The infamous western Wyoming mule deer herd suffered the worst winter losses ever recorded in ‘22-23. A 70% mortality of the entire deer herd. It’s heartbreaking although it didn’t stop me from hiking up there a couple times this summer in search of a giant and spending time in some of my favorite country.
I decided I wouldn’t kill a buck up there this year unless it was a very special buck. After two scouting trips, the reality of the harsh winter was reflected in the lack of deer sightings on the summer range. The deer that had survived the winter must’ve been the strongest and I appreciated and respected each deer sighting, especially those females that not only survived completely depleted of fat reserves, but also sacrificed their own health and was still able to give birth to a fawn.
I never did find a buck during scouting season that I wanted to hunt, but that didn’t keep me from making two additional trips during rifle season. Again, I enjoyed each adventure but never saw a buck that I would pursue. Total, I saw over 200 bucks, and none that displayed 180”+ antlers.
Fast forward to mid-October, and I was wondering where else across this beautiful state I would hunt my mule deer. Typically I fill my deer tag in the high country in September, so by not filling my tag it allowed me an opportunity to find other hunts. It had been a while since I’ve hunted lowland desert deer. I’m not talking agricultural deer. I’m talking miles and miles of antelope/sage grouse habitat where mule deer also call home. Wide open country in central Wyoming.
I loaded my side by side in the trailer, my bed roll, extra gas, a pile of food, and found a spot on the map that fit what I was looking for: desolation, decent deer numbers, and public land. I had 2.5 days to explore.
The white rims in this desert landscape were formed by marine deposits left from ancient seas. The faces of the rims reflect the last 65 million years of history and the Native Americans, mountain men, gold miners, and pioneers all admired these same cliffs traveling these paths for centuries.
The pioneers wagons tracks were still etched into the earth, along with small metal pieces along the trail from items left behind.
The way a mule deer buck gets old in this open country is discipline. The discipline of holing up in tall sage during daylight hours to avoid hunters. Hunters will glass the large expansive sage seeing nothing and often overlook deer hidden close-by in the chest-deep sage.
I spent my time amongst the thickest sage patches with some luck finding deer. At first and last light, deer would suddenly appear on a landscape that seemed void of deer all day. Once nighttime fell, I would find a flat spot, roll out my bedroll, and call it home for the night, much like humans have done for hundreds of years in this country.
The coyotes never failed to provide nighttime audio entertainment. I’d wake up and immediately be in the glass all over again. Sage grouse, pronghorn, wild horses, coyotes, mule deer, and a variety of grassland songbirds were regular sightings.
My last morning of the hunt, I hadn’t seen a mature buck yet, and with the Honda loaded down, my plan was to make a 15 mile push back towards the truck, hunting the whole way back.
The angle of the morning sun made spotting animals westward easy, as if they were in a spotlight. With my naked eye to the west, I spotted a group of deer a mile away, feeding down an open slope towards a sage ravine. The herd had a mixture of does, fawns, and small bucks. Then I noticed a much larger body behind the group. The body was twice as big as the other deer. I settled into the spotting scope and knew immediately that his antler size didn’t reflect the age-class of this buck.this was a big, old deer.
His antlers appeared to have good mass and around 21” wide. I love the challenge of hunting old, mature deer and this buck definitely was in that category, even if his antlers weren’t what I’d consider top end.
I loaded the rifle onto my pack and on a breathless morning with the sun at my back, I closed the distance to 665 yards before running out of having the elevation advantage. I laid prone and looked through the scope, I was still in awe by this deer’s body size and frosty white face. It’s hard to believe these old bucks can survive in this open country for so many years.
With a perfect broadside shot, I pressed the trigger on Molly, my 20” suppressed 300 WM, running a 210 Berger. The bullet performed flawlessly and the buck’s heavy body crumbled to the earth for the last time, followed by its limp head. The buck never twitched, laying directly below his last bite of salt sage.
I’ve probably thought I had killed a big-bodied buck before this deer, but this one takes the cake. Ironically, in an area where one might assume scratching out a living, nutrients-wise, might be tougher in this country than for a mountain buck. This was not the case. This buck’s obese body and overall size rivaled any muley I’ve ever laid eyes on. The quarters were similarly-sized to the 3.5 year old bull elk we had packed the week before.
His molars had shown the wear of not only a mature buck, but a very old buck that I would guess to be 7-8 years old. I’ve submitted teeth for aging so we will get an exact age. His torn, frost-bitten ears and cracked hooves show his age and hard life in the desert. I was so proud to load this buck on my machine and make the trek back to the truck.
Those couple days riding the old historic trails, and exploring such unique country made for a hunt that took me back to a different era and gave me a better appreciation for all the habitats that the beloved mule deer calls home.
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