A Mulie To Remember

Not too long ago I had the chore of moving a bunch of, well, stuff, from one place of storage to another. Most of it was really good stuff, half-remembered gatherings of a half-century and a number of mounted trophies lacking for wall space. Most of these were old friends that I was happy to see, glad to run my hands over the horns and antlers and remember a fine day in wonderful country.

Except there was one crate I didn't recognize. It contained the shoulder mount of a medium-size mule deer. It was a pretty buck, a typical 4x4 plus eyeguards but average in spread, mass and height. I drew a complete blank. The crate held no markings to give me any clues, and I was perplexed. I dutifully transported it to its new location, but I spent the next few hours wondering where I might have taken this buck and exactly why I had chosen to have it mounted. Since it was not a really huge buck, the only reason would have been to commemorate a most special day or a most memorable hunt, but I couldn't remember anything about this deer.

It was late that night before it hit me, and it hit me hard. The buck wasn't mine at all! It was Dad's buck, the best mule deer he ever shot. Moreover, it was one of just two trophies he ever had mounted. The other is a lovely pronghorn, his first big-game animal. That one I have at home with my own first pronghorn (also my first big-game animal). Both mounts date to the mid-'60s and are still in perfect shape.

This mule deer was taken a quarter of a century later, in Montana's Missouri Breaks. Early the next morning I re-opened the crate and stared long and hard at that seemingly new mount, remembering a great hunt. We had driven together to Billings, arriving much too late. After a very short night we rendezvoused with Jack and Keith Atcheson at some ungodly hour, driving northeast to their camp in the breaks.

It was a gray, windy day, and we were dead-tired. Pop was in his late sixties by then. He was still able to ride a horse better than anyone I've ever known, but we pushed him hard that day. We should have stayed in camp and rested up, but nobody (Pop included) would hear of that. So we headed into some farm ground to the south to look for a couple of bucks Keith knew about.

The cruel, cold wind had the deer moving off the ridges and down into tight valleys that were hard to see into. We caught a glimpse of what seemed a very nice buck following some does down into a little draw. Keith hiked us around to get a decent angle, and then we required Pop to crawl over the top. This was not a normal evolution for a lifelong horseman and quail hunter, by then a bit stiff in the joints and short on sleep. He complied with a grin, but both the discomfort and the serious effort were obvious as we made our way to the crest.

Below us we could now see that the little valley was contour-farmed with wheat, the harvested rows of stubble holding an early snow long since blown off the ridges above. In those rows a few does were picking away and a few others were bedded tight, out of the wind. In the center lay the buck.