Rimrock
Active Member
- Messages
- 175
2018 turned out to be a year full of fun, adventure, and great memories in the back country for our family. Between 4 children and me, we had a handful of general season/low point tags in two states. We enjoy the beauty and solitude of the back country and spent our time on public lands with packs on our backs, miles from the nearest roads, chasing high country bucks.
I want to thank those on this forum who were kind enough to share their knowledge with us as we explored a new area to us. BuckSmut, ColoradoBoy, DirtyGrass, Elks96, and several others were particularly generous and helpful. But, my beautiful, patient wife deserves the most gratitude. Thank you, all.
So, here's a brief written and video summary of what made our 2018 hunts "the good old days" for our family ...
Scouting
We spent most of our free time during the summer pounding the trails and using our glass to locate the bucks we wanted to chase when the seasons arrived. With my desk job and a newly replaced knee, these regular high country excursions filled several purposes: getting me in shape, finding bucks, and postponing yard work
. During our 6 week scouting period, we we're able to locate 4 or 5 "A" list bucks and a dozen more we put on the "B" list.
Archery
We had a great time chasing our target bucks for 3 weeks with our sticks and strings. As is often the case during archery season, we saw plenty of bucks, many at close range, passed on the smaller ones, played cat and mouse with a couple "A" listers, and even let 2 arrows fly. In the end, however, the crafty bucks, swirling wind, other hunters, errant shots, and host of other variables, left us with tags in our pockets and experience to draw from in the future.
Muzzleloader
While packing in our camp a few days before the opener, we located a solid buck we had not seen before. We named him the "Backdoor Buck", a handsome buck who never moved far from cover. He became my target on the opener. At first light, I located what I thought to be this buck feeding with his buddies about a mile away, deep in the canyon where we'd seen him earlier. I dropped down through the cover, keeping eyes on him as best I could, as he fed away from me. I side-hilled the steep terrain and crossed several cuts as I closed the distance to 300 yards. Upon closer inspection, it was not the Backdoor Buck. With one more draw to cross between me and the buck, I decided to sit and glass, as he disappeared into the trees, heading for bed. While I glassed several groups of deer, I heard some rustling in a thick quakie patch, 125 yards below me. It was too thick to see much, even with binoculars. An hour passed as I continued to glass the country, when I heard more rustling in the aspen thicket. Again, I could detect no movement, but I was sure it had to be a deer. I waited and glassed and glassed and waited. Hours passed and the deer were all bedded up. I decided to eat my lunch and pass the time. More rustling below. "Probably a doe", I thought. I continued to wait patiently, watching as the shade from the bushes I was sitting under was replaced with sunshine. As the hours passed, I began to bake in the sun. Several times throughout the day, I thought about forcing the issue and moving to a different spot, pushing whatever was making the noise below me out of its hiding place. But, each time I got ready to stand up and make something happen, I decided to wait. Gut instinct, I suppose. I debated the wisdom of my approach, wondering if I ought to try something different. I decided to sit. 9 very long hours had slowly passed and the sun was dropping in the west when I, again, heard more rustling below. I began to search the thicket again with my binoculars, trying to separate the shadows from the light, as the breeze made the golden leaves shimmer and quake. To my great surprise, I caught a glimpse of an antler, as a buck stood up and began feeding in the shade. Gratefully, the prevailing wind had been in my face all day long and I had been pretty quiet. My eyes strained to see what I was looking at, when he took another step forward into a 3 foot "window", stretching his neck high to feed on some willows. It was the Backdoor Buck! I could barely believe my eyes. I quickly removed my spotter and laid my gun across my tripod, hoping he wouldn't move. I found him in the scope and ignored his rack, focusing in on his vitals which were the only part of his body I could see. I took a breath and held. When the smoke cleared, he had disappeared. Patience had paid off, in this case.
Rifle
My son, Jim, and my daughter, Audrie, left the truck at 5:00 am to start our vertical march up the mountain peak. We left early, hoping to get ahead of the opening day crowds and enjoyed the mild, morning darkness. 2 hours later, we had reached our destination as the dark sky turned gray. We glassed up a couple groups of does and small forkies. Nothing to get the interest of the young hunters. We decided to split up the two guns. Jim opted to continue higher up the mountain alone, while Audrie and I worked the country we were in. After two uneventful hours, we heard several shots above us. 40 minutes later, my phone rang. "I got him," Jim reported. I could hear the smile on his face. I also knew this meant I had a long day ahead of me, climbing another 1,500 vertical feet to help my son take care of his trophy. This was his first solo buck. I told him to get started and then I hustled up the steep mountain, legs on fire. 90 minutes later, he hadn't made much progress when I arrived, but together, we got the job done. "I've learned some good lessons on this trip, dad," he said as we made our descent. He told me how he had dropped his pack when he first spotted the buck and then followed him up the mountain. When he got within range and got the buck on the ground with 4 shots (2 hits, 2 misses), he realized, then, that his extra bullets were in his pack, 400 yards below. The buck was not dead, yet, as he raced back down to get his pack and ammo and hiked back up to finish the job. Important lesson learned.
