Preface
I have mentioned many times my affinity for hunting American Pronghorn. Today I bring you another story of my family-based hunting exploits in the west, and again this one is a story of an antelope hunt. We take every opportunity given to hunt, both in my own state of Utah and elsewhere. This year my wife drew a single tag, for a buck Pronghorn. And this is the story.
Background
Like most women who end up married to a hunting addict, my sweet wife often gets opportunities to hunt herself. She seems to have enjoyed her own success, I say seems because it could just be she enjoys spending time together in such beautiful places.
Though not from a hunting background herself, she has freely embraced the life I like to consider one of successful hunters. Becoming accustomed to the taste of venison and the challenging elements to obtain it, has come surprisingly natural to her.
Our adventures together have taken us all over the west, chasing various animal quarries. Most of her experience has been after Mule deer and hunting Pronghorn antelope. Its an interesting phenomenon to see how she calmly takes her time to make sure she gets every shot right.
The Withered Desert
Our summer has been overwhelmingly hot and dry, with fires burning and sun parching what the fires missed. It seems that the wildlife has also been heavily affected, with a noticeably smaller population compared to normal. Spending time in these places observing the landscape has shown far fewer Pronghorn than in years past.
But she had drawn the tag, and we were going to make an honest try. Despite some recent taxing life experiences of her own, my wife was bright eyed and optimistic about the hunt. And as the sun began to climb that morning, we watched the desert come alive with light.
We spotted a few pairs of does here and there, and even put an honest stalk on a decent buck that seemingly had somewhere to be. But after nearly two hours of shooting light, we had seen surprisingly few animals. But as the the sun light grew stronger, we found ourselves closer to the success we were after.
We spotted a pair of bucks, feeding and wandering near a single doe. The larger of the two was the better of the bucks we had seen, and to be honest I wasn’t sure we’d find anything better in the time we had. Our target buck had to be one that she could physically get to, and make a shot. This buck met those criteria, so we decided to make an effort on him.
The Approach
We decided to approach him from the opposite side of a series of hills, hoping to get into a position we could shoot. As we snuck quietly through one of the low spots cresting the edge, we kept peeking over the crispy dry vegetation that concealed us. The dry and soft clay underfoot made staying quiet easy, but also could put up visible dust signatures in the gentle breeze.
We kept tabs on the buck as we closed the distance, but I was nervous as the younger buck was seen significantly further away than we expected, and moving further still. The larger buck on the other hand seemed to be working directly towards us, which was also a problem, as it presented the possibility of him cresting a high point before us, giving him the better perspective. We hustled quickly to the highest point we had between us, and suddenly the doe popped up on another directly infront of us. We held still, and prepared the rifle for possible imminent action.
A Change in Plans
The doe had appeared much closer than we expected, almost too close. I was hoping to keep distances far enough that we could whisper comfortably, and make small movements with impunity. But with the doe just over a hundred yards away, we froze to avoid busting her.
Laying behind the rifle, my wife prepared for a potential shot. Loading the rifle quietly and getting a sight picture. Almost as if on queue, the buck we were after climbed up the small hill. Clearly he wanted to shew her in another direction, but he was unaware that his guiding desire had been mislead.
As he walked next to the doe, and pushed her downhill and away from us, he made his last mistake; giving us a perfect broadside view of his side. My wife and I had spent the previous evening discussing the perfect white line that God had painted down the side of the Pronghorn. It was a perfect reference point for a double lung shot, and as he stopped and looked back at us, the crosshairs settled on his.
Knowing that he was likely a second or so from bolting, I whispered out the call. And she pressed the trigger. The suppressed report of the rifle was the first significant sound we had heard all morning in this arid and desolate landscape. Before the buck could even flinch it seemed, I saw a puff of gray dust in the distance behind him. He bolted down after the doe, disappearing in less than a second.
The two of them circled around the bottom of the hill they’d just climbed, and came back up a few dozen yards to our right. I was grinding through thoughts, did she miss? Is he hit? Why is he moving as though he hadn’t been touched?
My eyes recaptured his movement as he popped up again the few seconds later to our right. And as soon as I saw him, I felt a warm feeling of security. He appeared to be confused, as if he was having an internal dialogue. But just that fast, he began stumbling backwards and tumbled back down the way he came.
Aftermath
Having seen the same thing as me through the scope, my wife was unsure about the dust impact in the distance. But the shot had hit exactly where she had aimed, just behind his left shoulder. After watching the buck go down, I smiled and told her he was down. Relived and excited, we grabbed our gear, and made our way to the downed buck.
The 131 Sierra Match King had perfectly perforated the buck, turning his lungs into a useless red paste. When we came upon him, he lay with his head downhill in a puddle of blood. The incredibly bright red contrast in the dry desert soil as the most vibrant color for miles.
We admired the buck, and took a moment to render him his due respect. After which we cleaned him up for the trip home. As we usually do, he was immediately skinned and washed out with fresh cool water. Before going into the cleaned cooler on ice to chill for a few days.
Just like all the others, this Pronghorn buck will be turned into various delicious meals for our family. Particularly a large batch of spicy Italian sausages to be enjoyed throughout the year. Until the next time we get the opportunity to go again.
I hope that mother nature brings more water and life back to these heat withered plains, just as this experience has brought vitality back into our hearts.
