At night, in my caravan, the gas in my heater runs out. So - just for a change - I wake up feeling cold. Breakfast is at 5.30am again, and afterwards the hunters will disperse, each seeking a species they have not yet bagged.
Today I'll be on something called Greeny, and not on Baldy.
As to its breed, Greeny is a Chevrolet, it is 25 years old and bigger than an M-1 Abrams tank. It got its name from its green color, and is the no.1 hunting vehicle in the camp. It is huge inside, you could play soccer in its trunk. When hunting for mule deer, a car is more efficient than a horse. While the elk is very sensitive to engine noise, and will run off at once, the mule deer isn't really bothered by it. We are certain to find a buck - that is what they call a male mule deer here -
as we can cover a much larger area with Greeny than on the noble Baldy.
We reach the hunting grounds with our lights off.
Today my guide is Cenni; he's the one who met me at the airport. Another guide, Roger, is driving a jeep in front of us; his hunter is also after mule deer. They spotted some beautiful bucks last night, so we will check out that area first. We drive slowly, jolting over the rocky ground, and start chatting. Cenni helps the state keep the coyote population down. They don't use poison, but the basic numbers have to be kept under control, so professional hunters are allowed to use any means they like to shoot as many as possible. They are even provided with planes to help them.
This is one of the most dangerous ways of hunting coyote; many of Cenni's colleagues have been involved in accidents, or even fatal crashes. The way it is done is to fly above a coyote, and then start to dive.
The hunter uses a self-loading gun - usually a Benellik - has three shots at the coyote, and must hit with at least one of them. At about 30 - 45ft. from the ground, the plane pulls out of the dive. If the maneuver is not carried out correctly, the plane can slam into the ground. The most dangerous place to use these tactics is where the prairie meets the mountains: there the plane can go straight into the side of the hill. There are some coyote hunters employed full-time by the state, and they do this dangerous job almost every day of the year. They average 10 - 15 coyotes a day. In winter, in a snowy landscape, there are very few places to hide; it is easier to spot the animals in a white environment, so then the hunter might bag up to 100 per day.
Cenni uses other methods, as well.
On Greeny's front seat is an electric coyote-caller. He says it is a very effective way of attracting them. It has a remote control, and there are over 200 different calls stored in its memory. Cenni gets it from the factory for free, as there are several calls on it that he himself recorded, and the
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manufacturer uses them in every caller sold. On the back seat is the caller's big brother: it has bigger speakers, and can be heard for miles. I try out the small one, and, inside the car, with the volume turned right down, I listen to the blood-curdling howls and shrieks.
Cenni loves guns. He doesn't know exactly how many he has. He thinks between 40 - 50, and doesn't feel that is excessive. He's 38 at the moment, has been collecting them since he was a child, and has no intention of giving up his habit of buying two or three a year.
We drive up a huge hill, and spend 1 1/2hr. on the top looking through binoculars. The bucks we saw yesterday should be around somewhere. Cenni spots three bucks; they are grazing on a neighboring hill. Roger's client is given priority, partly because this is his last day of hunting, and partly because they saw them first, when they were out yesterday. I follow them, as it is possible that, after the first shots, if the other animals do not run off, I can have a try, if the antlers look suitable. We go down into the valley between the two hills, and up onto an elevation. From its top it is possible to shoot at the deer, even though it is a long way. Roger's client lies down and aims his .300 WSM caliber Sarko rain gun. I wait behind with Cenni, wearing my ear-defenders. We get the details: the trio is 780ft away; that is the distance my companion has to shoot over. The Sarko roars loudly, and a second shot quickly fol ows… and here's the result: a hit! The first shot hit well, but the second missed, as the animal had begun to move. The mule deer runs down the hill and disappears into the trees below.
