“Gotcha Sir Edmund Hillary, when you’re done mountain climbing perhaps you can teach me your patented pro buck call tactics.” Comes a response I never really said.

For me, character was built through failure alone on this trip… and through the company/antics of some selfless hunters.

// Fred Bohm

* Cover image credit: Sean Hagen

 

Fermenting

“If I’m thinking logically, I have no business heading back down there.” I think to myself as I pour over my glowing computer screens plastered with maps of every kind. I feel like a kid playing pirate scouring maps for the hidden ‘X’ and convincing myself that this came from more than just a Cracker Jack box.

I’m not walking into this with the delusions of a naive child however. I know how the odds are stacked.

I get kick in the balls and keep coming back for more. I tell myself that next time will be different, luck will come my way if only for the time it takes to release my arrow pent up with three years of frustration.

But knowing that I’m fighting a losing battle in no way deters me. I know this is the early rounds in what might be a long battle. I go to collect more pieces to the puzzle that one day I hope to complete. All too well I know the bitterness that defeat can provide, but I also know what happens when you let that bitterness ferment for long periods of time. It produces a euphoric elixer and once drunk there is no other way you would want to taste victory.

That, the promise of warm weather and a faint suntan during the dead of winter keeps me migrating back to Arizona’s backcountry deserts from the ice blasted streets of Denver, Colorado.

The goal always remains the same and unfortunately so has the results. Get in as deep as I can into the interior of the scorched earth and find a behemoth mule deer.

The stats mean nothing to me as I look over the success results for the unit I’m going to walk into. Eight percent success rate? I convince myself it’s so low only because the selfish local hunters never report their kills in order to discourage foreigners such as myself from encroaching on their territory.

Besides I know the stats of me killing anything from my couch. Using this perspective, I’m liking my eight percent odds.

At this point packing for the backcountry is about as trivial as getting dressed in the morning. In an hour I’m out the door and pointing the truck just shy of the Mexico border.

“No wall yet?” I think as I pull up to where I’m going to leave my rig for the next eight days.

Man, he was so rah rah rah about it on the campaign trail you would have thought he’d have it half built by now.

“Maybe he decided to just make a giant moat and I can’t see it from this angle.” I wonder.

As I heft my water laden pack onto my shoulders I am glad for the relative flats of the desert. An extra forty pounds of water added to my normal assortment of backcountry gear remind me the benefits of year round training.

I’m aiming for a high point that will let me glass 360 degrees into the small desert arroyos that randomly cut through the land like a weight lifter’s bulging veins. These dried out riverbeds act as hidden highways to the animals that would rather not be seen by prying eyes.

My pack groans like a sick animal as I let it slide to the broken earth. This upheaved piece of land will be my home for the next eight days. It becomes my shelter and my lookout, my sanctuary from the madness of everyday life for a few short days. I think it appreciates my company. The desert can be a lonely place after all.

I get into my grove, glassing to the west in the morning, all around in the afternoon and towards the east in the evening to save my eyes from the sun blasting down from above. As I cook in the sun I look around and think that these rocks aren’t so much cooked from the inside but rather baked from the outside.

One day bleeds into the next and I struggle to remember the day of the week. It’s not relevant however, knowing the exact days only really matters if you’re worried about the weekend crowd coming in and ruining your fun. This most certainly will not be the case in this remote piece of land. The percentages are low that another hunter thinks this out of the way place has potential to hold animals. I take comfort in my stupidity that I like to call ‘optimism’.

I start to wonder if the state has the wrong statistics on the wrong animals after a few days. The desert bighorn sheep are absolutely crawling all over the place. An endless stream of them pass by me as the days push on.

The mule deer on the other hand almost non-existent. A small four by four passes through early one morning, alone as one can only be in the backcountry desert. He’s on a mission however and moves with certainty and speed. The sun’s heatwaves tells his internal thermostat that it’s time to find shade.

He makes no effort in covering several miles of dried up stream beds only to disappear from my voyeuristic prying. He knows how to survive in the environment he was born into. I on the other hand know that I am severely outmatched when it comes to trying to figure this animal’s next move. I’m a stranger in a strange land.

The clock runs out before all the pieces are laced together.

I pack my temporary home and head to the truck. A few more pieces of the puzzle to take home with me. I know an encounter with a monster is in my future and I know I have to have the dedication that is required to preserve from beat down after beat down. I pour the knowledge gained from this trip into the bottle and seal it back up to ferment. I look forward to the day I get to drink from that bottle, but until then I am simply happy knowing that it is there.

// Fred Bohm

Hunting Speed Goats in Colorado

There are two ways to do this, the easy way and the hard way. So much of my season I choose the later of the two, mostly for masochistic reasons. Grind yourself into the ground, make the pain real, noticeable, in order to keep yourself in the present moment.

But I don’t like to just ram it home, I like to start it off ‘’easy” and go for a spin in the truck out to Colorado’s eastern plains and sharpen my dulled stalking skills on the ample opportunities of spot and stalk hunting on North America’s favorite outcasts; speed goats.

Not an antelope and not a goat, these creatures are unique unto themselves.

With vision to rival Ilan Musk’s (see what I did there?!) and inhabiting land that has about as much concealment as a football field, these guys are as hard as it gets in the spot and stalk game.

I average about three blown stalks a day when using my stick shooter. That's adds up to a hell of a lot of practice for times you’re not going to get that type of high volume opportunity, like when chasing high country mulies.

DAY 1

Yup, three blown stalks. Alright let's be honest, one I was pretty damn close on, they were just innies instead of outies. And Colorado says I can’t shoot females until September. Time to keep looking.

I came down with the intent to kill he first legal pronghorn willing to step in front of my bow. I came with the honest intention of getting in and getting out. No obsessing, no getting caught up with with one in particular. I was going to be promiscuous, jumping from one horned goat to the next, not setting my eye on any particular one.

Well… I fell in love. He’s a big bruiser with a droopy right horn pushing around sixteen of the finest females in the county. Problem is that's thirty four potential eyes staring my way as I reluctantly crawl through the fire ant infested Satan’s beach. The beach would actually have more cover, there's the occasional sand castle built by little Johnny to hide behind.

They schooled me. Schooled me in a way that makes me come begging back for more.

This ability to traverse the land and never leave themselves in a vulnerable position has me wondering if they haven’t been receiving special forces training.

Patience, something I have very little of will be what wins out. More tomorrow.

