NM Pronghorn Fun Without a Gun

[Big Fin]

Day three found us watching the sun fight to escape the cloud cover while we glassed from another ridge in the northern part of the unit where the mystery buck was rumored to live. Not sure why I kept coming here. Part of it was to prove that this was just another one of those phantoms of local lore. The other part was that I knew if a buck was found here, hunting him would be a ton of fun in the broken terrain and scattered P-J.

The morning weather was as predicted; the first of three days of monsoons. Though not yet raining, the muggy feeling and warm temps told us this would be a day of thunderstorms. Time to get a buck located and start hunting him.



All this spot held was a group of eight does and one decent buck, probably 14” with nice mass, but obviously a younger buck. He better pay better attention, or the next guy who has a tag will probably not grant him such leniency as I did. He would have been the easiest buck yet to put arrow in. But, he just wasn’t what I had in mind for this hunt.

By 10am the sun had found a few holes in the clouds and the heat waves were back. We loaded the truck and moved back west. Now with a full complement of tires, it was time to move west and see if I could locate the funky looking buck Eli had told me he saw in my unit while scouting his unit.

By 2pm we were almost in Arizona. We took the stateline road north to find a group of antelope bedded out in the grass. If the buck in the crowd has mass that matched his length, he would have been a jumbo. As it was, he was given a pass. His horns were over 17”, but very thin with not much for prongs. He looked very tall from the front and then when I saw that he had 2” of hook going straight back, I really wished he had some more mass.





Still not what I was looking for. We started our path back west, running each public road that connected to Highway 60. The next road showed us a big group of antelope with a very nice buck. This was one I would shoot. I had the spotter on him as he moved through the broken PJ. He was at least 15”, with decent prongs and good mass. They were headed toward some private.



As I scanned my GPS for the land ownership pattern a ranch truck with a horse trailed appeared in the distance, headed our way. The antelope also saw it. When they did, they put it in high gear, burning across the two track between the ranch truck and us. It is amazing to see how they can run so fast over this broken terrain. Their backs hardly seem to move up or down, rather just a white dot streaking horizontally across the landscape.

We had lost sight of the group. Never did get much for pictures or footage. We pulled aside and let the truck and trailer have the two-track. The lady waved with her own peculiar sign; a cross between a salute and a wave. It got me talking to Mike about how in my little hometown, everybody waved at you, but each had their own call sign of how they did it. Some it was a lift of the hand from the steering wheel. Others would point at you. Some would almost separate a shoulder with the gyrations needed to execute their patent gesture. Not sure why the derivatives of greetings by rural folks driving down a road always strikes me funny, but it does.

Anyhow back to the story. As we got near the asphalt, the first monsoon of the day opened fire on our location. Lightning was cracking and rain was pelting. I really didn’t care to be on this greasy two-track with rain falling, so I was glad to hit the firm surface before the tires got too layered in muck. We pulled off a half mile down the highway to let the rain pass; and it did within a short while.

The fresh rain and new sun on the grass made the greens even more brilliant. While I sat and compared the GPS and my big Tyvek map, Mike noted some antelope up on a hillside. I put the spotter on the window and sure enough, it was the same group just spooked by the ranch rig. The buck was highest up on the hill, spreading his aroma on a small bush. The does were working their way through the scattered PJ on a path that would lead them to the bigger piece of private.

A quick plan was hatched. We would park where a small two track left the highway, loop east and in front of the herd and hopefully cut them off as they headed to the safety of private. As all plans, they sound damn good when you scratch them out in the dust on the hood of your truck. In practicality, they never go as planned.

I don’t like making a stalk where animals have the elevation on me. My field of view is compromised and theirs is amplified. Just not good. But, topography gave us no option here.

We dropped into a small cut that seemed to head the direction our plan said we needed to go. We looked up the hill to get a mark on the buck, only to see him put it in swift and fast, coming down the hill at a rapid clip and disappearing into the PJ that was a lot thicker when you were on a flat plane than when glassed from a bit of elevation.

We kept moving ahead, looking to our left where we knew the herd would be. In the wet sand of this small cut were the fresh tracks of a big herd of antelope. Damn, they had already crossed this wash and were now to our right, moving closer to land off limits to me. Our only choice was to get on these tracks and see where they went. It didn’t take long to see the white butts of antelope feeding away from us 200 yards ahead. I stopped and glassed, hoping the buck was lagging behind, or had not yet joined them.

Nope, he was not lagging. He was right in the mix. Damn it, at least a dozen sets of eyes to try fool. Even with a bit of PJ for cover, this was going to be tough. As we got to 125 yards, the terrible feeling of being watched hit me from the corner of my left eye. There were two does off to our left that I had never seen. They had us pegged. After a few minutes, they snorted and took off like rabbits, running through the herd. At last sight, the white rumps ducked under the boundary fence and the last we ever saw of this group was as they disappeared over a small rise. Oh well, this is spot and stalk pronghorn hunting.

 

[Big Fin]

Time to recoup and find some more antelope. On the south side of the highway they were far more abundant, almost taunting us that they were off limits to our tag. On the north side, much more sparse.

The next road heading into public was a far better surface. Probably due to the ranchette subdivision a couple miles further in. Even in damp weather it was very passable; in fact, hardly even muddy. And it seemed to be tire friendly, giving me more comfort when driving a rental rig.

Two small bucks were romping in the big opening to our west. The road rose to a small point that gave us a commanding view of all the public land below. Surely there had to be a better buck somewhere in here. This was two square miles of some of the best pronghorn country I had found, with one big water hole in the middle. Not that they needed waterholes when the monsoon season had converted every low spot in a road or trail into a feasible drinker.

