Hunter: Eric Harvey
Species: Mule Deer
Location: Idaho
Method: Rifle (bowhunted early in the hunt)
We waited for this buck for 123 years. It was not a highly sought after rut tag in a Boone and Crockett deer factory like most folks expect to wait for. Just a run-of-the-mill, over-the-counter, general-season tag—albeit in a better-than-average mule deer unit. What made this tag special is that, for six generations, my family has fly fished that valley without ever looking above the rising trout and trying their hand at hunting deer. My father Tim Harvey and I broke that tradition and added a great deer to our family story, just steps from the campground immortalized in pictures of my family in 1902.
The weather was perfect for a late October deer hunt. A cold front pushed in the day we arrived, setting up for several days of foul weather. With projected snowfall, I decided to try bowhunting along the river in the valley floor in the hopes that some of the deer had already started moving down the mountains.
After spooking a bedded buck in the dark on opening morning just feet from my truck, I saw no deer at all for the first two days. Outside of spotting several large moose that could have scraped the bottom of my tree stand with their paddles, I grew bored and discouraged that my gamble was not paying off. That night, I was chased out of my stand as the light snow was replaced by hard freezing rain and lightning, which continued all night until just before I left camp the next morning.
Leaving camp, I told my dad I would hunt late that morning, expecting that any deer in the river bottom might get up and dry off after the rare severe weather all night. I hung out as late as my restlessness would let me and called it quits at 11:30 a.m. I drove home, looking up at the mountains, trying to decide which one I was going to hike to try to salvage my hunt. Then I took one last look back to the river and saw a tall, mature buck cresting the bench onto the flats.
The mule deer was one of the biggest I had ever seen. (Although, having only hunted mule deer one other time after the notoriously destructive winter of 2022/2023, my reference may be a little skewed.) I passed the buck, got out of sight, then found a hill to climb in order to watch where he went. Drawing from lessons learned hunting pronghorn on the same flats, I knew I had no chance stalking him on open ground. I let him walk to a small, willow-shrouded creek, knowing that for miles on the other side, there was no place for him to find cover. I watched him bed down, once again thinking back to hunting pronghorn with my bow and remembering how much I’d wished I’d had a rifle tag at the time, a feeling most archery pronghorn hunters must know. Just then, my father pulled up behind me, returning from his morning hunt, rifle in hand.
I traded bow for rifle and set off on my stalk, keeping my eyes glued to my mark. I crossed the creek slowly, stopping every so often to check any new real estate that came into view from the other side of the willows. I passed my mark with no sign of the deer, and I almost decided I had lost him in the willows and that my hunt would continue in the mountains the next day. Out of nowhere, the buck stood broadside just eighty yards in front of me. I lifted my rifle, settled the crosshairs behind the shoulder, and applied pressure to the trigger.
The buck crow-hopped and ran for the nearest cover to make his escape. He must have known he could not clear the obstacle, because he turned and ran the opposite way before toppling over at a hundred yards. The tracking job was easy; his wide antlers gave away his position in the knee-high sagebrush. With deep forks and better-than-average mass for our area, I felt truly blessed to have found such a great buck. After admiring the deer for a minute, I turned and saw my dad sitting up on the hill, watching the whole adventure.
We were lucky enough to be able to drive most of the way to the deer. To this day, I still don't know where my seventy-year-old father found the muscle to help me drag a 250-pound deer over a hundred yards and deadlift it into the bed of the truck. I guess the old man still has a few tricks up his sleeve! We drove the buck back to camp and took care to cape and process the animal that would end up on our cabin wall. We toasted with good bourbon and sat down to the largest cowboy steak I have ever seen—a gift left by my mom and a great way to close out such a memorable day.
Getting to share that moment of triumph with my dad was a dream come true. We added a chapter to our family history book in that valley and opened a new door for our family to connect with the land we have loved for so many generations. From fly fishing to mule deer hunting, there are well over 123 years' worth of fun to be had in the mountains. Maybe I will be lucky enough to revisit the moose that taunted me the first few days of the hunt.
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