DAY 2

Yea, this guy knows what he’s doing. He uses his does as advanced scouts. I get behind them as the sun splits the horizon with a set of heavy clouds. All is calm with leisurely feeding taking place while the big buck forks any laggers to keep them moving along. The front mistress catches wind of something she doesn't agree with and the alert is sent out.

Dust trails spit up into the air. A coyote. Now that’s some terrible timing.

I pack up and hit the dusty trail myself, leaving them to settle down until the evening.

The rest of my day is about as eventful as my grade school dance. A few awkward standoffs with little eye contact before I blow it.

Back to the real game at hand.

I have a feeling that I know where they may be. I park the truck out of sight and sumo walk up a hill using a windmill as cover.

Bingo.

I see some of the broads lying down on the far side of the hill. He’s gotta be with them. He hasn't let them out of sight since the start of this Risk game.

I belly crawl through fire ant hills and siege my way through locust camps. I’m scratched raw by the time I see the white skull caps of the females.

Thirty yards. Now all I need to do is wait them out and let the old timer make a mistake.

There’s something missing in my equation. He ain't there.

The does stand up and walk off. No buck.

“Well shit” I mutter to myself.

I head to the highest vantage point and scour the sea of sagebrush.

I don't give up and about an hour later it pays off.

He parked it on a hill overlooking his domain about two miles away.

I landmark everything I possibly can. But let's be honest, the sagebrush all must have come from the same parents, because they all look like identical twins.

I do my best to mark his location and I find a spot to park behind the hill.

Sweating bullets with more clothing on than a Muslim woman, I pop up over the hill.

He's standing looking at me. Blown stalk. God I'm getting good at not getting good.

DAY 3

The make or break day. I falter mid-day and shoot Hazel a text asking whether I should ditch the hunt and head home to regroup and then head to Arizona for my Couse hunt. Before she can text back, I’ve already made up my mind up to stay in the game. I’m not quitting now. She knows me and shoots back exactly what I was thinking.

To be truthful the cop-out had some merit. I just got finished crawling through the trenches for a thousand and a half yards like a bad war movie. I was hot, pissed off at myself and ready to give up.

“Hey idiot, you decide to do this on your time off. Stop whining about it and buck up.”

I love to give myself pep talks.

Two more blown stalks today and I'm looking for my third.

I found my volunteer. Old saggy horn himself. I want this guy on my wall in a bad way. I have an affinity to his sagging appendage. I feel his pain. I went through my childhood being called ’Dumbo’ because of my ‘George Bush’ like ears. Brothers in suffering so to speak.

Problem is, he's about two miles out with his watchdogs surrounding him like the president's Secret Service agents. And they're agitated at my stopped vehicle two miles out! Christ, remind me to call Swarovski and ask them who's team they're on.

I decide to throw the Hail Mary and go in.

After a hike through the dust bowl, fending off a pissed off bull and debating how serious the railroad company takes their ‘No Trespassing’ sign, I belly crawl the last two hundred yards only to hear the tell tail snort.

This disappointed feeling in my gut is becoming all too familiar now. Tomorrow…

DAY 4

Not tomorrow. Damn. I spent more time crawling today than I did walking. Brutalized. I'm sore from my knees, to my groin, to my neck, to my palms; and I love it!

I never thought hunting pronghorn would be so physical, but I also thought that you ate the shells of edamame. Guess I have been wrong before.

Every technique that I have heard of I've tried. Flagging. Apparently it doesn't work before the rut. Sitting on water. Might work in a dry season but considering I've found water in nearly every drainage, they don't need to risk being patterned.

I'm running out of excuses in a hurry. I'm not sure what else to do but I need to do it quick.

The animals are on to my game and we’re practically on a first name basis.

The day ends with no more interactions. Time to head home to regroup for my elk hunt.

This isn’t the end of it.

DAY 5

I come back armed for war about two weeks from my last humiliation.

They’re rutting and I know this makes them vulnerable. The doping effect of an extra shot of testosterone will be in their systems. The males are not as sharp and I mean to take advantage of that.

My secret weapon comes in the form of a vinyl antagonist that goes by the name of Montana Decoy. I’m not playing nice this time. I’m here to win.

They’re roaming about but I fall short by bumping a few groups with my slow moving truck. The moment they see a vehicle doing under sixty miles an hour, they’re suspicious and take off for the next county.

Call me crazy, but I think they’ve seen a hunter or two out here before.

I finally smarten up and decide to take advantage of what has been thwarting me. The only ones that don’t take off when I drive by are the ones on the major through-way that sees vehicles driving by every few seconds. They’re immune to the presence.

Bingo. A stalkable group is in perfect position as I pass them. They don’t even look my way as I drive by.

I park the truck a half a mile down the road, grab my bow and decoy and start the long slither towards the oblivious group of speed goats. With a solo tree in the middle of the field as my landmark, for once I’m sure of my prey’s location.

I’m within two hundred yards now and the wind is in my favor.

Wind check. Cover check. Sound? Well for that I improvise with my surroundings.

Diesel trucks roar by and I take full advantage. Every time one passes I inch my way towards my prize using the combustion engines for sound concealment.

I can see horns now, protruding through the tops of the grass. I’m zeroed in.

I’m about one hundred yards out. I might be able to crawl my way in unnoticed, but kneeling and drawing my bow back is out of the question. There is just no way to do it without some sort of cover.

In comes the best $79.99 I’ve ever spent. I slide up the decoy I’ve been dragging with me and wait.

They all stand and look.

“Shit, did I blow it?” I whisper into the grass with my lowered head.

Sweat drips down my nose as I peer between the legs of the decoy, hoping, praying that this will pique the interest of this buck just enough to close the gap.

He inches forward.

“Stay with me wind.” I beg. I need consistent, driving winds to maintain the same direction for just a little longer.

He creeps forward, occasionally looking back at his does to make sure they don’t lunge forward towards the bigger, better looking competitor.

He gains confidence with each strut. He wants these does to know they chose well.

I want the does to know that they will need to look for another suitor.

His steps become defiant. He’s almost in range.

I slip my rangefinder out of its case and crane my neck around the edge of the firmly placed decoy.

Fifty two yards.

That’ll do.

I draw my bow back while almost in a prone position. I work my way up to my knees and am able to look over the back of the decoy.

He’s facing me and absolutely confused at the protrusion appearing out of the back of his adversary.

