roysclockgun
Handloader
- Dec 17, 2005
- 736
- 0
The bucks moved slowly off the alfalfa, toward a drain that led up and over a razor backed ridge. At nearly a mile, they stood out against the snow in the background, as I glassed with 10X binoculars. Early rays of sun glinted off heavy antlers, even at that range. We stood, shivering on the hump created by the bridge spanning a tributary to Powder River. As we had hoped, the larger bucks were staying in the alfalfa later in the morning, because the snow was forcing them to work harder to get the grass that they needed.
This was my eleventh hunt with the same Wyoming guide. I had always gotten nice muley bucks and topped off the hunt by taking a pronghorn, but none were better than the antlers that were showing up on those big bucks heading up the drains and into the badlands, where they would lay up for the day. My plan was to drive east for a mile, where a dirt road would take me south and hopefully, in front of where the bucks were heading. I parked the truck and began a long, steep climb on the opposite side of the ridgeline that I had seen the bucks climbing. At age 64, I was forced to stop often, leaning on my shooting stick. Catching my breath, I glassed ahead, looking for any signs that the bucks were in sight. Nearly to the top, I ran across a small side drain and carefully approached to glass. Making the mistake of getting too high on the ridge, I did find the deer, but they were moving away, occasionally looking back at me. I had been made. The range to them was still too great, as I saw the last deer clear the razor back and go over. At least, they were not spooked and moved over and out of sight at a walk. I tried to imagine what the other side of the ridge looked like and which way the deer might go. Certainly, they would not head west, back toward Powder River. They likely would continue north, but on the other side of the ridge. I set my pace for northwest, on a course that I thought would intersect their movement. As I moved north, through now melting snow, I encountered not one ridge, but a labyrinth of interconnecting ridges and drains, all running in a northerly direction, all getting steeper as I moved into them. Once more, I made the error of getting in sight of the deer at a point where they had already seen my movement and moved over the next razorback to the west. Tiring of this game, I slowed my pace and glassed small windows of new territory with my binoculars, as I moved on toward where I believed I might again intersect the path of the bucks. The Browning B78 7mmRemMag's sling dug into my shoulder. I had the rifle zeroed in at 250 yards and had practiced at various distances out to 450 yards. My muzzle velocity was just under 3300 feet per second, chronographed at 10 feet from the muzzle. I had loaded 140 gr. AccuBond bullets, pushed by 70 grains of IMR7828 propellant. I was confident that if I did my part and could get a steady firing rest, I could take a buck out to 450 yards, as my practice let me know trajectory out to that range. Since hand loading and range work were a passion for me, I had put a fair number of rounds through the falling block rifle over the years. Having taken white tails, muleys and pronghorns with the rifle, it felt very familiar in my hands.
The wind had picked up and was blowing north, so I knew that my scent was not being carried to the deer. A good omen. Seeing one more deep drain coming into view, I went on my belly and edged along, scoping the drain as I slowly moved forward. A flicker of something in the scope made me look farther left and I picked out an antler, sticking above a narrow drain that led to the top of the ridge in front of me. Scanning, I only could make out fleeting glimpses of the deer, moving just below my line of sight. I knew that if they continued along their present tack, they'd show before they went over. This time, they had not made me. Sliding across the snow on my stomach, I made my way to a flat rock, lying next to a fence post. I slid prone, onto the rock and using my pack as a rest, prepared to make the shot, if the deer emerged on the crest. Glassing, I saw that my chances of a clear shot were good. I used my range finder to determine that the distance to where the deer should appear, was 404 yards. I referred to the range card, taped to my butt stock. Nine inches of drop at 400 yards . I would only have to hold high on the buck's shoulder to get a killing hit. The seconds dragged and the deer did not show. Then, one side of a rack appeared in my scope. Set at 9X for the shot, the deer looked very small and very far away. I braced the rifle stock against the fence post and had it resting nicely upon my pack. I realized that I was breathing in too shallow a manner and took some deep breaths and worked to steady not only my breath, but my heart beat, which I could tell, was elevated by the anticipation of getting one of those big bucks. My patience was finally rewarded, as one by one, the bucks emerged from the crevice and began to nibble on grass on the ridgeline. One buck stood out. I could easily see in the scope that his antlers were massive, with long tines. I could also see that he was at least a good 4X3, but what was impressive, was the mass of the main beams. All this was computed in seconds, as I settled the cross hairs on what I believed was nine inches above his heart/lung area. His body was so heavy that I had lots of deer above where I laid my crosshairs, as well as below. The improvised rest felt good. The crosshairs