charliebravo77
Well-known member
Finally got around to writing up my experiences hunting in WY. I've only been hunting for 3 years, with this trip having been about 2 years in the making. Definitely something I won't forget, and hope to replicate for years to come.
Along the way I've tried to capture my hunts, experiences, and thoughts on the culture with a blog, which the curious can see here.
The west has ruined hunting for me.
If you asked me 10 years ago I’d have probably said I had no interest in hunting, and that I was more than content with not having to think about where the steak sitting on my plate came from. Over the years though, I began to take a passing interest in one day going hunting, just to be able to say I had done it, and to add that experience and to my bag of “this might be useful to know one day” pieces of knowledge.
Fast forward to just three years ago in 2011 when I was able to go on my first real hunt and everything began to fall apart. Despite being cold, slightly damp, and unsuccessful at shooting anything, after sitting in that duck blind for 12 hours with my friend Kurt I felt that something had been unleashed inside of me. It was a primal feeling, almost instinctual, that this moment was something I had been waiting for and didn't even know it. Hunting became much more than just going into the “wild” and shooting an animal for whatever reason I had justified to myself at the time, it was a calling that had been buried deep within, for generations near as I can tell, given that neither my parents or grandparents were hunters as far as I could ascertain. However, sitting in that blind and staring out over the river as the sun began to set I could feel a calling to hunt break free from my subconscious.
It wasn't blood lust, or some voracious appetite to kill that was drawing me into hunting, it was much more complex than that. If you didn't know I drove a truck, owned firearms and a compound bow, and had a closet half filled with camo gear you probably wouldn't peg me as a hunter. I’m not a violent person, I’m non-confrontational almost to a fault, and I don’t generally wear camo in public. That’s not to say that I think other hunters are violent, bloodthirsty, or any of those things, but when describing the desire to hunt as a primal instinct that has risen from within it’s hard not to conjure up an image a primitive hunter carrying a spear dripping with blood or Ted Nugent emptying the magazine from an M-16 into Bambi. I’m neither of those things, I’m more of a big soft teddy bear who likes to eat wild game.
That’s really been the driving force behind my new found passion for hunting, a desire to harvest the most organic, free range food that exists, and to connect with nature in a way that is often overlooked in today’s society.
In the pursuit of continuing to add game to my freezer and fulfill the primal appetite to hunt, Kurt and I went on a dozen or so hunts in the years since that fateful morning in the duck blind, some successful, some not, though all were an enjoyable and provided for many learning experiences along the way.
A common conversation topic during these hunts, and the many hours of driving that accompanied them, was that of hunting the west. For Kurt and I, midwestern hunters, we were accustomed to stand hunting, ground blinds, shotgun and muzzle loader only deer seasons, and very small pieces of public land to hunt on, especially in the Chicago area where we both live. The western US seemed like the land of salvation with its rifle hunting, spot and stalk pursuits, and vast tracts of BLM land free to explore. After a bit of research, Kurt proposed the idea of an antelope hunt in Wyoming, as the tags were relatively easy to draw, inexpensive for non-residents, and from all accounts a fairly ‘easy’ hunt.
Whether out of necessity or subconscious masochism, few of our hunts have ever been ‘easy.’ Whether it’s dragging duck decoys and gear through a mile of flooded corn and to then sit in chest deep water waiting for a few ducks to fly by, crisscrossing a state park in 10 degree weather looking for deer sign, or busting through thick brush for hours in the hopes of flushing a couple pheasant I always seem to find myself wondering if today will be the day that I finally keel over in a field. Fortunately though, Kurt’s seemingly inexhaustible stamina and physical ability seems to push me along and I pull through the other side a little stronger and more confident than when I woke up that morning.
With that thought in my mind, when I bought my antelope tags I couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of fear along with the excitement, fear that I might finally meet my match and become a burden on the hunt, as there was almost assuredly a good deal of hiking and packing out quarters to be involved.
As we exited the highway, bleary eyed after having driven through the night, we entered the wild west that we were going to call home for the next week, and any fear I had went out the window. We had reached the promised land, and adrenaline alone could have powered me for the week. The terrain was like nothing we were used to, and there was wildlife everywhere. As we drove through the area, scouting the sections of BLM land I’m certain we saw more mule deer before noon than I've seen wild whitetail deer in my entire life. Mulies, antelope, jackrabbits, prairie dogs, whitetail, geese, ducks, there were animals everywhere. At that moment hunting was ruined for me, as the concentration of game and huntable land was unrivaled by anything accessible to us in the Midwest.
After driving through the area, we set up camp around 5 PM after the light rain that had fallen the entire day had subsided. Once our tents were pitched we quickly grabbed our binoculars and cameras and set off into the area we had pegged as prime antelope habitat in hopes of providing some validation to our theory. After reaching the edge of the treeline that opened out into a large field of sage brush and grass, we were immediately rewarded with three antelope in the distance, including two bucks who were engaged in a battle to determine who would be king of the hill that was prominently featured in the center of the land in front of us.
We couldn't have asked for a better introduction to the land in front of us than what we had the privilege of watching unfold in front of us for the 20 minutes that followed. After successfully defending his territory, the larger of the two bucks retired just beyond the hill as the sun began to set. We scoped out the treeline that ran along the open area in front of us, ranged some points in the field and developed a game plan for opening morning which was roughly 10 hours away.
After a Mountain House dinner we settled into our respective tents for some much needed rest, alarms set for 4AM. As I laid there under the western sky, I couldn't help but feel a bit like Lewis and Clark, or Daniel Boone, falling asleep under the stars in a place I had never been before with the intent of exploring the land that laid in front of me and pursuing game to feed myself, albeit much better equipped on top of my Thermarest, snugly zipped in my sleeping bag. I felt a bit giddy, both with anticipation of the following morning, but also simply reveling in the moment, successful or not, this was going to be a trip to remember.
