Mountain Lion Hunt - A Story of Chasing Cats and Staying Human

I can’t tell you how much I loathe paper, rock, scissors. I mean deep down to the core type of hate. No matter how much I practice, I never seem to get better at it. The countless hours of calculating the odds, practicing until my hands are numb from pain, the relationships that have suffered due to my obsession, all for nothing. I still suck at it.

“Paper. Damn you! Why did I throw rock? Rock is like betting on the horse with the broken leg.” I muttered in disappointment.

For better or worse, I lost the opportunity to take the treed mountain lion’s life.

I don’t know why I would think for the worse. This is what I do, I am a hunter. Whether it be spearing a fish, shooting a deer or in this case killing a mountain lion, the end result is all the same. We take an animals life to continue ours. Whether they are pretty or ugly, it all serves the same purpose, right?

For some reason the charismatic megafauna (excellent description Steve Rinella) have more of a right to live then do the “lesser and uglier” animals. Or at least is what the public pressure indicates.

Many non-hunters appear to feel this way. Hold up a picture of a fish you just caught and they don’t bat an eyelash. Kill a cat or bear and you’re going to be hung up on a cross.

Us as hunters should not be affected by this. Meat is meat and as long as we go about taking it ethically we don’t discriminate. A life is a life.

In theory this is how it should work. Still… I am a product of my culture. Despite me knowing that this is a fucked up and a hypocritical way of thinking, it still had a small grasp on me.

I wanted to experience in a bad way what it is like for the ultimate apex predator (yours truly and hell for that matter, most of you reading this as well) to hunt another apex predator and kill it. Not just a creature that was used to getting hunted, a creature that served the purpose of feeding those higher up on the food chain.

That opportunity would not come on this hunt to be the killer. What did come was the opportunity to experience and document the emotions for three very different people. This is a role that I’ve been taking more serious as of late and enjoying it immensely.

At first as I approached the three hound dogs howling in ecstasy, all I could see was the rear end and tail of what was the first mountain lion I would see in the wild. The fevered pitch of the bone jarring howls came from what only could be an animal that was performing to perfection its sole calling in life.

The cat stared down at the dogs, not exactly knowing what to make of them. Threat yes, but could she take them? That was what she was deciding as we approached her. She must have sensed that there was more on her trail than just the three jabbering dogs.

Then she looked at me.

Not looked, but stared deep into me, analyzing me, deciding who was the apex predator.

Then for the first time in my life came the feeling of being unsure of my position on the food chain. This was the first lion I had ever seen in the wild. This was the first time I had seen something that could make the decision whether to kill me or let me live. This was the first time I felt what it was like to be possibly hunted.

She was not stupid. She calculated her odds and decided one against six was not in her favor. She lept from the tree and decided to try to find a place that would adjust the odds to allow her to come out as the winner.

The race continued and so did my emotions about what I was doing.

Part of me said the only way this would be a fair battle between apex predators was to go at it with here one on one.

Part of what has separated us from the majority of other species is the ability to create and use tools that give us the advantage in any given situation. In this particular situation we are using hound dogs, bows and safety in numbers to our advantage. We are doing what all humans do when at all possible, we are tipping the odds of success and safety in our favor.

She trees but does not feel her surroundings are quite right.

She takes off again.

The dogs do their job and pin her one more time. She knows the gig is up. Running has proven fruitless so far. This is what worries me as I approach.

Fight or flight. Flight was now out of the equation.

We approached the tree. Steam from her forceful hisses eject from her mouth as a warning. I questioned what I would do in order to survive in this situation and the thought makes the hairs on the back of my neck prick up.

I knew I was attaching human traits to this creature and knew the dangers it can cause. But still… a living creature is a living creature and their number one priority is to keep the “living” part in front of the “creature”.

We tie up the dogs knowing full well that they would attack the cat after she was shot. With a broadhead in the cat’s carcass it would not be a pretty sight.

As we circled her she never unlocked her eyes from me. Maybe she is curious to the contraption pressed against my face, recording the last minutes of her life.

Or maybe it was something more. Part of me said she knew I was new to this and therefore perhaps the most susceptible to her pleas. But a bigger part of me said she knew I was the only one not holding a weapon and if shit hit the fan, I was the one she was going for.

The shooter moved in to position and I right behind him. The houndsman gripped a 9mm in his hand with the false sense of security it provided in case he was called upon.

As the bowmen drew back I watched her through the camera. The hunter was becoming the hunted and she showed no fear whatsoever in the end.

I prayed for a clean shot.

My prayers were answered.

