My first muley: A test of perseverance

For the last three rifle seasons, I’ve set out to harvest my first mule deer buck.

After watching my husband take two spectacular 4x4’s, I was eager to pursue one of these arid, rocky slope beasts. Despite hearing unenthusiastic opinions growing up that, “You don’t wanna shoot a stinky Muley.” The bucks I’d tasted came from the same ridge tops and drainages that whitetails were cruising, so my mind was made up. 

This fall I finally felt like it would be the year – and a vibrant morning rainbow the day I shot my buck, seemingly pointed me in the direction of a promised blessing. 

On Nov. 3, my Facebook memories were pictures of Christopher’s impressive muley buck from five years ago. I remember that hunt like yesterday, hiking in on a familiar gated road, it was around mid-morning. The objective that day was elk, but in route we were stopped in our tracks as we heard thrashing just below the edge of the logging road we hiked along. Suddenly, a giant mule deer buck hopped up on the road in front of us, we both raised our rifles, but the deer stotted to the left where my husband had the better angle for a shot. No hard feelings. 

Reminiscing, I prepared for our morning hunt the next day on Nov. 4, up in the same area this time on a different road. With our two young boys at home with the sitter we got up to our spot at day break and started trekking in. 

It was a blustery morning, with rain and snow squalls sweeping across the mountains. We could see each storm system coming and tried to plan which side of the ridge to be on accordingly. I stopped to glass, and to my astonishment across the valley along a barren ridge more than two miles away, I spotted a group of deer ascending a crest. Too far off to pursue.

Plodding along we came to a spot I had seen a small forky mule deer buck last season, but had decided to pass on him. I ended up regretting that decision. Right on that same stretch of road we were watched the sun peek through the clouds as an incredibly bright and strangely short rainbow beamed from the dark storm clouds down to an adjacent hillside.

Christopher joked, “I think God is trying to tell us the deer are over there.” 

I rolled my eyes, laughed in agreement and trudged onward. We didn’t see a single deer that morning on our 6-mile hike, well at least not on our mountain. 

Back home for lunch and to relieve our babysitter, we put the boys down for their afternoon naps and tried to make a game plan. With no sitter for the rest of the day we’d have to bring our four-year-old, Onyx, and our one-year-old, Oryn, with us. Christopher sweetly sacrificed. Knowing I wanted to focus on my mission for a muley, he told me to go back out that evening solo and he’d keep the boys down lower in the valley and let them putz around on a no pressure hunt with him. 

At 3 p.m. with both boys napped and snacked, we split up with walkie talkies in hand, our 4G flip phones have no service in this area. The strategy was for me to hike in from one end of a gated road to a ridge that would bring me down gradually into the valley near the fellas. 

We needed the walkie talkies in case my exit point changed, or prayerfully if I got something, I could radio for help! On this hunt, it was the most deer I’d ever seen in an outing, like an embarrassment of cervid riches. 

Less than a mile from the gate I spooked a trio of whitetails. The next corner I got excited as I trailed a set of largely splayed apart buck tracks. I was hoping I’d come across him, but on my hunts earlier in the season on this same road, at this specific corner I’d only seen whitetails. So, I continued on. 

My next encounter was by a white mile marker 1 sign tacked to a lodgepole. I heard some rustling in brush below me, and suddenly the butt of whitetail deer bounced into the air. Two does were carelessly gallivanting along a game trail that paralleled the logging road, and they were walking right towards me. 

Following behind them, were two whitetail bucks. I only put my cross hairs on one with three points, a nice little basket buck that I’m sure would have tasted good. And standing there incredulously at 15 yards below me, it would have been an easy shot. 

I held a moment longer with my gun raised, and finally let him pass. I was after a muley. As soon as they winded me and spooked off I questioned my choice greatly.

For the next 20 minutes or so I concentrated more on covering ground then on spotting more deer. I had a way to go if I was to make it to my extraction point by dark. I bumped two more whitetail does along a straight stretch, and was thoroughly shocked at how many animals I’d seen that night. But frustration was mounting considering this was the road that a fellow hunting friend suggested would be good for mule deer, none that I could find at least. 

Around the very next bend I stumbled into mule deer territory. Regrettably, I didn’t glass the steep open face well enough that had burnt stumps and recent logging scars. The mountain up to my left was a severe angle upwards, and when I glanced at the horizon lined ridge a cluster of grey bodies stood out. A mule deer herd! I counted quickly; one, two, three…..no make that six does. And mixed into them stood the puniest little devil tined baby buck, his horns were maybe three inches long. “Really?” I asked myself exasperated. There’s got to be a bigger one here with a herd this size. 