I’ve practiced this shot so many times this past year that I’m not even debating if it’s ethical. I’m on full autopilot and get to enjoy watching the kill go down in third person.

The arrow releases and rifles towards the chest of an absolutely stunned creature.

Forty yards later he realizes his mistake in his last breath.

I stand over him. Brutal. But this is what I am. The mixed feeling that all of us hunters feel and yet can’t explain.

I don’t resist the emotion dump. I let it work its way through my system. Then I get to work.

// Fred Bohm

What to Do When You Don't Draw Your Tag

Tears are shed over many things. Death, heartbreak, failure and of course, not pulling your hunting tags. Ohhh the agony! First world problems at its finest.

Every morning for two weeks straight before the Colorado draw date, I’d fire up the computer and search the back door results to see if I’d pulled my tag. And every morning I’d nervously say, “Tomorrow it’ll show.”

Tomorrow never showed and it looks like this fella is joining the hordes that’ll be swarming the mountains with OTC tags in their pockets.  

But to be completely truthful, I don’t care much. I’ve never hunted a “premier” unit and I’m no less the worse for it. I enjoy knowing that I’m going to have to outwork and outsmart (alright, just outwork) my backcountry brethren.

And honestly I enjoy the freedom of an OTC tag. Out of the 186 GMUs in Colorado, 137 of them you can hunt on public land with an archery OTC tag. That’s a sizable portion of the state to explore.

Now we all have our own individual reasons that attract us to hunting. Some it’s the camaraderie, others it to put meat in the freezer or some combination of the two. For me, my satisfaction heavily relies on exploring new country.

I’ve been told this is self sabotage. Anyone who knows much about being successful at putting some fur on the ground year after year knows that learning and hunting one area can significantly increase your odds of success.

Is it a pain in the ass to become familiar with a new unit? Yes. Does it satisfy what hunting means most to me? Absolutely. Am I hindering my success? Well, that’s not as easy to answer.

To me, success typically equates to staying in longer. Or another way of saying it is just long enough to put an animal on the ground.

I learned that one of my weaknesses long ago was boredom. I can’t sit in one place and do the same thing for more than a moment. Hell, I’ve already peed twice, changed my laundry, started dinner and reallocated my assets in my Roth IRA by the time I put a period on the end of this sentence (.)

So, if I had to sit in the same GMU, looking at the same mountainside year after year, I’d probably pack up my tent and head out of there before the first elk bugled.

So why fight it? Learn your weaknesses and adapt. I switch out GMUs just about every year in hopes of seeing something new and fantastical. Maybe there’s a new waterfall with a ten foot tall 14x9 bathing elk shooting rainbows out of its ass that I just need to see! Who knows, this is my magical little world!

All that aside, there’s really only one way to look at anything that is out of our control and that’s positively. Me throwing a temper tantrum in no way changes the outcome of not pulling a tag.

So I just go with it. See it as a sign to go explore something new. I get to look at the same computer screen almost every day of my life, I sure as hell don’t need to take that same feeling of familiarity into what I deem the most unpredictable of sports I take part of.

Hunting is about trying your hardest to get a particular, pre-envisioned outcome to come to fruition. Lay that beast on the ground. Enjoy time spent with hunting buddies. Take the unpredictable path to the unpredictable outcome. Explore.

// Fred

Arizona Backcountry Desert Mule Deer Hunt

“As soon as anyone starts telling you to be “realistic,” cross that person off your invitation list.”

— John Eliot

There is only one certain thing in life and that is the certainty of change. Over the last two years I’ve had a son, bought a house, dissolved a successful company, taken a full time job, quit a full time job, made a 180 degree change in career paths, punched a squirrel and learned that Donald Trump might be the Anti-Christ himself. Yea, life changes and it does it pretty fucking quickly.

I stand here two years later. On the same mission, in same wilderness, the same desert, ready to walk into something that hasn’t changed in eons. To find my sanity in the isolation and its consistency, and with a little luck, kill a prehistoric sized mule deer. Simple enough quest.

I’m not sure if I’m just a hippy at heart, headed out to the flatlands on a vision quest or it’s the fact that I’ve yet to find an equal when it comes to the absolute isolation that the wastelands provide. Or maybe it’s my hatred of the cold and the heaping portion that Colorado provides this time of year.

Whatever it is, I look forward to it more than any other hunting trip of the year. A solo hunt deep in the backcountry of an unforgiving environment that is Arizona’s deserts. Now that’s my idea of relaxation. Let the obese, kid on a leash, buffet seeking, lounge chair laying populace go on their Carnival cruises for their vacations. That ain’t my world. The struggles of the backcountry is.

I delayed my trip about a week because of torrential downpours that have been reeking havoc on the area. Flash flooding has taken on a new meaning, as new arroyos are carved out of the flat landscape that sits below once volcanic mountains. Though a bummer to have to reschedule, I know the stream bottoms with their life giving potholes will be full of water. This should significantly cut my pack’s weight as now I can filter water that’s collected out there, not carry it in. Any chance I get to lighten my pack, I do.

The wilderness area I’m in is known for abnormally large mule deer, though the population has been severely struggling due to it’s rather large population of mountain lions. Yay.

This becomes a topic of conversation at my household. The .45 Sig strapped to my leg was a mandatory, according the lady sitting at home with our four month old son. She doesn’t like house cats let alone mountain lions and she isn’t fond of the idea of our son growing up without a father because his daddy decided to go pet “the big kitty” in a place he probably doesn’t belong to begin with. Small concession. I decided it’s against my best interest to tell her about the drug smuggling concerns raised by a wildlife manager I talked to about the area I’m to hunt.

The hike in is relatively painless. Living at elevation has it’s advantages. I feel like I have an oxygen mask blasting energy into my lung at this low elevation.

The destination is a ridge that sits about four hundred feet off the desert floor, giving me a terrific 365 degree vantage point. When the earth was being forged, this ridge was designed with hunters in mind. There is a small flat area about half way up to set camp. Two-hundred feet above camp sits a towering turret of basalt rock begging to be glassed from. The plan is to use this observatory to peak into the winding arroyos that scar the barren desert floor like the varicose veins of grandma.

Backcountry camping in the Eagletail Wilderness

During the day, if the deer are moving, they use these narrow runoff channels to smuggle themselves from outlying farmers’ fields to the mountains within. This is where my eyes fall for about 98% of the day. Before sunrise and just before it gets dark in the evening, they get a little more ballsy and venture out into the open flats. That leaves just enough time for frantic scanning before they dissipate into thin air.

