We get up at 5.00am, like real hunters should. My day starts with some good news: I have survived the night, and did not succumb to the gas fumes.
At breakfast we discuss the schedule for today and the days following. We will be going out this early every morning because these deer - just like their Hungarian cousins - move around mostly during the dawn twilight. At the hunting ground we shall use horses to get about.
I have to admit that this development is a bit of a surprise to me.
I've hardly had a riding lesson in my life. I got as far as trotting around in a circle; I didn't know that a hunt on horseback is quite normal here. If I had, I would have taken a few lessons this summer. Jim reassures me that I won't be galloping about on some half-broken-in mustang, but will be out on the prairie on placid, well-trained steeds, used to carrying dilettante clients.
There's a hard frost.
I put on all my warm clothes, but I'm still in no danger of heat-stroke. While I'm getting ready, Jim brings up the horses; there are three of them. Another of the guides, Jeff, is coming with us. They ask me if I have an orange, high-visibility vest or cap, because there will be no hunting without them. I haven't got such things - I mean, I don't have them with me - so they lend them to me. I pluck up all my courage and get into the saddle. My gun is put in the saddle-bag.
Our camp is on the border of the prairie and the mountains. This is considered to be the best
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territory for elk, and our chances have been improved by the recent snowfall. In the mountains; if the snow-line moves lower, then the elk move down with it. It is more difficult for them to find food under the snow.
These old nags are very clever animals. Mine is called Baldy. They can spot the frozen puddles from a distance, and knowing that they are not safe to walk on, they avoid them. Baldy is treading so carefully on the rocky ground that I am sure he knows I'm an amateur. I don't need to bother much about directing him.
I can tell that Jim's horse is a great friend of Baldy's, as well as being his mentor and spiritual guide: wherever he goes, Baldy follows. Unfortunately, he takes after him in naughtiness, too, so whenever Jim's horse has a temporary fit of insanity, which happens every ten minutes, Baldy starts prancing about too. When he does this, I have to hold on with both hands to anything that's available, as well as trying to check out the ground beneath me to see where I'm going to fall. But then Baldy is suddenly overwhelmed with shame for his irresponsible behavior, and returns to his normal, sedate pace. I tell him off loudly each time it happens; maybe I get through to him.
Jim and Jeff spot an elk on the hillside.
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I can't see it because Baldy has decided to face the opposite direction. However much I try, he won't turn around. By the time I've managed to persuade him to turn, the bull, and with him the entire herd, have gone into the cover. We have to go around the mountain, as the herd will now be on the other side, resting and enjoying the final rays of sunshine of the year. We can get there after a 20min. ride, and from there on we will continue the stalk on foot.
The big question is: how will we manage to do it?
The elk herd is standing on the hill, as predicted. Between us and the hill is a stretch of open country for about a mile. We need to make a plan: we can't just walk towards them.
We hold a council of war.
My guides are worried about several things. One is the lack of undergrowth, which means we will have no cover. But that's just our smallest problem. The biggest is that, about 30ft. from us, there's a line of stakes driven into the ground. Beyond them is a neighboring ranch. We are not allowed to cross this boundary, or to shoot on the land beyond it. The herd is about 150 - 200ft.
away from the stakes. Which means that, if they start to move, they might cross over into the Forbidden Zone.
The first 900ft. is not a problem. The ground is covered by thickets about 41/2ft. high, so if we crouch low enough, they won't see us; and the wind is with us, too. Then there is a further 600ft.
that we'll just have to manage, somehow. We'll have to pray for some luck, because the vegetation won't hide us there. Then there is a small valley, filled with trees and bushes. Beyond the valley lies the most difficult part, for about 2500 - 3000ft. We will have to cross 1800 - 2100ft.
to get within shooting range. The bushes there are about 35ins. high, but they won't be much help as, by then, the deer will be above us, not in front of us. The bushes won't be enough; the deer will be able to see us through the branches. 750 - 900ft. from the herd are some stunted trees surrounded by bushes, which would be perfect for a shot. So, once we've started out on this final open stretch there will be no chance of stopping in the middle, say 1200ft. away from the herd, as there is nothing to rest a gun on and, having gone that far, we might as well keep going to the trees.
