May 2026
Hunting With Mikey | Wyoming Mule Deer Hunting
Story By: Nathan Nyman
There is a lot of romance associated with Western hunting, and it seems like every big buck killed has a unique story to tell. Sometimes that story involves years of scouting and hunting a specific buck, and the hunter almost feels a sense of loss when they finally notch the tag on the animal they’ve pursued for countless days. Other times, a hunter gets to be the lucky one that wakes up late, stops at the gas station for coffee, and kills the buck of ten lifetimes from a dirt road.
While I sat under a small pine tree to try and escape the ice-cold drizzle in the Wyoming backcountry, I contemplated what the story of Dreads would be when I ended up killing him. I had spent a few days before the season scouting for “the one”. I’ve been blessed to kill some nice bucks, and, on this trip, I was really looking for an animal that just had the “wow” factor.
When I laid eyes on Dreads, named for the dreadlock appearance of his freshly shed velvet, I knew he was the one. His 33 1/2" frame was beautifully shaped, and I knew he was mature. I told myself I would spend the hunt going after Dreads. I watched him the two days before the season opened, and on both days, I saw him walk through a small thirty-foot clearing directly across from me. With dense pines and minimal shooting lanes, I knew it was going to require a little bit of luck to get him to feed through the same small gap again. But I also knew big bucks are creatures of habit, and I hoped his habit of grazing through the small clearing would end up being his Achilles’ heel.
As I lay in my sleeping bag before the opener, I listened to rain, hail, and wind that I hoped would pass by before morning. I knew I needed to get back to the ambush point before the sun came up and the blinding glare of its rays blocked me from seeing the buck’s home, but I really didn’t want to do that hike in bad weather. I was already awake when my alarm went off. It was pouring rain, and, even with a big buck picked out, the thought of a windy, wet, cold hike was hard to step into.
My friend Zach and I left camp before daylight in a pouring rainstorm that soaked every piece of gear I owned, including the extra clothes in my backpack. I stripped off my wet shirt and put my coat back on to try and warm up, but I couldn’t stop shivering as we waited for the storm to pass by under the little pine tree near our predetermined ambush point.
During short breaks in the rain, Zach and I would leave the shelter of the pine tree to sneak out to our spotting scopes to try and locate the buck. It wouldn’t take long for the wind and rain to return, and we’d hustle back to the pine to avoid getting even more wet. The scenario repeated itself multiple times, and, each time, it seemed to get harder to pry ourselves away from the shelter of the tree to battle fogged lenses on our binos and spotting scopes.
As fog began to rise, my thoughts drifted towards the memory of my friend Mike, who had passed away last year. Mike had been a great hunting companion to me and his brother, Scott. Not having him along on this hunt left a void in my soul. Scott had gifted me a lot of Mike’s hunting gear, including some of the clothes I was wearing and the pack I had brought for this trip. I told Scott before Zach and I left that morning that I was hoping Mike’s gear would bring me good luck, and he teased that I would end up missing the buck if Mike had anything to do with it.
My thoughts returned to the task at hand as the storm finally started to break. We got behind our binos and spotters and began to search for Dreads and his buddies. The sun had now come up and was causing horrific glare. Coupled with the fogged-up optics and the actual fog in the canyon, we couldn’t see a dang thing! A little cloud soon drifted across the sun, which eliminated our glare problem, but we needed the sun to help burn off the fog that had settled into the area. We just couldn’t win. During that mess, we spotted a few bucks in the bottom of our ravine, but we weren’t able to tell if any of them was the one we were after.
Good things often come to those who are persistent, and we kept that in mind as we suffered through the bad weather and poor glassing conditions. Eventually the fog lifted, allowing us to see the canyon clearly, but the bucks had vanished. We started gridding every square inch of the ravine in front of us, looking for any movement or signs of the bucks. Zach caught some movement in the trees but couldn’t confirm which deer it was. I kept scanning back and forth with no success, so I decided to look at the thirty-foot clearing where I had seen Dreads the two days prior. My eyes were getting comfortable behind my binos when suddenly my brain processed that I was staring at my target buck. Dreads was rubbing his antlers at the edge of the clearing and was about to start feeding towards the optimal spot to shoot him. I knew that it was now or never!
Like a well-oiled machine, Zach and I started our pre-shot sequence. I took a quick range of the area I thought he’d walk through and flopped down behind my rifle. Zach put his phone onto the spotter and was ready to film the action. As I lay behind my rifle, I watched the buck feed through some trees and head towards the only area where I was going to be able to get a clear shot. After all the misery of the morning, the plan was coming together in picture-perfect fashion.
“Zach are you ready?” I asked. He confirmed he was, and time seemed to slow down as my adrenaline level spiked. The deer walked around the last tree that had kept him obscured from my view, and his vitals were now clearly exposed. My bipod provided a steady rest as I made a minor adjustment to the rifle to get the reticle of the scope right where I wanted. I slowly exhaled, and my finger gently pressed against the trigger.
Boom! The 30-378 Weatherby roared to life and launched the bullet through the cold damp air. The projectile crossed the 370-yard canyon in an instant and smashed into the vitals of Dreads. The bullet produced plenty of damage. He took a few steps and tipped over.
Zach whispered, “He’s done bro. You stuck him. He’s dead.”
As I watched through the scope to make sure he didn’t get up, the emotions of the moment began to flood over me. Scott had heard the shot from over the ridge and messaged me, asking if the buck was down. I was so caught up in my feelings from killing this buck that I wasn’t able to respond. Zach made sure that Scott knew that Dreads was down and that he could meet us over at the kill site.
I marked Dreads’ location on my onX. We worked our way down the near side of the ravine and then slowly picked our way through the broken timber up to his final resting spot. On social media, you’ll often see the hooting and hollering as the successful hunter walks up on his kill, but in this case, the air was filled with a quiet reverence. Zach and I spoke in whispers as we marveled at the buck’s huge body and massive frame. The stillness of the morning after an early fall storm provided the perfect soundtrack to the moment.
As we processed the buck, we reminisced on past hunts and rejoiced in the success of this hunt. When we packed up to leave, I looked over at Scott and said, “Mikey was with us today, bro!” The emotions overcame all three of us; we each shed some tears as we mourned the loss of our friend and brother, but we felt his presence in a moment that I know he would have enjoyed sharing with us.
To me, this is what hunting is all about. It creates experiences in the backcountry with friends and family that, to me, are sacred. I know that every time I let my gaze fall upon Dreads, I will be flooded with the memories of this hunt, and I will be grateful for the closeness I felt to Mikey as I dedicated this season to him.