Cenni crawls forward and beckons me to come up quickly. There's no rucksack so I grab one, and place it on the ground in front of me. I'm lying down flat. I can see the two remaining bucks, but they are starting to move away. 990ft. - the laser has started to work again - but I can't decide which to go for. Cenni advises me, I'm on target, and start to pull the trigger… at the last moment, Cenni stops me. He isn't sure if the buck is mature enough to merit a bullet. I don't really mind.
We can't see the wounded buck from above because of the dense undergrowth in the valley. We are on the border of the Forbidden Zone again, and Cenni is worried that the wounded buck will cross onto the nieghbor's land. Apparently, there is some animosity between the two landowners, so it must be prevented. Our little band of commandos splits in two: Roger and his client go down to the valley to search for the buck, while Cenni and I remain on the peak to keep watch from there. My job is: to stop the wounded buck if it leaves the thickets and heads for the next ranch. I measure the distance to the boundary: 900ft exactly. The edge of the thickets is 150ft. from the line of stakes, and the time it takes to cross it is all I will have to make the shot. Cenni scans the area with binoculars, and I watch the places the buck might appear through my riflescope.
10min. go by.
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Cenni stops the operation. If the buck can move, it would have left the thickets long ago. There's no need to keep watching. He goes to get the jeep, and I go after Roger and his client. It doesn't take me long to find them. The buck is lying on the ground, it was a good shoulder shot so we can't understand how it managed to get so far. It is a really beautiful trophy. The stems are not long, but they have many branches. The hunter is happy, and begins to gut it. I see yet another new method: he cuts the abdomen, but not the breast-bone. He puts on long gloves, reaching up to his elbows, to remove the internal organs.
I help drag the carcass to a place that can be reached by the jeep. Meanwhile, a heavy sleet is falling - just what we need: I haven't got soaked for a long time - and we go back to Greeny. The hunt continues by car, but now it's just Cenni and me. The best time for hunting is over; like elk, these deer behave like Hungarian ones: they move around mainly at twilight.
Cenni has better eyesight than any of my previous guides. He can spot a deer over impossible distances, even though their grayish fur completely blends into their surroundings. He once spotted a buck with his naked eyes that I hadn't seen with my binoculars. We see one, about 600ft. away, but it is standing between two trees, in such a way that they obscure its antlers. So I don't take a shot. By the time we're able to assess it, it will have taken to its heels. We go to another hilltop, where, for a while, we will stop our morning drive. A deer hunt is not a very eventful type of hunt over here. Now, all we can do is scan the landscape; but the deer have gone to cover. Waking up early has its repercussions, and I'm starting to feel a bit tired, so I suggest following the example of the mule deer. There's not enough time to go back to camp -
we're quite a distance from it - and, anyway, we don't want to, so we take a snooze in Greeny.
There's enough room, I don't have to worry about getting stiff legs.
I lie across the back seat, and fall asleep at once.
Our noon-time rest lasts 1 1/2hrs.
After a few coughs, Greeny is back in action - as I said, he's not so young anymore - and we drive on. Suddenly, Cenni spots a mule deer we haven't seen before. It is a distinguished looking trophy, one of the best. The animal is two hills away from us. I put on my ear-defenders, grab my gun, and ask the usual question:
- What's the plan?
The plan is to get one hill closer, using Greeny, and from there we will stalk it on foot. However, the buck will not stay in one place; it is constantly moving. From my original shooting position I can now only see its disappearing backside. We carry on - in a rush - down into a valley; the deer is now up on a peak. We'll never catch up with it, I have to shoot it now. Cenni throws down a rucksack, I lie down, look through the riflescope, but can't see it. This morning Cenni told me that
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many people think the mule deer is a bit stupid: it isn't. It knows perfectly well that if it doesn't move, it is very hard to find. Our buck has chosen this strategy. It must have seen us; it knows what's going on. Even so, its camouflaged fur can't hide it from Cenni's keen eyes.
The problem is that I'm the one who has to shoot. And I still can't see it.