Scanning the climbing wall hillside, he blended in seamlessly but once he moved, I saw his antlers. A mature buck, and a nice one at that. I tried several times to prepare for a standing shot, the position I most prefer to shoot in. But with the difficult slope I swiftly made a plan to sit on the far edge of the road, and found the perfect rock to sit on. 

The angle was still so sharp above that I couldn’t rest my shooting elbow on my knee. The herd slowly grazed unaware, so I had plenty of time to take the shot. Standing at nearly broadside, just slightly quartering to me, 200 yards up, I pulled the trigger on my husband’s 30.06. 

Watching the impact and the reaction of the shot, it looked good, and I felt like it was a decent shot even with the extreme grade and shooting position. Absolutely the hardest and furthest shot I’d ever taken. The buck hunched, he stayed completely still for a while, then took a small step. He was swaying. He stagger stepped numerous times for about three minutes. 

I loaded another round, but still believed he would topple at any moment. But then, his herd knew something was wrong…the does and the other small buck vacated the area and straight up the gnarly face. Just then, my buck decided it was go time or die so he began to follow, I was stunned. As he started going up, up, up, I shakily drilled two more shots into the deer. Both times I hit, just before he was about to crest the next logging road above me and go out of sight. 

I was panicked, worried, and frustrated at my not ideal follow up shots. 

Switching on my walkie-talkie, I whispered out of breath, “Chris, did you hear those shots? That was me. Get up here!” 

Him and the boys parked back at the gate where I started, but he had a two-mile hike in with an uncooperative four-year-old. As they started their way towards me, I chose to make my way up to the last known sighting of my buck. One option was continuing on my road another mile, the other was to up. I had less than an hour of daylight, the forecast that evening was calling for rain. If I didn’t get up that slope and start blood-trailing I feared I wouldn’t find him.

It about killed me scaling the 400 feet up in 300 yards, clawing and scratching my way vertical with a 20-pound pack. As I reached first blood and starting marking it on OnX I was exhausted but hopeful. The blood was good, consistent, and it looked like the buck wasn’t moving fast. As I crested the logging road above me, I could hear a little voice below, “Mama, we’re down here!” I updated Christopher on the situation and then made my way after the buck. He stayed on the logging road and went into a drainage, just as I found his tracks head off road, I heard his movements below me. 

The muley finally appeared on the other side of a little spruce forest, standing next to an enormous ponderosa, I took my final shot. I wasn’t proud of taking that many, and I hated that it wasn’t a quick kill. But I was proud of myself for persevering and pushing onward to find him, and worked hard to recover him. 

I only had a brief moment to go up and study him, to lay hands on him and offer up a prayer of thanks and gratitude. I held his unique antlers, an impressive four point on one side and giant fork on the other. He had a big body, and the meat would go far. 

Waiting impatiently below me and getting dark fast, my husband and boys guided me back down the awful hillside with headlamps as a beacon. Falling a few times from lack of food and an adrenaline crash. We then had to get creative and tough, because we still had to hike out in the dark with two little ones, and leave the buck till we could go for help.

I handed off the hunting pack to my husband, who then added the 40 pound 4-year-old on his shoulders, then I took the 25 pound toddler in the hiking pack. The scramble back to the truck was long, with lots of tears, and singing silly songs to help the boys not be too frightened out in the pitch-black woods. 

That same night, our neighbor Jeff, offered to help Christopher pack the buck out. After a change of clothes and a quick snack they returned to the woods for another five-mile trek. A little misunderstanding led them to have to drag the buck, instead of bringing our pack frame, which was extremely difficult on the rocky road with no snow cover. But under the red hue of an aurora lit sky, the fellas got back home around 1:00 a.m. with the buck in tow.

I got my first mule deer buck this year, and although the hunt didn’t play out like I wished it had, I am proud of myself for going out solo, for not freezing in the moment when things went south, and not letting the buck get away for good. 

As hunters we all endeavor to make the best and cleanest shot possible, for the animal to go down quickly and humanely. But in reality, that’s often not the case, even on a perfect vitals shot. Ask anyone who’s hunted more than a few years, they’ll have a story to tell. It's then in those seconds and minutes after the shot rings out, those choices dictate whether or not you’re coming home with a harvest. 

And we are so incredibly blessed to live in a state, and a country where we can pursue this primal adventure, and partake in this challenging and thrilling ancient tradition of hunting.

    A vibrant rainbow appears the morning of the hunt. Where the colors touch the ridge is where I got my muley. (Mineral Independent/Amy Quinlivan)
  

    I wasn't able to get a picture of my buck in the field, because of our quick retreat with the boys. So first thing in the morning after my husband and our friend got it home, I went out and posed with my harvest. (Mineral Independent/Amy Quinlivan)