Non Fly Fishing, An Antelope Story I am Working On...
Not sure if any of you had the chance to read a few of my publications in past years, but I haven't picked up a pen since late 2015. Felt inspired after an adventure and have been working on this. Please let me know what you thing. Something dies at the end, so if that's not your bag, click the back button. Thank you!
No Place to Hide
They are in a perfect spot. Finally, some terrain to hide behind. Sitting in the low sage I watch.
Three blown stalks today. This is starting to feel impossible. Either the wind switches, an unseen doe picks me off, or I come over a hill in the wrong spot. Always just in time for them to see me before springing off through the sagebrush and cactus.
No one ever kills by loading up and going home, so give myself the mental pep talk that i think most hunters have to. “It only takes 10 seconds. One opportunity, keep going. Enough time in the field and it will happen.”
I watch for a good while, they are sitting tight. A group of about 10 antelope are slowly meandering around a dust wallow on the top of a softly sloped rolling hill. At the top of the wallow, is the key to making a stalk. The wallow is a slight depression, rimmed by a few foot tall vertical cut. It's about the size of a small swimming pool, and I think it just might be the cover I need.
Long loop around to get behind them. The way they are facing I am going to have to walk around the entire unit. The small mountain in the center of the unit will hopefully conceal my approach. It might just get me where I need to be.
Crouched and moving slow. Making my way down the hill towards the base of the mountain. I stop one more time before I lose line of sight to watch. Haven't moved at all. Perfect, feels like I have all the time in the world. No need to make haste. No need to get my heart rate up and make unnecessary noise.
Arriving at the base of the mountain, the middle pass strikes as a good route, so I climb. Only about 400 feet to the top. Cresting through the pass, a young mule deer buck and a group of does catch my movement. They stare. I can’t. Maybe it’s superstition but any time I'm getting glowered at I have to look anywhere but back at them.
Please don’t go right. Please don’t go to the right. That’s straight toward the antelope. After a 5 minute stare down, they bust left, out of sight and away from the scanning eyes that I am doing my best to elude.
Sitting on the crest, looking through my binos. I check again. They haven’t moved. Still bedded under the cut face in the wallow. I tell myself it’s time to go. My heart picks up speed and hands start a slight shiver. Happens every time.
Dropping off the top of the mountain I find myself in a giant flat. Close to 600 yards or so of wide open flat ground between me, and where I need to be. There’s no place to hide. Moving slow, glassing every twenty steps or so.
Kneeling to get a good look through my glass. Movement. A doe stands up and starts to feed. Frozen. No place to hide. It felt like hours.
Legs aching, arms heavy, neck throbbing I sit. In the open sage and dry grass. She makes a small circle and beds down. Not where I want her to, but she is facing away at a quartering angle.
Still stuck, she sits still. She isn’t moving. Either a move is going to work, or it isn’t. Feet flat on the ground again, move slowly to the left. A small hill offers just enough terrain to get out of her periphery. 150 yards in the open feels like a mile. Her form fades into the golden shine of the prairie.
Under 100 yards now. Pull an arrow from the quiver, knock it to the bowstring. Moving slowly now. Under 50 yards.
Prongs reveal through the grass. Under 30 yards now. Heart is racing.
The wind slides over the back of my neck. Stomach sinks. The small buck that I can see stands and is nervous. He turns and sees me.
Busted. The group flies to their feet, sprinting out of the wallow. I stand with the range-finder ready. They all stop. There’s a large buck in the group.
I click a range on him, it reads 75 yards. He’s still not moving. Roll my sight to 75 yards. Hasn’t moved. Click my release on, draw. My pin settles. The shot breaks. My bow hand reactively grabs the grip. It’s a bad arrow.
The arrow hits back. He jumps at the impact. The other antelope bust out, all but him. Raising my binos, i see a good sign. He is bleeding, heavy and consistent. He lays down as i crouch and watch. Heart racing, hands shaking. The adrenaline dump that happens in situations like this.
This is taking too long. He has been bedded for a few minutes. Do i get up and try to put another arrow in him? He is suffering. I begin to move slowly toward him. His head begins to drop. With valiant effort, not wanting to give up he tries to stand. He lifts his front off the ground and falls to the side. Still. The wind in the sage and my heartbeat is the only thing breaking the silence.
That sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. He deserved better.
A slow walk toward a lifeless form. It is finished.
My hands slide over his body, stiff short hair. Black gnarled horns with white tips.
Death is not something that is to be taken lightly. We all take from this world in one way or another. As hunters, we choose to take from nature directly. Death is part of life. Remorse, excitement and gratitude.
This is why I am a hunter.
