For some, solitude might conjure a feeling of loneliness. For others it brings a sense of peace to your heart in a world where silence is harder and harder to find. I have found over the years that my personality leans toward the latter. With silence, I find a deeper sense of gratitude for the life to which I return. My means of finding this solitude comes each fall, bow in hand. Chasing mule deer in the high alpine with stick and string forces a level of dedication and perseverance only possible when all other thoughts are removed. With a pack of rations to last the week, a tent and warm bag for shelter at night, and a quiver of arrows, I take to the mountain. My daily routine shifts to one starting with a warm cup of coffee followed by a short commute to a high knob in search of the four mature bucks I had previously located throughout the summer, scouting the willow and pine-covered slopes capped with rocky outcroppings reaching above the last blades of grass.
Sitting down, pulling the straps from my lightened pack carrying only the essentials for the day, I reach for the tripod and binoculars, taking advantage of early dawn before the sun blinds the higher end of the basin. In a few short minutes, the grayed forms start to differentiate themselves from the background of vivid green. The bodies of the mature bucks are unmistakable, swayed backs and multiples in size to their compatriots. From the moment of first light, I follow their movement, watching their unique nuances. The larger forked buck has an almost palpable dominance. Not overly concerned with his surroundings, a false sense of hierarchy over the others. The old, withered six has a sense of wisdom. He places himself amongst the other smaller teenagers as if to build a fortified position regardless of where they feed. The heavier clubbed buck has associated with the wide but crabby-forked buck in the head of the basin away from the bulk of the herd. They all pick through the grass to find the fresher blades, moving toward their morning cover. Unlikely to shade them in the high noon sun, they bed to take a respite from their heavy breakfast. As if they were watching the hands of clock, between 10 and 11 a.m., almost all move to thicker brush, taking advantage of the stunted pines’ wind break or shade of a high ledge. Taking note of their home on the hill, I drop elevation to cross the snowmelt creek and work to find a route above, looking for an unobscured trail putting me inside the effective range of an arrow.
High quality optics mounted on a tripod allowed the author to glass for hours looking for a mature buck.