The Hard Way

We took off along the ridge, half running and half walking, hunched over like a certain resident of Notre Dame. My legs and lungs were on fire, but our goal was in sight, so I pressed on, stumbling and tripping along the rocky ridge. At the halfway point my guide, Clint, eased to the top to peek at the draw below. Suddenly, he dropped back and took off again, glancing over his shoulder as if to tell me to move my tail.

"The buck is still in the draw, Greg. We have to hurry," he said. "The coulee splits up there, and if they go to the right we won't catch them."

I did my best to keep up with Clint, my lungs burning from the altitude and cold air. I was just about out of gas when, mercifully, Clint dropped to his belly and crawled forward to take another peek. When he stood up and threw his hat, I knew it wasn't some newfangled rattling technique. "They went right, Greg. They're gone."

My whole body hurt, and the already ominous skies were getting darker by the minute. I would have been despondent if I wasn't so darned tired and hungry. I started nibbling on a sandwich as we headed toward the next coulee. With a wry grin, Clint pulled out a sandwich of his own.

As we approached the top of the next ridge, Clint peeked over, then hit the dirt and stuck his binocular to his face. I crawled up next to him to take a look. "There's a nice buck in that coulee, Greg. Get on him."

I crawled to the edge, pushing my pack and rifle ahead of me, then settled into a solid prone position and handed Clint my rangefinder. "How far?" I asked.

A big mule deer buck is fast becoming one of the toughest North American trophies to come by. I've had my share of mule deer hunting adventures, including a brush with death on a hunt in British Columbia, but I've never shot a buck like any of the bruisers on the scouting video outfitter Clint Crowley sent me a month before the season. There were several big bucks on that video, but two or three caught my eye. The images of those heavy-horned brutes, as well as photographs of the bucks my clients shot with Clint the year before, are what pushed me up the mountains every day. Well, that and Clint's unique brand of encouragement.

The Bear Paw Mountains don't look like much from the road, but they got tougher by the step. Each day I walked the foothills in search of a heavy-horned mulie. I saw plenty of good bucks, but not one of the monsters that prowl the coulees and canyons dotting Clint's spread. Despite his promise of "easy walking," my lungs burned and my legs ached, but I did my best to keep him in sight as we scaled the hills in search of the buck of a lifetime.