No modern digital camo pattern holds a candle to what was blessed upon these creatures. This is why I’m hoping this trip times itself out perfectly with the rut. Finding them individually is about as easy as finding truthful word coming out of Hillary Clinton’s mouth, so hitting the rut is crucial.

The first few days go by with little action. As it typically happens in this situation, I start second guessing the hunting grounds I picked. Patience has never been my strong point.

“Give it time, give it time.” I tell myself through a clenched jaw.

I know there aren’t the populations a hunter usually looks for in here, but rumors of racks rivaling Dolly Parton’s are just too tempting. I stick it out.

On the morning of day three, I hit paydirt.

“Good Lord.” I say during a deep inhale.

There he is. Part mule deer, part Texas Longhorn. This fella is wide, I mean like thirty-two inches wide. I mean like, I don’t care how many points he’s styling, he’s a shooter type wide.

I watch him for about forty-five minutes before he heads where I happen to have no chance of putting a stalk on him. Straining through my spotting scope I see him look back at me knowing that I know, that he knows, that I have no chance of following him.

The game is set. He’s been playing it for years and has the clear advantage in every possible way. What he doesn’t know is that I’m terribly stubborn and take obsessions to unhealthy levels.

He tests me for the next several days, throwing out sacrificial offerings of lesser bucks. Staying on the outer edges, showing himself for a moment, then disappearing just as quickly. Testing my fortitude. Outright toying with me.

“Sorry big guy, this fella only has eyes for you only. I’m the monogamous type. Just me and you.” I whisper into the heated desert air, now clearly at the point of talking to anything and everything around me.

By day five I’m getting tired of having my ass handed to me by a clearly smarter sentient being than myself. I usually call a hunt successful if I get a stalk in, whether I draw my bow or not. I haven’t even left the cliff that me and some now overly friendly lizards are perched on, let alone knocked an arrow.

Day six starts off like the others, working my way through gaps in barrel cactus as I scramble with hands and feet up an unholy steep slope to my glassing spot in the pitch black. I settle in uncomfortably, my ass bruised from long hours of sitting on shattered rock that makes up the four foot by four foot pedestal on top of my cliff perch.

The wind howls off in the distance I note to myself.

“Gonna get a bit breezy.” I tell my lizard friend that has found his usual position ten inches off to my right.

“Huh... that’s some localized wind.” I say after a few.

My binocs pick up movement, fast movement. I drop them off my peepers as the object is headed quickly towards me and no longer in need of magnification.

“Incoming.” I tell lizard.

My company in the backcountry.

A small buck with his tongue hanging out labors toward my position. He’s running and I have doubts that he’s doing it for the local ‘Fight Against Antler Cancer’ deer charity marathon. That’s not for another five months.

“The wind is chasing him.” I reason. Or perhaps that was lizards words. It all happened so fast, my memory has become fuzzy.

A few minutes later I realize I’m retarded. It’s not wind that’s howling, but ‘ol Velvet Ears himself. A hound dog comes screaming into my location with all the subtlety of my old 1968 VW bus.

A long wire dangling out of his collar confirms my suspicions. He’s chasing lion scent and I’m sure his owner is miles away on an ATV cramming down a Krispy Kreme.

“Well this can be good or bad.” I say contemplatively to lizard as the dog fades away in the distance. “He’ll either stir up some action or scare everything away.

No more than ten minutes later I have my answer.

I hear him first. The desert floor might as well be covered in fortune cookies. It’s impossible to take a step without warning everything in a two-hundred yard radius that you’re making an appearance.

I look down off my cliff to see him being led by his girlfriend like he’s royalty.

Massive. Utterly beautiful. His rack suits him well, like a crown on a king. His body is unbelievably big, what I would think would represent an elk, not a mule deer.

His wobbly kneed steps give away his age. His two by two rack is obviously on the downward side of its once magnificent days. But the mass is astounding. This guy has character from tip to tail.

I’m stunned. Perhaps two-hundred yards away as the crow flies and four hundred feet down. Not exactly a shot I’d consider with my bow. Bravehearting arrows in just isn’t cricket.

“You’re up here and well… well he’s down there.” Says lizard.

“You don’t think I know that?” I spit back, hating when the obvious is pointed out to me.

The buck looks up directly at me. I’m in his full sight, but he doesn’t change his pace or direction the slightest.

A wry smile comes over my face and all I can say is, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Outclassed and outsmarted. The monster walks away with his life and my utmost obsession. He knows my time is up. He also knows that we have an exclusive date set for December. I don’t know if he’s ever had a stalker amongst the fine does that frequent his kingdom, but he’s got one now.

“You get anything?” Comes Hazel’s squeaky voice as I load up the truck.

“Yea. I got a new friend. Lizard. I’ll have to introduce you sometime. I got inspired. Oh, and you’ll like this one the best: I got a new obsession.”

“Christ. Another lizard friend. And we’re not moving to Arizona for this deer.” Comes Hazel’s response.

“I didn’t say a deer, I said an obsession.”

“They’re one and the same with you.” She says as I put the truck in drive.

Backpack hunting alpenglow.

Outclassed and outsmarted.

Side Note: Arizona’s Over the Counter archery tag, in my book, is one of the best ones out there. You can hunt in January, August, September and December in one calendar year on the same tag. Screw up in January and not put anything on the ground? You have three other months of chasing deer to look forward to. Perfect for trophy hunting.

The beauty of the tag is during the cold months, head to the desert for the warmth. During the warmer months get up above the Mogollon Rim for for the cooler temps. Gotta love a state that has enough altitude variation to keep the temps perfect year round.

// Fred Bohm

Solo Backcountry Hunter

“If you really want to do something, you’ll find a way. If you don’t, you’ll find an excuse.”

— Jim Rohn

Backcountry hunter. That title is getting thrown around a lot these days. Visions of ourselves, battling it out deep in the mountains. Digging our feet into the soil, spearheading forward and pitting ourselves  against the most violent of elements. Studying our quarry for days on end, learning their habits, their patterns, all in hopes of that one slip up, giving us the chance to sneak in and bring them down.

A baddass.

Flicking the middle finger to the modern day conveniences that have made us so soft, so detached from our once natural surroundings and heading off into the great unknown. Backpack, bow and a healthy portion of testosterone to keep us company in the deeps.

The solo backcountry hunter. The Navy Seals of the hunting community. What a vision.