The first phase.
Bending low, we do our best to move forward quickly. We follow the line of the stakes; we are on the very edge of our hunting grounds. I don't look to the left or the right, forward or back. I just keep my eyes on Jeff's boots; he is walking in front of me and I stay right behind him, at the same height, all the way. We cover the distance at a quick sprint, and make it. We get to the end of the thickets and get down on our stomachs. Now comes that 600ft: we'll need help from Diana,
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goddess of the hunt for this. Illegal or not, I remove my bright vest. I might as well be carrying a flashing light and a siren.
The second phase.
The bushes reach up to our ankles. We are crouched down, though it's not much use. There is nothing at all to hide behind. I don't dare raise my head. I only know that they haven't spotted us yet, as, in front of me, Jeff keeps going on. We still have 300ft. to go to the valley. The top of a tree growing in the valley might provide some cover, and Jeff sidles behind it. I'm right behind him, less than 1 1/2ft. and Jim is behind me. It is still another 150ft. to the valley, and then we will have done it. There are more and more trees to help us here, and we cover the last 60ft. almost standing, running until we slide down into the valley. Here we can ease up a bit. We look through our binoculars and talk in whispers.
There are no new ideas. After this there is no cover at all. Just for the sake of it, Jim asks me if I'd consider a shot from 3000ft. but I just give him a weak smile. We have to go on: that's all there is to it.
The third phase.
We agree once again that, come what may, we won't stop to fire in the middle of the open land, an area full of disadvantages. Our goal is to reach the stunted trees at the bottom of the hill. That is where we have to go.
Jeff gets on to all fours.
We start to crawl towards the trees. The trees are our only hope. We've got to succeed.
Occasionally, Jeff glances up at the deer. We progress very slowly. My gun is lying across my back. I'm getting hotter and hotter, but we daren't stop to take off any clothes. The trees are still far off. We are crawling over hard, frozen, rocky ground. With every move something sticks into my knees. After 600ft. I'm sure we are going to fail. We are not even half-way, and already my knees feel raw. I try to use the scattered patches of snow, which at least are soft. We cross another 300ft, Jeff stops cautiously… they haven't seen us yet. All three of us are sweating heavily. My knees are hurting, but we must go on because that stag is really beautiful.
We'll never reach those trees. I didn't think that a couple of hundred feet could be so far. Jeff is crawling on steadily. I follow him. Another 300ft. The trees are right in front of us, and there's even a bush! We could not have asked for more. Sweat runs into my eyes... we're there.
We've made it!
We have cover again, and the herd can't be more than 900ft away! I slip off my gun… Jim sighs softly... the elks must have seen something! One after the other, they are crossing the boundary line! Right now I can only see cows in the Forbidden Zone, I don't know where the stag is… I load
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my gun, and check the distance, using a cow that is just crossing over the line... 726ft. There's no gun rest. The bushes prevent me using my rucksack, and anyway, I have to aim upwards. I move to the side, get into the kneeling position, my left elbow is on my knee, I press the back of my hand against a tree… it's far from ideal, but there's nothing better.
I measure the distance again… the laser isn't working!
I don't understand: has the battery run out? I switch it on and off a few times: nothing. The built-in laser is as dead as the rock which I've just managed to kneel on. Can I remember the figure correctly? 726ft.? Did I measure it properly? Another try, nothing…
Where is the stag?
The cows are stepping over the boundary line, into safety, one after the other. My hands are getting tired; I've been aiming for 2mins.
Where is the stag?
Jim doesn't know, either; he can't see it anywhere; perhaps it wil be the last one…
I have forgotten to remove the lens cover, so now I snap it off softly… in my field of vision are lots of cows and the line of stakes...
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Where is the stag?
