The Old Man and I Do Wyoming

rtraverdavis

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Oct 20, 2016
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This is not a success story. At least, not in the way of big dead mule deer.

This year, I wanted to do a big, out-of-state adventure hunt with my dad. I don’t know how many more of these we have left, so time with him was a priority. Not that I expect he’ll drop dead any minute, but he has some extreme physical limitations that are the cumulative effect from his time in Vietnam, and many, many major surgeries in the last 20 years. So time in the field for him is rapidly closing.


Leaving Oregon in the pre-dawn light:

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Between the time we drew the tags and the hunt itself, the excitement of planning began to build. Calls to the biologist, hours on OnX and GE, and all the other stuff consumed me. My dad, once as enthusiastic about hunting as I am, now seemed content to take a backseat approach to the whole deal. When I introduced him to Google Docs, where I created our master list for the trip, he rolled his eyes at me and told me to get out the damn paper and pencil, he didn’t have time to figure out this “computer shit.”

Dialing in final loads for the old .257 Bob:

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Our tags were for a general unit, easily drawn as a second-choice, and not known for big deer. Even still, I had my sights set on a mature buck, and made a deal with myself that I would come home with a good deer, or with an unpunched tag in my pocket. We opted to hunt the last week of the season, thinking there would be less hunter pressure and hopefully some good weather. Weather came, and our first night in camp got down to -15*, a salient experience for a Western Oregon boy.

Preparing to build camp:

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I had two, somewhat opposing plans for this hunt—find and kill a good buck, and spend as much quality time with my dad as I could. In trying to accomplish both, we spent the first day and a half of the hunt covering country in the truck. We’d drive to a spot I’d e-scouted, I’d hike out to a good vantage, glass, move to the next spot. Pops would stay near the truck, as walking more than 100 yards on uneven terrain is all but impossible for him. Lots of windshield time for us to debate life’s important issues, like why Franz donuts are superior to Hostess, and why mule deer are the world’s best animals. A great way to cross off a lot of country from the list.

Sunrise on The Big Open:

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Road hunters’ delight:

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Taking it in:

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Tuesday evening found me leaving Dad at camp so I could climb up into somewhat higher country. I immediately started finding deer. The biologist had told me that the deer would be migrating out of the high country in the timeframe we’d be there, and that I’d likely see rutting behavior in the last few days of the season. I figured since I was getting into piles of does, there had to be a good buck lurking nearby. I spent dark to dark on Wednesday and Thursday by myself, miles from open roads or other people.


The country was stunning:

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But the only bucks I could turn up were guys like this:

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Or this:

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And with one day left in the hunt, I had to ask myself what I really wanted from this time. Since I’d never been in the unit before, and am not nearly as skilled of a hunter as many of the folks here on HT are, I wasn’t sure what to do. I figured that the weather earlier in the week had not in fact been enough to push the bucks down yet, and believed they’d still be up in the highest areas of the unit, which are almost exclusively private. There are some smaller sections of public, but they’d take some effort to get into, which would mean that I’d have another day away from The Old Man.

I thought about this rare time that I had, away from the frenetic day-to-day responsibilities of a job and a house and raising two young kids with my incredible wife. About all the hours I spent over the course of the year dreaming about mule deer. And I thought about the pattern I’ve had over the course of my life to choose relationships over other personal aspirations. I wanted to at least see a mature buck. But in the grand scope of life, did that matter more than spending one last full day out in the field with my dad, on what could very well be our last big hunting trip? Which would mean more? Which would I remember more?

If luck holds out there will be many more years for me to find Big Hank, but not so spending a cold, windy day in simple silence with the man who means more to me than any other. There were some easily accessible river bottoms on state land that we could set up on that I thought might hold a whitetail or two. So that is what we did. No deer were seen, but I wouldn’t trade that day for anything.

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And that was that—last light at last night:

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