With only two buck found in our travels to the private boundary, we turned and backtracked. After a few miles, a road cut further east. I followed a white Buick headed down the road. Obviously, there was another ranchette mess out that way, or a buy intent on testing the off-road talents of his 90’s vintage Detroit sled. I followed, expecting he had no interest in pronghorn. And, to see how far it would take before the Buick got bogged down.

Trailing a few hundred yards behind, Mike and I laughed at how some folks are big fans of these kind of cars, even the ones that are rear wheel drive. I cracked that he was probably listening to Lawrence Welk on the AM dial. I could hear it now, "Ah one and a two and ah ………"

As the white boat disappeared over the rise I looked to my left. Holy chit, look at the prongs on that buck. I stopped. The buck posed for a few minutes while his does continued feeding on the soaked forbs growing amongst the scattered PJ. I ranged him at just under 80 yards. Another New Mexico Bailout Plan opportunity.

Glassing this buck, it looked like the buck Eli had found a few miles away. Big prongs, not great mass, but pretty as can be. His tops were kind of thin, but when he turned his head I noticed his horn hooked forward, rather than in or back. Alright, you are pretty, you are freaky, and you have big prongs. You might be the candidate for this hunt. As he turned and walked away, there was no doubt I would like to shoot a buck with these prongs and this weird confirguration. Easily a P&Y buck. I figured him in the high 70’s. On the coolness score, he was definitely record book.









We watched as they fed west, disappearing where the PJ thickened. Mike had got some great footage. I had snapped a few pics while trying to size him up. Now, what is the strategy? If they go very far north, they are on private. If they continue SW, we are in luck. It will take them toward the big opening where we had seen the two small bucks loafing about an hour earlier.

We pulled the truck into a small turnout. I got out the GPS and we started plotting a plan based on topography and direction we thought they were going. It would be another one of those stalks with a lot more eyes than I had hoped for. But, for the coolest looking buck we had yet seen.

Good news from this afternoon rain was that all the old tracks were washed out and it took only a few minutes to be on the tracks of this group. Wet soil makes for some advantage to the hunter, both in less noise and easy tracking. The vector they were headed had them going right through a little saddle. Oh, how I wish we were set up there and could ambush them. But, we weren’t set up there, so it was time to get my mind back to the task at hand.

They were obviously relaxed. Tracks mingled in all directions as if feeding. They had spread out in the PJ that was now thinning and allowing sun to little the turf with tasty forbs. Tracks continued ahead. All is good. We snuck forward to a small rise. Ahead a mere 100 yards was the herd. Hot Damn, they have no idea we are here.

I retreated back a few paces to a string of thicker trees that would give us more cover to close the distance. The buck was in the back, doing what pre-rut bucks do. When his head when behind a tree, we moved forward to the next set of trees, cutting 25 yards off the distance. The buck was still with his head down and feeding. I eased forward a few more yards to the next tree. I peeked around to glass the buck and came eye-to-eye with a doe that had previously been hidden by this string of trees I was using for cover. With a big snort and the thumping of hooves, a mass of white butts exploded through the brush ahead of us. Needless to say, we will not be using my audio on that segment.

 

[mtmander]

Randy thanks for saving the dog

 

[backsmasher23]

Love the curved prongs/hooks on that last one, hopefully waiting for a picture of him on the ground.

 

[Big Fin]

I walked alone down to the truck. This was a great encounter, but I wanted it to be more than that. I had spent three days looking and I had found the cool buck I had hoped to find. The walk did me good. By the time I was at the truck, I was laughing at how my excitement caused me to advance faster than good judgement had dictated. Stupid me.

That walk helped me regain my reasons for why I do this; why I choose to spot and stalk antelope with a bow. It’s not about filling tags. Hell, if I wanted to fill a tag, I would have shot one of those suicidal bucks I have been passing the last couple days. This is about making a choice that causes you to refine all of your hunting skills. A choice that requires me to think about every little aspect of the buck, his does, their habitat, the landscape, and how they interact with the landscape.

To place a distance of 50 yards +/-5 yards adds even more to it. Yeah, I practice out to 70 and sometimes 80. My groups are “OK” at those distances, but not as good as my personal comfort level requires. A lot can happen in the half-second time between when sound reaches a spring loaded antelope and when the arrow arrives. I don’t need the potential for a mess.

And when I archery hunt, this is about getting close. I think about how many times I’ve had animals at 70 or 80 yards, but cutting that to 50 or less is really difficult. It gets exponential difficult for each ten yards you lower your chosen distance. I want the experience that requires that extra effort, skill, luck, awareness to get an animal in that “close” distance. I explain that to Mike and he rolls the camera, but I think I am doing a half-assed job of trying to express it all.

Mike and I decided to grab an afternoon snack and decide what that group might have done. Did they go over the little saddle to the prairie the two small bucks were in? Did they completely blow out of the country, never to be seen again? Are they still somewhere in the PJ on these ridges? Hopefully time would tell.

I slurped down some water and turned the truck around. Time to head over to the prairie and see if this herd had found refuge there. It didn’t take long to answer that question. As we rounded the last corner that would put the prairie in plain view, the herd came smoking out of the PJ on our right, darted across the road and laid down tracks toward the big opening on our left. Once a half mile away, they went back about their business of feeding and acting as goofy as pronghorn do.

Now what? They know I’m here. At least one of them is watching me at all times. There really is no way to hide the rig. They aren’t yet bedded for the day. Too many things against me at this time. Thunderclouds quickly advancing from the Southwest. Ah, hell with it. I’m gonna lean the seat back and take a nap. When the storm passes, they will have moved somewhere that is more permanent for their afternoon/evening location.

