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A Snowvember ritual was unveiling, as Mike Szabo and I slipped into heavy snow camo, facemasks, hand warmers and 20-below zero boots. Shouldering heavy packs, we began climbing into curtains of grey daylight. Snuggled safely in Mike’s pack, a restless mule deer tag, and on the horizon our rifle stand waited. I had the honour of leading Mike to its hidden location. A stand that’s never let me down... ever. We were bundled, loaded, and wired.
The wind hung in our face as the forecast dove and we closed in on the front side of the knife ridge. Mike would take a buck and I would be there to film it. Anticipation and determination paved our way, come hell or deep snow.
Our stand is torn out of National Geographic; a screened point of timber overseeing side hill, slope and ridgeline back dropped by Rocky Mountains. This lookout covers a thousand metres. I have filmed bucks there as close as ten. It’s a natural travel corridor that demands caution, as this is also bear country. A few years back, on this same ridge, a whitetail hunter walked into a grizzly, or it walked into him. There was one defensive shot and his whitetail days ended. I think of him often.
Soon we took our positions and the hours passed reliving bye-gone adventures while awaiting silent brown movement. It was a grand day and a brutal one. Late afternoon, I finally spotted deer. Two whitetails appeared 300 metres below us running full tilt. They slipped over the ridge. We figured it was a buck chasing a doe, but I couldn’t get the binoculars on them. We glassed that area until daylight faded. Heading back to the truck, we angled to where we last saw them. We managed to walk up on the doe, but she already had us pegged and escaped over the top. Never saw the boyfriend. It was the first time I had hunted the stand without seeing a mule deer buck and the journey back to camp was cold fatigue and frozen disappointment. Tomorrow, dress warmer and leave earlier.
In pre-dawn stillness, Mike’s truck slipped and crawled into the valley as we discussed how easy it would be to get trapped. If the 4x4 didn’t make it out, who would be looking? We agreed to not think about it. With a cautious eye on the skies and crossed fingers, I promised to not get skunked twice.
After another heated climb, our lookout was rewarded with two mulie does. They were escorting a buck across an exposed ridge and he looked like a straight up 4x4 with average antlers and anything but average body. They were not feeding, just slowly heading for a protective stand of spruce. We glassed until they faded over the top. This was reassuring, as our overheated carcasses began cooling down... too quickly. A frozen wind was knifing the ridge and our vigil was becoming unbearable. It was obvious we needed to move. The conversation kept centering on those out of range mule deer.
Mike: “How far do you think that buck is?”
Paul: “Too far, but he’s a nice one.”
Mike: “If we got lucky?”
Paul: “We’d never get him out of there.”
Mike: “How long would it take to get over there?”
Paul: “Too long, but that’s a nice buck.”
Mike: “You know what we should do?”
Paul: “Let’s go!”
We geared up and threw common sense to the freezer. What’s another 700 metres when you’re thousands from the truck? Experience told us the deer would lie up in the spruce to wait out the weather. We traveled a giant fishhook pattern, climbing above them. The timber quickly changed to blow downs. We could not hunt a fixed direction; dead timber, toppled from relentless mountain winds, blocked every step of the way. Deep snow hid snags, stumps and tripping branches but also hid our approach. So did the winds and our snow camo. The two-man wolf pack was closing in but the deer would not be easy to locate. It had been hours since we last saw them and their tracks would be blown in. Again, we were handed a gift. We walked onto their beds, which were sharp and clear. The tracks spaced downhill into a depression of blow downs stacked over blow downs. Knowing they were on full alert, we took a break, had some lunch, and came up with a plan.
I have been blessed with the ability to spot deer, especially the hard to see. Not Mike. He sees flashes of deer as they bound away. Locking eyes with a motionless mountain buck is not his forte, although he does have new glasses with camouflaged frames. I needed to lead. Then the show goes to Mr. Mike and Mr. Remington.
Dropping into the bowl, we hunted slowly and hyper-alert until I noticed a questionable tiny piece of brown. I slipped the rifle to the shooting stick and studied it. At 150 metres, my 4X scope picked out a heavy-framed, quartering deer looking our way. I hissed at Mike to rest his gun on the monopod, pointed out the deer, and then pulled out the video camera.
I hit record and whispered, “It’s the buck... right?” After a long silence, Mike whispered, “I think so.” Not good. I told him to turn up the scope. He hadn’t thought of that yet. Fumbling with the frozen adjustment ring, he finally cranked it full and settled back to the rest. This was taking too long and I was amazed the deer was still motionless.
In a very deliberate voice, Mike said, “It’s him.” Holding the camera as still as possible, I held my breath. He touched the trigger and… the buck never moved. The moment of truth became the panic of confusion, as Mike lifted his head and peeked over the scope. I think he was dumbfounded. I know I was.
My inner voice was screaming, “Shoot!” While my outer voice hissed, “Take him... T-A-K-E HIM!” Mike snapped out of it, hurried another shell in, and settled back on target. Just then, the two escorting does had had enough. From behind the buck, they busted into an uphill trot, followed by the buck. Mike’s target moved between spruce and blow down with a scope on max. I was certain the only thing coming out of this would be memories. Not so with Mikey. He hit the trigger and spun the buck completely around with a perfectly placed desperation shot. He had the buck…and I had the video.
After high-fives and holy, holy, holies, we approached the buck.
Mike: “He’s as big as a Volkswagen.”
Paul: “More like a Buick station wagon.”
Mike: “How long do you think it will take to get him out?”
Paul: “Second Tuesday of next week.”
Mike: “Yea, it’s going to take forever and with my hernia, I won’t be much help. “What are we going to do?”
Paul: “What do you mean “WE”, you shot him.”
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| The Blow Down Buck. |
We snapped pictures and field dressed. Before we could attempt the long downhill drag, we needed to drag UPHILL. We searched out various routes and settled on the one with the least exhaustion. We muscled him up and over blow downs and fought the angle of the hill, less than ten feet at a time. This was a heart attack with antlers. Eventually we broke skyline. There was the truck; a little dot a mile below us. We hauled in short bursts, not looking more than twenty metres ahead. Every step of the way was unforgiving. The further we dragged, the heavier he got. Snow bogged us down, sliding deer sped us up, as antlers poked and snagged.
The last 300 metres eased to flattened marsh grass. We arrived at the truck just as the sky fell. We needed to get gone immediately and the ride back to camp was our Deertona Five Hundred. In our zone, mule deer tags are granted about every five years. By then, Mike will be in his out-of-shape mid-sixties and I’ll be in my over-the-hill seventies. Don’t think we’ll ever do this again... unless… it’s a nice one.
Back in camp, we replayed the video. What happened on the first shot? How did Mike make the second? The video revealed nothing. We determined he probably shot high, or low, maybe left, or right.
Mike named him the “Blow Down Buck.” In the last gasps of that awesome day, we pulled out six string guitars and with aching arms and cramped fingers, somehow came up with the “Low Down, Blow Down B-B-B-B-Blues.” ■
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