held steady as I tried my best to let off the shot, while the buck stood still on the far horizon. I never heard the report of the rifle, nor did I feel the recoil of the bullet going down range. The buck staggered once and then, as the others moved quickly over the razorback and out of sight, he followed, but slowly. I realized that my heart was pounding and worked again to get deep breaths. I knew that he was hit hard and did not want to begin pursuit until he had a chance to lay down and if not die, at least, stiffen up. Forcing myself to wait twenty agonizing minutes, I rose at last and began to cross the deep area between where I had lain for my shot and where I hoped to find my buck. Still trying not to make unneccessary noise, I crossed the ravine and climbed up to where my deer had stood at the shot. Knowing that I had connected with him, he had become "my deer". Just over the crest, he lay already dead. I felt a weight lift off of me and a draining of the tension that I had built up in myself. I sat with him for long minutes, basking in the warmth of the sun, now half way to it's noon spot in the endless blue sky. For the first time that day, I realized how brilliant was the glare off of the snow. My fingers smoothed over the thick coat of the buck, still warm with his now extinguished life. I wrapped my hands around the thick, rough roots of this antlers, noting that one tine on the left split into two points and he had brow points as well. Only a hunter can understain the dichotomy of killing being a part of a love. We love the game animals that we kill and harvest into table fare. We feel a strong reverance for all life, but especially for those animals that we best on their own territory and carry home in neatly wrapped freezer paper! The buck did not die the horrible death of slaughter house animals. One moment he was wild and free, heading to a spot where he could rest until hunger again drove him back to Powder River and grass. After a brief stinging sensation, caused by my bullet, he fell into deep shock, within seconds and before two minutes had passed, he was dead. I am glad to have given him a humane death. He died for me, so that I could enjoy the hunt and eat his meat, but he died a noble death, for which neither of us needs to make excuses.
There are too many hunting rifles in my gun case, but the old, scuffed Browning will not leave as long as I draw breath. I ran my hands over the rifle and said a short prayer to God of the hunters, thanking Him for my success. I looked a little longer at the day and felt the warm sun on my back, before I began my task of field dressing. The drag would be long, as we could not get the truck up into the snow soaked fields. My muscles would ache tonight, but I would sleep deeply and dream of how he looked on the skyline.
Steven A.
This was my eleventh hunt with the same Wyoming guide. I had always gotten nice muley bucks and topped off the hunt by taking a pronghorn, but none were better than the antlers that were showing up on those big bucks heading up the drains and into the badlands, where they would lay up for the day. My plan was to drive east for a mile, where a dirt road would take me south and hopefully, in front of where the bucks were heading. I parked the truck and began a long, steep climb on the opposite side of the ridgeline that I had seen the bucks climbing. At age 64, I was forced to stop often, leaning on my shooting stick. Catching my breath, I glassed ahead, looking for any signs that the bucks were in sight. Nearly to the top, I ran across a small side drain and carefully approached to glass. Making the mistake of getting too high on the ridge, I did find the deer, but they were moving away, occasionally looking back at me. I had been made. The range to them was still too great, as I saw the last deer clear the razor back and go over. At least, they were not spooked and moved over and out of sight at a walk. I tried to imagine what the other side of the ridge looked like and which way the deer might go. Certainly, they would not head west, back toward Powder River. They likely would continue north, but on the other side of the ridge. I set my pace for northwest, on a course that I thought would intersect their movement. As I moved north, through now melting snow, I encountered not one ridge, but a labyrinth of interconnecting ridges and drains, all running in a northerly direction, all getting steeper as I moved into them. Once more, I made the error of getting in sight of the deer at a point where they had already seen my movement and moved over the next razorback to the west. Tiring of this game, I slowed my pace and glassed small windows of new territory with my binoculars, as I moved on toward where I believed I might again intersect the path of the bucks. The Browning B78 7mmRemMag's sling dug into my shoulder. I had the rifle zeroed in at 250 yards and had practiced at various distances out to 450 yards. My muzzle velocity was just under 3300 feet per second, chronographed at 10 feet from the muzzle. I had loaded 140 gr. AccuBond bullets, pushed by 70 grains of IMR7828 propellant. I was confident that if I did my part and could get a steady firing rest, I could take a buck out to 450 yards, as my practice let me know trajectory out to that range. Since hand loading and range work were a passion for me, I had put a fair number of rounds through the falling block rifle over the years. Having taken white tails, muleys and pronghorns with the rifle, it felt very familiar in my hands.