I fell asleep to some distant thunder. Waking an hour later, the herd was gone, as were the monsoon clouds. Time to get out the big glass and relocate them. Didn’t take long. Another mile west, they were all bedded, with nothing but ears and horns rising above the tall green grass. They were bedded in the NW quarter of this public section. Good news being that an old two-track swept north, then back SW. With any luck, it would get us within ¾ mile and on the opposite side of a slight swell in the terrain. I told Mike that around 5 pm we would move to that location, park the truck out of view and work on another stalk.

Over the next while the buck and his does rise to feed, then bed, rise to feed, bed…… They are still content in the corner of the pasture where the PJ thins as it rolls toward the middle of the section. At the stated time I start the truck and we make a big loop north, then back southwest, up the two track to a spot that is right where I hoped.

There is a powerline running north to south across the middle of this section. Our quarry is bedded about two powerlines south of the cross fence that runs east to west. We’ll be down in a slight depression, out of view of the animals, so upon scooting under the fence, I use the powerlines as my marker. Once as far south as I think, I take a hard east turn and start easing out this little rise of PJ that should take me to their bed.

As the trees start to thin, I quickly pick up the white spots of pronghorn feeding ahead of us. They are mostly on their feet, easing further south into the more open expanse of this terrain. Not good for me. There is hardly any cover out there.

Our only hope is to wait until that last forty-five minutes of filming light. Pronghorn vision in low light is not nearly what it is in bright light. I let them feed further, wincing with each ten yards of distance they are putting between us. Not much we can do until the sun rolls below the big bluff to our west.

 

[Big Fin]

Eventually, the sun angles low. And by that time, the herd has fed 400 yards off, but with a long string of trees in almost a straight line. They are in such a perfect line, though somewhat sparse, my mind can envision someone planting them as a wind break. However they got in the line, it was a big break for me as the herd was not easing down into a low spot where all we could view were the horizontal lines of their backs.

Time to cover some ground. Bounding from tree to tree, the lower light got us to 200 yards. Next move was 160. Within a few minutes they were at 105 and munching something in this low depression that ran diagonally down this part of the prairie. I told Mike if they move SE enough and disappeared into that small bowl, I would trot up to the last three between us and them, likely having a 40 yard shot.

That was a good plan, until the lead doe did a one-eighty and fed up to the tree I had hoped to use as my last bit of cover. I ranged her; 86 yards. As she filled her gut, the rest of the herd followed her lead, with the buck still lingering a way back, his head occasionally popping up over the backs of the does.

Were they going to feed right back toward us, retracing their steps? Sure looked that way. Mike and I did all we could to stay hidden with one small Juniper in front and an even small one behind us. I started ranging every little brush and scrubby tree. The doe was taking a vector that would bring her out about 45 yards to my left. As slow as I could, I scooted slightly to that side of the Juniper.

Mike told me we had about twenty minutes of filming light left. At the pace they were coming, that would be plenty. I kept my eye on the lead doe. She was big, almost completely white face, with some of the bigger horns I’ve ever seen on a doe. My ranges were pretty well dialed in now. Keep coming.

I had become too fixated on this doe. Through gaps in the tree limbs I noticed the rest of the herd was moving to the right side of the tree and the buck was with them. Crap, this was not good. I needed to move about four feet right in order to have a shot and the herd was only about 60 yards away. Slow. Slow. Slow.

I was settled to my knees and slowly ranging each bush out in front when one doe caught my movement. Through the gap in the limbs I ranged a big yellow bush in front of her at 52 yards. She came closer. I ranged another yellow bush behind her at 62 yards. And another yellow bush even further that bounced from 70 to 72. I realized adrenaline was adding some tremor beyond what my liver normally causes.

Now, the entire herd had moved a few steps forward, wheezing at whatever made the movement in the bush ahead. Mike was behind me, tucked up in front of the tree to our rear. He had a way better view. The herd was now on high alert. The lead doe that had been going to the left side of the tree had now come far enough forward and to my flank that the tree provided me no cover from her. She stomped her foot, expecting a response.

I tried to hide behind my bow and the few limbs I must clear to rise for any potential shot. Mike and I did not move. Finally, they had enough. The lead doe to my left snorted and bounced off, taking the herd with her. Mike whispered the buck was broadside, still watching us. Through the trees, it looked like he was not far behind the first yellow bush at 52 yards. From my knees, I drew behind the cover of the limbs. I eased up on higher, still on my knees and cleared the limbs.

As the 50 yard pin lowered to a mid-chest shot, my spot for the estimate of 55 yards, the release let go without me giving any conscious thought. The arrow flight seemed like forever, crossing to the top of the bucks back, then the white and green fletching giving in to gravity on a direct course behind the front shoulder. Only to be disappointed as the last time I saw the arrow, there was a small gap between the chest and the fletchings. Simultaneously I heard the arrow hit something and the buck take off. I told Mike it looked like it went right under the buck. He confirmed.

We sat there as the unsure herd examined us for another two minutes. When a group of coyotes broke into chorus a bit to our south, they decided they had enough. I watched the buck trot east, confused by what happened, yet clean white that showed me it was surely a miss.

Urgh! I walked forward to find the arrow. It was propped up, having hit the base of a big grass clump. I backtracked to see the scuff marks of where the buck had ran from. Deep prints showed he left in a hurry. Standing in his prints I ranged the tree; 66 yards. (Insert expletive here), he was not behind the yellow bush I had ranged at 52 yards. Rather, he was behind the other bush that was at 62 yards.

I apologized to Mike. We had just made one hell of a stalk. Some bad luck of the herd splitting left and right of us cost us a much better and closer shot. Had I known is was 66 yards, I would not have shot. A lot happens in the flurry of the moment, even more so with cameras over your shoulder.