She died and with it my question as to what we were doing. We were doing what we have done since the beginning of time. We were as involved as anyone could be in the this freaky thing we call life. We were surviving, like any every other creature in this world attempts to do. We were a part of this process first hand, not hiding behind money and the deaths you can buy with it, not behind hypocritical social media posts that proclaim our superior morals and certainly not disconnecting ourselves from our role in the animal kingdom.

Make no mistake about it, we are killers in every sense of the word. We are ALL killers, whether we know it or not. Some of us just decide to take the responsibility of it into our own hands. We decide to stay as absolutely as connected as possible. We decide to stay human.

// Fred Bohm

Javelina Bowhunt in Arizona's Backcountry

“When does a kid ever get to sit in the yard with a stick anymore? You know, just sit there with a fucking stick. Do today’s kids even know what a stick is? You sit in the yard with a fucking stick and you dig a fucking hole … I don’t think there are any sticks left.”

— 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

The Closer | Doubling Down on Hawaiian Goat

“You know the dozens of arrows I told you that you would need for this trip? Well scratch that. Bring one and plan on taking it home with you.” Goes the text I send my buddy Joe. He’s planning on visiting me and my family for a few days on the Big Island of Hawaii.

The plan was for him to come down towards the end of my hunting trip so I would have the lay of the land, giving me ample time to learn the island and the creatures that we would be hunting.

Wrong.

Two weeks in and the only thing that I had done any shooting was with my camera. Hell, I had only seen a few goats on public land at this point. Promises of unspoiled hunting lands as far as the eye can see was the fairy tale that I choose to believe.

But I stuck with it. I had a month on this island and I was hell bent on putting animals onto the dirt and in my freezer.

As often happens, success was just on the other side of quitting.

Closer to Joe’s arrival I had two goats down, a sheep and a pig to my name. The week before had been good to me. The island gods were finally loosening their grasp on their herds.

Joe pulled up to our place only to be greeted by sheets of rain, typical to the east side of the island.

“So this is what we’re hunting in?” Eyebrow raised with the general look of concern on his face.

We shake hands then get to work on sorting his gear for the next day’s hunt. During this time I assure him that it could be downpouring here, sunny with scattered puffball clouds in the “saddle” of the island and enveloped in a fog as thick as a Grateful Dead reunion concert on the far side of the island.

“You think Colorado has localized weather? Buddy, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” I assured him. In Colorado the saying goes, ‘If you don’t like the weather, wait 15 minutes.’ Here I’ve found that if you don’t like the weather, drive 15 minutes. Hell, it’s only 75 miles across at its widest point, a short drive can turn a miserable hunt into one you’ll be boring your grandkids about years down the line.

The next day consisted of me  playing tour guide to eleven of the thirteen climate zones that the Big Island has to offer. We put his rental Jeep to the test through the rugged terrain. The Duke boys and General Lee would have been proud. I’m not saying we jumped it exactly, but I’m not not saying it either (if you’re a Budget Car rental employee, please stop reading at this point).

From the coast to around nine thousand feet above sea level, we covered it all. This first day was more show and tell to what the island could offer. I wasn’t able to show any game, but I was able to tell him where they ‘should’ be.

Driving back to the house in the evening I could see the concern on Joe’s face.

“You ain’t kidding, it’s gonna be a rough go at dropping something out here, isn’t it?” Joe asks.

“Nah, they’re there, but they’re not going to jump on the arrow for you either. We’re gonna have to work for them just like anywhere else.” I reply.

In the spirit of adventure, we plan on hunting a new spot tomorrow. Joe’s Jeep rental opens us up new areas, where as my grocery getter of a vehicle has only allowed me to explore parking lots and paved road access areas.

“Let’s go see if that extra insurance the salesman talked you into is worth its salt.” I say. “On one of our exploratory forays last week, we passed an area that had potential of holding some goat. Better yet, the public land goes all the way down to the ocean. We have a chance a shooting a goat while dolphins put on a show for us in the background.”

No more convincing was needed.

Bleary eyed with a 3:00 am wake-up call, Joe presses hard on the gas, hightailing through endless miles of coffee farms.

The Jeep reluctantly slows to a crawl as we enter a minefield of solidified lava just as the sun starts to make its morning appearance. The road creeps through the broken lava flows that has me looking over my shoulder to assure myself the spare tire made it along for the ride.

Forty five minutes later and we are only three miles down the road.

“Looks like a good spot as any.” I say as Joe cuts the engine. The mercury has been steadily rising since dawn and at this point we both want out of the vehicle.

With bows and glass in hand, we pick our way through a lava field to a promising ridge that protrudes like the spine of a stegosaurus. With all the signs (read: shit) we are seeing on the ground, it looks like the goats held a rave the night before with their drug of choice being laxatives.

