When luck, preparation, and opportunity meet, good things happen!
My archery obsession started when I was old enough to walk. Even at a young age, I couldn’t wait for deer season to start so I could follow my dad out into the hills to chase big deer year after year with him and many other great friends. I remember spending countless hours at deer camp making archery equipment out of willows and shoe laces, shooting pop cans, chipmunks and anything else I could get in my sights, patiently waiting for my chance at one of those velveted giants someday. Patience was exactly what I knew was needed to draw such a coveted tag in Nevada.
The 2017 Nevada hunting season was welcomed with open arms as I had drawn my first-choice archery mule deer tag near my hometown of Ely, Nevada. The months between tag results being released and opening day seemed to fly by as I spent nearly every night after work, building arrows, shooting long distances and preparing myself mentally for what I had hoped would be my break out year for deer.
August 12th came with a flash, and I soon found myself sitting on top of my favorite ridge on opening day, glassing for any potential shooters. After passing on several bucks within bow range and not being able to locate anything I found worthy of my coveted tag, I headed off the mountain knowing that everything would have to come together perfectly to make this hunt work with only six days off work to pursue my velvet dreams. The next few days seemed to pass with the similar outcomes, lots of bucks but nothing of the right score or age class. My brother, Brock, arrived Monday night from helping a friend harvest a Stone sheep in Canada just a few days prior. To say I was jealous was the understatement of the year!
Wednesday found us further from our base camp looking for a buck that we had heard about from a good friend who he had seen it on his way home just a week prior. Dallas and Shelby showed up later that day to help us glass for the buck. After countless hours behind the glass, my girlfriend, Kristi, finally located some bucks, and after a quick confirmation from Brock, we had finally turned up the giant non-typical. A quick slip into the stalking socks, a quick spray down of scent killer, and a short hike up an adjacent draw found Brock and me a mere 70 yards from the unsuspecting buck. As he fed closer, Brock said, “Draw now!” Those countless hours of shooting 100+ yards at the range flashed through my head as I knew preparing at much further yardages made 50 yards seem like a chip shot. As I came to full draw and began settling into my anchor, I told myself, "Hold on his heart and he’s yours.” Just as I was executing my shot, the buck stopped and I watched my arrow hit just under him. With a flash of dust and a rather large amount of velvet, the buck was gone. I knew I had just blown what was likely my only opportunity at a buck this trip, let alone a buck that most bowhunters hunt their entire lives to see or get an opportunity like that.
After two more days of trying to relocate the buck and eventually one more blown stalk, Brock and I decided to hunt a different area that we had our eyes on over the previous years but never had made time to hunt. Friday evening found Brock, my dad, and me slowly working up a ridgeline overlooking a buck brush-filled basin. As we slowly came around a corner, I spotted two bucks staring at us only 52 yards away. The bucks stood motionless, hunkered under a large pinyon juniper, hoping their presence would go unnoticed. Brock quickly ranged the bucks and whispered, “52 yards, you got this!” I quickly drew my bow, settled the pin, and let it fly only to see my broadhead clip a small, minute branch that had gone unnoticed, causing the broadhead to open midflight and plane straight into the ground, falling yards short of the unknowing bucks. Yet another quick flash of dust and branches and the bucks bounded down the draw.
I looked at my brother and asked, “What the hell happened?”
He responded with, “Well, you just blew it on a giant 190 inch non-typical at 50 yards AGAIN.”
I found my mind racing back to my unsuccessful attempt just days earlier and knew for certain that would be my last chance as I had to be on the road back to Reno in less than 24 hours.
Amongst the cuss words, I began to sneak down the trail where we managed to spot the bigger buck working his way down a ditch and up a very steep sidehill. He quickly motioned for me to sneak over to the next opening where I too could see the buck making his way up the hill. With a buck grunt, Brock stopped the buck and said, “86 yards. This is your last chance!” I adjusted my Spot Hogg sight, drew, settled into my anchor, leveled, and released. I watched the nocturnal on my arrow sail what seemed to be an eternity and bury into the buck! With a quick reply, “I got him!” we watched the buck do the signature kick and work his way up the hill, struggling with every step. High fives and hugs soon followed, but in the back of my mind, I knew the worst things always seem to find a way to the surface in bowhunting and knew not to celebrate too early as until I had my hands on his velvet-covered antlers it was far from over.
After giving the buck about an hour and with the sun sinking lower and lowered behind the rocky-lined mountain, we worked our way down to the spot where we had last seen the buck, only to discover a large, faint deer track and two jelly bean sized drops of blood. We decided to not push the buck as we knew the blood would be very minimal due to the steep angle of the shot placement.
One of the most interesting things I’ve noticed in all my years of hunting is the emotional attachment we often create with the animals we chase every fall. Names like Zeus, GoliatH, and Popeye are names that echo in every mule deer fanatic's ears. However, I had decided to name this particular buck "Merle" due to the surroundings he inhabited and had called home for his entire existence.
Less than 12 hours later, my alarm rang at 4 a.m. to already open yet red eyes due to excitement, uncertainty, and eagerness to see what the morning sun would bring that the night sky and moon seemed to hide so well. On our way out of the gas station that morning, I grabbed three of my E-Frutti Gummy Mini Burgers (they have brought me good luck and fortune in prior hunting seasons) and handed them to both my brother and dad for good luck. Although not exactly the breakfast of champions, they too knew that they were a good superstition to me and were happy to oblige.
I found myself looking to the star-covered sky that early, somber morning, begging my uncle, my grandpa, and my good friend, David, who had accompanied me on hunts passed for a little extra help that morning. These guys are always in the back of my mind hunting, and I am grateful for the time I got to spend with them doing this exact thing. Sometime later, we found ourselves back to where we had last found his tracks and what little blood the hit had to offer. As we worked our way through the thick tree-lined hillside, my brother, often on hands and knees, followed the buck’s tracks through what I can only compare to modern-day shag carpet. Pine needles, dark-colored rocks, and every different possible shade of dirt made even the most experienced tracker's job a nightmare.
Just as I was starting to get that empty feeling in my stomach as the terrain offered little help or reassurance, my brother, only steps ahead of me, exclaimed, “I got him dead right here!” The high fives, screams, and hugs were in high number as I knew I finally had my biggest buck to date.
Nearly 16 hours after initially releasing an arrow at this velvet giant, I finally laid my hands on my deer. Amidst all the emotions running through my head, I thought back to all the things that had to happen, line up, and fall together to make this moment happen. Forgetting my release on the truck seat that evening before I had shot him, stopping twice to check the wind and make sure everything on my bow was good and tight, all those seemingly insignificant events led up that buck’s path and mine crossing. All of these seemingly meaningless events seemed to make the necessary adjustments in the equation it takes to kill a big deer.
I would like to thank my girlfriend, Kristi, for all of her support and positive thoughts over the course of the week due to all the highs and lows that always seem to accompany bowhunting, my dad for teaching me everything I know about hunting, my friends for all the good times out there, but most of all, my brother for putting me in the right spots at the right times, all his support, and his incredible tracking job when the situation offered little to no help. Finally, thanks to my friends and family above, who, although they were not there in person, are always there in spirit, heart, and mind.
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