I felt conflicted. Part of me was pissed that I did not realize the buck was further than I had calculated. Yet, part of me was ecstatic that we gotten so close to a group of eight antelope that were on high alert, and we had done so using every bit of cover, terrain, and luck I could think of. So close. Oh so close. Further confirmation of why I had decided to hunt one single buck and do so in this manner. This was fun. Damn fun.

 

[Big Fin]

The long drive back to the motel gave me a lot of time to strategize for the next three days of hunting. A lot of should of, could of, why did I, why didn’t I second guessing. But mostly, a tenor of excitement that we have found the funky buck I would hunt for the rest of the hunt. All we needed was another close encounter and he would be a TV star.

Morning of day four was straight west back toward Arizona. No more time to waste on the phantom that locals claimed lived further north. This hunt was now about trying to hang a tag on this one buck. Probably a crazy idea, given the opportunity existed to take many other bucks who were without the company of does and seemed to like being filmed.

Before daylight we were standing high on the ridge that gave me a vantage of all country this buck had wandered yesterday. The forecast was for heavy rain and serious thunderstorms today. Even the morning horizon showed the forecast would probably be correct.



I glassed and hiked, glassed and hiked. The buck was nowhere to be found. I looked for his does. I found none of them. I went back toward the Arizona line. Nothing but the tall skinny buck and his does. I back tracked. I looked south of the highway. I looked in the trees. I looked in the prairie. This guy and his batch of does had disappeared.

By noon, I was still searching, but looking for a place to take cover. What had been on the horizon in the morning was now over my head and the God of Thunder was making sure I knew. Time to sit it out for a while and avoid becoming a statistic. In instance, “a while” was more than three hours.



Finally, it was obvious the rain was not going to relent.



The radar showed less rain to our east, back toward the motel and showed red and yellow bands of thunderstorms to be locked over our heads. An obvious decision for a guy who has an aversion to lightning as I do. Eastward bound.

Though the storm was lighter when we got north of Pie Town, it looked like the earlier torrents of the day had etched their mark on the landscape. Lots of gravel washed onto the highway where overflowing banks had crossed. I know better than to take a rental rig off the pavement in wet ground, but we had hoped to find some other bucks to get footage of. Big mistake. Only my considerable experience in navigating the wet gumbo of eastern Montana and Wyoming allowed us to escape an evening stuck in the wet clay much of Catron County. All four were turning and the mud was flying in heavy chunks. As I came down the rise a narrow cattle guard tested my ability to thread a truck crabbing cockeyed down the trail. I was sure one or two bumpers were going to be casualties of that obstacle, but miraculously it straightened out just before we shot the gap between the pipes.

No time to let up. Four more miles back to the pavement on this “short cut.” No real communication between Mike and me, mostly cussing to myself and him giving a few “oh chits.” Bad idea Randy. This was surely going to result in extra cleaning charges if you got this Dodge Ram back to the ABQ airport in one piece.

A huge sigh of relief at the sound of mud clumps flying off the tires as we eased back on to the pavement. Lesson learned. Time to get to the restaurant for an early dinner and accept the day for what it was, a washout.

 

[stillkickin]

Wow, great story! I am glad I wasn't along on this trip or we would have been carting that pup around with us all week until he flew home with me.

Hope he found a good home anyhow.

 

[belly-deep]

Great story.

 

[JLS]

Loving it! New Mexico looks like a beautiful state, one that I'd like to visit someday with Mr. Bowtech.

 

[bonedogg]

Great read randy and thanks, I have been checking this forum daily waiting to see how you made out. Please proceed at you earliest convenience....

 

[bmack]

Always a great read Randy.

I swear we had the exact same rental truck. Alamo/National?

Fortunately I didn't have to change any tires, although I fully expected to.

The worst part of our trip was when we hit the DQ in Clayton and they told us they were out of ice cream!! Wait, what? How can that be....you are an ice cream shop!

No Blizzards that night. Luckily they got the problem fixed and we were back in shape the next day.

 

[Big Fin]

I went to sleep thinking about how I was now down to a day and a half to kill that buck. A lot could go wrong in that time. And, a lot could go right. The alarm seemed like a major annoyance, but visions of big prongs kept me from hitting snooze.

Morning again found us on the tall ridge that gave an expansive view of the territory below. Dew was everywhere. Clouds had cleared and the entire landscape sparkled green as the sun bounced off the drops clinging to every plant. Was a cool time to be in the plateaus of western New Mexico, even if the pronghorn seemed conspicuously absent. All I spotted were two little bucks acting like they had snuck into their big brother’s room. I watched a few cars drive the gravel road below and these young guys barely lifted a head from their nibbling. Bucks like that “get dead” in most parts of the country.

I told Mike we had to get in the truck and drive all these muddy roads, hoping we could find some tracks where antelope may have crossed since the rain stopped early this morning. No tracks, just a lot of big mud holes that made a mess of the rental rig. As they say, “Drive it like a rental.” I’m pretty sure that truck probably had one of the worst weeks of its life.

As the sun climbed to high noon, we were headed back toward where we had the close encounter on day three. Almost to the little glassing knob, the two little bucks disappeared into a small basin to the north. Hmm, must be something up in the pocket. I parked the truck and told Mike I would be back in a bit. I scaled the ridge that formed the south slope of the basin they disappeared into. Eventually, I spotted them, a doe, and a fawn, picking their way through the Junipers with great caution. Hardly the place you expect to see pronghorn.

Since I had gained a few hundred feet of elevation, it seemed smart to pan the entire horizon. The view was good. Through binos, I thought I could see the ears of a few pronghorn bedded way out in a grass basin I had previously not seen, thanks to the PJ that encircled it. The heat waves were screwing with me so bad, I couldn’t tell for sure, though I was about 80% sure those were antelope ears. With no much to lose, I hopped down the hill and told Mike I was heading back up the slope with the spotter.

