Story By: Brian “Wig” Wigington
With 10 preference points in Colorado, I wasn’t about to settle for just another deer hunt. I craved a true adventure, a backpack-style, high-country mule deer hunt where every step was earned and every glassing session carried big expectations. Pitching the idea at home meant asking for grace. Two weeks away in September was no small request, but my incredible wife, V, gave her blessing, setting the stage for an unforgettable journey.
I sought advice from a Colorado friend and Garth at Huntin’ Fool, whose insights were invaluable. After weighing options, I invested my points in an early-season, high-country rifle mule deer tag, perfect for adventure and a shot at a quality buck. I also snagged a bear tag in the secondary draw, just in case. The wait for draw results was nerve-wracking. That moment when you click “check results” never loses its thrill. When I saw I’d drawn the tag, excitement surged, and the bear tag was a bonus. The Maroon Bells awaited.
The Maroon Bells are as rugged as they come, a wilderness above 10,000 feet where the air is thin and every hunt is earned. This wasn’t a drive-to-the-knob hunt; it was backpack missions, 3–4 days at a time, hitting different access points over the 9-day season. I trained with MTN Tough’s “Preseason Prep 50+” program, pushing my limits to prepare for the altitude and terrain. My friend Justin committed to the first five days, a huge boost. I planned a scouting trip with my buddy Brian two weeks prior, but a nasty weather system and Brian’s training injury canceled it. We’d be going in blind, relying on instinct and preparation.
Three days before departure, I spread gear across the garage floor: clothes, pack, tent, sleeping bag, Jetboil, kill kit, and food—jerky, trail mix, M&Ms—portioned by day. My Christensen Arms Ridgeline with a Leupold VX5 was zeroed, its dope adjusted for Colorado’s thin air. The eight-hour drive to the trailhead was smooth, save for grinding over steep passes. Justin and I met at the first access point, buzzing with excitement and a touch of nerves for the unknown.
We packed into base camp, a high meadow with sweeping views. That evening, as we caught up, Justin spotted deer on a distant ridge. “Get the spotter!” he urged. I locked the scope on five bucks crossing a basin two miles away. Two had the frames of mature deer, though details were tough at that distance. We ranged rock outcroppings, marked features, and pinned the spot on OnX—a starting point. A forky buck wandered through camp as we glassed, and we laughed, calling it a good omen. Instead of spiking deeper the next day, we opted for an 8-mile loop, spotting three moose, elk (including a bull that would thrill any archer), and more bucks and does. Over a hot meal, we planned to chase the pinned bucks at dawn.
Up before light, we sipped coffee and shouldered packs. A bowhunter passed camp, surprised to learn we were rifle hunting amid Colorado’s overlapping archery, muzzleloader, and rifle seasons. We hiked three miles, gaining 1,500 feet, and met the same archer glassing the opposite direction. After a quick chat, he descended, and we pressed toward our pinned spot.
At the basin’s mouth, we found seven bucks, two worth serious attention. Their beds were clever, tucked into tundra folds and rocks above the tree line, vanishing until they stood to stretch. They were ghosts, visible for mere minutes. We settled into a rocky outcrop by scraggly trees, set up the rifle, and waited, patience our only strategy.
The basin was still, the wind flat, a rarity in high country. Chipmunk chirps echoed across the bowl. After hours of fleeting glimpses, smaller bucks began to feed. Then one of the big two rose, easing toward the younger ones: 600 yards, 550, 500, 450, 400, 350. Ten minutes felt like forever. At 310 yards, we got a clear look—a wide buck, nearly 30 inches. I whispered to Justin, “I’ll take this one.”
Justin ranged it: “Three-ten, twenty-eight-degree slope. Dope for two-eighty.” I adjusted the scope’s turret, settled the rifle on a rest of my pack and jackets, and grinned at Justin. “Plug your ears, this rifle’s loud!” The buck stood quartering toward us, stretching. My crosshairs held steady, I exhaled, and broke the trigger. The mountain roared.
The shot felt perfect, but I mistook the pass-through hitting rocks for a miss. Justin reassured me, “You hit him good!” I saw the hit on the buck’s side. He leaped, stood briefly, then tumbled 110 yards down the slope. Years of points and months of prep culminated in one steady squeeze.
The buck’s fall eased our climb but reaching him was still work. We took photos, quartered the deer, and loaded packs—mine 82 pounds, Justin’s 75. The steep, downhill route to camp was grueling but manageable. Every strap was tight, every muscle strained, but the descent made it bearable, as good as high-country pack-outs get.
Halfway to camp, we spotted a blonde bear on the ridge below. Justin, a seasoned bear hunter, urged, “Get your rifle!” I dropped my pack, set up, and ranged while Justin assessed. Then he spotted a cub, then another. Disappointment flickered, but our successful hunt kept spirits high. The bear tag stayed unpunched; we had enough to carry.
Back at camp, we relaxed, the pressure gone. We swapped stories, laughed about the week’s surprises, and planned future hunts. The camaraderie, shared struggle, and memories built over ridges and campfires were the true rewards. Dan French Taxidermy turned the deer around in three weeks, delivering a stunning euro mount and plenty of meat for the freezer. I later notched a Wyoming bull elk, but that’s another tale.
This hunt was everything I’d hoped for when I burned those 10 points: a challenging backcountry adventure, big game encounters, and the satisfaction of earning it on foot in the Maroon Bells’ wild heart. The buck wasn’t just a trophy; it was the culmination of planning, sacrifice, and an unforgettable week with a great friend.