Busting My Cherry: Tagging Jackson
Our third day of hunting was a miserable day. The rain was pouring down, the wind was blowing from the north at nearly thirty miles per hour, and it was hovering just below forty degrees. It was a terrible day for hunting. The pronghorn, seemingly smarter than John and I, were bedded down and weathering the storm in shelter. We saw one buck, one we thought likely had fifteen and a half inch horns, in the open and well within shooting range, only about thirty yards away, but he was fifteen yards on the wrong side of the fence separating the public land we were hunting just north of Upton, WY, and private land that flanked it. We sat in the wind and rain for hours hoping that he’d finally move. We had seen him from five or six hundred yards away and crept through a stand of pines and cedars in order to get as close as possible. Once we got behind a tree that was close, and the wind blowing from our left to right, we sat. And sat and sat and sat. For hours we sat behind that tree hoping that he would move on to our side of the fence and open himself up for a shot. We even took turns napping and keeping watch. Like many game animals, he seemed to know just exactly where he would be safe and that buck never did move, so we did.
When we got to a ranch just southeast of Moorcroft, WY that we hadn’t yet hunted the conditions hadn’t gotten any better. We were being assaulted by an onslaught of wind and rain, and it was late in the day. A guide who worked for John had been hunting that ranch for two weeks straight, and had a line on at least four bucks that were still in the area, so we knew antelope were there.
We walked about a quarter of a mile off the ranch road to a small hilltop through the pouring rain and did what we always did when we got to a new spot: we glassed everything over. After just a couple of minutes we saw a lone group of pronghorn laying next to a creek that cut the ranch in half about nine hundred yards away. Because this ranch offered virtually no cover, in order to get in to a position where we could get a shot we’d have to walk south for a mile or more and enter the creek bed so that we could approach from behind them. But the conditions were so bad I called the hunt. We had been in the pouring rain and stiff wind for over eight hours that day and I didn’t think we had a realistic chance of making a stalk on that buck in time to shoot and recover him before dark. He was just too far away, the elements were against us, and this ranch didn’t have the kind of cover we needed in order to put a stalk on him with any kind of haste.
When we arrived at this ranch on the fourth day of the hunt and after an unsuccessful search for the muley I had shot that morning, I was tired and mentally defeated, but I knew I had to keep hunting. It was already after noon, about two thirty, and dark would be coming sooner rather than later. It wasn’t raining anymore, and the wind died down to manageable levels, but it was sloppy, and either because my boots were inadequately waterproof, or else the dew wicked down my socks while I searched for the deer I would never find, my feet were soaked, sloshing in my boots. We parked the truck and immediately headed to the same hill we’d glassed from the day before. Not seeing anything from there, we moved to the one area that offered cover on the whole of that ranch: the creek bed. The walls were thick with muck slicker than most ice I’ve encountered before, and a whole lot more willing to stick to the soles of my already soaking wet boots. The going was rough. Each step seemed like I was lifting blocks of concrete, and we couldn’t take more than a few steps before having to clear as much mud from our boots as we could before it would appear as if we were wearing snow shoes. We could scarcely get any traction, and even climbing up the shallow bank was a chore. I slipped and fell more times that day than any other I can recall. But this was the only way.
After slogging through the creek bed for nearly two miles, we worked our way to the edge where a few sagebrush bushes offered scant cover in order to survey the land. As soon as we got in to a position where we could see across the sage flat we spotted The Ghost, a particularly wily pronghorn buck with a near fully black face and huge horns towering above his head. He was well over four hundred yards away, over one hundred yards beyond my effective range, sitting on the side of a hill with his harem of does.
Pronghorn antelope are a funny sort of creature. They’re the second fastest land animal in the world behind the cheetah. Thought to have evolved to escape from extinct predators of the American plains such as the American cheetah they developed a superb sense of sight and juggernaut speed as their main means of self preservation. Their immense eyes can detect movement miles away, and these animals live in herds ranging from just a few to over a thousand during winter, so sneaking up on them in open country is near impossible. You have to work the wind and avoid being seen. Once one of them spots you, they’re gone, running perhaps several miles away before stopping, and with nearly fifty eyes surveying the flat for danger, The Ghost and his harem were safe from almost anything.
The Ghost was no ordinary pronghorn. He had escaped at the last second from every stalk attempt to get him for over a month. He would be there, and then he would be gone. All pronghorn have an uncanny ability to get away in a hurry if they sense danger, but The Ghost was especially good at it. Being able to detect and react to danger quickly is exactly why he was able to get so big. Even the best planned and executed stalks on him ended in failure. Ours would be no different.