Glassing through the increasing heatwaves, it doesn't take long before Joe is flagging me.

“Good eyes.” I think to myself.

I do my best to match the angle of his binocs and immediately see a nice billy with his lady-friend hauling ass into a ravine. They want out of the sun as much as we do.

A plan is devised. Knowing the direction they were headed and seeing an oasis of shade in the form of a single tree standing alone in a sea of black, heat absorbing rock, we had a good idea where they were headed.

We close the distance using the tree to block our approach. Suddenly, I noticed Joe wasn’t by my side. I look back to see him locked up.

I stare at him, thinking for the moment he had forgotten how to walk.

His eyes nudge my stare to the other side of the tree.

“Oh that’s right, we’re hunting animals Fred, they don’t always signal you when they want to make an appearance.” I say to myself sarcastically.

Luckily we aren’t busted by my nonchalant approach to the situation. A well horned billy continues on his path.

Both of our hands instinctively go to our range finders… 63 yards. Not a bad poke with the wind being as steady as it is.

“Your shot.” I mouth to Joe.

The billy continues on, we go unnoticed.

With Joe at full draw, I wait for the billy to clear the tree.

“Bahh haha.” I let out, freezing the goat.

I hear the sizzle of the arrow as it screams over my shoulder, blowing through the billy’s vitals as if it were punching through a sheet of paper.

He spins and takes off for anywhere but here.

“You nuked him!” I yell out through clenched teeth, not wanting to spook the fatally wounded goat any more than necessary.

We replay the last minute to each other in long drawn out pantomimes. I can see the excitement in Joe’s eyes from his first Hawaiian kill. Hawaii has sunk its claws into its latest victim.

But we aren’t the only ones involved in the conversation, a third party wants to join in.

“Bahh haha.”

I spin on my heels only to find a nanny staring at our commotion.

“Range her.” I request as I draw back my bow.

“Forty four.” Joe replies without skipping a beat.

My arrow releases. I don’t need to look. It feels like a perfect shot.

“Did we just double down?” I ask as she makes her death run.

“Like a horribly written hunting show, we did!” Joe replies in disbelief.

And like a horribly written hunting show, we walk off to find our goats and take some horribly posed shots with our kills.

When we finish butchering the animals I can’t help but look over at Joe’s quiver stacked full of arrows. I’m glad he didn’t take my advice to bring a lone arrow.

I realize I jump the gun from disappointment at times. Slow down, be patient with the learning process and it will come.

“Alright captain one arrow, where are we off to next?” Joe asks.

“Someplace to burn through more of those arrows.” I reply. “ I plan on keeping my word of you heading home with one arrow, looks like we got some killing to do!”

 // Fred Bohm

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

 

We Are Killers

“It’s not in what you say anymore, is it? It’s all in how you say it.”

— Mr. Parker, Way of the Gun

Harvest… Used by hunters, this word has bothered me from the first time I heard it, but I never took the time to really consider why.

“Hey Fred, did you harvest a deer this year?”

“Uhh… Fuck no. My deer combine was broken down. So I went out there with my bow and killed one. Isn’t that what you’re asking? Did I kill a deer?”

I follow Cam Hanes. What can I say? The guy is a beast and he inspires others (me included) to be a better person. Occasionally some anti-hunter antagonizes him on social media. Cam posts the negative comments aimed at hunters for his followers to see. Then the legions come to his war cry and unleash hell on the thoughtless soul that thought they could make hunters guilty for what we are.

We are killers.

The comments pour out, sometimes filled with hate and malice from hunters that are having a bad day, some are thoughtful and try to help the individual understand our side. But one topic is universally brought up.

“Do you eat meat? Do you have a pet that does? Do you wear products produced by animals?”

All valid questions. The answer is often that they in fact do eat meat or have a pet that does, but they aren’t murdering innocent animals like us neanderthals.

I hear your chuckles now. A ludicrous response that we all know is all so prevalent due to the distancing the packaging provides and the fact they never see the blood they are paying for.

This isn’t some new revelation, I think it’s been beaten into the ground by now. They hide behind their cash and plead innocence.

But we can’t say that the pressure isn’t working. They are changing the way we speak and therefore how we act. Semantics right?

We tone it down in hopes of slipping by the opposition unnoticed. We’re not killing anything after all, just merely harvesting them. As if you water them a little, hose it down with pesticides and wait for the sun to do its job. Bam! up sprouts a perfect elk backstrap.

If it were only that easy. We who still have that primal urge know what it takes to fill that freezer. We know what actions are necessary. We know exactly what we are doing and we know something has to die to make that something happen.

