Ghost of the Saddle

Ghost of the Saddle
By Scott Grange

See that star right there? That’s Venus the Morning Star,” my dad whispered. “If you look directly at it and make a wish, your wish will come true.”
“Hey, he told me that when I was your age,” my big brother Steve whispered back. “I’m here to tell you, it works. I’ve wished for a big buck to roll through this saddle every year and more times than not, it’s happened.”

It was opening day of the 1964 Utah deer season and, at ten years old, I was experiencing my first and much-anticipated big game hunt. My dad and older brother Steve had dragged me up to their favorite deer spot on earth, a saddle atop one of the many desert mountain ranges that litter western Utah. For years, I had listened to stories around the dinner table of giant mulies slipping through notches in the mountain and eluding hunters. Now, it was finally my turn to experience the dream.

Dad had been hunting this saddle since 1948 when an old timer, then too old to make the rugged trek to the top, revealed it to him after he offered to change a flat tire on the old man’s Ford pickup. If you know anything about the history of mule deer in Utah, you can only imagine what poured through these gaps during the 50’s, 60’s and early 70’s. My, what I would have given to have had a digital camera back then.

As the Morning Star’s brightness gave way to the reddish glow of sunrise over the Wasatch Mountains far to the east, my wish had already been placed with the great deer gods of the universe. What I was about to witness will forever be etched in my mind. Not one, not two or three, but thirteen mature bucks crashed through the saddle in less than thirty minutes! The only verbiage I can recall is my dad’s calm voice instructing Steve to, “Wait, wait, wait.” What was allowed to pass unscathed in 1964 would send today’s mule deer hunter into cardiac arrest. If I live to be a hundred, I will vividly remember the sights, sounds and smells of that morning. Before the sun had peeked over the hill, two thirty-inch class bucks lay less than fifty yards apart in the short yellow grass. Throughout the morning, while field dressing and quartering the two monarchs, no less than ten more bucks would expose themselves above us as they passed through the saddle - none of which were as good as the pair Dad and Steve had now placed their tags on, but good bucks nonetheless.
Unfortunately, like most good things, the boomer deer years in Utah came to an end in the mid-70’s. Biological carrying capacities, along with over-hunting and predation dealt a devastating blow to one of nature’s most wonderful creatures. However, through aggressive efforts on the part of sportsman’s groups and proper deer management, some of this magic has been reintroduced to these various regions of Utah. In 1980, the Division of Wildlife Resources closed portions of the West Desert where the deer herd levels were at alarmingly low levels. Then, in 1992 these areas were incorporated into the posted hunting unit (PHU) system. On a very limited basis, hunters were once again allowed, through a drawing, to pursue big mulies in an area that hadn’t seen deer hunting in roughly twelve years. Needless to say, some exceptional bucks have been taken in the years since its reopening.

After years of unsuccessful attempts, I was blessed with a West Desert deer permit in 2003. As I opened the letter from Fallon, Nevada, I fully expected to see the word “Unsuccessful” that I had grown accustomed to seeing every year at draw time. Chills ran up and down my spine as I quietly sat on the front porch staring at the results… “Successful.” Emotions were high as I informed Diane, my loving wife of thirty years, of my good fortune. She knew what this hunt meant to me now that both Dad and Steve had passed away and, as always, hugged me and told me how happy she was for me. I don’t know what I possibly could have done to deserve a woman like this.

Due to a crazy work schedule, it was late August before I could launch my first scouting trip. After much anticipation, I was about to once again roam the hills that had infected me with big muley disease. It seemed like a lifetime ago. If you’ve ever spent time in the desert, you know how beautiful sunsets can be. The mountains turn purple and the sky lights up like a fireball. A hot, early fall day quickly turns chilly as the lonely coyote ushers in nightfall with his eerie tune. Sitting atop one of the many peaks looking down on the desert floor, one can almost visualize a Pony Express rider scrambling across the valley or Porter Rockwell chasing a fleeing horse thief into the hills. A glance across the canyon reveals a few of the numerous mine shaft openings that litter this region, remnants of a day when folks were hearty and their minds full of gold fever. How could anyone not fall totally in love with such a dry, desolate place?