I only climbed the distand needed to see above the PJ that hid this very large grass plain within its midst. Cranking it up, my first impressions were validated. But, no buck. Dang. I scanned other areas with my binos. Nothing.

I looked over to the does and it appeared another antelope was there, grazing behind the one tree of shade. With its head behind the tree, it was a guess. Most likely another doe I had not seen. It took about five minutes for the white rump to disappear behind the tree and emerge from the other side. In that time, the critter grew something black on its head. Black with funky prongs and a weird hook. Hmmm. There he was, a mile and a half off, up grazing while five does bedded in alternate style to absorb the shade of the one single tree. What a lucky find this was. If not for the two bucks leading me up this ridge, I would have never been able to spot that big opening out in those PJs, the ground was too flat and the view obscured by the dense cover between the road and their bedding spot.

My bounding off the hill gave Mike the obvious sign that good things were ahead. I explained what I had found and how the buck had bedded just before I folded up the tripod. They had found their day bed. I needed a quick sandwich and then we would go the mile southeast and set up on the fringe of the trees, in hopes they would mill close to us and allow for a shot. Sure sounded good in theory.

We loaded up and make a mark for the far away mountain that created a line to their bedding location. We were quickly there, but the terrain was slightly more rolling than it looked from above. Enough that I could not see all the folds and cuts. I kept glassing toward the mushroom-shaped tree they had used for shade. I was nothing. We were out of cover, but had a small rise in the turf to allow us a bit more of a protrusion toward their last known spot.

Easing out, I was watchful to the left and right, not wanting to repeat one of the fumbles of the two blown stalks this week. Not too far out I had gained enough angle on the crown of the land that I could see the back of an antelope grazing in front. I ranged the tree; 244 yards. Not a chance. We had no cover and there were six antelope, bedded in an arrangement to be viewing every point of danger.

I signaled Mike to follow my retreat back to the trees. Nothing we could do. Our only option was to head in a clockwise direction around the perimeter of this opening, hoping we could find a trail they used for exit and entrance to this opening. We hopped from tree to tree, finally coming to a very well used cattle trail. The rain had washed all tracks, so there was no telling if pronghorn used this to get through the PJ groves. But, there was plenty of pronghorn scat along the trail, so absent fresh tracks, it was the best I had to go on.

I told Mike we would set up here. I moved around a bit and found another trail about 80 yards away. Before getting to comfortable, I decided we would hedge our bet and sit between the two trails and hope good luck would shine upon us. From here, we could see the tops of the antelope heads bedded 300+ yards off to our southeast. And, there was good shade to be had. Seemed like a comfortable spot, if not a productive spot.

 

[Big Fin]

Mike got his cameras set up, both the big video camera and the DSLR that could take a time lapse of the now gathering clouds to our west. Thunder was rumbling in the far distance, its source from clouds that were rolling like a boiled soup. By Mike’s look, it was making for a great time lapse, even if it might put a short end to my grand plan.

I kept watching the herd as they would rise to feed, then bed a ways off, repeating the process for more than an hour. Finally, they moved straight north about 100 yards and bedded again, this time giving me a great glassing view through the limbs of this Juniper tree that was giving me some great shade. As they bedded back down, I could feel myself starting to get tired. The rhythm of Mike’s snoring did not help keep me awake. I found my head bobbing as I tried to fight my eye’s attempt to rest. Eventually my eyes won.

Last I looked at my clock, it was 2:12. When I woke, it was now 2:25. I rolled over to glass under the limbs. The buck was still bedded, looking our direction as if he knew we were here. No real change to the rest of the herd. I rolled back over and slid my hat further down my brow to provide a bit more shade. Mike was napping and tossing a bit, I suspect a result of the sun now having moved to a point where shade no longer covered him. Young guys.

Mike eventually woke to my noises, asking for a status check. I assured him not much, but asked him to roll with the big camera while I did some humor. Knowing me, he played along as I drew a diagram in the sand as you did when playing school yard football. I explained the position of the herd, our position, the wind, and made a bold prediction that they would come down the trail, right past us, within the next four hours. We laughed as he filmed me wiping out my plans in the soft sand.

Enough filming. Time for more shade. I woke again and looked at the clock; 2:50. Dang, that felt good. Wonder what our buck is up to. I rolled to glass. No buck. WTH? Where did they go? I moved to my knees so I could scan a wider view.

I warned Mike, “Get your shit together, they’re just about on our lap.” I could tell he though it was another Randy ploy. “No, this is gonna happen fast. Their coming down the trail to our left and the lead doe is moving fast.”

I wasn’t making this up. A big white-faced doe was less than 100 yards and closing. The herd was moving at a similar pace about 30 yards behind. No way it could happen like this. It was exactly as I drew it out on the sand. I could hear Mike getting his tripod moved to this side of the tree as I was taking ranges.

Having taken enough ranges, I looked through the limbs and could no longer see the lead doe, rather the rest of the herd out at about 75 yards. I had an arrow knocked and release on the sting. Too quickly, the lead doe came around the little PJ I had ranged at 38 yards. Keep going lady, keep going.

Nope, she hangs a hard south turn, for reasons I cannot explain. She’s feeding on a shrub I had measured at 30 yards and is coming on line right to me. She lifts her head and looks at me. I make no move. She moves forward another ten yards and we are closer than I want her to be. Out the corner of my right eye I can see the rest of the herd getting a bit closer, probably 45 yards on the other side of these few trees that hide me.

Mike and I cannot move. We cannot hardly breathe. The wind blows her direction and she comes to immediate alert. I am trying to hide behind my bow and one small limb. She has me nailed. She stomps. I dare not look to the rest of the herd. She stomps again and bobs her head, far more alarmed than curious. She lets out a snort and whirls back to the trail she had fed away from. I see her through the limbs, staring at the rest of the herd as if to ask if they had any worries.

