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We began our adventure at 5:00 am on November 1. After just moving to Alberta from Ontario for work, this would be my first hunting trip in my new province. When a friend and coworker Evan asked me if I wanted to hunt mule deer in the mountains, I jumped at the opportunity. Evan, an avid hunter and rock climber was about as physically fit as they get. He had previously shown me a photo of a trophy mule deer his friend had taken in this area a couple of years ago. It was a forkhorn and he explained his definition of a trophy animal is based on the amount of blood, sweat and tears you pour into the hunt and not on the measurements of the final specimen. After driving as far as we could, we hiked 5.5 kilometres with our heavy backs filled with supplies for three days to where we would set up camp.
Our last full day in the mountains and we believed we had the deer figured out. Despite being a remote location with no one else in sight, these animals were shy, sticking to the timber by day and moving out into the open burns at night to feed. Our previous day and half of hunting stirred up a doe with a fawn and a single doe. We had found one location where there was ample buck sign with fresh rubs and scrapes all around. A fresh dusting of snow provided a few centimetres over everything. It was not long after heading into the timber where we had previously found buck sign that we cut a fresh track, a fresh large track with dewclaws—finally, a buck.
The track was definitely from this morning and was heading north along the mountainside into the dense timber. The tracking began relatively straightforward, with old and new tracks easy to distinguish. Most of the fresh tracks were filled with the snow, as the loose snow would fall into the track when you lifted your foot out of the snow. One of best ways to follow the fresh tracks was to look for the drag marks between prints still uncovered on the top of the snow. We stalked slow, pausing every 50 metres to look around and listen.
Evan urged me to go first, as then I would probably have the first opportunity to shoot. A Kind gesture I graciously accepted. The excitement was building, as we slowly followed the tracks of the buck, reliving his decisions hours earlier. After an hour of tracking, we found the first bed. “Old,” says Evan, as he touches the smooth ice that formed in the bed once our buck had decided to move. The second bed we found an hour later was fit for a king, an elevated rock outcrop in an open space surrounded by spruce on all sides and overlooking the valley and his domain below. With the anticipation building every step, all the signs were pointing towards a climax, or so we thought.
Along the trail, however, we found pellets, fresh pellets, pellets so fresh they were no longer in a clumped frozen mass but individually pulling apart from each other, and best of all... squishy. We continued following the tracks to the top of the tree line. As we rounded a spruce patch, we came across a fresh bed. The tracks continued north along the mountainside, staying at tree line. Each corner we rounded and each gully we climbed, I was expecting to see a mule deer with antlers staring back at me, yet there was no glimpse of this fleeting ghost, not even the snap of a twig, as we would listen and look before entering any type of clearing.
Three hours of tracking and it seemed we were no further ahead, still following fresh tracks of what now seemed like a phantom. Then, something changed, the gait. It changed from a walk to a slow trot. We followed the deer tracks out of the tree line where they appeared to be heading around the open side of the mountain. ‘At last’, I thought, we were going to have a glimpse, a shot, a something. That something was nothing. The tracks stopped. Almost as if a ghost decided to drift away in the wind. After scratching our heads and looking at the tracks, some of which we had walked over, we tried to piece together the puzzle. There, behind us, were fresh tracks down into the timber. The deer had attempted to cross this wide-open gully but stopped suddenly, spun around, and headed straight into the timber, slipping on the slope along the way, the first sign of a misplaced step we had seen all morning. We worked our way through thick spruce, as the tracks moved through the dense forest, crawling through places I didn’t think a fox would go let alone a mule deer buck.
The weather had turned almost with the deer; snow was starting to fall in large flakes, further complicating our tracking. After feeling like we were so close now felt almost hopeless. ‘He must be tired,’ I thought, half-hoping—I sure was. We were approaching four hours of tracking and crawling over gullies along the mountainside.
We continued following the tracks through the timber when the tracks suddenly headed up towards the top of the tree line. He had doubled back on us. We were standing in our own tracks where we were less than an hour ago. ‘Clever move,’ I thought, feeling like this buck was about to give us the slip.
Evan persistently stayed right on the tracks and I spaced off him 50 metres below. After 15 minutes of splitting up, through the trees, 300 metres away I saw three tall tines protruding from the head of a ghostly figure, as its brown back slid out of sight. The adrenalin began circulating instantaneously. He does exist!
We decided to climb straight up the mountainside to try to get a shooting opportunity from above. After climbing almost as high as we safely could, we scanned for our prey. As we moved through gullies that I could barely get out of due to the steepness and slickness from the snow on the rocks, we could see the deer’s tracks bounce once in the middle and disappear over the top. We continued traversing the mountainside. The cover was becoming sparser due to the elevation gain and the terrain was becoming increasingly steeper. Evan remained hot on the tracks high on the mountainside while I dropped down 100 metres below, moving to head off any attempt at a descent. I scrambled up and down two more gullies and began scanning for the buck on the mountainside. Suddenly, I heard a shot ring out and the buck emerged from a gully and stood on a ridge 150 metres across from me, separated by another steep gully. I shouldered my rifle quickly and squeezed the trigger simultaneously, as Evan rang out a second shot. The deer lurched forward and began an ungraceful descent into the gully.
Overcome with joy and exhilaration, screams of triumph echoed off the mountainside. We had tracked the deer for over five hours and we had not stopped to eat or drink anything. Glacier creek water never tasted so refreshing in my life. The deer was big, thick with fat, almost an inch thick in some places. We loaded our packs and made the arduous journey back to camp arriving well after dark.
My first hunting trip in Alberta was without a doubt one of the best hunting trips I have had. It was a grueling, spectacular, gratifying hunt. As I reflected on the hunt on our drive back to the city, I remembered what Evan had said a few days ago. By no means will this animal break any records, but in my books, this was without a doubt a genuine “trophy animal”. The determination was well worth it and to be able to share the moment we came out victorious, was nothing short of amazing. ■
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