Easy to visualize, not so easy to do.

It’s a loose term at best. I’m sure we all define it a bit differently. Two miles off the road for a day hunt? Eight miles deep for a ten day sufferfest? It’s your fantasy big guy, define it how you want.

But I’m going to go ahead and say it’s at least a three day trip. My blog, guess I get to take some liberties.

Working your way deep into an area that sees very little hunting pressure due to it’s “inconvenient” location, sure sounds like it will up your chance of success, right? Animals that have seen so few humans that they will eat an apple off the end of your broadhead.

So if it’s really that easy, why are so few backcountry hunters unsuccessful?

My theory: Not staying in long enough. Plain and simple.

So I Need to Train to Become A Backcountry Solo Hunter?

Short answer: yes

I’m not saying some people aren’t naturally meant for the loneliness of backcountry hunting, but they’re few and far between. Ever truly been alone with nobody to talk to for ten days straight? Some people lose their shit. I was one of them. I would talk to every fury or feather creature that would lend an ear.

I wasn’t above talking to a female deer asking her, “Hey, where are all your menfolk at?”

Lizards? Easily captured and therefore a captive, albeit unwilling, audience.

With the loneliness will inevitably come the excuses.

Excuses. Holy good God, the excuses. We will rationalize them as valid, but I assure you, we only do that to save our ego. They are full on, full blown excuses, no matter what way you look at them.

These excuses will gnaw at you until you justify your decision to quit. To leave the playing field with that handy excuse in your back pocket, ready to be pulled out and used on the first body with a pulse. Lord you can’t wait to use that excuse, have someone stamp their validation on it to heal that wounded ego.

But like everything else, I promise you, with mental preparation this can be overcome.

This is where the training comes into play. Find our excuses and we’ll find the key to the puzzle on how to stay in there for the planned amount of time, thus increasing our chances of success considerably.

Let’s have a look at some of these excuses and how we can weed them out.

The Keys of Staying Power

Guilt.

Wrap everything up at home. This one is crucial. If we feel like we pissed off the significant other or left business unfinished at home because of our hunt, I can assure you this will dig deep into your psyche when you have very little else to do besides glass and burn ants with your binoculars. Get this cleaned up before you go. Make sure you have your spouse’s full support and there is no other family or work business to take of.

I recently left for a ten day trip into the backcountry of Arizona to chase desert mule deer. This was easy to do when I was a single man with literally zero responsibility. That ain’t the case these days. With a four month old son at home and a beautiful and supportive woman manning the helm while I was to be away, I needed to be in contact. I typically love being out of communication from everyone while on these trips, but hey, a small request from the woman who was letting me wander the wilds like a carefree hippy.

Enter technology.

Use technology. Embrace technology. Technology can be your friend. I took a Spot satellite phone with me while out there and I don’t ever think I’ll go in again without one. I was able to assure her that I was alive and kicking. And just to hear my little man’s babblings, I would have carried a phone the size/weight of a cinder block if need be.

I knew by bringing this technology I would alleviate the guilt of being out of contact for ten days. I foresaw this problem and remedied it. That excuse was as good as dead.

Keeping in contact in the backcountry.

Hunting Pressure. 

Hearing this one kills me. So easy to work around, yet I hear this excuse all the time.

“The valley was packed! I don’t think Super Bowl 50 is going to have as many spectators watching as there were hunters watching for elk in there!”

Yeesh… Backcountry hunting right? If you see other hunters, get in deeper. Simple as that. If you don’t want to, use the other hunters to your advantage. Know the animals escape routes and let the hunting pressure push them to you.

You need to be flexible in these situations. Scouting a new area doesn’t always tell us how much pressure an area receives. If you’re using the hunting pressure to your benefit, maybe you won’t attempt to spot and stalk, but rather setting up an ambush on escape routes.

With the amount of public land in the western states, this one simply is not a valid excuse. The two backcountry bowhunting trips I did in 2015 resulted in not seeing a single person in the deeps. Fifteen total days of hunting and not a single biped, oh and by the way, they were in OTC units.

Be an F-ing Gladiator.

Do you need to be in ridiculous shape to hunt the backcountry? Yup. I’ll catch shit for this one, but I’m gonna stick to my guns. I can’t think of a time that I said to myself, “You know what? All that training was a complete waste of time! I could have been plowing back Cheetos and sinking into the couch watching other motivated warriors kill each other over a football.”

Training does two things for you. It allows you to get where ever you want and makes you think that you’re badass enough to kill whatever walks in front of you.

For me, physical training throughout the year boosts my mental game more than anything. Believe me, you can’t have enough mental game when it comes to being a true backcountry hunter.

Never Give Up.

Unlike most team sports, the success of a hunting trip can change in a second. This is SO imperative to understand. You could be out there for two weeks and see nothing but your own shadow. Then the last hour of the hunt, bam, there’s that trophy animal staring you down forty yards away.

But the key is, you have to be in there for that to happen. Every second you spend hanging in there gives you another chance of taking that animal.

So find your own mantra. A key word or phrase that you say over and over when times are rough. When you want to give up and find that excuse as to why you should leave. They will come pouring in, by the hundreds. Don’t play that victim game with yourself, man up and stay in there.

For me, I picture this image and repeat over and over, “Never give up.”

Cheesy? Perhaps.

Equipment Failure.

This is probably the easiest excuse to make. Why blame ourselves when we can blame something that can’t defend itself. If our equipment fails, we are the ones that really failed. We buy it after all.

So do the research, then test it!

“My tent leaked. My boots fell apart. I didn’t have enough food.”

Lame. This is what the preseason is for, weeding out these problems. You’re out scouting anyway, so this is the perfect time to test everything out. If you don’t like it, sell it on Craigslist and start over. No excuses.

Finding Our Weaknesses

Time for a trial run. We are going to actively seek out our weaknesses with a test run.

Don’t have the time you say?

Instead of spending your money in that new bow or spotting scope, buy a few days off of work. I mean this quite literally. Do whatever it takes, but get yourself four or five days off in a row and plan on heading into the backcountry on a solo scouting trip. Do this well before the hunting season starts. Your goal here is to learn what excuses will arise and you can’t do that if you have someone else to help rid the loneliness.

Take a small notebook with you to write all your thoughts down. Don’t rely on remembering what you were feeling, you may be so flooded with emotions that you couldn’t possibly remember them all.

Field Notebook

Write down all the doubts and fears that come to you while you’re out there. All of them. These WILL become your excuses later on as to why you quit.