Knowing he was out of shooting range we immediately planned a stalk. We couldn’t go straight at him because there was no cover. One might have been able to do a very slow belly crawl and get within shooting range, but only as a last resort. I would have had to travel nearly one hundred and fifty yards with a rifle and shooting sticks, and it might take me hours to cover that kind of distance on my belly moving as slowly as possible. The only way around was to travel through the creek bed another two miles or so, then circle around with the wind and try and sneak up the backside of hill where he was bedded down. After nearly two hours of slow going, we arrived at the bottom of the hill. We didn’t really know if he was still there, but there weren’t any other hunters on this ranch, and there’s no reason to believe he would have moved far. He had a good spot and no pressure. Once we got about half way up the hillside, we got down and crawled on all fours at an agonizingly slow pace. The only comfort was that we weren’t in that creek bed any longer. After traveling about fifty yards we saw what we hoped to see: the tips of the ears of one of his does. The Ghost and his harem were still there and would be about a one hundred and twenty-five to one hundred and fifty yard shot from the top of the hill, a chip shot. At that we moved to an even slower belly crawl, one of the most physically exhausting modes of moving there is, especially for an over-weight and out of shape smoker lugging along a rifle and a set of shooting sticks. We inched as slowly as we could to avoid being seen, staying as close to the ground as possible. When we were no more than five or ten yards from the apex of that hill where I would set up my shot it happened.
“There they go” I said.
One pronghorn or another in that group must have caught a glimpse of us and they all bolted, running as quickly as they could up the next hillside, not to stop again for nearly two miles across open country. We had maneuvered for nearly three hours over five miles to get in to position to take a shot, and blew it at the last moment. The Ghost would live up to his name again.
After I belted out a few choice words John suggested we go to a spot on the ranch where he knew a small group of pronghorn spent time. He hadn’t seen them in a week or so, but he had seen them in that spot enough to know it was a spot they liked. Either that spot offered good food or an area sheltered from the weather or something else entirely, but there was something there that made it a regular hangout. Without any other options and exhausted from a long day of failed hunts, I said the only thing I could: “whatever you say, boss.”
After a quick cigarette and a few minutes to mentally recover we made our way. Thankfully we wouldn’t have to spend any more time in that creek bed in order to get where we were going, but it was a long walk. Not knowing where I was going I simply followed, the both of us quiet, partially to not spook any potential game, but mostly out of defeat. About half way up a long hill that would overlook the flat, John signaled to get on all fours again. After a few yards he got on his belly and I did the same. I remember him giving me a chuckle when I told him to move over because I had encountered a cactus, but most of that stalk is now a blur. We had no idea if there would be any animals on the other side of that hill. We had only hoped there would be. When we got to the top we had our answer. “Antelope”, John whispered in a satisfied tone.
We counted two bucks and about twenty does in the valley between two long hills, and none of them had seen us. We were well above them and they were concerned with feeding under what little daylight remained.
John took out his range finder and told me the one thing I didn’t want to hear: “Three hundred and fifteen yards to the big one; three hundred and five to the small one.”
Though I had practiced out to three hundred yards at my home range in Kentucky, all of it had been from a bench. I’d be shooting prone, and they were just beyond the very edge of my range. I’d also be shooting from an angle much steeper than I had ever shot from before. I wasn’t for that shot, but it might be the only one I get.
I flipped the safety of my rifle and settled the reticle of my scope just above the back of the larger buck of the two. My rifle was zeroed at one inch above the bullseye at one hundred yards. I should be able to hold the reticle on my target and hit it anywhere from very close to about two hundred and eighty five or three hundred yards. Any further and I would have to hold the reticle over my target. Not having practiced beyond three hundred yards made it a complete guess for me. “Whenever you’re ready”, John whispered. A few seconds later I squeezed the trigger.
“Right above him”, John said.
“Goddammit”, I whispered thinking that I had ruined my one chance that afternoon, and maybe the last chance I’d have that hunt, almost instantly realizing that I hadn’t accounted for the angle of the shot and probably didn’t need any hold over at all. But then something finally happened that would work in my favor. At the shot the entire group of antelope bolted over the next hill a couple of hundred yards away except for one. The smaller buck of the two actually moved closer, as if he had never learned what his species had evolved over perhaps millions of years to do. I cycled the bolt and John said “Two hundred and fifty-seven yards.” This time I settled the reticle right behind his shoulder, feeling much more comfortable about this shot, let out my breath, and squeezed again.
“Thump!”
I hit him.
He trotted from our left to right about a hundred yards and just stood there. “Three ninety: hit him again”, John said, but I had a problem. I only had one bullet left on me, and he was nearly one hundred yards beyond my effective range. “I can’t do that, John. I only have one bullet left.”
At that the pronghorn buck stretched out and laid down, snuggled next to a bit of sagebrush. He was hurt, but he wasn’t dead. Remembering the fresh lesson I had learned just that morning I was in no rush to get up and chase him. The property border was close, and I didn’t want to jump him and lose him like I had lost my deer, and unlike my deer, his legs were fine. If he had a notion, he could go a long ways before having to stop. Besides, we could see him. We knew exactly where he was.