Along the way I've tried to capture my hunts, experiences, and thoughts on the culture with a blog, which the curious can see here.
The west has ruined hunting for me.
If you asked me 10 years ago I’d have probably said I had no interest in hunting, and that I was more than content with not having to think about where the steak sitting on my plate came from. Over the years though, I began to take a passing interest in one day going hunting, just to be able to say I had done it, and to add that experience and to my bag of “this might be useful to know one day” pieces of knowledge.
Fast forward to just three years ago in 2011 when I was able to go on my first real hunt and everything began to fall apart. Despite being cold, slightly damp, and unsuccessful at shooting anything, after sitting in that duck blind for 12 hours with my friend Kurt I felt that something had been unleashed inside of me. It was a primal feeling, almost instinctual, that this moment was something I had been waiting for and didn't even know it. Hunting became much more than just going into the “wild” and shooting an animal for whatever reason I had justified to myself at the time, it was a calling that had been buried deep within, for generations near as I can tell, given that neither my parents or grandparents were hunters as far as I could ascertain. However, sitting in that blind and staring out over the river as the sun began to set I could feel a calling to hunt break free from my subconscious.
It wasn't blood lust, or some voracious appetite to kill that was drawing me into hunting, it was much more complex than that. If you didn't know I drove a truck, owned firearms and a compound bow, and had a closet half filled with camo gear you probably wouldn't peg me as a hunter. I’m not a violent person, I’m non-confrontational almost to a fault, and I don’t generally wear camo in public. That’s not to say that I think other hunters are violent, bloodthirsty, or any of those things, but when describing the desire to hunt as a primal instinct that has risen from within it’s hard not to conjure up an image a primitive hunter carrying a spear dripping with blood or Ted Nugent emptying the magazine from an M-16 into Bambi. I’m neither of those things, I’m more of a big soft teddy bear who likes to eat wild game.
That’s really been the driving force behind my new found passion for hunting, a desire to harvest the most organic, free range food that exists, and to connect with nature in a way that is often overlooked in today’s society.
In the pursuit of continuing to add game to my freezer and fulfill the primal appetite to hunt, Kurt and I went on a dozen or so hunts in the years since that fateful morning in the duck blind, some successful, some not, though all were an enjoyable and provided for many learning experiences along the way.
A common conversation topic during these hunts, and the many hours of driving that accompanied them, was that of hunting the west. For Kurt and I, midwestern hunters, we were accustomed to stand hunting, ground blinds, shotgun and muzzle loader only deer seasons, and very small pieces of public land to hunt on, especially in the Chicago area where we both live. The western US seemed like the land of salvation with its rifle hunting, spot and stalk pursuits, and vast tracts of BLM land free to explore. After a bit of research, Kurt proposed the idea of an antelope hunt in Wyoming, as the tags were relatively easy to draw, inexpensive for non-residents, and from all accounts a fairly ‘easy’ hunt.
Whether out of necessity or subconscious masochism, few of our hunts have ever been ‘easy.’ Whether it’s dragging duck decoys and gear through a mile of flooded corn and to then sit in chest deep water waiting for a few ducks to fly by, crisscrossing a state park in 10 degree weather looking for deer sign, or busting through thick brush for hours in the hopes of flushing a couple pheasant I always seem to find myself wondering if today will be the day that I finally keel over in a field. Fortunately though, Kurt’s seemingly inexhaustible stamina and physical ability seems to push me along and I pull through the other side a little stronger and more confident than when I woke up that morning.
With that thought in my mind, when I bought my antelope tags I couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of fear along with the excitement, fear that I might finally meet my match and become a burden on the hunt, as there was almost assuredly a good deal of hiking and packing out quarters to be involved.
As we exited the highway, bleary eyed after having driven through the night, we entered the wild west that we were going to call home for the next week, and any fear I had went out the window. We had reached the promised land, and adrenaline alone could have powered me for the week. The terrain was like nothing we were used to, and there was wildlife everywhere. As we drove through the area, scouting the sections of BLM land I’m certain we saw more mule deer before noon than I've seen wild whitetail deer in my entire life. Mulies, antelope, jackrabbits, prairie dogs, whitetail, geese, ducks, there were animals everywhere. At that moment hunting was ruined for me, as the concentration of game and huntable land was unrivaled by anything accessible to us in the Midwest.
After driving through the area, we set up camp around 5 PM after the light rain that had fallen the entire day had subsided. Once our tents were pitched we quickly grabbed our binoculars and cameras and set off into the area we had pegged as prime antelope habitat in hopes of providing some validation to our theory. After reaching the edge of the treeline that opened out into a large field of sage brush and grass, we were immediately rewarded with three antelope in the distance, including two bucks who were engaged in a battle to determine who would be king of the hill that was prominently featured in the center of the land in front of us.
We couldn't have asked for a better introduction to the land in front of us than what we had the privilege of watching unfold in front of us for the 20 minutes that followed. After successfully defending his territory, the larger of the two bucks retired just beyond the hill as the sun began to set. We scoped out the treeline that ran along the open area in front of us, ranged some points in the field and developed a game plan for opening morning which was roughly 10 hours away.
After a Mountain House dinner we settled into our respective tents for some much needed rest, alarms set for 4AM. As I laid there under the western sky, I couldn't help but feel a bit like Lewis and Clark, or Daniel Boone, falling asleep under the stars in a place I had never been before with the intent of exploring the land that laid in front of me and pursuing game to feed myself, albeit much better equipped on top of my Thermarest, snugly zipped in my sleeping bag. I felt a bit giddy, both with anticipation of the following morning, but also simply reveling in the moment, successful or not, this was going to be a trip to remember.
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