Tracking Oregon buck #73

Oregon is not known for great mule deer hunting; in fact, most hunters would tell you the hunting just plain stinks. I've found that Oregon has lots to offer as far as hunting opportunities, and with a little hard work there are some big animals to be taken.

I've hunted the blacktailed deer every year since I've moved to Oregon. This year was different and I cashed in my bonus points and drew my first Oregon mule deer hunt. After a long, tiring September of chasing coastal elk in Oregon's rainforest, I could not wait to trade the brush-choked coastal habitat for the the drier mule deer habitat in eastern Oregon. I had planned this trip for months and had high hopes to hike into the backcountry the day before the opener, but reality quickly crashed my party and I found myself stuck in Salem at a work meeting the Monday after the opening day. Tuesday, after wrapping up work issues I was on my way.

The area I planned on hunting is not managed for big deer; it sees a lot of hunting pressure. On the Saturday opener, most smart hunters perch themselves on large vantage points where they can watch as deer are being pushed from other hunters. It is a tactic that has worked well for many. I, unfortunately, missed the big shoot on the opener and was now going to have to root out the big bucks from their hiding spots, which is more my style anyway.

The terrain is fairly forgiving, if you stay on the ridge tops. The ridgelines breakaway to steep, rugged canyon filled with rimrock and dead trees. Years ago, a wildfire scorched the pine-covered mountain. It is only a matter of time before all the standing dead trees will fall to the earth. For now, half of the trees have fallen leaving a real-life version of "pick-up sticks" in which you need to quietly maneuver through. It was quite a task.

I set up a crowded one-man tent under one of the only small patches of live timber in the country, hoping it would decrease my chance of becoming an ugly statistic involving dead trees, wind, and a squashed tent. Home Sweet Home for the next 7 days. I emptied my pack which was full of warm clothes, water, a camp stove, food, warm clothes, a sleeping bag, a small pad to sleep on, and did I mention warm clothes? The temperatures hovered around 15 degrees in the still of the night.

I lived in the mountains alone for days and it was quite an experience. Most of the day your mind is occupied, focused on the hunt. However, once the sun goes down you have plenty of time to think: family, work, money, self-sufficiency, and "what would I do if a bear jumped on my tent right now" were just a few of my thoughts as I tried to fall sleep.

Each day, I saw plenty of deer. In fact by day 5 I had seen 55 bucks. I got to watch elk, coyotes, and plenty of decent-sized bucks, including several nice 4-points. As the hunt began to wind down I got serious about taking a buck. On day 7, my last day to hunt started out with a stiff western wind and low storm clouds. I don't mind hunting in snow, mainly because snow is one of the largest single factors that kills trophy bucks every year. A buck may escape from a hunter, but he can't escape his own tracks...

At noon, the snow began to pile up. The wind was fierce and it was snowing sideways. By 3 pm, it was time to head back to the truck which was over two miles away. The low clouds had cut visibility down to less than 80 yards making hunting conditions difficult. The layout of the land and the fog made it impossible to know your bearings. I only knew which direction I had come from because of my own boot tracks that were quickly being filled with snow. I pushed forward, cradling the .257 Wby mag, and pulling my hat down low to keep the snow from pelting my cold cheeks. I stumbled upon some boot tracks and panicked knowing I was the only one in the area. "Are you kidding me?" I ripped my GPS from my pack and checked my bearings. I had made a large half circle and cut my tracks from hours before. The fog got thicker. With the help of damn technology, I gained my bearings, a bit embarrassed with my natural ability to orient myself. Days before I met a horseman on the mountain who said "Beware of foggy conditions in this country. I almost lost a good friend up here who barely made it home, and he is a good outdoorsman. This country will turn you around if you have no landmarks." I pushed against the wind and snow, slowly still-hunting my way back towards the truck.