Audrie decided she would only fill her tag if she could improve upon her best buck to date, a nice 3 point. She only had 2 days to hunt because of school and work obligations and she never found a buck that met her standard. She let several small bucks walk and left her tag in her pocket. Proud of her.
Late Rifle
My son, Morgan, and I had drawn late season tags in an area we'd never hunted before. We hoped the weather would cooperate and deliver some snow and cold temps, but knew it was a bit of a gamble. In June, I extended a business trip over a weekend to scout the area we had examined on Google Earth, just trying to learn some of the roads and trails and trying to get a feel for the country. As the season approached, we got the storms we were hoping for and the thermometer took a nose dive, creating what we thought would be perfect conditions for the rut. We arrived on the unit 4 days early, to get serious about our scouting, hoping to find some thick-necked, heavy horned bucks, and to finalize our strategy.
With a few pointers from new MM friends, we covered country and tried to learn as fast as we could. We spent every minute of every day on the search. We battled sub-zero temps as we hiked and glassed and glassed some more. After 4 days of scouting and 3 days of hunting, we had located plenty of deer, had witnessed rutting behavior every day, and had covered many miles with our boots and our eyes. We had not, however, located a shooter.
On the morning of day 4 (of our 5 day hunt) I finally spotted a shooter. He was a great looking 4 point with good forks and solid mass. Of course, he was pushing his does 3 miles away and several thousand vertical feet above us. Tired, but excited, we spent the next 6-7 hours working our way above him, trying not to bust any deer between us, and using the terrain to keep out of sight and the wind in our face. As we peaked over the ridge, through the bushes, we found him at 240 yards. I told Morgan he would be on the trigger. At the report of the rifle, the buck jumped and kicked his back legs, as if he were hit, and then disappeared behind the hill. Morgan's gun jammed in the freezing temps as he tried to chamber another round. I followed the deer and caught up to them as they headed out of the basin. With Morgan's gun inoperable, I held on his shoulder and sent 130 grains his way. "You hit him," Morgan said, as the deer buckled, but didn't go down. I shot again as he climbed up the hill. "You hit him again." But, he continued to climb, much to my disappointment. One final shot before he left the basin did not connect. With the snow beginning to fall and light beginning to fade, we got on the tracks, hoping to find blood in the mixture of mud and snow. Nothing. We searched until darkness and 3 inches of new snow made searching useless.
The next morning, on our final day, Morgan relocated the buck 3 miles away, on his feet, pushing does, apparently no worse for the wear, while his brother, Tyler, and I hunted a different area within 2 miles of our camp. Morgan repeated the previous day's hike, closed the distance, waited until the last hour of daylight, but could not turn the old buck up. He decided to fill his tag with a respectable 3x4 he'd been watching as the sun set on his 2018 hunting season.
Meanwhile, while Morgan was chasing his buck, Tyler and I worked some country we'd been hunting earlier in the week, hoping something bigger had moved in. After 9 days of scouting and hunting had only turned up one shooter, I had my doubts about our chances. But, we kept at it, sneaking through the aspen draws. Finally, good fortune smiled on us. With only 500 yards between us and our camp, as we crested the final draw, Tyler said, "There's a doe." We looked to our left and saw two more, just 80 yards below us. We looked in the trees and saw dark horns and deep forks moving sideways through the cover. A group of 10 does was being pushed by a shooter. I couldn't tell how big, but he was big enough. They were heading for private property about 100 yards away, so there was no time to waste. I hustled up to a tree, through my pack on the ground and made a snow angel as I picked up the buck in my scope. Tyler, on a dead run, circled below, trying to head the deer off before they jumped the fence. My trusted, old .270 did its job as the 130 grain bullet found it's mark. I couldn't have been more pleased with the result. He was a beauty. After all the miles, all the hours, all the sweat, and all the vertical feet, my buck ended being just yards away from our camp on the last day. Sweet irony. And good fortune.
