Driving the long, lonely highway, hours rolling by. I’m always drawn to bluegrass and country on solo distance drives, it always seems fitting for endless hills and the asphalt peeling away beneath the wheels. Tyler Childers’ “Charleston Girl” was the #1 find on this drive from California to Montana. I was a bit dizzy and road weary, but eventually greeted with elk chili, a beer, and a warm spare bed, a welcome change from two days of gas station food, Starbucks, and a night sleeping in the back of my car in sub-freezing temperatures.
And we’re immediately off again well before it’s light, truck headlamps bouncing up a dirt road, sipping coffee, soon to be followed by the day’s physical warmup of shoveling snow and chaining up after getting briefly stuck in a drift. Packs are soon shouldered and wonderful silence sets in after the truck’s doors are shut; just wind, breath, and the crunching of ice and snow beneath our feet. We’re hunting right out of the gate and don’t speak too much beyond whispers for the next few days.

A few miles roll by. From a glassing knob Mike spots movement across a canyon, three or four spooked mule deer bolting across an open ridge and taking cover in the treeline. I catch a large rump or two protruding from the trees and they disappear from sight. Something other than us has them on the run. Too far, we write them off for the time being, assuming they’ll be long gone by the time we make that side of the mountain.


Climbing the same ridge a few hours later we approached the spot they disappeared, not thinking much of it, but I suddenly spot movement in the treeline. “Deer!” I gasp as loud as one can while still in a whisper. We fall back, drop prone, and a solid 3×3 emerges from the trees. “I’d take that deer…” I tell Mike. Before I can finish saying it, an even larger 4×4 steps out behind it. “That’s a good deer!” Mike says, excitement palpable while trying to stay hushed. The rangefinder says ~240 yards and there’s a brisk wind whipping through the canyon between us. Not the easiest shot for me, but doable. We stay low, making for the cover of a tree, preparing to drop a pack for a rifle rest. But the deer don’t stop moving, headed into the snow and timber traveling uphill across the canyon.
300 yards.
320 yards.
350 yards.
Binoculars glued, I give up on the prospect of a shot. They simply never stop moving, the wind is still howling, and there’s just too much cover between us. As they make the ridge they bolt, dark shapes disappearing fast through the trees, likely over the other side. These deer were spooky, definitely onto us, but also seemingly jumpy from something before we even found them.
That we were still on the morning of day one and I had ranged two of the largest deer I’ve hunted (by parched Southern California standards), things were looking good!

We spent the remainder of the day climbing and descending, occasionally postholing with heavy packs, deer sign everywhere, eventually descending into a canyon to find water, an endeavor that we nearly cliffed out on several times. Scrambling, sliding, we make the bottom spent and settle in for lunch on a grass bank, golden light filtering through the trees of an idyllic little streamside camp. Salami and cheese for me, a welcome rest, body sinking into the ground, a reminder of how hard we’ve been going. We make our way back into the higher country, into an elevation band where most of the sign was, and make camp for the night. On an evening scout a few does bolt across a meadow in front of us but no buck follows. Again, coming from the relatively game-poor areas I hunt at home, it’s been quite a good hunt already. In some places, simply seeing a deer is a victory.

Day two we hunt hard all day, covering some serious mileage and elevation cross country. The sign is there, the territory is right, but there are no deer to be found. The day culminates with us glassing the country below from a high point, endless mountains spread before us, evening light stretching across the land. I love the silence and stillness of hunting, of being in someone’s company but not having to talk too much, just watching, listening, and appreciating the land together.