Learn them well right now and you can work on countering them before the big trip.

Some examples of what I found out about myself and how I countered them:

• detachment from my newborn son → brought a satellite phone with me
• sketchy area with illegal aliens and drug runners → carried a handgun (not always legal when bowhunting)
• feeling like I picked the wrong spot → reminded myself that I did my homework, there were animals in here, though they wouldn’t be tied to the rocks. Have some patience.
• violent storms → had an alternate camping area that was lower in elevation if the storm really pounded the area
• hopelessness → found my inner motivator, a frog choking out a bird while being eaten. NEVER GIVE UP

Backcountry solo hunting has become an obsession with many of us. It’s the most primal and exhilarating way to experience hunting. It tests us physically but most of all mentally. Like anything difficult, we don’t become experts at it overnight. But like most things in life, the things most difficult to achieve tend to be the most rewarding to us.

Share the same passion? Well freakin hit me up in the comments section and tell me about them. I’m not here to just spit my opinions at you, let's hear what you got!

// Fred Bohm

Chasing Mule Deer in the High Country

Five Days In

“This is it, this is the one”, I think as I peek down the steep cliffside at a massive 3x4 mule deer. Christ, I blew enough stalks in the last five days, the odds have to be in my favor at this point or so I tell myself. This has got to be the one. I gasp for whatever air is willing sacrifice itself to my lungs as I press my back against the cliff that is hiding me from the summation of nine months training.

“Don’t blow it”, I whisper to myself out loud. I lay my bow down next to me, making sure the aluminum body doesn’t bang up against the rock. Shit… you could hear a cricket piss the air is so still. Hurricane force wind for five days and at this exact moment in time I sit in a perfect vacuum.

My head eeks its way over the rock barrier, like a shy groundhog popping it’s head out of it’s hole in hopes of a tasty insect in its near perimeter.

The insect is there, right where I left hi.

Get a true yardage this time. Do it slowly. Make pretend this isn’t a big deal. Remember what you learned from the previous days’ blown stalks.

35 yards. That’s one third of a second flight time. An easy toss of a football. Nine strides of an elk. And the lunar distance from sure success.

The arrow nock clicks into place, I twist my peep clockwise, look between my red and yellow pin and run through the shot as the synapses in my brain fire like the pistons in an F1 formula car.

“Stop overthinking it.” The bow is drawn back  as I twist counterclockwise and stand up.

He sees me, but has no idea what I’m doing. A steep quartering away shot at an even steeper angle. His eyes bore into me and I do my best to ignore him. His girlfriend throws out a snort and stomps like a pissed off hussy waiting to leave the club.

“Hold on sweetheart, you’ll get your chance to run.”

I pick my spot and imagine how the arrow will play out. Go time.

The arrow bends and waivers from the raw energy it holds as it screams through the rest. Released from my influence, now has it’s own job to do.

He sees it coming, but is frozen. I wonder to myself if this will be the way I go out, looking at death coming straight for me, but too paralyzed with fear to do a damn thing about it. You come into this world screaming with fear of the unknown and leave it horrified at the realization you have no control how you’re gonna go out.

That distinct “thud” brings me back into the moment. Left of the spine about halfway back. Without hesitation the arrow continues to release its pent up energy out the chest of the mulie.

I sit back baffled as the mulie fires up the afterburners and makes for the other side of the high alpine bowl. Like a kid stung by a hornet, there is no particular destination that will ease the pain, just getting the hell away from spot that caused it is good enough.

He acts oddly, as one would think when a 29 inch shaft of carbon and aluminum lead by a pair of razor gills blows through its pipework. He tears ass for several hundred yards, then stops on a dime, and does short, tight circles. Then takes off again like he was being chased by Lucifer himself.

“Shit... “ I say to no one in particular. “How did I botch that one up?”

Perhaps a bit high, but I thought that would have pinned him to the ground.

Mule deer hunting in the high country of Colorado can be dramatic to say the least.

The glass comes back out and I follow him for next two and a half hours. He spooks other deer as they see death on his face and they run away like it’s a contagious disease.

Finally he comes to a rest and lays down two thirds the way up the mountainside. There’s no trees to hide him from my vision as we are well above treeline.

My mind races to a couple scenarios I hoped I would never have to face. Wait him out? Stalk in for another shot? Call in for an airstrike?

My gut tells me put another arrow in him. Research tells me to wait him out. My lack of contacts and resources tell me the airstrike is not an option.

I think about the blog articles, the books and the old timers that preached waiting them out to die. Something about that just doesn’t seem right. I have to be honest, I’ve never been in this situation. Every big game animal I shot settled into its deathbed within a hundred yards.

I was on foreign soil here. So like a sucker, I ignore my gut and opt to follow protocol.

My glass stays on him until I can’t tell if I’m looking at the mountainside or the inside of Hitler’s soul.

I crawl into my sleeping bag defeated and proceed into a night of lucid dreams about having to wrestle a deer in hand to hand combat for his life. My conscious has always reeked havoc on my dreams when I think I made the wrong decision. This wasn’t the first time and I can assure you, it won’t be the last.

Donkey kicking off my sleeping bag in a fever dream, I wake up and am determined to finish what I started.

The spotter is still set up from the night before and I settle into it.

I knew before I even looked… gone.

“You knew he would be, don’t act surprised”

“Don’t give me that, it was a coin flip, either way we were wrong.”

As the sun struggles with an appearance from behind the clouds, so does the voices within. I make short work of becoming enemies with myself this morning.

“You go with your gut and give the middle finger to the magazines, the Youtube videos and all the so called experts. They make a living by having an opinion on what you do out here. There are too many variables in any given situation in the deep to try to sum it up in one neatly wrapped article.The only expert is that primal beast you tap into when you put yourself in these neolithic situations. If you stopped fighting it and let it take over, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

I can’t find a valid argument to that. Hind sight is a bitch, but I know down to my toes, that if I went in for that stalk to finish him, I wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

“Let go, damn it. Why do you carry that outside shit in here with you? You’re alone in the middle of nowhere because you didn’’t want any outside influence. You wanted to tap into those raw times when people didn’t just do this for sport, they did it to survive. If they didn’t make that connection, they didn’t eat. This isn’t a fucking game. Your hands wounded something and didn’t do the right thing because you looked to the outside for help. You wanted control because that is how you live your life day in and day out. Instinct has all but gone out of the window with you. Let go.”