By hiding behind tamed words we are unknowingly admitting that what we are doing is wrong. We are admitting that we feel so guilty that we are not even able to say and therefore admit what we are really doing.

Don’t call it what it really is, but instead compare it to how we secure our vegetables. The lie is just more digestible. If we don’t call it killing then they can look the other way right? We cannot feel guilty about what they tell us we should feel guilty for.

Well I’m a killer. I don’t pay others to do it for me and I’m not going to dull it down to make it easy for those who enlist mercenaries to do it for them. When I hear the death cries of an elk or deer I know what I’ve done and I don’t always like it.

There is a certain weight that killing another being carries and I am fully aware of it. I respect it, I know that it was my decision to make and I made it. This animal is not my enemy, it did nothing to deserve what I did to it, but I knowingly took its life to feed mine. And most of all, it deserves the respect of me knowing what I did to it. They mean to much to me not too.

I know what I am, I’m a killer.

// Fred Bohm

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

The Road to Chukar

“Uhhh… there’s a what?” I stammer out in stupefied confusion.

“Yea, right behind you. Comes all the way to the top.” Our newfound friend eagerly feeds us the locals’ inside information.

“All the way from the bottom? All the way to the top?” Bryce points off the cliff that our camp is so precariously perched on. “Like a road you can drive on, with a car?”

“That’s usually what they’re for. Driving on. You mean to tell me you guys hiked all the way up here with all that camp gear, enough water for yourselves and your dogs and those heavy rifles?” our inquisitor asked.

“Shotguns.” I murmur.

“Huh?”

“They’re shotgu… Never mind.” I cut myself off, not wanting to explain the not so subtle differences between a shotgun and a rifle to guys that prefer the comfort of spandex to upland pants.

“All to catch some birds? Hell you can buy birds to eat from the grocery store in the town below!” He laughs as he takes a tug from his post ride beer.

I hold my tongue, also not wanting to explain that it wasn’t just about coming up here to ‘catch’ something to eat.

Moments earlier Bryce and I watched these two mountain bikers as they powered their way up the same trail we grinded up earlier that day. And grind we did. I’ve rock climbed in areas that were a lesser grade than this.

Both having strong mountain biking backgrounds, Bryce and I discussed earlier what an epic downhill this little piece of singletrack would be. That being said we also questioned if the way up was worth the way down. You’d be earning your turns on this one, there was no doubt about that.

Bryce and I turn the discussion more towards mountain biking, knowing that this would be a common ground between us. Trying to explain why we hunt to non-hunters has never been an easy feat.

The sunset was too stunning for an argument. We talk for a bit and the two say their farewells.

As our cliffside campfire crisps the chukar taken from the sky today, we watch the bikers scream down the near vertical mountainside, sending up rooster tails of dust into the sunset.

“A road huh…” Bryce breaks the silence.

“Yea, must have missed that one when virtually scouting the area.” I say somewhat apologetically.

We both know that means we wouldn’t have aching quads from the four mile, 3,100 vertical gain hike in. We also wouldn’t be rationing water right now in order to keep all parties on this upland expedition hydrated.

“To hell with it. We earned these birds the hard way and I don’t get to keep my fine girlish figure from riding a truck around, blasting critters from a window.” Bryce says in his best redneck accent.

Want to find a good hunting partner? Prerequisite number uno. Find someone who doesn’t bitch about a little hard work. Not a complaint left Bryce’s mouth.

I stoke the coals and check the meat as the pups settle into the dirt for their night’s rest.

We pick at the meaty birds and look out over the valley as the sun melts away and the darkness takes on its eerie job.

“Let’s go check the ‘potholes’ tomorrow and see if its holding any chukar. Besides, the dogs need a good watering.” Bryce says.

“Sounds like a plan to me.” I respond. With little water to be had in the desert, sometimes small holes eroded into the sandstone flats can hold water from the last rain and attract just about every animal in the vicinity.

And with that we crawl into our respective tents and let the day’s beating slip us into a coma.

Before the morning sun breaks the horizon, the dogs are up with the intent on introducing themselves to every bird on the mountain.

We head out in a loose direction towards the potholes, letting our bird dogs do the navigating. I have full confidence in Sage and Goose to accomplish what they were put on this earth to do; to find birds.

And birds they find. A covey bursts into the sky as Sage’s wet nose prods them from their morning nap.

Two shots sounds off from my over under and two birds fall from the sky.

“Got ‘em!” Bryce and I say simultaneously.

“Got what?” I ask, “A good view of that perfect double I executed?”

