Unless the stars align, a 180 buck won't happen. mtmuley
Bitterroot Mule Deer 261/270
- Thread starter cmartynn
- Start date
Big buck or not, spending some time in 261 has been a blast. Stayed with my wife in the gird point look out this summer and glassed lots of great bighorn rams.
Unfortunately I glassed up a sheep in a weird position. I hiked over to it and discovered it was dead. The bio came in and hauled it out for a full necropsy, came back as pneumonia and they let me keep the head. That very same day hiking around later I also found some ram horns from a sheep that had died at least a year ago and were laying in the bear grass.
Here’s some pictures, but if my luck holds maybe I’ll be able to get lucky and find that 180 buck.
Unfortunately I glassed up a sheep in a weird position. I hiked over to it and discovered it was dead. The bio came in and hauled it out for a full necropsy, came back as pneumonia and they let me keep the head. That very same day hiking around later I also found some ram horns from a sheep that had died at least a year ago and were laying in the bear grass.
Here’s some pictures, but if my luck holds maybe I’ll be able to get lucky and find that 180 buck.
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If you kill a 180+, I'll buy you a beer. mtmuley
Mountain Mule
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We were promised a keg, mtmuley.
I didn't promise anything. I really do wish you guys luck. mtmuley
cgasner1
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A keg is a beer. It’s just a really really big one
So is a 180 buck in that unit. I'll throw in a Nap's burger and help pack out. mtmuley
Due to the Daly/Railroad fire, it looks like Skalkaho hwy and the 714 road (gird point) are going to be closed opening day. Going in Via Willow Creek but I'm sure there's going to be lots of pressure by elk hunter because that's basically the only open road in the unit.
Anyways earlier in this thread, someone said to drive the private ground to see big bucks and use it as a reference for what's possible in the unit. Well, I've yet to see any big mule deer on private in 261 or 262 driving the county roads. Maybe I'm driving the wrong roads but I've been patrolling from skalkaho hwy up Golf Course, willow crossing, Summerdale, and North Birch Creek and literally have not seen a single Muley buck.
Anyways, just giving people an update. Only 5 more days till the boom sticks bark!
Anyways earlier in this thread, someone said to drive the private ground to see big bucks and use it as a reference for what's possible in the unit. Well, I've yet to see any big mule deer on private in 261 or 262 driving the county roads. Maybe I'm driving the wrong roads but I've been patrolling from skalkaho hwy up Golf Course, willow crossing, Summerdale, and North Birch Creek and literally have not seen a single Muley buck.
Anyways, just giving people an update. Only 5 more days till the boom sticks bark!
The yard bucks of years past are gone. And I live in the area you described. Hope you find the buck in the pics. Cats are hard on them. mtmuley
Outlaw99
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It’s been 8 or so years since I hunted 270, but along with the cat tracks, there was no shortage of wolf tracks either as I recall
rustneversleeps
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@cmartynn any updates on your tag?
atlas
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Coming soon… 
cgasner1
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I heard he was letting it dry so it’s a official score check back later
atlas
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I’ll let Craig tell the rest of the story…
Darn Atlas, giving it away! Well here is the highly anticipated story..... enjoy!
Once in a blue moon, fate grants a hunter like me a golden opportunity—a limited-entry mule deer tag in Unit 261, home to some of the biggest bucks in the country. When I drew that tag, I felt like I’d hit the jackpot. This was my chance to finally bag the mule deer of my dreams, the kind with antlers that stretch to the heavens. I was confident, prepared, and ready to make it happen.
Or so I thought.
On the first morning, I headed out before dawn. My rifle was spotless, my pack was stocked, and I was sure nothing could go wrong. Just as the sun lit up the ridge, I saw him—a massive buck standing out in the open meadow. He was the kind of deer you see in magazines, a true giant. My heart was pounding as I raised my rifle, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.
Click.
I opened the chamber and stared in disbelief. I’d left my ammo back at camp. The buck, hearing the noise, stared at me for a second with a look that said, Really, dude? Then he bounded off into the timber, and I was left standing there like a fool.
The next day, I wasn’t going to let anything stop me. I triple-checked that I had ammo and set out again, this time heading up into the high country where the big bucks liked to bed. While climbing a steep slope, I dislodged a loose rock. That rock started rolling, and before I knew it, I was tumbling down the hill like a human avalanche. My pack flew off, my rifle went one way, and I went the other. When I finally came to a stop, bruised and covered in dust, I looked up and saw two bucks standing on the ridge above me. They were incredible—massive antlers, perfect symmetry. They stared at me like I was some kind of idiot before trotting off into the distance.