She starts a nervous walk south, immediately on the other side of the tight trees protecting us. I have no shot. Mike has no angles. She is now far enough south that we have to get up and move from our north side position and every so smoothly, sneak to the south side of these trees.

It takes six or seven small crawling steps on my knees. I look back and Mike is trying to get the camera off the tripod and go free hand. I rise to my knees to get a view through the sparser limbs. She is now walking slightly away from us, with the herd following carefully behind; absent the buck. I range the small tree she is stepping in front of; 54 yards.

I scoot forward a bit more to see if I can find the buck. Nothing. As I move my head, he steps from another small tree, catching something not normal. I range him; 48 yards. I feel Mike boot hit mine as he is slowly coming from where we were. I look back and he is filming the does in front. I whisper the buck’s position. Though he has taken a couple nervous stotting steps towards toward the does, he is now looking at us, broadside. I range through the trees; 55 yards.

I tell Mike to get ready, not knowing if he is even in position. We have about four or five seconds to make this work. Behind the cover of the limbs I start to draw my bow. Simultaneously Mike is trying to clear the brush to capture what he hopes is a kill shot.

I learn to my right and clear the limbs, mentally accounting for my anchor point as the pins come down to where my instincts tell me they should. Before I get a full sight picture I hear the wheeze of the buck and see his white rump flicker as he bounds toward the does who are now all looking at us as spectators from 100 yards off. Damn it. What will it take to get this on camera?

The herd continues to watch us with some intrigue, snort and wheezing from a football field away. I start calling to them, making that nasally sound pronghorn are known for. One of the does starts our way. She’s shortly followed by the entire herd. They are slow stepping toward us, though not at an angle to provide a shot, no matter the distance. I range them at 84 yards, where the does and the buck stand and vocalize their displeasure with us before trotting off.

I look at Mike and start laughing. I tell him my disbelief that they did exactly what I had drawn up on the sand. He is not happy. He is one of the best camera guys in all of outdoor TV and it is obvious something is wrong. He through his hat in the dirt, provides a string of colorful language, then informs me that he could not get the camera focused, dialed, and set on the sticks by the time the doe came around the tree to try hug me. I look at him like he is kidding, but I’ve been with him enough to know how seriously he takes his work.

He needs some time to cool off, so I should my pack and start back to the truck. I hear him continue cussing himself as I make my way through the trees. We arrive at the truck without much being said. Nothing he can do can get it back and nothing I can say will make it better. Both experienced at this gig, we know when silence is beneficial.

 

[HSi-ESi]

Many times I would rather read the story than watch it on TV - and this is one of them.

I'll still watch it....

 

[Dave N]

These stories are so cool! I can follow along and think I'm right there with you. The guys that actually do get to hunt with you are truly lucky with the adventures you go on!

 

[mtmiller]

Great hunt with or without a critter coming back to MT. Great job for helping out the pup, says a lot about you.

 

[Big Fin]

The group had disappeared over the small ridge to our southwest; a direct route to the big plains where I shot low on night three. Silently, I started the truck and did a three-point turn around. Mike was still grumbly something to himself. I rolled down my window and started humming to myself, “Some days are diamonds, some days are stones.”

A couple miles and we were back to the small rise in this gravel road that gave us a great vantage over the big prairie with the powerline running through it. As if to taunt me, the group was out there, milling around. The buck was doing the things pre-rut bucks do; scraping, urinating, rubbing brush, mostly acting like a fool and a bully at the same time.

Within a half hour, the buck started to wander away from the herd. Uncharacteristic for a buck to leave his herd at this time of year, unless run off. He was moving away at a very good clip. I watched through the spotter as he ascended the big face across from us, two miles distant according to my GPS. Last I saw, he was still trotting as it he had forgotten his wallet at the bar. What the heck was this all about? We waited for an hour, with his does feeding within a few hundred yards of him and not a sighting of the buck. He was gone and filming light was down to an hour or so.

Given it looked hopeless for this situation, I told Mike we would head back toward the motel and get some scenic shots on the way, maybe find a buck to chase, given tomorrow morning was the last of our hunt. As I pulled on to the blacktop, I pretty much resolved that this was the last of a great hunt. The buck had tired of us and was off doing the crazy random things pronghorn were known for.

As the tires started humming, I looked at the GPS to make sure I my recall of the land ownership was correct. Yup, public land out my window for the next five miles. We drove past the grove of PJ that hid the big opening where we missed out earlier today. I still was amazed that it took me so long to realize that sanctuary was there, completely out of sight of anyone driving a road.

My mind was wandering. I was conjuring the next plan to make sure I made the most of tomorrow, as the truck rolled down a slow incline, giving me a great view of a big expanse out my window. The unmistakable white sides of antelope caught my eye. I pulled to the side to see what was there. A group of does on the far hill with a nice buck. Too far for any attempt tonight. Mike’s excitement peaked as he told me to look right over my mirror.

Holy crap, look at the prongs on that buck. There, not 80 yards down an old two-track was a buck grazing slightly toward us. He was oblivious to our presence, though the herd on the distant ridge was now locked in on us. I waited for the buck to raise his head and confirm that what I thought were prongs really were prongs.



As if on cue, he did. Yup, those are really good prongs.



I looked at Mike as the buck went back about his business of feeding. We could drive down the road and get in the little wash the buck was feeding toward. He would not see us until it was too late. The wind was perfect. I got out my long distance camera and zoomed in, hoping he would raise his head again. He did, giving me some pics of this young buck.