We sat atop that hill and watched him for what felt like forever. After a while I mentioned that dark was close and we had to move. There was a way we could go that would move us across the valley where he couldn’t see us, but the wind would blow our scent right at him, and we both quickly dismissed the idea in favor of another round-about walk to circle him from his back side. The only problem, we would discover, is that in order to avoid being seen, it would be a nearly two mile circle in order to approach him from the hill on the opposite side of the valley, the same one the rest of his herd had fled over earlier. We didn’t have much time, so we had to move quickly.
Once we reached that hill we quickly spotted him again. He hadn’t moved though he was still alive. I thought about how much pain he must be in, having been shot nearly an hour earlier. I knew we needed to put him down, though I didn’t know that he wasn’t likely in much pain because he was in shock from the bleeding. As we crawled up that hill I remember thinking that it seemed like the rancher was actively cultivating cactus on this part of his ranch. It was like a maze of thorns, and it made moving onerous. Once we laboriously maneuvered to a spot where I could shoot him again, I asked John for a range. It needed to be an easy shot, one hundred and fifty yards or less, or I’d have to move closer because I only had one shot left.
“One hundred thirty-seven yards.”
The antelope was laying broadside and facing away so I felt comfortable sitting up with my sticks and taking my time to set up. He hadn’t turned his head around to look in our direction since we had put eyes back on him, and I needed to hit him perfectly or the entire hunt would be ruined. I sturdied myself, locking my rifle in my right shoulder, steadying the sticks, and squeezed the trigger.
“Thwack!”
He went down immediately.
At the sight of that John jumped up and yelled “praise Jesus!”. I chuckled and we made our way over to my antelope. John checked his eyes for movement and saw none. He was dead. We didn’t have a but a few minutes of daylight left, but I insisted that I sit with my antelope for a few moments alone before we got to work on gutting him. John acquiesced.
I’m not a religious man, or even a particularly spiritual one, but I believe the right thing to do is to show my quarry respect. I had killed him, after all, even if it was for a reason beyond simply putting his head on my wall (yet I did do that). It was a joyous moment, but also a somber one. I had taken his life so that he would help give life to me and my family. For me he would provide more than just a few meals. He represented hard work and perseverance. He represented a contribution I could make to my family’s wellbeing. He was the goal, and I had attained it. I owed him a semblance of gratitude. And in that moment he transformed from just another antelope among many others on the open plains of the west in to an animal that has helped me on my own personal journey. He transformed from just another antelope in to Jackson.
When I kill an animal it’s a very emotional moment. It forces me to reflect on what being human is, what being a predator is: having the need to take another animal’s life in order to sustain my own. I am forced to juxtapose the emotions stirred by my western twenty first century cultural norms and millennia of evolution that made us hunters. Though an animal has to die, when I buy meat at the store I’m not forced to experience the death of that animal. Its flesh is sitting on a styrofoam tray, wrapped in cellophane. Its blood is being absorbed by a small piece of sponge in the bottom. The only taking I do is to pickup up that tray and put it in the basket. Hunting and killing an animal is different. It’s personal. I know exactly what is required to put that meat in my freezer both physically and metaphysically, it makes me a better man for being able to experience securing my own food, facing every action and its consequence along the way. I’ve earned this animal.
WIth little light being left, John got to work on field dressing Jackson. I had wanted to learn how to do it on my own, but we were in a hurry. “Next year”, I told John. He nodded. After John removed them, I looked over his internal organs in order to examine my shot placement and learn why he didn’t die as quickly as I had hoped. I wanted to kill him, not hurt him, and I needed to find out what had happened.
I hit him in the liver. It’s a fatal shot, but one that can take three or four hours. The liver is vital, but is not an organ that’s immediately necessary all of the time like the lungs or heart, so a liver wound means bleeding internally to death. Hunting oftentimes isn’t as exact as the hunter would like it to be. Sometimes mistakes happen and things don’t go exactly as one would want them to go. My shot was pushed backwards of my point of aim, probably by the wind but perhaps because of one mistake or another I might have made when taking the shot, and the bullet hit a few inches behind where I wanted (the lungs). Making excuses for a bad shot is fruitless, as is making apologies, though one needs to learn from them. In hunting bad shots happen: it’s a matter of probability, not intention. All any responsible hunter can do is minimize the probability scale, and even then, no matter how much one studies the anatomy of a given animal, no matter how often one practices at the range, bad shots will still happen. Hunting is killing, and killing isn’t always pretty.
Jackson provided just over thirty pounds of meat for my family and provided for me something more. Something intangible. Something I had never felt before. It was a certain kind of satisfaction. A feeling that I had set a goal and did everything that was necessary, no matter how onerous, to complete it. I didn’t give up as I had so often done before. Because of him I slogged through a muck filled creek bed, walked mile after mile over three and a half days, and suffered trying weather. It was the hunt he provided. And he’s remembered for it daily.