By the third day, I decided to get smart. I found a watering hole and set up in a good spot downwind. I sat for hours, perfectly still, until finally, a buck came into view. He was a real brute, gray-faced and wide-racked, the kind of deer you dream about. I adjusted for the shot, but in doing so, I knocked over my thermos. Coffee spilled everywhere, and the smell carried right to the deer. He froze, snorted, and then bolted before I could even shoulder my rifle.
This pattern continued for weeks. I spooked deer by stepping on twigs, sneezing at the worst moments, and once by getting my pants caught on a barbed-wire fence. Every day, I was more desperate, and every day, something new went wrong.
Finally, nearing the end of the season, I spotted a buck. He wasn’t anything like the monsters I’d been chasing. This guy was a puny, forked-horn buck with a dull, scraggly coat. I looked at him, sighed, and decided I wasn’t going home empty-handed. I steadied my rifle, took a deep breath, and made the shot. He went down, and I walked up to him, staring at my so-called "trophy."
To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. After all the effort, the scrapes, the bruises, and the embarrassment, this was the buck I ended up with? I couldn’t even bear the thought of taking it home. Instead, I loaded the little guy into my truck, drove straight to the Poverello Center in Missoula, and dropped him off. I figured the unhoused could roast him over their illegal campfires, even if there was a good chance he had CWD. At least someone would get something out of it, even if it wasn’t me.
Once in a blue moon, fate grants a hunter like me a golden opportunity—a limited-entry mule deer tag in Unit 261, home to some of the biggest bucks in the country. When I drew that tag, I felt like I’d hit the jackpot. This was my chance to finally bag the mule deer of my dreams, the kind with antlers that stretch to the heavens. I was confident, prepared, and ready to make it happen.
Or so I thought.
On the first morning, I headed out before dawn. My rifle was spotless, my pack was stocked, and I was sure nothing could go wrong. Just as the sun lit up the ridge, I saw him—a massive buck standing out in the open meadow. He was the kind of deer you see in magazines, a true giant. My heart was pounding as I raised my rifle, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.
Click.
I opened the chamber and stared in disbelief. I’d left my ammo back at camp. The buck, hearing the noise, stared at me for a second with a look that said, Really, dude? Then he bounded off into the timber, and I was left standing there like a fool.
The next day, I wasn’t going to let anything stop me. I triple-checked that I had ammo and set out again, this time heading up into the high country where the big bucks liked to bed. While climbing a steep slope, I dislodged a loose rock. That rock started rolling, and before I knew it, I was tumbling down the hill like a human avalanche. My pack flew off, my rifle went one way, and I went the other. When I finally came to a stop, bruised and covered in dust, I looked up and saw two bucks standing on the ridge above me. They were incredible—massive antlers, perfect symmetry. They stared at me like I was some kind of idiot before trotting off into the distance.
By the third day, I decided to get smart. I found a watering hole and set up in a good spot downwind. I sat for hours, perfectly still, until finally, a buck came into view. He was a real brute, gray-faced and wide-racked, the kind of deer you dream about. I adjusted for the shot, but in doing so, I knocked over my thermos. Coffee spilled everywhere, and the smell carried right to the deer. He froze, snorted, and then bolted before I could even shoulder my rifle.
This pattern continued for weeks. I spooked deer by stepping on twigs, sneezing at the worst moments, and once by getting my pants caught on a barbed-wire fence. Every day, I was more desperate, and every day, something new went wrong.
Finally, nearing the end of the season, I spotted a buck. He wasn’t anything like the monsters I’d been chasing. This guy was a puny, forked-horn buck with a dull, scraggly coat. I looked at him, sighed, and decided I wasn’t going home empty-handed. I steadied my rifle, took a deep breath, and made the shot. He went down, and I walked up to him, staring at my so-called "trophy."
To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. After all the effort, the scrapes, the bruises, and the embarrassment, this was the buck I ended up with? I couldn’t even bear the thought of taking it home. Instead, I loaded the little guy into my truck, drove straight to the Poverello Center in Missoula, and dropped him off. I figured the unhoused could roast him over their illegal campfires, even if there was a good chance he had CWD. At least someone would get something out of it, even if it wasn’t me.
.....and then you woke up from your bad dream and started up the mountain for your opening day hunt....?????? RIGHT????