Experience told me this buck was at most, two and a half years old. Yet, he had all the makings of a whopper buck someday. He had prongs to spare for a young guy. He had the start of good bottom mass, though light on top. His curl gave him 14” of length. As he turned more broadside, I noticed his horns cocked forward over his head, just like the buck I had been chasing the last three days. He was only a mile and a half away from the encounter of this afternoon. Obviously there is something going on with the gene pool in this spot that expresses really good prongs and top ends that curve over and forward.

Mike looked at me as I parked the truck out of sight and started organizing for the short stalk up this wash. He told me we had about 45 minutes of filming light. I checked the wind; perfect. Mike told me he would go free hand on this one.

I paused and thought about this situation. This was not the buck I came to chase. It was his little brother. Did I really want to kill this buck, or was I succumbing to the frustration that is amplified by a closing window of opportunity?

I knew the answer.

I told Mike we weren’t going after this buck, as pretty as he was. He nodded. He has been with me on enough hunts to know I'm a different duck when it comes to this TV gig. He knows better than most that an episode without a kills is a harder story to tell. Yet, he knows Randy Newberg doesn’t really care about what TV expects. He knew it before this hunt and we had talked about it a lot as this hunt unfolded. He knew it was a decision I was comfortable with, stowing his gear without offering even a slight incentive or temptation.

He laughed a bit and gave the biggest smile of his day. We sat there and watched what the buck might do. Sure enough, the buck fed toward the small cluster of trees we had planned to sneak to for our ambush. He crossed within 25-30 yards, broadside, almost as if to make my decision even more tortuous.

Then I started to laugh. A day with so much possibility, yet turning to much frustration, was now being summarized by a dumb ass TV host would couldn’t give two hoots about filling a tag just to satisfy the norms of producing outdoor TV. Mike knew it and I knew it. Probably a dumb decision from a TV and production standpoint, but I’ve got to this point by making plenty of dumb decisions. As much as I've invested to get to this point, pressures and expectations are not going to drive my decisions.

I gave the buck a peace sign and rolled the truck back on to the highway. I hope someone shoots him in two or three years when he is an 84” buck. Peace, brother!

 

[ID_deerslayer]

You exercised some very amazing self control not shooting that other buck! This write up is great and the episode should be really good.

 

[Big Fin]

An hour of headlights in a slight mist taxed my ability to stay awake. A quick jolt of coffee from the restaurant in Quemado helped. Sun had exposed the landscape by the time we got to our glassing point, cameras and optics in tow. I instantly saw seven does up on the ridge high above us with two small bucks below. I could tell this was the same herd by the very small fawn that occasionally was among them. The two small bucks were the morons that made clown-like appearances with regularity.

I pointed them to Mike and he filmed the white dots weaving in and out of the scattered trees where the top of the ridges had burned some years earlier. I kept looking. He had to be here somewhere. The entire population of antelope were congregated here and any buck worth his scent would be around to keep an eye on them.

Scour as I may; nothing. An hour passed and the does continued to loaf. One truck stopped down below us and looked up the saddle to see two fools with tripods doing what we were. I suspect they figured us for some sort of intruders to their privacy. Eventually, they drove off.

I reminded Mike of my promise the night before and how I intended to keep it. He smiled and went about filming close ups of the dew on the flowers and a big old horned toad lizard that could not get his blood warmed up to move very fast; sloth-like would be the best description. I went back about my business of finding the dude with the funky prongs.

The does were now watching down on me and Mike. The sun was high enough that they stood out as much as we did. Off to the west, out in the prairie I could see a doe navigating a path toward the road below the ridge. She looked to be in no big hurry, but alert as a single antelope should be in a country with as many coyotes as this place has.

She cross the road and was swallowed up by the PJ mess below. Further to her west I located one more lone antelope. With no heat waves yet, I could see black on his head. Cranking up the spotter, I could make him out as our buck, even a mile away in this flat morning light at my back. I ran over to Mike and told him we had to get up to the top of that ridge, due north. We had to scare those does to the east, so he would have to come past us as he traveled west to east in his attempt to regain ownership of the harem. As fast as he was trotting, time was not in great supply.

I was thankful to live at 5,000’ elevation and have a trailhead at my back door that allows me a daily hike if 2,000’ elevation gain. Mike, coming from 900’ elevation was not so lucky. We had to gain about 400’ of elevation in the half mile from us to the does, taking a bit of a northwestern angle to move them further east and putting us between the does and the buck. I would have been very easy to go straight up the nose of the slope, but that would have allowed the does to possibly go west. So, we lost a couple hundred feet of elevation in the first 300 yards by angling more west, making it a rather challenging slope to run up for the remaining 400 yards. Mike probably thought I was a fool and I suspect he would have a super majority if put to a vote.

This was my one chance. I had hoped the buck would be by himself just one time, unaided by the presence of a half dozen females. Now, if we could get to the top of that burned slope, we would have it. Not too far from the top, I popped out of a cut and saw eight antelope looking at me. I thought they had fled by now. I started marching west in an open and obvious manner. When the lead doe snorted and took off east, down the backside of the slope, my mind decided that this morning luck may be on our side.

I climbed to the edge where the does had bolted, then turned west to start looking. Mike arrived a couple minutes later and I still had no sighting of the buck. The lone doe appeared and decided she liked her bed to be right off the gravel road she had crossed earlier. Mike was now rolling and I was jabbering some sort of jibberish that was supposed to be English, but I suspect is completely inaudible. He asked me what I had said. It was kind like the words used by Ralphie’s Dad in the Christmas Story movie. I told him it probably was best if it was not well annunciated.

I started looking further out on the prairie. If the buck was in the PJ below us, we would surely see him. He must have found some distraction that kept him on the flat out to our west. Mike told me there were now two antelope bedded next to the gravel road below. I lowered my binos and with the naked eye, could see our buck had decided a quick rest was in order. Where is a car on that road when you need one?

