Saturday mornings mule deer hunt
Snake River Marksman
9/22/08 7:33am
The wan light of a grey dawn found me and my two companions standing on a logging road trying to pierce the dim light in hopes of finding a deer in the meadow beside us. We were hunting in the Bridger-Teton National Forest in an antlered only hunt unit just over the ridge from our homes. We had driven into the area after meeting in the full dark and then walked up the logging trail by cloud filtered moonlight, past the locked gate that kept the ATVs and pickups out of the area. The season had been open for the better part of a week, and hunters have been in the area, but it hasn’t been hit hard due to that locked gate. In whispered conversation, we discussed the single element that would focus our entire strategy. The weather. The forecast called for ever increasing chances of rain and thunderstorms as the day progressed. A front was moving in from the southwest and those storms were predicted to be more numerous and much stronger the later in the day it got.
Dawn wasn’t a singular event. At some indeterminate point, the sun was creating the grey light, and the moon wasn’t. Moments into legal shooting light, I heard a noise from the top of the meadow and quietly shushed my partners. Billy quickly found the deer, ahead of us in the middle of the road. No amount of glassing or wishing could put antlers on the doe and her two fawns though as they contentedly fed their way on into the forest and up the hill. Several more minutes of silent glassing didn’t reveal any more deer, so we pressed on up the hill. A gentle mist began to fall lightly on my face.
At the top of the next switchback, we halted to glass the meadow below us and to survey the surroundings. No deer had entered the meadow, and low clouds hid the panorama. It was very dark to the south west. The mist had stopped. As we stepped out again to continue our climb, a deer, deep in the woods, was heard walking away. We couldn’t see it. We rounded the bend at the top of the switchback and I spotted a white oval. “Deer!” I hissed and brought the glasses to my eyes. I spotted the tail that bisected the oval and tried to spot the head to see if there were any antlers. The deer stepped off into the woods even further and I never saw the head. Silently on the mist dampened ground we stalked after the deer spread out within sight of one another. We stopped on the edge of a clearing, and the deer bounded up the slope, ears cupped to the rear, nose to the wind. Rifle up, thumb on the safety, eye to the scope, I found the deer and saw no antlers. Bye Bye mama, thanks for the rush! A steady rain began to fall and thunder rolled off to the south west. Mother nature was giving a warning to all who would listen that things were going to go from good to bad to ugly before long. A very short discussion amongst the three of us brought us to the unanimous conclusion that, while we needn’t run for the truck, heading back that way was the smart plan of action. This was not a time for the manly man routine.
Two thirds down the mountain, out in an avalanche chute, a grey shape began to annoy my subconscious. I ignored it once, and twice, and once again, but finally had to put the binocular to my eyes and satisfy that nagging feeling. There amongst the yellow leaves of the poples and the reds of the mountain maples were two deer. A doe and a fawn who was attempting to suckle from the doe. Apparently it is weaning time as the doe gave that fawn a right energetic kick. I could not help but grin. I whistled to Billy and Darin and pointed up the hill. They came up and looked and we ranged the deer at 308yds. Given the ridiculous angle of the slope on which the deer were located, the actual distance was more like 200 yds. But, whatever!
I could feel the energy in the atmosphere building as the storm approached, but I felt we still had a fair amount of time before it actually got there. I told Darin and Billy that I wanted to climb up there and see if there were any more deer in the folds and pockets that we couldn’t see from the road. They thought I was nuts as the hill I would have to climb was quite steep as avalanche chutes typically are. I felt there would be a game trail up there that would parallel the road, and I’d meet them down at the truck. It started to rain again.
I made the climb getting soaked from the waist down by all of the water on the poples. I saw lots of elk and deer sign, beds, droppings and tracks, but no game. The deer had heard me coming easily enough and had disappeared. Not surprising considering the number of times I lost my footing on the clay and shale slope I had just climbed. Somewhere along the way, I twisted my ankle. There was a moderate pain where my Achilles tendon meets my heel, deep on the inside. Uncomfortable, but nowhere near debilitating. The rain stopped. By now you’re wondering “where is his rain gear?” Well, my good gear went down with the ship last year, and I haven’t replaced it yet. The gear I was wearing is the reason I finally went out and bought good gear in the first place. It just isn’t up to long term soakings.