Cenni is explaining where it is, when it suddenly moves, and then starts to run… I take my distance from a bush near it, 1200ft. ! Far above us the buck is running away, I can only see its undertail… Cenni tel s me to shoot, I pul the trigger... I am suddenly in excruciating pain.
The riflescope has smashed into my forehead.
Blood is literally pouring from me. The riflescope, the gun, my jacket, my hand holding the butt, and the ground beneath me are all covered in blood. It runs into my eyes. I was hit so hard that for a moment I don't even know where I am, but I stagger up on to my knees. Cenni has seen what has happened, but the first-aid kit is in the car. Neither of us knows what has happened to the deer. My guide says it gave a jump when I shot, but that is just his obligatory optimism. I'm certain I missed it. We have to get to the car immediately and bandage my wound. I need a few moments to recover as I am still very dizzy. Between us, we haven't even got a tissue to press on the injury. I'm not too worried as, before I left Hungary, I took a first-aid and resuscitation course. I learned that there is a large network of blood vessels covering the head, which make even relatively small cuts bleed heavily. But still, it must be bandaged, there's no question about it. We head for the jeep, me leaving a trail of blood behind, just like a young boar that has been shot in the heart by a .416 Weatherby Magnum. Back in the car, the first thing I do is find a roll of toilet paper - unused, thankfully - tear some off, and press it against the cut. Cenni gets out the first-aid kit, but the bleeding is still so heavy that I haven't yet dared remove this, fortunately, extremely absorbent paper. I sit down beside Cenni, and keep pressing the wound. After 5mins. I take a look at it in the rear-view mirror.
Well; to those Dear Members of the Crescent Club - I have just joined you! (This is the name of one of the most unexclusive clubs in the world. Anyone who has a crescent-shaped scar on their forehead, made by a riflescope, is eligible to join. There are more and more of us, and several members are quite famous!) Slowly the bleeding lessens. Cenni disinfects it and puts on a temporary dressing.
I pull myself together and check what has happened to the riflescope. Well, it seems that I'm quite hard-headed. The focus-adjustment ring of the Zeiss has a rubber covering to give some protection against exactly this sort of accident. The blow was so strong that my forehead has pressed the rubber hard against the ring. There's quite a big dent in the rubber now. My scar, and this dent, will be permanent reminders to me of this stupid shot.
We climb back up the hill, while I consider the events of the last 1/4hr.
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Technically, it was a very badly executed shot. There's no point trying to excuse it, the bandage on my forehead is proof enough. In the heat of the moment, because of the lack of time, I did not prepare myself adequately. When aiming uphill the natural body posture changes, putting the riflescope nearer to the eye. So then, you have to hold your head back, even if you can't see the whole field of vision. This does not affect accuracy. You also have to press the gun harder into your shoulder, especially if it has a barrel chosen for large capacity ammunition, with its increased recoil. That is the theory which I did not manage to put into practice.
The punishment was swift.
That shot, however, does raise some safety and ethical issues.
As Pat, my unfriendly Canadian guide would have said: Safety first! According to Hungarian safety regulations, you are never allowed to shoot up a hill. The reason is that, if a bullet flies over the ridge, you do not know where it is going to land, so you can't judge if the direction of the bullet is safe, or not.
In the parts of America that I have been to so far, they either hadn't heard of this rule, or, they had heard of it and thought it a strange European custom, which doesn't apply here. I have written several times about what vast and empty areas there are in America. That is not only true of the north, but also of Montana and Wyoming, and probably of many other states, which I have not been lucky enough to visit. In this particular region there is only one inhabited place, Saratoga, but even that is at least 25mi. from here, and in the opposite direction of the shot. You can go for several hundred miles in the direction of the shot without seeing a sign of civilization.
This is the Wild West.
And it is limitless.
That shot would have been considered completely reckless and irresponsible in the Bakony Mountains, but here there is no safety risk at all.
And now for the ethical question.