Glassing for mule deer

We have liftoff.

And just like that, the hands left the steering wheel. The car slowly listed towards the median as I let go of control while simultaneously going out of it. Expectations, disappointment and most of all control left the atmosphere.

Slide her on cruise control, put the seat back and let go of the wheel. I want to be first to say to you; welcome to DAY FIVE*.

* Five days in the backcountry seems to be the magical time where my outside influences are forgotten or dropped. I truly believe if you aren’t staying this long in the backcountry, you aren’t hunting in your most primal state, you are merely chasing game. This isn’t good or bad, both have their ups and downs and there is a reason for each.

Side note: I spent the rest of the day clearing out every living creature from that high alpine bowl. What little blood I did find lead to nowhere. Every tree, rock and nook was searched. Nothing. Losing him was a strong reminder to stay humble out there. I never left the hunting grounds with more enthusiasm and determination to make myself a better hunter. 3d competitions, Tom Brown’s tracking classes and all sorts of other training was set into motion the moment I stepped in my front door. I know we can’t control all factors in the backcountry, but I owe it to the animals I chase to eliminate as many as I can. Afterall, they pay for my mistakes with a wasted kill. Become the most proficient hunter you can before you step into that woods, then, well then let go of the illusion of control and trust your instincts.

// Fred

New Mexico Pig

This time of year has been known to set me off in a panic. Just when I should be mellowing out after a long season, my inner conscious of a locomotive goes crashing into my thoughts without attempting to even pump the brakes. “Hey dipshit, it ain’t over until you say it’s over.”

We’ve always had it out for each other. To be honest, he’s really always had it out for me. I consider myself a nice guy, but him… man he can really cut.

Not wanting to raise the beast’s temper any further, I give in. I figure I have enough sessions of therapy coming my way, pissing off my inner self will only add to it.

OK so what to hunt? Coyote in the eastern plains of Colorado? Meh, might be fun, but I’ve done it before and it’s lacking in adventure. Besides Mother Nature has decided it wants to rescind on our temperate winter and instead puke a bunch of the white stuff on us this weekend.

It’s February and I’m over the cold. Even more so I’m over complaining about the cold and doing nothing about it. I want to be in my Speedos and flip-flops chasing aggressive animals through the thorn infested deserts of the south.

Desert

Mexico is kinda dicey right now, what with them having these small tiffs over drugs or something of the sorts. So that’s out.

Texas? Not feeling the love there either. I’m told it’s easier to find a patch of clothing on a Playboy bunny than it is to find a piece of public land to hunt there. True or not, I think I’ve found a better option.

Time to pack the bow and mosey my way on down to New Mexico. It’s just the newer version of Mexico right? What could go wrong!

I figured it’s long time that I did my patriotic duty and help eradicate a non-indigenous species of the south. Calm down bleeding heart liberals, I’m talking about feral pigs.

After a bit of online research and talking with the Fish and Game, I’m setting my eyes on the Capitan Mountains. If that fails to produce, on to Roswell for a little alien glassing and pig hunting in the Pecos River.

The work schedule is cleared and the gear is packed. Wish me luck. If you New Mexicans see a pale looking fella running threw the cactus in a well-fitted Speedo with a pair of Kenetrek flip-flops, give a wave and try to hold of on calling the mental health clinic. I assure you this is all a well-formulated plan!

//Fred

Keep and eye out for the report on this haphazardly planned expedition. In the meanwhile here are some great resources I’ve found to plan the hunt.

Resources//

Posts on the subject

http://on.fb.me/1F5isda

http://bit.ly/1CTKTZi

http://bit.ly/1DHnMoy

New Mexico Fish and Game Contact

http://www.wildlife.state.nm.us/contact/

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 Elk in the Backcountry

Couch Fire

"The couch is just asking for it. I mean, look at that thing! How many years of abuse has it taken? There's enough DNA splattered across it to put Monica’s entire wardrobe to shame. Go put it out of its misery.” These were the words of instigation I chose to spew from my mouth to coerce Little Steve into setting her ablaze. He agreed and the fire was lit; to think we would both be graduating a few short months later. Twelve years later and I’ve heard nothing from Little Steve. Last I knew, he had left school to pursue a new career in aviation. Seemed like a smart move, except for the facts that this guy had never even flown on a plane and it was now the post-9/11 era. Ballsy. I remember he liked to shoot ducks, so maybe that gave him enough insight into flying to make this life changing decision.

If there is one thing I can respect in a person, it’s the ability to barrel, head-first, towards a goal while throwing the middle finger to all the nay-sayers hiding in the background, playing it safe. Most people abhor a go-getter; it makes them look a little too deeply into their own lives for comfort. This guy needs to go elk hunting with me.

Little Steve

Through the thick wall of negativity that Facebook emits in our lives, there are a few rays of hope. An old friendship was rekindled and Little Steve and I decided to meet up for an elk hunt here on my stomping grounds in Colorado.

“What should I expect out there?”

“Rain, cold, thunder-snow, and worn-through boot leather. I’m not going to lie to you buddy; the elevation is going to be an ass kicker.”

"So the asthma isn’t going to help my situation, huh?”

“We’re going to be camping above tree line, so you’re lungs are pretty much F’d. That landfill you call a mountain in Delaware doesn't count as above treeline either. More than likely you are going to die out here.”

Steve starts to worry, further egging on my prodding. His training schedule sounds intense enough though, so I figure he’ll only be halfway F'd. Keeping him on edge, every few months I send him a photo of the territory we're going to be roaming. I debate Photoshopping a few climbing harnesses on the elk I see back there, but I figure he has enough to worry about without me harassing him.

"Alright, plane ticket is booked, I cleared out half of Sitka’s warehouse and the wife is knee deep in the kid’s poopy diapers, let's go hunt some deer!"

"We call them elk out here, but alright, let's go hunt some deer."

Discharged arrow.

Back at my home; We dig in 5 miles the first day, taking our time to allow the ocean air to escape Steve's lungs. It does so violently, as he develops a cough that would last the trip. Although, I'm surprised as I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He's keeping up, and what's more he's not complaining about it.

We see some human traffic in the valley, but figure we will escape it in the clouds.

"Where the air thins, so do the people." I tell him with a smirk on my mug. This sagely crock I keep throwing at him is wearing thin on me, I can't imagine what it is doing to him. He takes it in stride, which I figure is only because I am his only way out. Once he figures that he just needs to head downhill to get back to civilization, my cute quips are only going to be heard by the ptarmigans.