As often happens with hunting partners, shots fired at the exact same time, at the exact same bird leaves the other confused as to who actually put the bird on the ground.

“You shot the one cresting over that cedar as well huh?” Bryce laughs.

“Aye.” I say. “Looks like I’m at one and a half and you’re at a half for the morning. How does the Department of Wildlife decipher half kills in the rule book?”

“They give the kill to the taller guy.” Bryce says with a straight face.

I’ve heard the Department of Wildlife had a bias towards taller people, but I didn’t know that it would go as far as taking food out of my mouth. I concede to Bryce’s kill, not wanting to break the law.

We find the potholes but nothing is stirring. The dogs lap up the pools of cool water as the humans rest their legs.

I look out at the vast emptiness that lies ahead of me and smile inwardly. Something about undeveloped and unspoiled lands makes me feel like a rowdy little kid on Christmas morning. You have no idea what’s under the wrapping paper. The only way to find out is to dig in.

I grunt as I get up and look over to see if Bryce is as sore as I am. He hides his aches well and points in a general direction.

“That way?” he asks as much as he tells.

“Sure.” I respond with a shrug. Honestly I could care less. It’s all good hunting ground and I’m in no rush to get anywhere in particular.

The dogs peel themselves away from their water holes and set the pace.

We roam the mountainside as the bird dogs work together in perfect harmony. A pointer and a flusher, who would have ever thought they could work so together so seamlessly. One hyper and with and unbelievable drive to find birds that he often finds on sheer effort alone. The other, calculated and precise using less effort to accomplish the same mission.

I ponder the old adage of a dog being the product of his owner’s personality. I look at Sage as he works the cedars in a foamed mouth frenzy. He’ll find them, but damn is he going to have to work for it. It’s not natural talent that is creating his success, it’s sheer determination. I hope to be half the dog he is someday, I think to myself.

We push through several coveys making some lucky shots, but mostly missing and embarrassing our dogs.

Towards the end of the loop that will end our trip, we come across the road that could have carried us effortlessly to the top and planted right smack in the middle of chukar country.

“So this is the express lane to chukar success I suppose.” I say to Bryce as we examine tire marks pressed into the dusty road.

I can tell that he’s feeling the same disappointment I am. There always seems to be a shortcut to get to the same place. An easy way and a hard way. A way to get to the same point, but one takes a hell of a lot of more effort than the other. Does the actual path to get there matter or is the means worthless and only the end really matters?

We walk on in silence towards camp and the trail that will take us down the mountain to the truck.

“When we coming back?” I ask Bryce to break the silence.

“Just as soon as my legs recover so I can make that brutal hike up again.” Comes his unexpected response.

I smile as I kick a rock off the trail and watch it pick up momentum as it careens towards the valley floor.

“The means.” I laugh under my breath and I see Bryce smile as if he heard the whole conversation in my head. I know I don’t need to explain to him the difference between a rifle and a shotgun.

// 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

Homemade Energy Bars

If I could conveniently sum up all of the USA’s current problems in two easy words what would it be? White sugar.

Ok, perhaps that’s an oversimplification. But I’ll go as far as saying it’s the new smoking. It is something I’ve experimented with eliminating from my diet and I can honestly say at age 38, I’ve never felt better or been stronger.

It goes beyond sugar. It’s eliminating everything that comes in a box or eating anything I can’t pronounce.

Good for you, yes. Convenient? Absolutely not.

This can prove to be a HUGE problem when it comes to hunting season and the backcountry. Carrying steak and vegetables with us probably isn’t an option.

Just looking at the sugar content in something like a Cliff bar cold put you into a diabetic coma. Many of the other “health bars” are not far off. Don’t let the marketing fool you, your health is not their first concern.

Well shit, now what? Avoid prepackaged food? What are we going to take with us then? Pine cones and twigs just aren’t going to cut it.

Luckily making your own bars is almost as easy as buying them. I’ve come up with a recipe that tastes damn good and contains only whole foods.

Warning: These suckers aren’t for casual eating. They are meant for fueling your body through the rigors the backcountry will inevitably throw at you. They are calorie bombs and if you aren’t exerting a herculean effort, you’ll blow up like a puffer fish.

* I am not a doctor. Hell I don’t even play one on TV. I’m just an advocate of eating whole, natural foods. Feel free to veer off of my recipe to get to something that may suit your needs better.

Get the blender ready, it’s time to put these sugar saturated “energy bars” out of business.

