I made my first camp at the trailhead 100 yards from an abandoned mining cabin in the national forest. It was a beautiful Great Basin Halloween night as the flicker from the palletwood fire licked the sagebrush around the trailhead. I fell asleep to the trickle of flowing water, a wholly uncommon and welcome phenomena that I’m not accustomed to from my base camp in Las Vegas. Before the sun comes back up, I’d be out on the trial in pursuit of my first mule deer.
It’s always a pleasant surprise when trails in hyper-remote areas still look like trails. Following the creek up into the mountains, I navigated alder thickets and aspen groves making my way up into the alpine. Through the canopy I could see the sunlight cresting over the tops of the jagged peaks 4,000 feet above me as I realized my surroundings. Magpies sailed from aspen to aspen, and the patchy snow on the ground revealed the presence of deer, bobcats, and lions. This place was a paradise, and I had the reassuring feeling that finding my deer would not be a problem. Several small creeks crossed my path as I wound my way up through the basin, out of the wet aspen stands that smelled earthy of dropped leaves, and up into the mountains proper.
An hour or two later, four miles back, and five thousand feet higher than where I started, I found a small knoll near the top of the ridge to make camp, dropping the heaviest items in the pack off and making my way across the sagebrushed mountainside to the greatest glassing knob a man has ever seen. I pulled out my 10x50s and set up to glass across the canyon to get a lay of the land. It didn’t take five minutes before I was on a small herd of muleys, which I watched for a time as they browsed among the mahoganies that were dotted along the slope before me. Sweeping the glass over to my right I come to the head of the basin, about a half mile away, and once again I spot five or six deer browsing in the late afternoon sun. This was a good day to get my bearings for the area and for the animals and make an actionable plan for tomorrow. I decided I was content waiting and watching for the day.. the stalk would come tomorrow. I watched a small group of deer climb the mountains in front of me and disappear over the top. The sun sets behind the far range to the West and peaceful night falls over the mountains.
The next day was not the same. Cold, cloudy, and windy… this is more of the weather one might expect from 10,000 feet in November. A whole day of scouting, searching, and glassing ‘till my eyes went blurry yielded so sightings of anything at all, and this was the first drop on the rollercoaster ride that I strap myself into every hunting trip. I’d bet a good amount of money that all hunters have an annual pass. A quick snowstorm rolled in from the west smooth like a Wabash, and as it passed by it left no evidence it had ever been there.
The third day of the hunt, November 2nd, more resembled my pack-in day than the blustery weather of yesterday. The sun began to spill over the jagged granite peaks and down into the gulch before me as I boiled up a coffee, squared my gear away, and set out to glassing the valley down in front of my tent before daybreak. I picked apart the mahoganies and aspen groves once more and found nothing save for magpies darting from limb to limb. I felt certain this valley had been glassed out over the past few days and that the herd that went over the far ridge wouldn’t be coming back; time to move on, and resupply my water while I’m at it. I pack up my day gear and head down the trail, farther into these mountains than I’d been before. The range begins to tower over me as the relief becomes greater and greater. I stop, and glass a stand of pines. Moving is good, coveing ground (with your eyes or your feet) is motivating and the places it’ll take you will keep you in the hunt. Nothing in the pine trees – move on to the next one.This continues once or twice more as I get this sense that I was making negative progress, working in the opposite direction that I need to. I’ll find one more spot to glass and then perhaps work my way back where I came from and chase those deer I saw a few days ago now. I was now on top of the next ridge, looking down into a new valley.
Sagebrush wholly encompassed the mountain from the willows down by the creek to the rimrock at the top. A few junipers also dotted the lee sides. It was in the 60s and the golden sun was fully out and warming the sagebrush and the scent of that plant hung heavy in this valley. I continued to make my way down the trail, ending up about ¾ of a mile past my tent when I spied a nice-looking knoll that should provide great vantage into a lot of country for one final glassing stand here. I picked my way through the sagebrush, up the gentle rolling hill. When I got to the top, I was absolutely stunned to find the outlines, and white asses, of at least four deer browsing in the rolling sagebrush meadow below me. Two small antlers twisted out of one. This was it. It was happening. I had decided that my personal maximum range was going to be 200 yards, although it’s common knowledge that a 7mm Rem Mag is effective out to far, far more than twice that range. I don’t think I took a breath as I dug my rangefinder out of my bino pack and lased the buck. 191 yards. Holy shit.
I squared up behind the rifle, chambered one of the Nosler E-Tips, and then pushed the classic three-position safety forward as I fixed the crosshairs on the buck and aimed just behind the shoulder blade. The buck was totally broadside to me, and slowly grazing his was through the sagebrush. The front leg facing me was retracted, and I waited for that small step forward to open up more of the lungs. It seemed like minutes, but probably was only a handful of seconds before Mr. Deer took that step forward and it was curtains for him.
The Rifleman’s Rifle pressed into my shoulder from recoil and I caught a glimpse of the deer on his back kicking instantaneously. His does busted and ran behind a bluff, out of my sight, as I re-mounted the rifle and scanned for Mr. Deer, should a follow-up have been necessary. I couldn’t see anything, and after waiting a few minutes for him to finish up, I began gridding the waist-high sagebrush to find my first mule deer.
It was around 11 AM on the most beautiful day you could ask for. Temps were in the 60s at 9,300 feet in central Nevada as I puttered around the waist-high sagebrush for 45 minutes before catching a flash of white rump fur.
I cut up the little three-by and hung the meat in a nearby mahogany tree, making it back to camp under headlamp.
The next morning, I made two trips with meat on my back back to the truck for the first time ever. At the tail of the last load, I popped the hatch of the 4runner, sat down on the tailgate, and looked and smelled and listened.
The world was different for me now, and like everything else, I had wondrously little idea what I was getting myself into.