I was just under two miles from the truck, and I thought I would drop into a little pocket where I had jumped a big buck just days before. The ol' buck had let me get within 30 yards of it before jumping from his hideout within the downed logs and small jack pines. In three quick stots, the buck was out of sight and I was left without a shot. I tracked him in the dry soil for a couple hundred yards before his tracks mixed in with the countless other deer tracks. "This time", I told myself, "I would be ready for him". If only I could find him again. I had put my binoculars into my pack since they were soaked, fogged, and useless. I continued moving forward.

Suddenly, 30 yards in front of me, I see a jumble of movement. I focus my eyes wondering what this large white creature could be when a blanket of snow slides off the most beautiful black-bodied buck as he springs from his bed. The snow fell from his tall antlers as he whipped his head to escape. I tried my hardest to get the buck into my scope and when I did, I shot. I pulled the rifle down and there was only fog. Was that a dream? Am I delirious? Am I going crazy? Hypothermia? Buck fever? I found his bed, dry as a bone, where he had spent the day waiting out the snow. I missed the running shot, but now I had tracks.

I began following his track. I know how big his body was and could tell he was an old, wise buck and his tracks proved why he has been able to elude so many hunters for years. The tracks weaved in between ribbons of cliffs, thick small jack pines, and creek bottoms without slowing down. I tracked the buck for a mile and a half until the grey light began to fade. The snow was a bit wet and crunchy, so in order to move silently, I slid my boots under the snow, like I was on crosscountry skis, as I stalked the buck. The tracks headed into a small pocket of 2 ft. high jack pines and lots of windfallen timber which looked like a great place for an old buck to sit tight and watch his backtrail.

I slid alongside a burnt pine and spotted a deer ahead at the fogline. Shaking with excitement, I pulled the rifle up to my shoulder and tried to dry the snow from the scope lenses. I could barely tell if the deer had antlers through the moisture build-up on the Leupold scope. It looked to be a smaller buck than the one I had followed. Then another buck stepped out. It appeared to be a three-point buck. A nice buck for the last hour of my hunt. Should I shoot that three-point? I had a wonderful hunt and would be happy to take a nice three-point buck now, although I had passed up many larger bucks through the past week. What if the bigger buck caught up with these bucks and is close-by? Light was fading and I needed to make some decisions or I'll be going back to the truck with tag soup. I convinced my trigger finger to settle down and that I would watch the bucks for fifteen minutes and see what else was around before making up my mind on what to do.The two bucks fed in and out of the thick dead timber just on the edge of the fog line 80 yards away. Minutes passed when I caught some movement to my left. A deer with the body of a quarter horse arose from the jack pines. I rub my scope with my semi-dry tee shirt and see he has nice antlers to match his body. I anchor the Weatherby against a branch, rest the crosshair on the front shoulder, and squeeze the trigger...click. Aaagghh!

I pull the bolt back to see that the rifle did not feed a cartridge into the chamber during my last episode with this buck. The buck disappeared behind the timber...I had lost my chance and I was sick. The bucks fed into the fog. I crept forward a bit closer to keep them in sight. I had found the small buck and the three-point but could not see the big buck. I waited another few minutes when finally the bucks crossed a small opening as they fed quartering away from me. As the largest racked buck passed through the opening, I did all I could to put the fogged-up crosshairs on the last rib. The rifle's crack was quickly swallowed up by the silence of snow falling. Two bucks bounded from the pocket of trees, while the other laid motionless in the blanket of snow.

It was an emotional moment for me. 7 days of hard work , the cold weather, tracking and killing buck #73 and killing it in the last minutes of light. It was incredible. The buck is beautiful. He may not be the largest scoring mule deer buck taken this fall, but he is mine. His body is huge. His antlers aren't too shabby either! A mature buck that has survived years of pursuit in a heavily hunted area is a very admirable individual. I killed him on the last day during a complete whiteout blizzard that this veteran buck thought would have definitely kept all two-legged hunters in their warm trailers... Not this time.

This was, no doubt, one of my most memorable hunts I have ever been on.