I was born to hunt. From the first time I held a slingshot or BB gun, all I wanted to do was chase critters. My love for the outdoors and the pursuit of game has blessed me in more ways than I could’ve imagined – through the places I’ve been, the friendships I’ve made, the highs and lows, the explosions of adrenaline that hit like a runaway freight train, and ultimately, the overwhelming sense of gratitude and joy when you become the first human to ever hold the antlers of your trophy. Simply put, there’s no other feeling like it in the world. Besides a near-death experience, nothing else I know can take your heart rate from 50 to 150 without ever taking a step. This is why I hunt.
In September of 2007, early in my bowhunting journey, I was introduced to spot-and-stalk mule deer hunting in Alberta. Little did I know that this newfound addiction would lead to some of the greatest memories, friendships, and adventures of my life. A typical season for me includes four to six weeks hunting mule deer and elk in the West along with four more months chasing whitetails.
In 2024, I drew a tag in Wyoming. I reached out to my buddy, Doyle Moss at Mossback Outfitters, for a recommendation since I had no experience in that particular public unit. Without hesitation, he pointed me to Tre Heiner of Jackson Hole Outfitters. Ironically, Tre also outfits for the Bronze Buffalo Club, which my wife manages in Idaho, so the vetting process was instant.
After harvesting a mid-170s velvet mulie and a 175" main frame 9-point whitetail in Alberta, I headed south. Running on fumes after averaging less than five hours of sleep for three weeks, I arrived at the ranch where our hunt would begin. Franco Simone, my guide who was cheerful and energetic, was waiting for me at the ranch. After flinging a few arrows and grabbing a quick bite, I tried to catch some sleep at sundown around 10 p.m.
After a short four-hour nap, we loaded the horses and hit the trailhead an hour later at 3:45 a.m. Although I’m comfortable on a horse (I own several), this was my first horseback mountain hunt. With a nearly new moon and overcast skies, the darkness felt like being 500 feet deep in a cave without a light. As we began our ascent, my anticipation surged, fueled by excitement and a monster cup of coffee.
We used a red headlamp to avoid blinding the horses or alerting any animals – or people – of our presence. Our first challenge was a steep set of switchbacks, each only about 20 yards long. My horse had to dig in and literally leap to make the turns. At that moment, I gained a whole new level of respect for these animals. They are graceful, smart, and tough as nails.
As dawn barely broke, we had already crossed four steep mountain slopes that would make a double black diamond ski run look like a blue run. We dismounted and tied up the horses. Franco was on a mission, moving with purpose to a glassing spot. As the sun rose, I once again found myself somewhere new, somewhere unforgettable.
For me, it’s not just about the hunt, it’s about where the hunt takes me. Letting the arrow fly takes one second. The memories of when and where? They last forever.
Franco broke the silence, whispering, “I found him.” The best three words a hunter can hear.
The buck he’d spotted 17 days earlier (gone ever since) was back 1,000 feet below us. We were sitting at 10,000 feet. Like most old giants, he was a loner. Years of surviving on public land had taught him two things – less is more and never stay in one place too long. He was a loner. He was restless, moving beds every hour and avoiding other deer. Franco had done his job. Now, it was my turn.
The beginning of a stalk is my favorite part, setting the plan and taking off down the mountain with everything I need, prepared to be there until dark if that’s what it takes. I once spent 14 hours on a stalk in Alberta and killed a 212" buck. Thanks to a summer of training in Idaho, my legs and lungs were ready.
Stalking down a loose scree field is loud and tricky. What looks flat from 1,000 feet up turns out to be something entirely different up close. We had him bedded. After several hours, I got within 80 yards, but I lost sight of him and couldn’t get any closer. I backed up 60 yards to try to gain elevation, hoping for a better angle. Then he stood up, restless again, and headed to my left. I ranged him at 70 yards downhill. I drew my bow, stopped him, and let it fly.
What I didn’t see was a limb from the tree I was using for cover. The arrow clipped it and landed 10 yards to his right. He bolted down the mountain like a rocket. From experience, I knew he didn’t see or smell me, he just sensed something was off. However, when you spook an old buck like that, second chances are rare.
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I climbed the 1,500 feet back to Franco, totally dejected. That evening, we rode down in the dark for two and a half hours, grabbed four hours of sleep, and then headed right back up the next morning.
Day two had no sightings. Eight hours behind the glass, five hours on horseback. It was a long day. On the way down, I thought, “You’ve got to be really committed and willing to suffer if you want to chase giant critters.” I’ve learned to be comfortable being uncomfortable.
Day three came fast. Four hours of sleep, then a wet, cold ride up the mountain. Thankfully, my Badlands rain gear kept me dry. As we summited, the rain and wind intensified. Franco and I took turns glassing. Almost immediately, he spotted the buck again in the same spot. Because of the buck’s fidgety ways, we never took our eyes off him. After four bed changes, he finally laid in a ditch below us. I grabbed my Hoyt RX-8 and descended once again.
Once out of the wind, it was eerily still. The rain had softened the crunchy hillside, and I could move more quietly in my GORE-TEX sneakers. Still, some brush was scraping my rain gear, so I stripped down to my Smartwool base layer. Now I could move in silence. I felt like an Indian.
Several hours later at 80 yards, I still couldn’t see him. Franco, now down the hill spotting for me, used hand signals to help. Then he lost visual, meaning the buck was up and moving. I took a chance and guessed he was headed the same direction as before.
I moved 20 yards uphill and positioned myself behind a small pine, watching a narrow opening. Two seconds later, there he was, appearing in the bottom corner of the gap, moving left to right. My intuition was spot on. I ranged him at 65 yards, angle-compensated to 57.
Hidden behind the tree, I drew my bow as he walked. I didn’t stop him in fear of spooking him. Just before he vanished over the ridge, he paused two yards from disappearing. Shaking like a leaf, I steadied myself and released. The Easton 5mm Match Grade Axis arrow tipped with a Single Bevel Iron Will broadhead hit him in the high shoulder.
My first thought, “No way. High shoulder?”
However, he ran only 10 yards and stopped. Then 20 more. Then laid down. I resisted the urge for a follow-up shot. Experience told me he was hurt bad.
Ten minutes passed. He rose, ran another 150 yards, and piled up in a maple bush.
The giant was down.
Franco brought the pack animals down, and we celebrated, grinning so big my cheeks hurt. As we walked the animals out (too steep to ride), I reflected on how all the choices I’ve made in life had led me here to a place where I get to chase these incredible creatures with a bow and arrow. Blessed!
I love them like family. I respect them deeply. This buck had survived a brutal winter that wiped out 80% of his population, and yet he had thrived. A main frame 4x4 with one extra point, he scored 208". We spent over two hours taking photos and videos, but mostly, we just sat there in awe.
When I’m hunting mule deer, nothing else in the world matters. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than in that moment. Being the first human to hold those massive antlers is a feeling words can’t describe. As we descended the steep valley with his rack on my back, I was reminded once again how great God is for creating such balance, beauty, and wonderment in nature.
That night, I went home for a couple of days and then headed to Colorado and killed my biggest elk ever – an 8x7. Those 13 days with 4 magnificent critters were the best of my hunting career.
And now the question is, how do I top this?
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