Little Steve taking in the view.

We post up at my regular spot. It's really only good for mulies, but on either side of us a few miles out are great lines on avalanche chutes that usually hold elk. We hunker in as the prescribed thunder-snow punishes us for being arrogant enough to sit on top of it's mountain.

"Those nice new clothes of yours are about to get a workout" I tell Steve.

"I was going to wear them while mowing so they wouldn’t look like they came fresh out of the box." he replies shyly.

"Good thinking, nothing says I'm a hardcore backcountry hunter like fresh grass stains on your finely pressed camo."

I think Steve is feeling the pressure of holding up his end of the bargain. In my own way, I’m feeling the same thing. His is to keep up, mine to show him that elk actually live in this land. He's spent a lot of money to be here and I want to make sure he enjoys it. I don't have kids yet, but I can imagine what it's like to have a wife at home with two little terrors filling up diapers while her husband is out playing neanderthal in the woods with his old college cohort. He must have a secret I don’t know about.

The job that never ends.

We take a beating the day before the opener, but it happens. The golden hour arrives to elk in both afore mentioned spots on our peripherals. A full 35 by my count up on the “Football Field” to the left and two nice sized bulls out to the right in the avalanche shoots.

“Tomorrow we can chase whichever you want.” I say tell him, thinking the decision should be his.

“I’m here because you invited me. If we were in a duck blind in Delaware, I would tell you when, where and most importantly how to shoot. I’d even let you know not to slide the brass end in first. But we’re not in Delaware. I’m a stranger in a strange land and you’re the captain, so it’s on you."

Damn. Solid point. Guess there is no weaseling out of this one, where later I could throw in the quick, “I told you so!” of his terrible, nay laughable choice of location. Sidestepping wasn’t an option, time to man up.

If I didn’t make poor decisions, then I’d never make one. I choose the football field. After seeing Mexican sized family of them the day before, more is better right? Gotta be better odds. They clear out just as the starting whistle for the season begins. We see a few here and there over the next few days but fail to put on a respectable stalk. I know this is the way of west, but I’m not sure Steve is seeing it the same way. With unlimited deer allowed to be taken in his home hunting grounds, he has his selective choice of what animal he wants to take down and which he gives a ‘get out of jail free’ pass. If I can see the hairy ass of an elk throughout the season, I’m in my glory. Different expectations of what determines a successful hunt have ruined hunting partners for many, and I wasn’t sure if we were headed down the same path. My worries are alleviated with Steve’s incessant grins. He is happy just experiencing what this land has to offer, no preconceived notions of walking out of the woods with a state record. Just true happiness with his present situation. I’m remembering why I liked this guy to begin with.

Time moves on and we are getting close to leaving. My neurotic obsession starts to take hold of me. I know that the experience is really what we’re after, but lets face it, “just the experience” can have a bitter taste, at least in the short term. Besides ‘the experience’ involves giving a hurricane sized effort. The last morning Steve gets a good dose of the 100 mph Fred.

“We’re moving. Grab your shit and lets go.”

Fred's Hoyt.

We’re headed 4 miles further into the deep. I can see his hesitation. We have a chance at two bulls we had seen in the wee hours and it’s time to make a move. Eyes on the prize and let nothing get in the way. We lay out a strategy that would have General Patton giving us a fist bump. I head up the edge of an avey shoot meaning to push into the trail the elk strolled into a few hours ago. Steve would lay ambush on the other side. They were stuck in the timber and we had them pinned.

I tried to keep my sweat to a minimum while grinding up the black diamond ski slope these animals use as their sidewalk. How the hell a 600lb beast can make this look like an easy stroll through a mid-west strip mall, I will never figure out.

I knock an arrow, twist my peep so it aligns just right and take my first step in to the black tunnel of the timber forest. I let my eyes adjust for a minute. One second the sun is promising to burn holes in my retina, the next, it’s a black as a steerstutkis on a moonless night. I let the darkness seep in.

I’ve been creeping through the forest like a thief in the night for the past five days, but this time it is different. Everything goes 3rd person on me, like I’m a fly in the tree looking down at this intruder entering his forest. My ears ring and I’m layered with a thick helping of goose bumps. He’s in here, and he is watching me.

I watch my feet and remember to step with the heel first, then follow through to the toes. All my teenage years of sneaking out of the house finally pay off. Silence: check. Wind: check. Two more steps forward, and oh shit! He’s been there the whole time watching me.

I look up to what should by all rights be a mythological creature. I shot an elk once before, but that was with a rifle. No intimacy, we didn’t look each other in the eye. I wasn’t able to understand the magnitude of this creature at the time. I was in his domain, I was the intruder and I felt it to my core.

Christ! I was terrified. Not that I was going to get hurt, but I knew at that moment that he knew what I was and what I intended to do. And what twisted me up was that he accepted it. How is that for noble? The knowledge of that acceptance was staggering. We both knew our rolls in this chance meeting. There was no guilt for my participation, but I can damn well tell you there was respect.

We acknowledged each other for roughly 450 heart beats… and then he turned. He knew it was time. One last look back at me as I watched my 3 degree helical vanes spiral towards his life support system.

Bone. Lung. Heart. He was gone.

Fred's elk.

I approached him laying there in the woods. Steve soon followed with a papa bear hug that would have snapped my neck had I not been tensed up from the adrenaline.

“I’m not sure I want to take any pictures of him. It just kind of seems like a dick move.” I said sheepishly.

Little Steve understood the meaning of hunting more than any person I ever met.

“You’re paying your respect by doing it.” was his meaningful reply. I’ve seen and heard this in various iterations over cheesy Facebook posts and magazine articles, but coming from someone I respected and who had dedicated a good part of his life to hunting, it sank home.

Emotions faded as the mechanical work took over of removing the animal from it’s environment and putting it into ours.

"I hope you’re ready for the two hardest days of your life” I grin.

“Every day that I’ve been here has turned into the hardest day of my life, why change it now.” was his only reply.

There was no more scaring him with tales of backbreaking work in the backcountry. Maybe it was time to drop the “Little” from the Little Steve. He earned it.

“Let’s get the hell out of here and go find us some hot springs to soak our bloodied and broken bodies in. Maybe we can find a couch on the way to light on fire.”

// Fred

- If you like this story and want it in print, you can pick it up in Extreme Elk Magazine, Fall 2015.

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