I found the game trail I suspected would be there. It had the additional advantage of trending generally down hill. Along the trail I found more sign. Rubs, a small spring fed pond full of tracks, an elk wallow and a bear sign post (gulp!). I came upon several clearings always approaching them one step at a time, glassing all the way. I never saw any game, just pine squirrels who were too busy eating ahead of the front to even chatter at me. At some point, I realized that I had traveled far enough and that I was going to have to head straight down hill. I shortly found a finger of a ridge that tapered down towards where the truck was parked. I walked it out, and found myself standing at the top of a 100 ft high slope of clay and shale with tiny maples growing from it. On the valley floor below, across Squaw Creek lay the road. I’d overshot the truck by about 200 yds. Not bad for dead reckoning.
Looking up and down the slope there didn’t seem to be a great option for getting down it. With a “nothing to it but to do it” attitude, I made my way down the slope using small maples to balance myself as I eased my self down the slope. I lost my balance and slid a time or two. Put more pressure on my tender ankle than was at all comfortable, but made it to the bottom without real mishap. It started to rain again. Ten years ago, I’d have just jumped and took the whole hill in one long slide. Getting older takes all the fun out of things like that. There was only one more obstacle to surmount. The creek. Squaw Creek is about 3 feet wide at this time of the year and only has about 8 inches of water in it. It’s rocky and steep. If it was back east in West Virginia or somewhere like that, it would make a great brook trout stream. The problem for me was, it’s banks are about 3 feet high, and densely brushed. I walked up stream until I found a spot where the banks were shallow, the creek broad and relatively flat. Then I dust waded across. I was already wet so why not.
Billy and Darin were already in the truck. I unloaded my gear into the cab and got in. It began to pour. We drove out of Squaw Creek and headed deeper into the Greys River valley. We saw quite a few does and fawns as we drove slowly along, pulling over often to allow the outfitters trucks with their trailer loads of horses and camp gear to fly by as they raced to put in their elk camps for the opener in ten days. As we passed campsite after campsite, it was curious to see the number of people from Utah and Idaho or the far side of Wyoming who had driven through hundreds of miles of great hunting land to hunt this area, an area not particularly known for either great hunting or giant animals. I guess the grass is always greener… I wish they’d slow down on that road though. They’re creating a lot of washboard and by the end of the season it will be all rutted up. The Forest Service grades that road every year, and dust guards it every two years. In the spring, before it is graded, it is barely passable in places.
The rain would stop, the sun would come out, and the next storm in the string would be more intense than the last. We finally called it quits when we observed a snag in an old burn blow down.
I spent the rest of the afternoon laying on the couch nursing my ankle with ibuprofen and ice, listening to 40mph winds and pouring rain each time a storm blew through. Happy!
Dawn wasn’t a singular event. At some indeterminate point, the sun was creating the grey light, and the moon wasn’t. Moments into legal shooting light, I heard a noise from the top of the meadow and quietly shushed my partners. Billy quickly found the deer, ahead of us in the middle of the road. No amount of glassing or wishing could put antlers on the doe and her two fawns though as they contentedly fed their way on into the forest and up the hill. Several more minutes of silent glassing didn’t reveal any more deer, so we pressed on up the hill. A gentle mist began to fall lightly on my face.
At the top of the next switchback, we halted to glass the meadow below us and to survey the surroundings. No deer had entered the meadow, and low clouds hid the panorama. It was very dark to the south west. The mist had stopped. As we stepped out again to continue our climb, a deer, deep in the woods, was heard walking away. We couldn’t see it. We rounded the bend at the top of the switchback and I spotted a white oval. “Deer!” I hissed and brought the glasses to my eyes. I spotted the tail that bisected the oval and tried to spot the head to see if there were any antlers. The deer stepped off into the woods even further and I never saw the head. Silently on the mist dampened ground we stalked after the deer spread out within sight of one another. We stopped on the edge of a clearing, and the deer bounded up the slope, ears cupped to the rear, nose to the wind. Rifle up, thumb on the safety, eye to the scope, I found the deer and saw no antlers. Bye Bye mama, thanks for the rush! A steady rain began to fall and thunder rolled off to the south west. Mother nature was giving a warning to all who would listen that things were going to go from good to bad to ugly before long. A very short discussion amongst the three of us brought us to the unanimous conclusion that, while we needn’t run for the truck, heading back that way was the smart plan of action. This was not a time for the manly man routine.