In the end, to me, it's this mixture of hard work, preparation, persistence, frustration, patience, family time, spectacular country, majestic creatures, and a little luck that make these "good old days" worth remembering.
Rimrock
I want to thank those on this forum who were kind enough to share their knowledge with us as we explored a new area to us. BuckSmut, ColoradoBoy, DirtyGrass, Elks96, and several others were particularly generous and helpful. But, my beautiful, patient wife deserves the most gratitude. Thank you, all.
So, here's a brief written and video summary of what made our 2018 hunts "the good old days" for our family ...
Scouting
We spent most of our free time during the summer pounding the trails and using our glass to locate the bucks we wanted to chase when the seasons arrived. With my desk job and a newly replaced knee, these regular high country excursions filled several purposes: getting me in shape, finding bucks, and postponing yard work
. During our 6 week scouting period, we we're able to locate 4 or 5 "A" list bucks and a dozen more we put on the "B" list. Archery
We had a great time chasing our target bucks for 3 weeks with our sticks and strings. As is often the case during archery season, we saw plenty of bucks, many at close range, passed on the smaller ones, played cat and mouse with a couple "A" listers, and even let 2 arrows fly. In the end, however, the crafty bucks, swirling wind, other hunters, errant shots, and host of other variables, left us with tags in our pockets and experience to draw from in the future.
Muzzleloader
While packing in our camp a few days before the opener, we located a solid buck we had not seen before. We named him the "Backdoor Buck", a handsome buck who never moved far from cover. He became my target on the opener. At first light, I located what I thought to be this buck feeding with his buddies about a mile away, deep in the canyon where we'd seen him earlier. I dropped down through the cover, keeping eyes on him as best I could, as he fed away from me. I side-hilled the steep terrain and crossed several cuts as I closed the distance to 300 yards. Upon closer inspection, it was not the Backdoor Buck. With one more draw to cross between me and the buck, I decided to sit and glass, as he disappeared into the trees, heading for bed. While I glassed several groups of deer, I heard some rustling in a thick quakie patch, 125 yards below me. It was too thick to see much, even with binoculars. An hour passed as I continued to glass the country, when I heard more rustling in the aspen thicket. Again, I could detect no movement, but I was sure it had to be a deer. I waited and glassed and glassed and waited. Hours passed and the deer were all bedded up. I decided to eat my lunch and pass the time. More rustling below. "Probably a doe", I thought. I continued to wait patiently, watching as the shade from the bushes I was sitting under was replaced with sunshine. As the hours passed, I began to bake in the sun. Several times throughout the day, I thought about forcing the issue and moving to a different spot, pushing whatever was making the noise below me out of its hiding place. But, each time I got ready to stand up and make something happen, I decided to wait. Gut instinct, I suppose. I debated the wisdom of my approach, wondering if I ought to try something different. I decided to sit. 9 very long hours had slowly passed and the sun was dropping in the west when I, again, heard more rustling below. I began to search the thicket again with my binoculars, trying to separate the shadows from the light, as the breeze made the golden leaves shimmer and quake. To my great surprise, I caught a glimpse of an antler, as a buck stood up and began feeding in the shade. Gratefully, the prevailing wind had been in my face all day long and I had been pretty quiet. My eyes strained to see what I was looking at, when he took another step forward into a 3 foot "window", stretching his neck high to feed on some willows. It was the Backdoor Buck! I could barely believe my eyes. I quickly removed my spotter and laid my gun across my tripod, hoping he wouldn't move. I found him in the scope and ignored his rack, focusing in on his vitals which were the only part of his body I could see. I took a breath and held. When the smoke cleared, he had disappeared. Patience had paid off, in this case.
Rifle
My son, Jim, and my daughter, Audrie, left the truck at 5:00 am to start our vertical march up the mountain peak. We left early, hoping to get ahead of the opening day crowds and enjoyed the mild, morning darkness. 2 hours later, we had reached our destination as the dark sky turned gray. We glassed up a couple groups of does and small forkies. Nothing to get the interest of the young hunters. We decided to split up the two guns. Jim opted to continue higher up the mountain alone, while Audrie and I worked the country we were in. After two uneventful hours, we heard several shots above us. 40 minutes later, my phone rang. "I got him," Jim reported. I could hear the smile on his face. I also knew this meant I had a long day ahead of me, climbing another 1,500 vertical feet to help my son take care of his trophy. This was his first solo buck. I told him to get started and then I hustled up the steep mountain, legs on fire. 90 minutes later, he hadn't made much progress when I arrived, but together, we got the job done. "I've learned some good lessons on this trip, dad," he said as we made our descent. He told me how he had dropped his pack when he first spotted the buck and then followed him up the mountain. When he got within range and got the buck on the ground with 4 shots (2 hits, 2 misses), he realized, then, that his extra bullets were in his pack, 400 yards below. The buck was not dead, yet, as he raced back down to get his pack and ammo and hiked back up to finish the job. Important lesson learned.
