Preface
Spot and stalk Mule deer hunting is at the top of many hunters list of to-do’s. Living at the forefront of the Wasatch range of the Rocky Mountains, I often get to practice this style of hunting. The romantic allure of outsmarting one of these bucks is a draw for sure. Today I bring you a story of a stalk to die for, perhaps one of my best executed spot and stalks. And it was sealed with blood and sweat, instead of the more common sweat and disappointment. To add even more value to this hunt, my sweet tiny wife was along to run the trigger for this hunt. And it served as the crown jewel to a hunting season littered with success. Our kids had already shot three deer this week, and we had packed out every one of them. So as the sun began to rise yesterday, I could still feel every pound and mile in my sore legs and feet.
Sunrise
It was the morning of the seventh day of our Utah Mule deer general season. Our success this year had been above average, as I had yet to see anyone else harvest a buck on the same mountain we hunted. Due to an unanticipated change in plans, instead of watching the sunrise from our typical ridge-top spot at 8500 feet above sea level we started at the bottom of our valley.
From the foothills where I grew up hiking and camping as a kid, we watched the red morning light creep across the frosted landscape. My wife, our youngest and I peered through glass looking for deer. My expectations were low, as several days of prior scouting hadn’t turned up anything worth a second look, at least not down here, but things were about to change.
From roughly a mile and a half away, I picked out a couple does feeding on an open grassy area. As I broadened my search area around them, I picked out another deer that was instantly identified by his boney headwear. From that distance I wasn’t sure of an actual count on points, I just knew he would certainly do.
A Plan
For several hours, and moving several times to relocate him, we watched this buck move. He was the only buck we’d seen this morning, and I didn’t want him to get away. We followed him across several faces, until it seemed he was ready to bed down. He had been closely following the two does, perhaps in some pre-rut activity based on his body language. They finally slowed down, and fed in an open area in a small bowl. I knew why they’d chosen that spot, it was rugged and thick enough to provide ample security, and far enough away from people to avoid contact. Unless of course they were being watched through my spotting scope off in the distance.
I knew the way to get to that bowl, and my plan was to hike in from the north. It would be about a mile and a half, gaining a couple thousand feet along the way. So we stuffed our packs accordingly, removing everything we didn’t need, and with enough snacks to wait them out through the afternoon.
The three of us carried our packs, and I carried my wife’s rifle in my Eberlestock Just One pack for comfort. Her rifle is a Howa Mini chambered in 6 ARC, she has done very well with this rifle in the past. Today we would lean hard on the accuracy of the little ARC loaded with Hornady 105 grain BTHP match bullets.
The Approach
A few hours (and snacks) later, we had gained enough elevation to get into the bowl where the deer hid. To my great relief, the wind was moving perfect for our plan. It came from the side where the deer were expected to lay, and at a fairly constant 5-10 mph it blew in our faces. We’d came in high, as I’d planned to get a good look of the area. Over the course of another half-hour, we quietly snuck deeper into the bowl. Eventually finding the perfect hideout; a large rock structure with a grassy depression where we could build a hide and wait them out. Our position put us downwind, and above the suspected bedding area about two-hundred yards away.
For the next few hours we watched, and rested. Peering over the edge of our towering hide, we’d occasionally see a doe or two feeding about in the thick and thorny bottom.
Weather was inbound, and the 5-10 mph wind was increasing. The overcast skies looked to darken, and potentially bring rain. I felt an urgency building, despite having fought off the desire to bust in their bedroom guns-a-blazin’. So we changed our plan a bit, I sent Santiago our youngest on a mission. To circle around the bowl and get just close enough for the deer to notice him, which they certainly would. Meanwhile his mom and I would be watching from above.
Full-Circle
With my wife in position, she prepared for a shot that was coming. Finding the most steady position, resting the rifle over the rock’s edge. Santiago quickly reached the spot where we had planned, which turned out to be much closer than I’d thought to the deer’s beds. There he was instructed to chill, knowing full well that this kid would be loud enough that the deer would quickly get nervous.
I could feel tension building, was the buck even in there? Had he slipped out already? Or could this possibly work out to be the most perfect stalk we’d ever executed? It was time to find out.
We watched in horror, as instead of sneaking out, three deer bounded from the thicket. But in the classic Mule deer practice, they stopped after only a few hops to look back at the twelve year old threat they had perceived. Mrs. Coldboremiracle was way ahead of them, spotting their very first movements and calling it out. And now our target stood there, just his head, neck and shoulders in view. With his haunches towards us, most of his back was slightly obscured by brush. One more hop was all he needed to disappear and live another day, but the ARC was about to bark.
Success
The shot broke, and the 105 grain bullet was on its way across the 250 or so yards to its target. It struck him at the back of his ribcage, with a heading directly for his heart. As it passed behind the ribs, it travelled under the spine disconnecting large plumbing arteries along the way. Eventually it reached the lungs, imparting what energy was left there.
The handsome buck did a bit of a stagger upon impact, and a split second later I saw him roll his head and topple. Then all I saw was feet-antlers-feet-antlers as he disappeared down a very steep and thick brush covered hill.
We hugged with excitement as the last eight hours culminated to this moment. Everything had worked out as though perfectly planned. We descended to meet Santiago, where all three of us moved in to find the buck. With such a high in the torso impact, there was less blood than I’d anticipated. But the disturbed ground where he tumbled was as obvious as blood. We approached the downed buck with huge smiles and excitement, as we had worked so much to reach this point.
A Fitting End
For the first time we got a good look at his antlers, he was a legit 4 by 5 with nice eye guards if you are an eyeguard kind of guy. We couldn’t have been more happy with him. We set him more comfortably to admire him, and revered his handsome looks. All three of us were incredibly grateful, and we quietly acknowledged the blessing we had just been given.
It was still half a mile back to a location were we could extricate him, so I ended up dragging him through rocks, brush and eventually yellow dry June grass. As the three of us maxed out on exhaustion, and hunger, it was a perfect fitting end to a week of the same. Seeing the buck in the bed of the truck gave amazing satisfaction, something I couldn’t have imagined eight hours earlier miles away.
The satisfaction only grows now, as he hangs outside cooling in the cold October night. He and the other deer will become tasty steaks, burgers, sausage and other delicious meals to feed our family over the next year. Though my legs still ache, I can’t wait for the next opportunity to do it again. And together with family makes it all the more valuable.