Ingredients

• 3 Cups of Walnuts
• 2 Cups of Almonds
• 2.5 Cups of pitted Dates
• 1 Cup of Unsweetened Dried Cranberries
• 0.5 Cups of Unsweetened Coconut Flakes
• 0.75 Cups of Egg Whites
• 1 Tbs. of Cinnamon
• 1 Tsp. of Matcha
• 1 Tbs. of Chai Seeds

Directions

1. Blend everything together using a blender. The dates will make it extra sticky, so add these to the other ingredients a little at a time.
2. Line an 8”x8” Pyrex pan with parchment paper.
3. Scoop mixed ingredients into lined pan.
4. Heat in oven at 350º F for about a half hour.
5. Cut up into 8 servings and let cool and store in a Ziplock bag.

I like to freeze them until I’m ready to use. They’ll last the week or so you’re in the backcountry easily. Feel free to comment below and suggest other ingredients.

// Fred

Turkey Hunting and Quantum Physics

“It’s your shot.”

These are not the typical words I’m used to hearing coming out of the mouth of a hunting partner. At the time, I didn’t know Mat that well. We met at a rattlesnake clinic for our young hunting pups a few years back and stayed in touch through the magic of the interwebs.

Just minutes earlier we were in the middle of a full swing conversation when the squawking of a Tom pierced the air.

Our trot goes to a full gallop as we hear his rival answer the call.

We find ourselves on top of a myriad of house sized boulders looking down on what looks like a civil war reenactment between the two birds.

“Should we let them duke it out before dropping the axe?” I ask.

“Nah, rip an arrow at the closer one.” Comes Mat’s reply.

I peer up from behind my hiding place and get my rangefinder on him. He’s at the edge of my comfort zone. Being that I haven’t been able to put a turkey down in the past two years, this guy is marked for death.

I half squat to keep my cover and let my pin settle on his vitals. Twenty-nine and a half inches of anger is released in the air. The arrow sizzles through the heavy evening, marked for its target.

Air ball.

Over his back and safely into the pine needles. My nemesis animal struts off along with my hope of breaking the cycle.

Thanks for sneaking up behind me Mat and filming this shot.

One Frustrated Year Later

I’m on the phone with Mat discussing this year’s opener.

“It’s your show buddy, I blew it last year. Let’s see what that new Benelli of yours can offer them.” I say to Mat.

“Sounds good. Let’s meet up around noon and we’ll walk in.” Comes his reply.

I debate bringing my bow or just my camera and calls. What the hell, I might need something to club the bird with if Mat wounds him. 

Found this video by Joshua Calvert

We walk into a silent woods. Mid-day not being known for its hot action, we settle into a hiding spot perched up on a small cliff. We have a perfect view of three merging openings in the woods.

Turkey shit abounds and we deem it as good a spot as any. Decoys go up, we plop down on a massive rock and attempt radio silence.

That lasts a whole three and a half minutes before we’re babbling like two teenage girls.

The conversation turns to what it always turns to between two passionate bird dog owners: Quantum physics.

“Since there was nothing before the “Big Bang”, how the hell can it be called that? “Big” is a relative term, big compared to what? Before that there was nothing so big is really subjective here. The use of that adjective is suspect to say the least.” I continue to surmise during my part of the lecture. (* see footnote)

Squawk.

I swear these birds love to listen in to our conversations. It’s only during these full blown tirades that they ever make their presence known to me.

“Incoming.” Mat mouths and he pops a squat and I duck behind him with my camera.

They come in hot. Three, what we assume are hens at first, make a beeline for Mat’s Jake he has set up not 40 yards out.

All three give it to him at once. The gobbles instantly tell us that we have the sex wrong. I don’t believe turkeys as of yet have gender identity issues, so I think we have them marked.

They puff up and bark at him like junkyard dogs. All bark and no bite however. They’re afraid of the plastic impersonator that sits motionless in front of them.

“Must be young Jakes, they’re scared shitless of my decoy!” Mat giggles.

“Should I shoot the one with the small beard?” He asks.

The bird looks like a high school student desperate to grow out his mustache to impress the ladies.

“Up to you man. As long as you don’t mind teenaged blood on your hands.” Is the only response I can think of.

They walk within ten yards, taking no notice of the camo clad humans a few steps away.

I remember going through puberty and how it blinded me to everything but one thing. I can’t fault them for being oblivious to danger lurking within a stone’s throw away.

They move on with purpose, heading down the hill.

We stand up and laugh to each other when they are out of sight. After all, we don’t want to damage their frail teenage egos.

“Did you see them run from my decoy?” Mat said, “What a bunch of sissies!”

“Should we follow them to see what their dinner plans are?” I ask.

“Maybe they’ll lead us to something bigger,” Mat replies.

And with that, we herd up our decoys and head down the hill in hot pursuit.