Look - he's just stepping forward! - says Jim.
I shoot immediately.
It hit, repeat! - says Jim.
The stag turns, the Blaser hisses for the second time!
Another hit, repeat once more!
A third shot… I can't see anything anymore.
Good, it has collapsed.
I ask several times if it is really dead, because I can't tell if there's any body movement through my riflescope. Jim is certain that al three shots hit… I stop holding my breath…
I reload my gun.
Jeff catches up with us, he heard the shots and saw the stag fal . They can't both be wrong… We walk up to it; I am in front. At times like this 750ft can seem like a long, long way. We finally get there, and I can view my stag!
Great, great relief!
It is a really beautiful trophy, much better than the average! Now the tension is over, I am congratulated over and over by my guides.
It has a big body, at least 1/3 larger than the Hungarian maral. We roll it over; it was indeed hit by all three shots, although it is true that only two would have caused a quick death. The third hit far back, in the thigh. But, by then, it was no longer standing. The important thing is that two shots were in the right place.
Looking at the entry wounds, I can't understand how it could remain standing for so long. Jim says that the elk is the toughest animal in America, which is why he kept telling me to repeat the shot. Many hunters have been surprised to find that they've had to track an elk that they thought had been well shot, for half a day. One SST went straight through the body, even from this distance, only stopping at the skin. We dig it out. The mushrooming was completely regular. The Interlock got cracked, but was able to keep the core in one piece, so it didn't disintegrate. The lead remained in place. Flawless deformation.
Jim and Jeff begin to cut up the usable parts of the meat. I'm no longer surprised to see that the animal is not gutted. I know now it is not only a northern habit, they do it like this all over America.
They sever the antlers, and we walk back to the horses. We leave everything right there; we can't carry anything with us. Now that we can stand upright, we can move quickly. I study the tracks we
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left as we approached. It is the longest crawl I've had to make on this trip, as yet. I hardly dared to hope for success, but my guides are good. I thought my chances were so bad that, if it had been up to me, I would not have even started on this stalk. We are all very cheerful; we're a good team.
Baldy has been behaving himself while we've been away, so I give him a pat.
We head for camp.
I'm getting the hang of riding, more and more: all those exercises I learnt so long ago, are coming back. Only the sides of my knees hurt from sitting in the saddle. I must improve my posture.
Going home, we see some promising mule deer stags, but we don't stalk them. I still have plenty of time left; Jim says it is not worth trying to do it hastily.
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Back in camp the first thing we do is have lunch, as we'd missed it because of the great hunt. I'm pleased to see they have a Polaris here, too. The only difference is that this is a two-seater, and is called a Yamaha Rhino.
I go on and on to Jim about what a wonderful Polaris driver I have become, courtesy of Babsie Bishop in Montana, and that if he wants to be sure that his machine is in good hands, he should leave it with me. Jim listens to me and promises I can have a drive. Jeff, meanwhile, ties up the horses in a line, one behind the other, putting large bags behind each saddle. Jim and I speed off in the Yamaha; we'll take it as far as we can. He doesn't like the engine noise to cause too much disturbance as there are other hunters coming later in the season. We can't quite get to the spot the stag was shot. I stop the machine about a 10min. ride away, and 15min. later Jeff and the horses have caught up with us. I get into the saddle again.
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Three cowboys, riding over the prairie to their prey.
Once we've arrived, Jim starts packing up the meat into the saddle-bags. The antlers are soon tied on, as well. With all the meat on the horses there is no room for the rider, so my guides have to lead their animals back. They were kind enough not to load up Baldy, so there is still a saddle for me. On our return to the Yamaha, we load everything into the back, and, with my foot hard on the gas, we whizz back to camp. I manage to take a few wrong turns, so Jim has to redirect me.
In camp I indulge in some post-hunt pleasures. I tell everyone the story of our stalk, over and over again, and we admire the antlers. The company is good, the guides are good, and the hunters are successful.
We're all in an excellent mood.
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Deer Hunt Camp