On day three we change locations, heading to lower country with less snow, making the travel a bit easier. Backpacking in shoulder season/winter conditions is gear intensive enough, requiring systems that are well dialed. Hunting is fairly specialized as well. Combining the two certainly requires an intelligent approach or one’s pack would be completely unmanageable. While certainly not shouldering ultralight loads, a lightweight base system strikes me as integral in offsetting all the other gear one must carry. In my case this is an MLD Solomid, WM Antelope bag, Thermarest Neoair Xlite, Z Rest (for extra insulation and glassing), and a Seek Outside Unaweep. Being <10 pounds for the Big 3 in cold conditions with potential weather while maintaining the ability to carry a bulky and heavy load is an excellent benchmark in my estimation. My gear, clothing, and footwear systems worked flawlessly, the latter being quite welcome when hiking in ankle deep slush followed by snow, then sitting and getting wind-whipped in a glassing spot. All a good sign that I’m getting this gear thing pretty dialed over the years.

We spend the day largely still hunting through deadfall, creeping along quietly through the forest. I spotted a decent buck running the canyon bottom not far below us, instantly putting us into high alert. More hiking, more miles, Mike is soon slowly leading us across the canyon bottom and up a nearby ridge. He crests it a minute ahead of me. As I arrive, he’s low, motioning for me to get down. He whispers that three bucks are just up the ridge above us and urges me to stalk in slowly. I quietly chamber a round and begin creeping through the junipers…
The three bucks materialize, but the two largest have likely already winded me. I catch a faint glimpse of them heading uphill at a quicker pace. We haven’t totally bumped them, but they’re close. The youngest, a decent sized 2×2, is hanging back a bit. I’m creeping ever closer, staying as quiet as I can. I make the edge of a large juniper and slowly peek out. He’s standing there, full broadside, nose in the air sniffing, ears twitching and alert, looking down the hill. Despite being younger, the body was bigger than all of the much older bucks I see here at home.
I swear he locks eyes with me but can’t figure me out as I’m low and in the brush. He’s about 50-60 yards out. I very slowly slide prone and realize I have to make a snap decision: I have a perfect shot on a good looking deer but he’s on edge enough that he’s going to bolt in two or three more seconds.
I’m new to big game hunting. I’ve been out for a handful of seasons, both rifle and archery, and have had some exciting hunts. I take my responsibility seriously, having passed on a few possible rifle shots, an archery shot that was easy but had me concerned I’d lose the deer down a canyon too steep for me, as well as an archery clean miss at about 40 yards in which I misread the distance on a steep hill and the deer jumped my arrow. I’ve been on a few successful hunts with friends, including an epic bison hunt in Montana in 2018, but this deer would be my first.
So I anchored the crosshairs, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.
I think my greatest fear thus far has been getting myself involved in a failed tracking epic on a wounded animal; this fear has been strong enough to stop me from taking a shot on a few occasions, situations that if I could replay today, I’d likely take the shot (I’m a more confident shooter with both rifle and bow now). But this is the learning curve, and likely the right way to play it. I have no regrets.
To my relief the shot was perfect and the deer dropped exactly where it stood.
I was calm through the entire process, but now that it was over, I slapped Mike a high five and traded a hug with my knees and hands shaking. Disbelief, sadness, elation, adrenaline, the sheer intensity of being a predator dialed in on its prey; hunting is a complex mix of feelings, intensified and stewed in hours upon hours of waiting and working in silence. When the emotions eventually calmed, we went to work. I must have been riding a high, because despite a steep ridge climb, I don’t remember any fatigue on the packout…

I’ve got to thank Mike for his generosity out there, for being such a great guide and teacher, and a selfless one at that. It didn’t go without notice that he deferred every opportunity to me, despite having a rifle in his hand for every mile of our trip. We’ve had some great adventures together over the years, from the Grand Canyon R2R2R, the bison hunt with Dave C., to desert hikes and Sierra XC rambles, but I’m particularly thankful for this one. Here’s to more to come!
I butchered everything myself, ground the burger and sausage (I bought a grinder after the bison hunt), and have been treating family and friends to deer throughout this holiday week. I’ve been striking out so far this season freediving for lobster, but the goal is to have a true paleo-North American feast of lobster, fish, and venison for the holidays.