Audrie decided she would only fill her tag if she could improve upon her best buck to date, a nice 3 point. She only had 2 days to hunt because of school and work obligations and she never found a buck that met her standard. She let several small bucks walk and left her tag in her pocket. Proud of her.
Late Rifle
My son, Morgan, and I had drawn late season tags in an area we'd never hunted before. We hoped the weather would cooperate and deliver some snow and cold temps, but knew it was a bit of a gamble. In June, I extended a business trip over a weekend to scout the area we had examined on Google Earth, just trying to learn some of the roads and trails and trying to get a feel for the country. As the season approached, we got the storms we were hoping for and the thermometer took a nose dive, creating what we thought would be perfect conditions for the rut. We arrived on the unit 4 days early, to get serious about our scouting, hoping to find some thick-necked, heavy horned bucks, and to finalize our strategy.
With a few pointers from new MM friends, we covered country and tried to learn as fast as we could. We spent every minute of every day on the search. We battled sub-zero temps as we hiked and glassed and glassed some more. After 4 days of scouting and 3 days of hunting, we had located plenty of deer, had witnessed rutting behavior every day, and had covered many miles with our boots and our eyes. We had not, however, located a shooter.
On the morning of day 4 (of our 5 day hunt) I finally spotted a shooter. He was a great looking 4 point with good forks and solid mass. Of course, he was pushing his does 3 miles away and several thousand vertical feet above us. Tired, but excited, we spent the next 6-7 hours working our way above him, trying not to bust any deer between us, and using the terrain to keep out of sight and the wind in our face. As we peaked over the ridge, through the bushes, we found him at 240 yards. I told Morgan he would be on the trigger. At the report of the rifle, the buck jumped and kicked his back legs, as if he were hit, and then disappeared behind the hill. Morgan's gun jammed in the freezing temps as he tried to chamber another round. I followed the deer and caught up to them as they headed out of the basin. With Morgan's gun inoperable, I held on his shoulder and sent 130 grains his way. "You hit him," Morgan said, as the deer buckled, but didn't go down. I shot again as he climbed up the hill. "You hit him again." But, he continued to climb, much to my disappointment. One final shot before he left the basin did not connect. With the snow beginning to fall and light beginning to fade, we got on the tracks, hoping to find blood in the mixture of mud and snow. Nothing. We searched until darkness and 3 inches of new snow made searching useless.
The next morning, on our final day, Morgan relocated the buck 3 miles away, on his feet, pushing does, apparently no worse for the wear, while his brother, Tyler, and I hunted a different area within 2 miles of our camp. Morgan repeated the previous day's hike, closed the distance, waited until the last hour of daylight, but could not turn the old buck up. He decided to fill his tag with a respectable 3x4 he'd been watching as the sun set on his 2018 hunting season.
Meanwhile, while Morgan was chasing his buck, Tyler and I worked some country we'd been hunting earlier in the week, hoping something bigger had moved in. After 9 days of scouting and hunting had only turned up one shooter, I had my doubts about our chances. But, we kept at it, sneaking through the aspen draws. Finally, good fortune smiled on us. With only 500 yards between us and our camp, as we crested the final draw, Tyler said, "There's a doe." We looked to our left and saw two more, just 80 yards below us. We looked in the trees and saw dark horns and deep forks moving sideways through the cover. A group of 10 does was being pushed by a shooter. I couldn't tell how big, but he was big enough. They were heading for private property about 100 yards away, so there was no time to waste. I hustled up to a tree, through my pack on the ground and made a snow angel as I picked up the buck in my scope. Tyler, on a dead run, circled below, trying to head the deer off before they jumped the fence. My trusted, old .270 did its job as the 130 grain bullet found it's mark. I couldn't have been more pleased with the result. He was a beauty. After all the miles, all the hours, all the sweat, and all the vertical feet, my buck ended being just yards away from our camp on the last day. Sweet irony. And good fortune.
In the end, to me, it's this mixture of hard work, preparation, persistence, frustration, patience, family time, spectacular country, majestic creatures, and a little luck that make these "good old days" worth remembering.
Rimrock
