Mule Deer Watch: Holding Out

by Michael Burrell

The largest mule deer bucks exist in hunter’s dreams. You know what kind of buck I’m talking about, a buck that could cradle your gun safe in its rack. My friends ask me, “So, what are you holding out for this year?”

I usually respond with something like, “Mr.Big – I think this is my year, boys!” The guys all nod, believing…I think. I’ll be the first to admit, I more often than not (with a really big emphasis on the “more often”) don’t shoot the biggest buck on the mountain. I shoot good, mature bucks – just not those legends that bring widespread attention. It’s truly effortless to stand in front of your peers pre-season with your bold claim that this is the year you will take a book buck. But, what I have learned is that as the year unfolds and hunting season is upon me, my hope for a bona fide record-class rack slowly diminishes, one inch at a time. Before you call me a cynic, let me explain.

The first let-down of the year usually arrives through the mail. I’ve read the words “un-successful” so many times that it’s beginning to give me a complex. Look at the odds at drawing a coveted mule deer tag and you’ll see that your chance of hunting some of the West’s best units isn’t getting any easier. In fact, many of the units are becoming much more difficult to draw. Want a couple examples? The Henry Mountains; although the total deer herd has not increased much on this southeastern Utah unit in the past decade, the state has limited buck hunting to the point where it maintains one of the strongest buck to doe ratios in the state – and it’s no secret. Good luck drawing it with 4,574 other hunters (me included) pressing their luck for the 34 total tags in 2007. The Arizona Strip, famous for its open, expansive country and monster bucks. In 2007, 6,671 hunters (me included) applied for 75 tags in the Strip, unit 13B. I will have to resort to over-the-counter tags or second-choice hunts; still enjoyable hunts, but a major blow to my probability of killing Mr. Big.

It never fails, each year before hunting season we all get a little irrepressible kneeling over piles of maps, snacking on pretzels, having a drink, and running our fingers over the areas we plan to hike and hunt hard. “I think I’ll start at the head of this canyon and work this ridge up until it gets dark,” my friend Tyler broadcasts while dragging his greasy finger across eight, one-mile sections of my map. The rest of us nod our heads in disbelief. A word of guidance: the canyon’s contour always looks much less significant on a map when you are snacking on pretzels in a warm, dry room, with a drink. It never looks quite the same when you actually arrive at the head of that canyon. It’s always much, much, much bigger and more inhospitable in person.

Fall 2007 was no different. Finally, there I stood in the frosty morning light the day before the season opener looking up at my ridge. The mountain’s topography seemed steeper since the last time I visited two years before, thrusting another jab into my formerly solid, unwavering confidence of killing a really big buck. Somewhere, subliminally, my dream buck just lost a couple more inches.

“How am I going to pack a buck out of this country?” ran through my head. All prior pre-season romanticism and impracticality (along with some body heat and a few more inches from my dream antlers) slowly evaporated from my psyche while reality, body aches, and an icy breeze began filling the empty space. I just left the truck and the weight of my pack already made my back ache. I still don’t know why my pack weighed 63 pounds heading into camp; I thought I had packed light. Let’s see: an eleven-pound muzzleloader, four days worth of food, extra clothing, sleeping material, water, optics, tripod, bullets – it adds up quickly.

Opening morning was cold, really cold. I wore seven layers to bed and still woke up freezing. I spotted several bucks in the morning including two that I felt were shooters. They were loafing alongside a small meadow 2,000 feet lower in elevation along with nine to ten other bucks and some does. I thought, “Do I really want to drop all the way down into the canyon and then haul the buck out? OF COURSE I DO!” I slowly made my stalk for several hours inching my way through rugged, steep country. I finally belly-crawled to the point where I felt I couldn’t get closer without the risk of a pair of eyes spotting me. I laid 200 yards from the deer and hoped they would get up and feed in the meadow between us for a hundred-yard shot.

The hours went by slowly until, finally, the evening shadows stretched across the canyon. I knew any moment the deer would stand and begin to feed. The largest buck, which I was hoping to kill, stood up first. He ignored the other deer and slowly fed his way alongside the meadow heading uphill – the wrong way.

I needed a quick change in plans. That big buck wasn’t going to step foot in the meadow, he was quickly moving back into the safety of the rough terrain. The other bucks turned their heads to observe the big buck, learning from his astuteness. They stood up and followed the buck uphill. I needed to make a decision quick or I was not getting a shot at this buck. My limit with my smokepole is around 170-180 yards, on a good day. I had to close the distance quickly. I grabbed my fleece jacket, stood from my afternoon bed and quickly ran at the deer through the meadow as quickly as I could. I knew I would be busted, but how quickly would they bolt? I covered 30+ yards in no time, threw my jacket in the shrub, lay prone, and set up my smokepole for a quick shot.

The does had spotted me and were leaving the country in a hurry. The bucks turned to watch the fleeing does, not realizing that danger had just snuck within range. Without thought, without any hesitation, I squeezed the trigger. KAPOOOOWWWW!!! Smoke filled the air between me and my prey. Did I hit him? As quiet as a diesel engine, I hastily loaded another bullet into the barrel. My buck stood broadside ready to bolt. This time all buck fever had left me, I was upset I had missed. KapooWWWW!!! The bullet sounded like it hit rock. I quickly loaded another bullet wondering if I possibly banged my scope during the hike in. I pulled my binoculars up to get a better look at my buck. The big buck was staggering and slowly lay down, his head wavering to and fro, gasping for his final breath. I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew he would die quickly.

There he lay in the evening shadows, a sight to bring the satisfaction that only a hunter can know. He wasn’t the magic buck that stays alive in the canyons of my mind, but that caliber of buck wasn’t what I set my sights on (pun intended) on this trip. Those hopes for a dream buck slowly diminished earlier. Without a doubt, my hopes for harvesting a monster buck will again swell while we are looking over maps, applying for quality tags, and telling big-buck stories. But, for the moment, I couldn’t have been more proud.

Tyler came down to help me pack my buck out. “I thought you told me you were holding out for Mr. Big,” he said jokingly – I think. What is “holding out” anyway? It may mean waiting for Mr. Big. It may mean waiting for the draw of a lifetime. It may mean waiting for a deer to cross your path that is absolutely love at first sight. As for me, it means just that, to hold out for whatever makes your hair stand on end, your knees shake, and your throat go dry. I hold out all year during preparation for that one single moment, the moment of the kill, the moment every hunter lives for, their own glory march back into camp with the deer they “held out” for.

Tyler shouldered my gun and offered to help pack the deer uphill to spike camp. “Let’s tie the antlers to the top of my pack,” I said, ignoring his offer to help pack meat and antlers. “Right, your glory march back to camp. I shouldn’t have even asked to help,” he responded. Two days later I packed the 102 pounds of meat and camp back to the truck which patiently waited for me 4.5 miles away. I tell myself all over again it will be the last time I will make that darn trip “holding out” for that big one, but I doubt it.