First light found me perched on a ridge that afforded me a view of what dad called “Red’s Basin,” a special place that had been etched in my young mind four decades earlier. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing through my spotting scope as a dozen or so bucks browsed virtually undisturbed in pockets of waist high oak brush. “This is better than it used to be,” I muttered out loud in a soft but excited voice. Then it dawned on me. It seemed better because all the deer were calm and feeding. In the old days, nearly every deer we saw was on the move - either slipping silently through saddles or crashing down ridges with their tongues dragging on the ground. Back then, I don’t recall watching them feed unmolested well into the morning. My conclusions were simple; with hunter numbers twice what they are today, there was just too much human activity.

Soon the sun’s rays slammed into the stubby peaks surrounding the basin and illuminated everything they touched. The early fall, tan coats of the deer made them easy to pick out against the dark green vegetation. With antlers still wrapped in fuzzy velvet, the near perfect morning conditions allowed for a relatively easy assessment of the unsuspecting bucks. “These guys look like they came out of the same mold,” I said out loud as though someone were sitting next to me. I caught myself doing that a lot that trip. It was almost comical to watch that many bucks, all big 3×4’s and small 4×4’s make their way to the top of the draws and the saddles that would allow easy access to the shaded backside of the mountain. There they would lay low for the remainder of the day on the north slope, out of the sun and its obnoxious heat.

Although I was hoping, I really didn’t expect to see a great buck my first trip out. However, just as I thought the morning show was over, I glanced over my shoulder to the saddle where my love of chasing mule deer had begun thirty-eight years earlier. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There, skylined like a billboard on the side of I-15, stood a buck that made my heart accelerate. At a half mile, his oversized velvet rack was visible to the naked eye. I scrambled to slam my binoculars to my face before he disappeared over the top. No time for the spotting scope! The buck came into focus just as he meandered over the hill. For a brief moment I allowed myself to think I was looking at a 30-inch class buck, but reality soon set in and I judged him to be in the 26-inch category. They always look huge from behind. Nevertheless, this was the best buck I had seen in several seasons. Like a kid of fifteen, I scrambled over to the saddle. Why? I’m not certain. I just wanted to take a look. After all, it had been ages since I had been there and who knows, maybe I’d get another peek at that buck. Not. The velvety fellow was long gone so, as I had done so many times that morning, I sat down and enjoyed the moment. The only sound I could hear was the ringing in my ears, a product of too much shooting through the years.

Inching its way toward its mid-morning position, the sun’s warming rays made every detail of the ground around me more vivid. There at my feet, sandwiched between two rocks, lay an old tarnished shell casing. “A 32-40,” I said out loud as I plucked it from its hiding place. There I was talking to myself again. This was the caliber old Red, the gentleman who had revealed this spot to my dad, had shot for years. I remember Dad laughing as he related the story of the salty old fellow who would fill the full length magazine tube of his model 94 Winchester with cartridges and not carry a single extra round in his pocket.

“If a guy can’t kill a deer with seven shots, he ain’t got no business be’in out here,” Red would bark. “And what’s with all the fancy telescopes these days? Can’t these guys see or what?”

With a sheepish look on his face, Dad just stood there silently listening, hoping Red didn’t notice the shiny new Savage 30-06 topped with a 4x Redfield slung over his shoulder. If only Red could see us today with our rangefinders, scopes with illuminating reticules and spotting scopes that make it possible to rough score a buck at a mile - I don’t think he’d be impressed.