No need for a car to flush them. The buck only rested a couple minutes when he started trotting east through the PJ below. Why is he going straight east, hoof prints show his does spent most the night up hear? He needed to gain some elevation and crank it a bit northeast, where we were positioned north of, and above, his current path.

He was not slowing down. In a couple minutes, he was going to see the truck parked below. I told Mike we had to cross this first little cut and parallel him from above. Sooner or later, he would have to come upslope to the scent of his girls. We scurried across the side hill, using what little cover this old fire had not removed. I peeked into the bottom of the next drainage that ran south down this slope. Nothing, not even any cover to cross it.

I signaled to Mike that we were going to cross this bigger cut as fast as possible and get to those four trees on the crown of the opposite side and look down from there to see if the buck was down in the next gulch. We started in a low fast trot down into this slice. Just as I got into the shadows cast by the slope ahead, I saw the buck running up the hill our direction. Crap, he had seen the truck and was making a detour higher on the ridge.

I was mostly in the shade of the ridge. Mike, a few steps behind, was in the sun. We stopped and stood motionless. The buck was a couple hundred yards down the ridge and had halted to investigate our outlines. It seemed like an hour, though probably only a few minutes before he decided to slowly ease toward the next gulch we had hoped to get to in this mad dash. He stopped, skylined at the apex of the ridge as it ran down to the flats below us. He turned to examine us one more time. And again, time seemed to stand still.

One lone Juniper was in his path up this slope. I could only hope he would keep coming this way and if he passed behind the Juniper, we could use that chance to sprint the remaining forty yards across this opening to the cover of the four trees we targeted. He did just that. And we did just that. But from here, we could not see him.

Where did he go? Did we spook him again? I really did not like these four trees on the crest of this ridge. They provided some cover, but they were sparse. On this crest, the sun, in its southeast position was really hitting us, even with a few limbs for shade. And our camera angle was such that either glassing or filming could cast a serious lens reflection back his way.

I looked at Mike. He gave me a shoulder shrug. I motioned I would move down to the lowest tree in hopes of finding him. I moved forward. And I found him. He was looking up the hill, our direction. Thankfully, right under us, on the next slope, were a few more trees and some brush. He was on the other side, feeding and looking my way. When he put his head back down I motioned for Mike to take a position next to me. When Mike got to my shoulder I pointed to the back of the buck feeding between two small trees 88 yards below.

Dang, this is getting close. Had he not seen us in that opening a few minutes prior, I think he would have been almost asleep. As it was, he was completely alert, mixing his time from smelling the aroma the does had left and grabbing a few nibbles from the fresh browse; never completely giving up on the idea that danger was lurking slightly uphill from his position.

We were pinned. We had no choice but to wait him out. I ranged every bush. They were from 35 to 75 yards. They were in a line, with a steep enough slope into the wash below us that if he grazed further into that topography the slope and the bush 38 yards ahead would give us cover to move in.

He did exactly as I hoped, moving across the opening at 74 yards. The bush was 38. My best estimate was if we got to that bush I would have something close to a 40 yard shot. I told Mike to follow me and be ready. I would sneak to that bush, draw my bow, stand high enough to clear the bush, and bury the arrow in the buck that was hopefully downslope.

I got to the bush and through the limbs, I could see the buck looking at us, though broadside, head to the left and rear to the right. He was really close. His rump was flared white; full alert position. I looked over my right shoulder and asked Mike if he was ready. Affirmative. Here goes.

Using the cover of the brush I drew my bow and found my anchor point. Like a team that had worked together on past hunts, Mike and I rose in unison, exposing our silhouette over the top of this waist-high bush. As we did, the buck needed to see no more. Before I could get the 40-yard pin on him, he was bolting down the hill, taking no chances. I could only let down my draw and wish it has been different.

I turned to Mike and gave him the signal to keep rolling. I knew that was our last chance. The buck had scrambled out of sight with no intention of slowing down. I tried to explain to the camera that as frustrating as this hunt probably looked, it was one of the most fulfilling chases of our times doing this TV show.

I am sure my words at that spur of the moment, in the spontaneity of what comes out of your mouth without time for thought, probably did not do justice to the message I hoped to convey. It is hard to not have disappointment in another failed stalk. Yet, when I consider all this hunt represented; that I did it my way, chasing one single buck, when I knew spot and stalk was almost certain to produce an empty sack, I cannot place a value on that. To have done it on those terms and come away empty is far more rewarding than having tagged an unsuspecting young loner.

My confidence in our stories and my faith that viewers are tired of kills for the sake of a TV host’s worry/ego about a no-kill episodes are hard points to explain without seeming self-righteous. It is not that, rather having reached a point in my hunting life, a point in my path of producing TV, that I don’t care what the norm and the expectation is. I know that we will find a compelling story by just giving it our best effort. Time in the woods, under the crazy conditions we operate, will produce a better story than anything I could script. And if people want to watch this show just to see things die, I hope they change the channel. Over the course of a season, we will fill plenty of tags, adding a season-long story of ups to go with the times when there are a few downs such as this.

I had resigned that the ultimate satisfaction that would have come from tagging that one buck under the terms I had set for myself would not be had. When I think about why I hunt, it is not only to cut a tag when all things come together, but to also feel the emotions of failure, to learn from my mistakes, to force myself to be the sharpest woods smith my body and mind can be. That is far more fulfilling than what I recall from earlier times in my life that I filled a tag out of ego or worry.

I’m good with that. The buck won. He deserves to get another year older and another year wiser. And before I am next on the plains of New Mexico, I will be at least another year old and another year wiser.

Until the next time ............