We see them move from tree to tree like soldiers advancing the line, ducking in and out of cover. But still they take no notice of their pursuers.

Mat throws out a call out and immediately gets a response. We work around a boulder with me in the lead.

Mat locating them.

As my head peers around the granite monolith, there unfolds before me the perfect shot. Three ducks lined up in a row. The center one sporting about a three inch beard. I signal to Mat that their are three below me.

“Shoot the damn bird!” he mouths.

I contemplate the shot. This will end my season early, but it’s been three years of doing everything but walking into the grocery store and shooting a frozen one to land one of these guys with my bow.

An image pops back in my head of these guys backing off from the decoy.

“God hates as coward,” I justify.

I’m anchored. The arrow cuts through the air and lands with that unmistakeable ‘thwunk’.

“Thunder chicken down,” I say to Mat as he approaches.

“Damn, I wanted to film that!” he says as he pats me on the shoulder.

“And advertise to the world that I’m a lousy shot like last year?” comes my response.

“Lousy shot is relative, lousy shot compared to who? That adjective is suspect.” is Mat’s response. (** see footnote)

My own words being thrown back into face… I like this guy.

// Fred

Footnotes:

* Disclaimer: This never happened. Not the “Big” Bang, that happened. What didn’t happen was this conversation intending to make me look smart.

** See above note to understand my understanding of Mat’s understanding of quantum physics is completely reliant on a conversation that never happened.

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

Chukar Hunting in Colorado

Chasing the Sun

“Chukar in Colorado huh?” I reply into the phone at Bryce’s request to go chase something new.

I’m a bit leary. I’ve seen one or two of them scampering around the fractured desert back in the day of mashing gears on my mountain bike. I was pretty sure at the time these were rogue birds trying to escape the restrictive drinking laws of the bordering Utah.

I like Bryce’s thinking however. Why the hell not? So what if we only see tumbleweeds, it ain’t about the killing, it’s about the adventure. Plus, I’m about to lose my shit in Denver if I get asked one more time by some teenaged vagrant if I could break him off a piece of bud. The loose weed laws here in Colorado have really attracted some high class citizens, I can vouch for that. Time to wander the mountains.

“I hear they shack up in some pretty steep terrain.” Comes my delayed response. “I’m in.”

“Uhh, yea.” Is Bryce’s only response. The hairs on my neck prick up at the stunted answer. There’s something he’s not telling me.

Bryce is the only guy I ever met that loves to blather on as much as I do about bird dogs. The four hour drive flies by as we gyrate in our seats in excitement, talking about the development of his young pup, Goose, and me telling him about the latest foreign object Braker decided to “challenge” his intestines with.

We wake up in an unfamiliar canyon at the nut freezing temperature of 20 degrees. I’m notoriously bitchy about the cold, believe me, when I find great bird hunting in the tropics, I can promise you I will be there.

I stare in amazement of the near vertical sandcastles that make up the Book Cliffs. The angles of the impervious cliffs and chutes make me think that Dr. Suess has something to do with it’s creation.

Bryce well above the desert floor.

The sun blesses the top of the mountains with its presence. I look up enviously at the warming mountain top. It’s only a mere sixteen hundred feet separating us and from what I understand, they won’t be sitting on the canyon floor with bullseyes on their chests waiting for us to scoop them up. With frozen fingers and shivering dogs, we all know what the answer is.

“Let’s make for that sunline.” Bryce vocalizes our thoughts.

When plans are made, God is known to laugh. The series of tombstone like cliff bands that separate us from our goal says otherwise.

“Well they ain’t on the canyon floor, so let’s get to gettin.” Is my response.

The approach consists of tucking our I/Os in our packs as we use our hands as much as our feet to scrape and claw our way towards the heavens. My thighs burn and sizzle as I can feel the fat burning off.

“Christ…. and I thought….. grouse hunting….. was hard.” I wheeze between gulps of air in attempts to slow Bryce’s pace.

A welder and fly fishing guide, this dude is built out of steel. While he is lugging around wrought iron and dragging clients through the wilderness, I’m logging serious time behind the twin glowing screens of my computer.

Time to rethink my career.

We push through the burn as the dogs run laps around us. Sage, my lab, keeps looking back and wondering what is taking the bipeds so long. Bryce’s new pup, Goose, keeps the pace with Sage and I can tell this dog has something special in him by his confident strides.

“You got a run for your money with this one.” I mutter under my breath to Sage.

We come to a halt to snap some photos and allow our lungs to catch up with us.

Bryce’s eyes train on a cliff about five hundred yards from straight up from us.

“That’s an interesting sound.” I offer.