Finding that old shell casing instantly changed my focus from scouting for big mulies into a treasure hunt. The remainder of the morning found me crawling around on all fours, sticking my nose in cracks and crevasses in search of these metallic ghosts of the past. My luck in finding old hardware far exceeded that in locating trophy mule deer as I proceeded to pocket eighteen different specimens. You’d have thought I hit the mother load as I made my way off the mountain, shells a jingling with every step and a big fat smile on my face.

The dog days of summer quickly passed and the much-anticipated, cool September mornings were now upon me. You might know a life-long dream of hunting wild sheep would become a reality this particular year, and it had taken a toll on any additional scouting trips. It also meant I would miss the first few days of the deer season. This didn’t bother me too much; however, as I’m not a big fan of opening days anyway. I was confident that my knowledge of the area, along with my physical condition, a product of a year of aggressive training for the sheep hunt, would be more than adequate to locate a monster muley.

“If there’s a good buck down there, I’ll find him,” I boasted to my nine-year old grandson as he watched me place all the necessary items for a successful deer hunt carefully into my pack.
“Can I go and help you grandpa?” For a brief moment, I was whisked back in time. There I was pleading with my father to take me deer hunting with him and my brother. I was exactly the same age as the little man looking up at me with much anticipation. With a tear in my eye, I uttered the same words my father said to me four decades earlier. “Not this time son, perhaps next year.”

“Do you got something in your eye grandpa?”

Day one and two of the hunt were tough on me. It seemed as though I just couldn’t get my second wind. In addition to that, I was experiencing guilt pains as many of us do when we pull ourselves away from a busy office and a family that would rather have us at home. Day three, however, was awesome. I felt strong and I was more focused on the task at hand. By sunset of the fourth day, the mountain had produced a dozen or so bucks with the largest being a respectable 26-incher. My goal, however, was a lofty 30 inches. I had waited eight years for this permit, and my goal was 30-inches or nothing. The days of having to bring something home in order to feel successful were long gone. Now, it was about the hunt itself.

Day five, my final day, found me at first light looking into a filthy, brush-choked canyon that I considered to be my ace-in-the-hole. I had avoided this place till now simply because there was no other way to hunt it other than to get the wind in my face, get low to the ground and move at a snail’s pace. For the remainder of the day, I would move ten feet then spend ten minutes glassing, dissecting, hoping to see a bit of antler or an eye. This is not what I hoped my hunt would turn out to be, a Rambo-style seek out and destroy mission. My dream was to top out in one of the mountain’s many saddles and see a 30-inch monarch 300 yards away looking back at me like I had seen so many lesser bucks do throughout the trip. This hunt, however, would produce no such scenario. As the sun started to slip behind the Deep Creek Mountains far to the west, it was time to emerge from the jungle and start the long journey back to the truck. Perhaps one of the many saddles or draws that lay between me and a cooler of Coke I hadn’t seen for days just might hold that ghost I had been pursuing.

They say trophy mule deer can make a guy do crazy things. Well, I had just spent five days alone with my pack on my back, sleeping under the stars and eating granola. I’d hunted my butt off, glassed until my eyes felt like they were about to fall out and taken long naps. Is that crazy? My wife thinks so, however, she gave up on me a long time ago. I think it was when I slept in the marsh in late November just for a shot at a honker. It’s not something that just anyone can understand.

As I bailed off a ridge into a long canyon that led to my truck, the light from my head lamp struck something metallic. Laughing out loud, I plucked a .270 case from between two rocks. Clenching it in my hand, I turned and glanced up the canyon to a saddle now barely visible to the naked eye. To this day I don’t know if it was real or my imagination playing tricks, but I swear I could make out a buck on the skyline. By the time I got the binoculars to my face, like a ghost, he was gone.

No blood was drawn and no antlers were collected on this very special hunt. My only regret is that every hunter out there couldn’t be with me, seeing, smelling and experiencing what the true spirit of the hunt really is. Will I apply for this unit again? You’d better believe it.

Tags: HI36, Scott Grange

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