Already worn thin from the rigors of September, I was tired. My gear was scattered, and I’d used up most of my days. I figured I wouldn’t get a lot of time to rifle hunt the bucks I had been finding during past September adventures. In fact, the last time I could remember rifle hunting actual alpine bucks was back in 2010 when I hadn’t the foggiest about the right way to go about it. Since then, bowhunting had taken hold and my rifles had become an afterthought. Bowhunting had made me sharper, educated, and ready for any challenge. I never returned after the early season with rifle in hand to the snowy mountains where the grey ghosts hid away.
When the opportunity came late Friday afternoon on October 12th, I jumped at it. I tossed everything in my truck and hit the trail with the intent of packing my pack for the morning hunt once I made it to camp. It was pushing 11:00, and I was taking it slow and watching for highway game. The LCD screen of my truck glared at my heavy eyelids, showing single digits and steadily getting colder, reminding me I still had quite a chore of getting camp set up before I hit the sack. I got acquainted with my new floorless tipi during September but had yet to even burn in the wood stove paired with it. Procrastination had left me terribly unprepared. I considered staying in a room a couple hours from my destination and liked the idea of laying out all my gear for the following day, leaving there warm and ready. As I passed the hotel, I felt my wallet tighten up and decided to tough it out. I impressed myself with how quickly I was able to get camp pitched and how cozy it could get inside those paper thin walls with the stove glowing red up until about 4:00 in the morning when it was lifeless, grey, and didn’t burn my hand when I checked it. With no more wood left, it was time to go.
Out of camp and on the trail in record time, I was ascending to an isolated basin. Carrying a rifle again into the alpine was a great and nostalgic feeling, reminding me of younger days before the archery bug bit. I had a specific area in mind where I had spied bucks in the past. As the darkness gave way to the dim, grey light, I glassed everything discernible while taking short breaks to keep the perspiration down. The two-day old snow made it noticeably more difficult trekking and it also revealed the boot tracks. I pressed on anyways. It was too late to go anywhere else, and I already had my plan. Reaching my glassing point, I donned my puffy and continued to study everything my glass wasn’t able to touch on the way up, revealing nothing where I expected it to be or even a deer track. I wasn’t surprised, though, after the evidence I had gathered. The lonely wolverine tracks were nice to find, but there was nothing else for me here.
After I glassed the morning away, I figured the third best time of day to find a buck was midday, possibly stretching or feeding near his bed. I also knew of some great bedding areas I could now get above and still hunt through, hoping to catch one on his feet. Another steep climb left me completely at the top, and it would be all downhill from there for the rest of the day. From here, I told myself I would do this right. Still hunting across the face, I stopped every few steps to pick apart every bush and branch that came into view. I figured this would be my last best chance for today because I was debating on punting my last light hunt to better establish camp and prepare to find a more untouched hideaway the next day.
I hadn’t advanced far when a single set of large, fresh buck tracks confirmed my suspicions about this area. They were angling down and across the face ahead of me. I vaguely followed them on the uphill side with a newfound confidence. Creeping along slowly, I kept my elevation advantage as I let the track sink lower and out of sight. I’d seen all I needed to. I now knew there was at least one buck here somewhere and he was in the direction I was heading. Although I hadn’t gone much further, nearly an hour had passed since I had last seen those tracks and I was trying to keep my focus. Just then, after climbing up and around a downed tree, I glanced down the avalanche chute below me and something caught my eye. As I slowly found it in my binos, it felt almost like I had willed the buck into being. Just standing there feeding, he was completely oblivious to me frantically tearing out my spotter. I think I looked at him for all of 10 seconds before deeming him a shooter and hurriedly stashed my scope. The 350 yards separating the two of us was a chip shot for the 6.5, but the bowhunter in me was screaming to get closer. I couldn’t risk a miss or worse. He was browsing in the direction from where I had just come. While strong gusts from a looming storm whipped uphill into my face, masking my ruckus, I backtracked and dropped down a shale slide. I planned to hook round a rise, pop over it calmly, and take him at near 100 yards. To my dismay, when I crept over that rise to view where he last was, he was gone. Panic set in, but I held it back.
For the next hour and a half while I glassed all the surrounding cover below me, I kicked myself for not taking the shot or at least keeping him somewhat in view while I stalked in. I wanted so badly to descend the rest of the way to check his track for answers, but instead, I worked back and forth across the finger, picking apart everything to hopefully reveal a bedded deer. With no success, I continued on in my original direction and away from where I believed he was feeding towards. I then heard the dreaded sound of rocks rolling associated with a busted buck. There was that panic again. I couldn’t see anything blowing out, but I resisted the urge to blindly run that direction to see what I could possibly be missing. Instead, I resumed my pace that way to cut a track across the chute on the next finger to confirm if in fact he had given me the slip.
On the opposite side, I worked down the edge, watching the ground and everything newly visible on the next face. Studying the tree line below me where a small bench covered in jack pines met the face I was on revealed a vacant bed. I was over 100 yards away, but I could tell by its dark churned up mulch that it was incredibly fresh. While examining everything near it with my binos, a buck suddenly appeared in my field of view. I recognized the kicker on his right side. When I had lost sight of him during my stalk, he must have turned and fed back toward this bed. Still up and feeding, he was unaware of me 103 yards above him ripping off my pack and getting my rifle steady on my knees. I held the scope on him for a short time, trying to soak in the moment. Telling myself I had plenty of time kept me calm enough to make one perfect shot that put him down on the spot.
Upon breaking him down and packing up my first load, the storm I had been watching arrived, snowing and blowing all night on my way out. The slick, fresh powder made it difficult and dangerous under the load during my steep descent through deadfall. In the glow of my headlamp, all I could see was snow pelting me in the face. I enjoyed every minute of it, knowing I was getting the full experience packed into my short but perfect hunt. I enjoy hunting with loved ones and friends, but there’s something special about the solitude, peacefulness, and struggle of a solo adventure. I’m thankful it worked out so perfectly and I was able to return safely to my family.
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