“That’s chukar.” He responds as a long finger points up to the vertical wall that appears to be infested with fleas.

“Nooooo.” Is my long winded response. How could it be? There must be a hundred of them up there. I mean this is Colorado, it’s not exactly known for it’s chukar population.

“Well we found them, now how the hell are we going to hunt them?” I ask. “We have a better chance of infiltrating Fort Knox that we do finding a weakness that will allow us to penetrate that cliffline.”

“That I don’t have an answer too.” Comes Bryce’s uncertain reply.

Book Cliffs of Colorado

I sit there and ponder the remedy.

A. We can hang glide in from above; dive bombing in like a squadron of peregrine falcons.

     B. Launch mortar fire from down below and hope for a few pieces of shredded meat in the leftover remnants.

1. Man up, hike up a near vertical sandbox, send one of us to the top to flush them over   and pray to God that gravity is taking a break today.

Just as I’m about to hop on my satellite phone to call in a favor with an Army buddy with “creative” means to acquiring non-civilian weapons (mortars) Bryce pipes in.

“Three… we’re going with three.”

“I said all of that out loud huh?” I sheepishly inquire.

“You really gotta work on that inner monologue buddy.” Bryce smiles as he toe kicks into powder dusted hillside. “And “C” comes after “B”, not “3”.

We press on, legs filled with adrenaline as they scream for a short reprieve. This would be all of our first wild chukar, if the hunting gods see us fit for the taking. We press on not wanting them to think us weak and therefore not allowing us to take the birds from their mountain.

This cliff proves to be impossible for us to hunt. It’s irrelevant as we hear another covey on the same contour line about 800 yards off.

We’re on them.

Sage punches through the middle and the covey reluctantly takes flight. I fire two shots and two birds fall from the sky (which actually turns into a third, which we find out the next day).

We watch as the rest of the covey drops over a cliff that eerily resembles the White Cliffs of Dover.

“Their escape routes certainly have a feeling of finality to them, don’t they?” I say to Bryce as I scoop up the second bird from the ever loyal jaws of Sage.

“Next covey it is then.” Bryce replies as he hefts his twin barrel and takes off.

He is itching hard to get goose on a solid point.

We spread out a bit to give our dogs room. Sage just has too much experience and speed to allow a young pup to learn his own pacing.

We work a ridge with Bryce and Goose on the steep side and me and my pups on the more open terrain. Perfect for Braker to stretch his legs and look for a point, while Sage works in close to me, making sure no rock goes unturned.

It’s an interesting combination working with a pointer and flusher on the same hunt. I wasn’t sure how it was going to work out, but over the year or so I’ve been doing it, I learned how to let each dog hunt with their own style.

My only job is to put the dogs in a spot that has potential of having birds, other than that I leave it up to them. What I love about bird hunting is the lack of plans. There is no predetermined direction picked out once we get in a birdy area. Let go of control and let the dogs do what they do best… find birds.

I’m pondering these oh so important thoughts when I hear a single gunshot go off.

Bryce and his wirehaired griffon, Goose.

“Good job Goose!” comes the following report.

A smile comes across my face as I gather my pups up and head towards the sound.

As I approach, Bryce is already giving Goose a thorough scratching behind the ears and repeatedly telling his pup how universe now revolves around him.

And it damn well does.

There is absolutely no feeling when that connection between a hunter and his dog is proven by the hunt. NOTHING COMES CLOSE.

The research in the breed that matches your personality, the long wait after you put the deposit down, the countless hours reading books on how to train him during this wait, the arrival, the early bonding stage, the daily walks in the field and woods, the personal talks you have together, the frustration as he eats your socks, the absolute joy he gives you as he is by your side doing what you’re doing day and night, the informal training, the formal training, the promise of an amazing season to come that will probably get you a divorce with the amount of days you plan on hunting together…. and it all comes down to THIS.

That first time you work together as a team, as one single unit, headed towards a common goal… and for the love of God, you achieve it!

I have heard of stronger bonds in the world, but I haven’t experienced it. This animal becomes an extension of you and vice versa. The ability to understand one another without saying a word is something I’ve never experienced with another human being.

Telepathy? Hell I don’t know. Sounds a bit too hippy for this guy, but there are those of you out there that know exactly what I mean.

And I have the joy of watching a good friend fall into the fold.

I look at the two of them, then at my pups and hold back a tear. I know how important this bond is, even if Bryce doesn’t at the moment. That’s the funny thing about life changing events, we don’t know they happened until we get the opportunity to look back at them. I know he will look back at this time and place many times over the years and it will always bring a smile to his face.

I’m just happy to be here to see someone else experience it.

Long live the gundog.

// Fred