The wind had picked up and was blowing north, so I knew that my scent was not being carried to the deer. A good omen. Seeing one more deep drain coming into view, I went on my belly and edged along, scoping the drain as I slowly moved forward. A flicker of something in the scope made me look farther left and I picked out an antler, sticking above a narrow drain that led to the top of the ridge in front of me. Scanning, I only could make out fleeting glimpses of the deer, moving just below my line of sight. I knew that if they continued along their present tack, they'd show before they went over. This time, they had not made me. Sliding across the snow on my stomach, I made my way to a flat rock, lying next to a fence post. I slid prone, onto the rock and using my pack as a rest, prepared to make the shot, if the deer emerged on the crest. Glassing, I saw that my chances of a clear shot were good. I used my range finder to determine that the distance to where the deer should appear, was 404 yards. I referred to the range card, taped to my butt stock. Nine inches of drop at 400 yards . I would only have to hold high on the buck's shoulder to get a killing hit. The seconds dragged and the deer did not show. Then, one side of a rack appeared in my scope. Set at 9X for the shot, the deer looked very small and very far away. I braced the rifle stock against the fence post and had it resting nicely upon my pack. I realized that I was breathing in too shallow a manner and took some deep breaths and worked to steady not only my breath, but my heart beat, which I could tell, was elevated by the anticipation of getting one of those big bucks. My patience was finally rewarded, as one by one, the bucks emerged from the crevice and began to nibble on grass on the ridgeline. One buck stood out. I could easily see in the scope that his antlers were massive, with long tines. I could also see that he was at least a good 4X3, but what was impressive, was the mass of the main beams. All this was computed in seconds, as I settled the cross hairs on what I believed was nine inches above his heart/lung area. His body was so heavy that I had lots of deer above where I laid my crosshairs, as well as below. The improvised rest felt good. The crosshairs held steady as I tried my best to let off the shot, while the buck stood still on the far horizon. I never heard the report of the rifle, nor did I feel the recoil of the bullet going down range. The buck staggered once and then, as the others moved quickly over the razorback and out of sight, he followed, but slowly. I realized that my heart was pounding and worked again to get deep breaths. I knew that he was hit hard and did not want to begin pursuit until he had a chance to lay down and if not die, at least, stiffen up. Forcing myself to wait twenty agonizing minutes, I rose at last and began to cross the deep area between where I had lain for my shot and where I hoped to find my buck. Still trying not to make unneccessary noise, I crossed the ravine and climbed up to where my deer had stood at the shot. Knowing that I had connected with him, he had become "my deer". Just over the crest, he lay already dead. I felt a weight lift off of me and a draining of the tension that I had built up in myself. I sat with him for long minutes, basking in the warmth of the sun, now half way to it's noon spot in the endless blue sky. For the first time that day, I realized how brilliant was the glare off of the snow. My fingers smoothed over the thick coat of the buck, still warm with his now extinguished life. I wrapped my hands around the thick, rough roots of this antlers, noting that one tine on the left split into two points and he had brow points as well. Only a hunter can understain the dichotomy of killing being a part of a love. We love the game animals that we kill and harvest into table fare. We feel a strong reverance for all life, but especially for those animals that we best on their own territory and carry home in neatly wrapped freezer paper! The buck did not die the horrible death of slaughter house animals. One moment he was wild and free, heading to a spot where he could rest until hunger again drove him back to Powder River and grass. After a brief stinging sensation, caused by my bullet, he fell into deep shock, within seconds and before two minutes had passed, he was dead. I am glad to have given him a humane death. He died for me, so that I could enjoy the hunt and eat his meat, but he died a noble death, for which neither of us needs to make excuses.
There are too many hunting rifles in my gun case, but the old, scuffed Browning will not leave as long as I draw breath. I ran my hands over the rifle and said a short prayer to God of the hunters, thanking Him for my success. I looked a little longer at the day and felt the warm sun on my back, before I began my task of field dressing. The drag would be long, as we could not get the truck up into the snow soaked fields. My muscles would ache tonight, but I would sleep deeply and dream of how he looked on the skyline.
Steven A.