Two thirds down the mountain, out in an avalanche chute, a grey shape began to annoy my subconscious. I ignored it once, and twice, and once again, but finally had to put the binocular to my eyes and satisfy that nagging feeling. There amongst the yellow leaves of the poples and the reds of the mountain maples were two deer. A doe and a fawn who was attempting to suckle from the doe. Apparently it is weaning time as the doe gave that fawn a right energetic kick. I could not help but grin. I whistled to Billy and Darin and pointed up the hill. They came up and looked and we ranged the deer at 308yds. Given the ridiculous angle of the slope on which the deer were located, the actual distance was more like 200 yds. But, whatever!
I could feel the energy in the atmosphere building as the storm approached, but I felt we still had a fair amount of time before it actually got there. I told Darin and Billy that I wanted to climb up there and see if there were any more deer in the folds and pockets that we couldn’t see from the road. They thought I was nuts as the hill I would have to climb was quite steep as avalanche chutes typically are. I felt there would be a game trail up there that would parallel the road, and I’d meet them down at the truck. It started to rain again.
I made the climb getting soaked from the waist down by all of the water on the poples. I saw lots of elk and deer sign, beds, droppings and tracks, but no game. The deer had heard me coming easily enough and had disappeared. Not surprising considering the number of times I lost my footing on the clay and shale slope I had just climbed. Somewhere along the way, I twisted my ankle. There was a moderate pain where my Achilles tendon meets my heel, deep on the inside. Uncomfortable, but nowhere near debilitating. The rain stopped. By now you’re wondering “where is his rain gear?” Well, my good gear went down with the ship last year, and I haven’t replaced it yet. The gear I was wearing is the reason I finally went out and bought good gear in the first place. It just isn’t up to long term soakings.
I found the game trail I suspected would be there. It had the additional advantage of trending generally down hill. Along the trail I found more sign. Rubs, a small spring fed pond full of tracks, an elk wallow and a bear sign post (gulp!). I came upon several clearings always approaching them one step at a time, glassing all the way. I never saw any game, just pine squirrels who were too busy eating ahead of the front to even chatter at me. At some point, I realized that I had traveled far enough and that I was going to have to head straight down hill. I shortly found a finger of a ridge that tapered down towards where the truck was parked. I walked it out, and found myself standing at the top of a 100 ft high slope of clay and shale with tiny maples growing from it. On the valley floor below, across Squaw Creek lay the road. I’d overshot the truck by about 200 yds. Not bad for dead reckoning.
Looking up and down the slope there didn’t seem to be a great option for getting down it. With a “nothing to it but to do it” attitude, I made my way down the slope using small maples to balance myself as I eased my self down the slope. I lost my balance and slid a time or two. Put more pressure on my tender ankle than was at all comfortable, but made it to the bottom without real mishap. It started to rain again. Ten years ago, I’d have just jumped and took the whole hill in one long slide. Getting older takes all the fun out of things like that. There was only one more obstacle to surmount. The creek. Squaw Creek is about 3 feet wide at this time of the year and only has about 8 inches of water in it. It’s rocky and steep. If it was back east in West Virginia or somewhere like that, it would make a great brook trout stream. The problem for me was, it’s banks are about 3 feet high, and densely brushed. I walked up stream until I found a spot where the banks were shallow, the creek broad and relatively flat. Then I dust waded across. I was already wet so why not.
Billy and Darin were already in the truck. I unloaded my gear into the cab and got in. It began to pour. We drove out of Squaw Creek and headed deeper into the Greys River valley. We saw quite a few does and fawns as we drove slowly along, pulling over often to allow the outfitters trucks with their trailer loads of horses and camp gear to fly by as they raced to put in their elk camps for the opener in ten days. As we passed campsite after campsite, it was curious to see the number of people from Utah and Idaho or the far side of Wyoming who had driven through hundreds of miles of great hunting land to hunt this area, an area not particularly known for either great hunting or giant animals. I guess the grass is always greener… I wish they’d slow down on that road though. They’re creating a lot of washboard and by the end of the season it will be all rutted up. The Forest Service grades that road every year, and dust guards it every two years. In the spring, before it is graded, it is barely passable in places.
The rain would stop, the sun would come out, and the next storm in the string would be more intense than the last. We finally called it quits when we observed a snag in an old burn blow down.
I spent the rest of the afternoon laying on the couch nursing my ankle with ibuprofen and ice, listening to 40mph winds and pouring rain each time a storm blew through. Happy!
2,022
Next time though, put a happy ending in there with a nice 4X4 on the ground, would ya? :))