The constant antagonism between American and European hunting culture. In Hungary, if I told them that I wanted to shoot at the backside of a stag, running away from me, what would my fellow hunters say? I don't think I'd be the most popular man at the table. Also, I don't think I'd want to hear that sort of story myself. Hungarian, and European, ethics have developed into what they are now from the limits imposed by local hunting opportunities.
But this is not Europe. This is America.
Here there are different laws, different customs, and different ways of hunting. Ethics are different, too. As I mentioned after my Alaskan hunt, they are neither better nor worse. Just
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different.
What would we say if some indignant foreign hunter lectured us about how unethical it is to shoot a belling stag? We might just pack him off home. According to Texans, a backside shot - if taken with the right caliber bullet - causes death instantaneously. They have even given it a name: the Texas Heart Shot. They don't differentiate between a fatal shot to the heart, from the side, or an equally fatal shot, that destroys the internal organs, taken from behind. They are so keen on it that many local hunters consider it to be one of the safest shots. They believe that the chance of just wounding an animal is considerably smaller than from a side shot, which might hardly touch the entrails, or just wound it in the leg. If you miss with a backside shot, the game has a good chance of remaining uninjured, but that is certainly not true of shots taken from the side.
According to local norms, this is not in the least unethical. I don't want to encourage anyone to take such shots, but we have to consider the possibility that a question might have several answers.
The big question is whether a European hunter should follow American or European standards while he is hunting in the New World.
It all depends on whether he wants to have a successful hunt or not.
If he wants to go home with a trophy, he will have to adopt the American way. But an important part of the American norms is that Americans are very good shots. These two things - local ethics and proficient shooting - are quite inseparable. They can not be judged individually. In some cases American ethics are more relaxed simply because the hunters are better shots. And they are all better shots because, growing up in these communities, if they don't shoot well, they won't be good hunters. That's the truth.
Naturally, a hunter from Europe - Hungary - may well decide to stick to the ethics and customs he learned at home, even when in North America. He won't shoot at running stags, will only shoot when the game is side-on, and he won't fire if the target is over 450ft. away.
And such a hunter will, unfortunately, return home without a trophy.
Everybody has to make their own decisions about what matters to them.
In Hungary there are those who think that Hungarian hunting ethics should always be maintained, even when hunting abroad. But it is one thing to declare your opinions on an Internet forum, or in a hunting journal, or just sitting around the table, and quite another to put them into practice when you are actually on the spot. Or when you have spent a lot of money for an expedition, and the game you are after will only be bagged by ignoring them. On my trip, so far, I have not taken one shot that would be completely acceptable by Hungarian standards. Hunting is an activity that has to be done in practice, not in theory. There's a huge difference between the two. Fine speeches,
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deep thoughts, and wise philosophical concepts often have nothing to do with reality. Especially if you happen to be on the Alaskan taiga, rather than in the Hungarian woods.
As I've already said, local ethics are different in the US because if American hunters used European norms, no hunt would ever be a success. Here, you don't see the same bucks every day. There are no clearings, or raised hides. No-one ever says the words: There's a beautiful buck that comes here regularly. He always arrives after 8.00!
It is a wilderness here.The conditions produce a totally different type of hunter compared to those from the Old World.
Excellent hunters.
Hunters who can confidently shoot 1000ft. Who are not fazed if a day's hunting lasts longer than 12hrs. Who consider ceaseless walking, constant crawling and climbing, struggles through thickets, adverse weather and a spartan camp life, to be a normal part of hunting. Because that is what the American hunting culture is all about! We must not forget this when we form our opinions about American hunters!
If a Hungarian hunter manages to disregard the following issues (which I consider completely superfluous): why do Americans wear camouflage clothing, why do they shoot with military-like guns, and why they can't just behave like us Europeans, well, then he will make some very good hunting friends when overseas. Friends who will respect this hunter who has come from many thousands of miles to hunt in their great country. Friends who, without a second thought, will lend him their expensive gun, or anything else that he happens to need. Friends that he can go to with any problem, and who will certainly help him. We should not look for the differences between the two continents - because there are so many - but, instead, look for the similarities. Such as the love of the hunt, which creates a common bond, uniting us with those living in foreign lands who hold different principles.
