Story By: Tommy Kennedy
A common question among hunters is, “If you could only hunt one species for the rest of your life, which would it be?” For me, the answer is unquestionably mule deer. I have an unfounded admiration for them. They don’t taste the best, they aren’t the hardest to hunt, they don’t have the most meat or antler, and they don’t call. So why do I admire the wily buggers so much?
My first big game animal was a mule deer. I shot it during the Utah general muzzleloader hunt when I was twelve. It would be easy to say I have been hooked ever since, but really it began earlier. Tailing along behind my dad as a kid and watching him hunt muley bucks had rooted in me a kind of love for the creatures. Yes, a love. Yet I kill them. How can that be?
When I heard that my dad’s Nevada deer hunt dates were overlapping with my New Mexico deer hunt dates, I was disappointed at first. It would be my first hunt without him, and I was skeptical about how well I could perform as a hunter on my own. Most of my disappointment and many of my doubts evaporated when I heard that my cousin, Ezra, would be joining me for my hunt. Ezra and I had gone to New Mexico three years prior during the youth late-season rifle hunt when we were sixteen. We’d both killed excellent bucks.
For that youth buck hunt in 2022, we’d gone with New Mexico Professional Big Game Hunting. This year, no longer a youth hunter, Huntin’ Fool applied me in the guide pool for better odds, and I struck gold with a deer tag. Going with New Mexico Professional Big Game Hunting again was a no-brainer.
Just before first light on opening morning, we drove up to a glassing knob overlooking a basin where my guide, Wes Frazier, had seen a shooter buck. We ran into a group of hunters on the road, and they dropped strong hints that this was their basin and that we were too late. They asked to exchange numbers, saying they would let us know when they had tagged out.
By and by, we decided we preferred to not lick up their scraps and headed on anyway. Sure enough, a few minutes later, yet another group of hunters was coming up the road behind us. Clearly, this area was no great secret.
After glassing a short while, we spotted a 170” buck and passed. Maybe this would be the buck I’d wish I had taken when the light died on the last day of the season, but he was not the buck we were after.
The weight in my gut from passing up such a big buck vanished when I saw the group of hunters we’d encountered earlier go after him. We watched them disappear into the heavy cover. Later, when they reappeared, the buck was still there, miraculously. “They are going to kill that buck,” Wes said, and—sure enough—they did. I was happy for them.
We decided to back out of the area and go to Plan B. The new area was on the opposite side of the unit and was different country entirely. We had a two-hour drive on winding dirt roads, and I nearly puked from carsickness more than once. It didn’t help that I had seen footage of a buck in the new area bigger than anything I had ever laid eyes on.
We descended a treacherous road into lava rock escarpments. This country was full of pinyon and juniper and had lots of tall grass and sagebrush. I could not have dreamed up a better place for a huge buck. We glassed the little fingers where green brush gave evidence of water, and we glassed the sage brush faces and the shady areas under cliffs. Soon, we spotted a 3x4 buck, perhaps scoring in the 170’s, and we watched him bed. He was a great buck but not a first-day shooter.
After deciding there were no other bigger bucks around, we agreed to put a stalk on the big buck. Wes knew where the big buck liked to bed down after his morning feed—just out of view around the cliffs, about 500 yards away. We carefully made our way up the ridge onto the mesa, navigating the rough terrain. The malpaís was incredibly rocky; one would be surprised that plants could grow on it at all, yet it was full of brush. Stalking a buck while dodging cactus, sharp rocks, and discarded bones (Ezra even saw a deadhead) proved a challenging feat. Stepping on a cactus and crying out is a one-way ticket to a blown stalk.
After closing in on where Wes thought the buck might be bedded, we waited as Wes peaked over the rim so as not to attract attention. We continued this process every thirty yards or so until Wes finally spotted a small buck bedded down. We knew the big buck was likely close by. We went another few yards and peeked over. A few more yards and again until at last I heard Wes whisper, “I’ve got him.” I started to take off my pack, but, before it was even off my shoulders, Wes was beckoning me hurriedly. The bucks had stood up and were nervously looking around.
I got down on the rim as swiftly as possible. I desperately tried and failed to find him with my naked eye. I got down on my rifle, and—after several agonizing seconds—I found him. He was standing broadside within 200 yards and looking away from us.
Many factors could have influenced my shot. For one thing, this was the biggest buck I had ever even seen, and, though I tried not to look at his antlers directly, one glimpse was enough to get the buck fever going. The angle looking off the mesa was also very steep and made for an awkward shot.
The crosshairs wavered over his front shoulder as I tried to get steady. The buck took a step. “Shoot him,” Wes said. I waited, still not confident in my shot. The buck took another step, now nearer to the cover of a boulder. “Shoot him,” Wes repeated. Still not steady. Another step. “Shoot him,” Wes implored. The buck took a last step, quartering away slightly, and I shot, hitting him mid-step and too far forward in the shoulder. I’d wounded him but missed the vitals.
I zoomed out my scope, frantically trying to reacquire him. He’d run ten yards, and now he was limping toward some nearby private land. My next two follow-up shots were in quick succession: one hit his upper back, breaking it, and the other went clean through center mass. As I fumbled with my bullets trying to reload, he dragged himself along toward private land. I got back on him, watching him flip over broadside on his back. He struggled to get up, and my last shot struck him in the front shoulder, putting him nose down in the dirt facing me.
After a while, I got off my rifle and turned to look at Ezra. He was practically jumping up and down in excitement, pumping his fists and beaming. We were both in utter disbelief at what had just occurred: I’d killed an incredible buck—and on opening morning, no less.
Approaching a buck like that was surreal. I was dumbfounded and in awe. I felt like I was on top of the world, and yet I cowered before the majesty of such a buck. He scored 197.5” gross and had a 30” outside spread. I could not thank my guide, Wes Frazier, enough for getting me on such a great buck. Hunting muleys with John Chapel when I was sixteen and with Wes at nineteen has given me great insight into how I can improve as a mule deer hunter. Without a doubt, hunting with these guys and seeing how passionate they are about mule deer hunting has solidified my love for mule deer and for the challenge of pursuing them.
I also have to thank my dad for everything he has done to make hunts like this happen. This has been the ultimate mule deer hunting season for my family. Ezra, returning from a two-year hiatus from hunting, killed a nice Utah mule deer buck opening day in October. My dad killed his personal best buck on opening day in Nevada, just one day before I killed my best buck on opening morning in New Mexico. (To be clear, this is not because our family cannot hold out for big ones, unlike some people I know…)