Having not drawn a limited tag again, I figured this year’s deer season on a general tag would be short and only marginally successful. What I didn’t realize was just how short it would be, or how unexpectedly successful.
Around home, there are a couple of general areas within easy reach, but they’re usually crawling with hunters. Most stick to the roads and two-tracks, though there’s always the occasional UTV pushing the limits of what “established” means. My plan was to slip into the draws and breaks where few were willing to walk. And I had a new Seekins rifle I was dying to get into the field with. Unfortunately, the aging process had other plans.
Opening day, started with a bang. Or maybe a thunderous pop. I loaded the truck for an afternoon hunt. Rifle in the back seat, ready to go. I turned to head back inside, and pop! My calf exploded like a gunshot. It felt like someone had swung a bat at the back of my leg. I hit the ground, already seeing the muscle balled up in my calf.
A quick trip to the doctor confirmed it: a torn gastrocnemius. I left the clinic with a fancy new boot and a firm ish diagnosis that my season was over.
Or so I thought.
That afternoon, I still rode along with my future son-in-law, my wife, and daughter for a drive. We got him on a couple of bucks, and he dropped his first-ever mule deer. Watching him and my daughter work together to field dress and pack it out while I sat on the tailgate in my new boot was oddly satisfying. I couldn’t hunt, but I was there, and that mattered.
We drove maybe 25 minutes from home. I had officially become what I never wanted to be — a road hunter. We spotted a few small bucks a thousand yards away on private land. Too far, nothing to do but watch. Still, it was good to be out.
Then I noticed a little hillside that just looked like deer country. The road faded out, but it didn’t look like a bad walk. Against my better judgment, and with one very impractical boot, I said, “Let’s just walk up there and glass from that rock ledge.”
You know how that goes. One more hill.
We made it up, slow and steady. The view was perfect; classic country for muleys. About twenty minutes in, I glassed up three bucks around 600 yards out. The sun wasn’t cooperating, so details were tough to make out. Two were small. The third looked questionable.
Then I spotted another off to the left, bedded with his head down. He looked good. We moved along the ridgeline out of sight for a better look.
I ranged him: 310 yards, a little downhill. Not a terrible shot, but the recovery? Down off the boulder ledge, half a mile back to the truck, one bum leg, one heavy deer. Logic said no. But logic doesn’t always win out here.
The young man grinned and said, “You shoot him, I’ll get him out.”
You sure, I said? "Yep, nail him!" What more do you need to hear?
I set up with the Seekins 6.5 CM, found him in the scope, and sent it.
By the time we had him tagged and quartered, the day had turned to dark. We packed him out in one trip, him carrying the heavy load, me hobbling along behind with what I could. We reached the truck around 9 p.m., tired, sore, and grinning like fools.
No new injuries. Just one dirty boot and a heart full of gratitude. I’ll have to wash the blood off before my follow-up with the doctor, but honestly, I’d do it all again.
Because what started as a lost season turned into one of the best memories I could ask for; a hunt shared with the young man who’s about to join our family.
It’s a story we won’t soon forget and a pretty great result for a half-day hunt.
Around home, there are a couple of general areas within easy reach, but they’re usually crawling with hunters. Most stick to the roads and two-tracks, though there’s always the occasional UTV pushing the limits of what “established” means. My plan was to slip into the draws and breaks where few were willing to walk. And I had a new Seekins rifle I was dying to get into the field with. Unfortunately, the aging process had other plans.
Opening day, started with a bang. Or maybe a thunderous pop. I loaded the truck for an afternoon hunt. Rifle in the back seat, ready to go. I turned to head back inside, and pop! My calf exploded like a gunshot. It felt like someone had swung a bat at the back of my leg. I hit the ground, already seeing the muscle balled up in my calf.
A quick trip to the doctor confirmed it: a torn gastrocnemius. I left the clinic with a fancy new boot and a firm ish diagnosis that my season was over.
Or so I thought.
That afternoon, I still rode along with my future son-in-law, my wife, and daughter for a drive. We got him on a couple of bucks, and he dropped his first-ever mule deer. Watching him and my daughter work together to field dress and pack it out while I sat on the tailgate in my new boot was oddly satisfying. I couldn’t hunt, but I was there, and that mattered.
Stir Crazy and Stubborn
The next few days were filled with ice, heat, and boredom. Scrolling through everyone else’s success only made it worse. Six days in — the final day of the season — I couldn’t take it anymore. I texted the young man:We drove maybe 25 minutes from home. I had officially become what I never wanted to be — a road hunter. We spotted a few small bucks a thousand yards away on private land. Too far, nothing to do but watch. Still, it was good to be out.
Then I noticed a little hillside that just looked like deer country. The road faded out, but it didn’t look like a bad walk. Against my better judgment, and with one very impractical boot, I said, “Let’s just walk up there and glass from that rock ledge.”
You know how that goes. One more hill.
We made it up, slow and steady. The view was perfect; classic country for muleys. About twenty minutes in, I glassed up three bucks around 600 yards out. The sun wasn’t cooperating, so details were tough to make out. Two were small. The third looked questionable.
Then I spotted another off to the left, bedded with his head down. He looked good. We moved along the ridgeline out of sight for a better look.
I ranged him: 310 yards, a little downhill. Not a terrible shot, but the recovery? Down off the boulder ledge, half a mile back to the truck, one bum leg, one heavy deer. Logic said no. But logic doesn’t always win out here.
The young man grinned and said, “You shoot him, I’ll get him out.”
You sure, I said? "Yep, nail him!" What more do you need to hear?
I set up with the Seekins 6.5 CM, found him in the scope, and sent it.
By the time we had him tagged and quartered, the day had turned to dark. We packed him out in one trip, him carrying the heavy load, me hobbling along behind with what I could. We reached the truck around 9 p.m., tired, sore, and grinning like fools.
No new injuries. Just one dirty boot and a heart full of gratitude. I’ll have to wash the blood off before my follow-up with the doctor, but honestly, I’d do it all again.
Because what started as a lost season turned into one of the best memories I could ask for; a hunt shared with the young man who’s about to join our family.
It’s a story we won’t soon forget and a pretty great result for a half-day hunt.