Needless to say, my mule deer was never found. There are few people in the world who could shoot accurately under such circumstances. And, unfortunately, I'm not one of them. I would only need several mil ion practice shots to be able to do it… There's no evidence that I hit it. There is a strip of snow on the ridge, so we would have noticed any bleeding. It is very likely that the buck only jumped out of fear, and is quite unhurt. That isn't bad news; it still leaves me another chance to shoot a mule deer. Over here, wounding counts as bagging.
We go back to Greeny.
We've only been driving for 15 - 20mins. when Cenni spots some new bucks on a hill to our right.
There's no time to waste, as the herd is moving as it grazes. Cenni assesses them quickly… and, yes… there's a good buck among them. I should shoot that! I have no time to build a makeshift
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gun rest on Greeny's hood out of rucksacks, so I shall shoot from the car. I'm not happy about doing this, it is over the limits of what I consider acceptable. I do it because there is no alternative.
Now starts the "Which is the buck I should shoot" game, just like in Alaska. We are dealing with a species I'm completely unfamiliar with; I've only ever seen them in photographs or videos. On that basis, I'm not qualified to judge them, I need my guide's help. So, patiently, he explains what the chosen buck is doing. I can see four possibilities, but none of them seem to be doing what Cenni is describing.
Cenni and I are out of sync.
I find the right buck, but Cenni tells me not to shoot yet. He has made many hunting videos, and he'd like to record this bagging. He is unfamiliar with my camera, and needs time to set it. I still don't dare to get out as the order to shoot might come at any moment.
Finally, everything is ready. I'm on target with my gun, as is Cenni with my camera; but how am I to shoot? The buck is way above us, and I can't rest the gun on the window frame to stabilize it.
The deer is too high for that. In a moment of inspiration, I put my right foot out of the window and rest the gun on my boot. By moving my foot I can aim higher or lower. I've never done this before, or heard of, or seen it being done; but it makes a very stable gun rest.
756ft.
I'm feeling confident about this shot. I know I'll be successful before I even pull the trigger. The mule deer, shot through the heart, tumbles down the hillside. And it's all on video, too!
Yet another rewarding hunt!
After the riflescope hit me on the head, I was worried about its settings. I don't think they've changed, or, if they have, not by enough to affect my accuracy.
We make a note of where the buck is and, - to my surprise - it has been gutted in the Hungarian way. A couple of years ago, Roger left his client behind with his bagged game. Being bored, the client went for a walk, and Roger, returning in the car, managed to drive over the antlers. They were broken into bits, but the taxidermist, performing miracles, was able to reconstruct them completely using photos taken just after the bagging. We do not run over my deer, but load it into the trunk instead, and drive home in the twilight. There's a huge storm brewing, and lightning is striking so close to the camp that I decide to leave my gun and camera tripod in the car. I don't want to be a living lightning conductor.
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The whole camp is getting ready for a major surgical operation.
I prepare myself for the procedure by drinking a couple of glasses of whisky. Cenni is going to change my bandage, and wants to take a thorough look at the wound. He will be the head doctor.
A newly-arrived hunter, Burke, and Jeff, my guide from yesterday, will assist. First-aid kits are produced, and the contents searched through for the appropriate medicine. There is too much choice: all kinds of remedies, bandages and other paraphernalia are lying on the table. They eventually agree on what to use, and how to use it, and, finally, the operation is over. They all agree that it looks as if I'll pull through!
We celebrate the happy outcome with another drink, and have dinner.
For me, these are the best moments of the hunt. A large company round the table, merriment, and lots of chat over dinner.
Yesterday, an elk, and today, a mule deer.
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That's how we hunt in Wyoming.
In a laid-back way.
Deer Hunt Camp