Follow the Map—A Family Mule Deer Story

rtraverdavis

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Earlier this year my five-year-old daughter became interested in maps. Satellite computer imagery was cool, but of particular interest were paper topographical maps. She’d watch me study them and ask a lot of questions, and pretty soon became sort of fixated on making her own. Pretty soon I started finding stuff like this all over the house:

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And the chalkboard was a constant rotation of new maps:

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In May, when I found out I drew an easier-to-draw deer tag in a hard-to-draw state, she saw how excited I was. She told me real seriously that she’d be making me all the maps that I’d need, and that they’d lead me right to the deer. “That’s cheating,” I told her. She rolled her eyes.

Soon July came and while my wife and daughter took a girls’ trip to the coast, my dad, son, and I headed to my deer unit to “scout.” I put the word scout in quotation marks because actually looking for deer is just about impossible with a rabid bear cub of a three-year-old boy, but we got to know the lay of the land, the roads, and became familiar with the terrain. It was really fun.

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My boy wasn’t all that impressed with being hiked all over the ridge tops.

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The Mormon Crickets were way more interesting.

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Summer blew by and my daughter started kindergarten. She continued to make maps, but was waiting until the week before I left for my hunt to give me her final draft, the one that would lead me to deer. The time finally came, and her final map was clear and detailed. She really wanted me to get a buck.

My dad, who isn’t in great health and has a hard time walking on uneven terrain was determined to accompany me on the trip. He wouldn’t be able to actually hunt with me, but wanted to be there anyway, tend camp and drop me off at places while I hunted. Really grateful he was able to join me.

We arrived in the unit and set up camp in the late afternoon. I was ready. Ha.

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The first day of the hunt was gorgeous. There were some other hunters camped nearby, but I found pretty quickly that if I climbed up the ridgeline to the backside of the range I was all by myself. Late morning I started finding bucks. One buck in the group looked pretty good, he had a big frame, but the mirage was so bad I couldn’t make out details through the spotter. I dropped down into the basin for a closer look.

I made it to a rock outcropping that gave me a pretty neat vantage.

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The bigger buck I’d seen from above turned out to be a large-framed forky still in velvet, which was sort of weird. He had a great big body that dwarfed his buddies, but it was the first day of the hunt and I wanted to take my time.

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I hiked up out of there after watching the bucks for quite a while, trying to make sure there wasn’t another one in the group that would get me to notch my tag on the first day. There wasn’t.

I spent the rest of the afternoon glassing into different basins, watching lots of does and small bucks. The sunset was nice.

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The next morning a storm had rolled in, bringing snow, heavy fog, and ripping wind. This being big, open country, glassing is the way to find animals. Our visibility was about 50 yards, so we headed back to camp to wait it out.

Total spot burn:

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We spent most of the day like this:

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It finally cleared out enough to go hunt. There wasn’t a lot of light left in the day, so I decided to hunt closer to camp. Found a bunch of does but no bucks.

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The next morning was cold and windy, and my dad hadn’t slept the night before. He apologized and bowed out, but offered to drop me off somewhere from the truck. There were some higher basins to the south of camp I wanted to check out, so he took me to the area. The tops of the ridges were still socked-in, and the wind up high was something to behold.

I hunted down lower where I had visibility all morning, moving from basin to basin and trying to keep warm. But all I found were more does.

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Early afternoon the low clouds finally blew out from up high, and I moved up to the top where I could look down into the other side of the range. The wind was ridiculous, and I knew the deer would be hunkered down on the leeward ridges. But the only way to see those spots was to sit out in the Ivey blast zone. I hiked across a ridge to where I could look down into several basins at once, and right away started finding deer, but they were all far off. I spotted a group of five deer feeding across a low ridge about a mile down in the basin directly below me, and through the binoculars their bodies looked like bucks. Once again, the spotting scope wasn’t much help, but instead of mirage this time it was the shaking from the wind. I was, however, able to make out antlers on two of the deer, both of which looked pretty good. I watched them bed down in the middle of the open ridge.

I drop in.

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When I’m about halfway between where I’d started and where the bucks are bedded, there is an outcropping of rocks that I can get behind and put the spotter on them again. When I do, I see that one of the bucks is one that I would definitely shoot. They are all tranquil, one is even asleep.

Terrible photo:

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I drop off the backside of the ridge to keep out of sight. The wind is good, from enemy to friend, because as long as I stay above the deer my wind will be carried away from them. As I’m making my way down through this cut that will lead me to the saddle above the deer where I believe I will get a shot, I see another buck less than 100 yards below me, bedded, chewing his cud and facing away from me. He’s small and I sneak by undetected without blowing him out.

Eventually, I am able to creep out to a sort of rock parapet in the saddle above the deer. I take off my rifle and pack, and belly crawl to the edge. The deer are still there, bedded. The one I want is 210 yards. I lay in the ice and snow and wait for him to stand up.

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After about 45 minutes, two of the smaller bucks in the group stand and start to mill about, feeding. Eventually, the buck I wanted does the same. I shoot. It was easy, really. This was one of those easy hunts that lacked all of the exhaustion and anxiety and struggle of the ones that come down to the wire. I don’t know if that makes it lesser. Maybe, maybe not. But it sure was fun.

He stumbles for a few moments then rolls down the hill aways. His buddies all stare. They have no idea what happened or that I was there, and I watch them gather around him, almost like they’re holding vigil. I watched them for a long time and was pretty mesmerized. Eventually I stood up and they stotted off. I pack up my stuff and head down. Find him like this:

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Now the thing about my daughter and her making me maps and me bringing my son scouting is this—they now have a connection to the hunt and the food they eat. I get one big hunt a year, and my kids aren’t of the age where they could join and where it would be fun for everyone. But I sent this picture to my wife as soon as I got reception and apparently my daughter freaked out with excitement when she was it:

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She truly felt like she had helped, which of course, she had. When I got home she was begging me to go on the next hunt. That felt real good. I’ve got to figure that one out, something small and simple, like squirrels.
 
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It takes some time to pack him out of there, but since it’s still early in the week, there’s no rush. My dad and I relax around camp for a few days, taking care of the meat and euroing the skull to meet CWD travel requirements. Just a real fun trip.

The old man, feeling better and happy to be there:

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Camp:

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Huge thanks to a certain Hunttalker who knows who he is for all the advice on this area. You are greatly appreciated, sir.
 

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