The 2013 Montana Trip - A Two-Parter

(These two stories are also published at Good Hunt)

Montana Mule Deer Hunting

Harris and Trace with Trace's 2013 Montana Mule Deer

Curiously, for a place where you can see miles in every direction, the mule deer on this property popped out of nowhere. You’d sit there, glassing for hours on end with nothing but binocular burn in your retinas, when all of a sudden they’d line every hill like in a Western movie when the White Eye is in peril from a Bad Guy and the sympathetic Native Americans silently assemble a Show of Force that springs the man from danger. In this case, though, the mulies were the ones in danger.

Once satisfied the coast was clear below, they’d slither down the sides of these hills following well-worn trails of generations of deer. A few would pop out of the deep coulees between the hills unannounced; but either way, they’d all congregate – 50 or so at a time – on a pivot field at the bottom planted with alfalfa. On the edge of that field is where Harris and Trace were waiting Sunday afternoon.

Really, it sounds easy, but it’s far from – “far” the operative word. This ranch – just outside of Willow Creek, Montana – is a diamond in a valley, so to speak. The hills to the east and north pale in comparison to the snow-capped alpine fixtures constantly in the Big Sky horizon, yet they’re steep with plenty of nooks and crannies to shelter a large population of animals. As you move south and west there’s a river system that fuels the waterfowl hunting and harbors healthy whitetails amid the cottonwoods along the banks. Beyond that it gets steep again.

Positioned in between is where the mulies, whitetail and pronghorn all meet to feed. It definitely helps that the private ranches here grow alfalfa, wheat and other agriculture which lures the game from their haunts. The problem is, it’s open territory. Targets are deceptively far. Guessing a distance and then putting a rangefinder on it is humbling. There’s not much to break up a hunter’s movements other than the occasional cottonwood, olive tree, or hay bale – and they were too removed from the pivot field to bother setting up for a hunt.

Trace and Harris with the 2012 Mule Deer Harris killed

Oh, we performed our due diligence the previous two evenings. Harris killed a wonderful buck last year on one of the hills with Trace alongside to assist. Both of them drew tags this year and invited me to go along. Having been there before, it was tough to decline – with the promise of a duck hunt or two in the mornings, impossible. So the three of us spent Friday evening on the glasses watching herd after herd of deer move into the field – more deer than I’ll likely see in Florida over the next five years – hoping to make sense of their movements.

Realistic options for closing the gap on these deer were few – hide in the edges of the field and hope for one to feed within range without the swirling wind busting things up, or traipse up the hills like Harris did last year; however, the ranch manager had been reporting a number of shooter bucks reliably in the alfalfa with does. Plus, the one time Harris and Trace tried to ascend the hills and loop above the field on Saturday, every deer stopped munching and tracked their movement, though they were a cool half-mile away. It was amazing to watch how tuned in these animals were, which made us nervous about setting up too close to one of their trails. If it happened to be the wrong path the buck traveled, there was a strong risk of spooking the does.

Attacking the field was the clear choice, but there was no obvious fail-safe method in which to get within distance – fortune would have a say in this. On the last day of the hunt, an idea was born. The plan was for me to drop Harris and Trace along the grassy eastern edge around noon before the deer hit the field and wait them out. They’d rest prone, glass the field, and pray Ol’ Big Buck eventually drifted within a realistic shot. The theory was that even if the deer saw us they would not be bothered by the white Dodge Ram if it came and left in a relative hurry. For the guys to walk from camp to their set-up would have taken at least 30 minutes of needless exposure. Harris quickly unfolded a blanket on the hard ground, and they got settled as I turned back to the cabin to settle myself on the back patio to glass and enjoy the show with several ice cold Kokonees and Josh Ritter.

Those guys held on longer than I would have. To say Montana weather is unpredictable is about like saying the ocean has some water – it’s so understated it’s ludicrous. On a given day, the temps may rise to 65 or so, then comes a wind gusting 40 MPH out of the hills that will blow bricks off a table and, wham, 30′s. After two hours on the patio and not spotting a single breathing, caring animal that would excite at least a little adrenaline, I had bundled up with almost every garment I could find that would still allow me to raise my arms enough to look through the Nikon binos.

Exactly as I described it above, however, without warning or reason, suddenly deer were everywhere. A herd of does followed by a duo of immature bucks. Four whitetail does wandering behind Harris and Trace. Another string of 8 – 10 white-rumped mulies single-lining it from the SW. They were scattered all over Big Thong – a pair of similarly rounded shaped hills we named that had a ridge of evergreens that looked like a waistband at the top and a row of trees traveling down a coulee that perfectly bisected this terrain into a rocky-based butt…you get the picture, I hope…

Perhaps the beer was making one particular animal appear more attractive, but I had been keeping an eye on a large-bodied deer that was hanging around a herd of cows. When you deal with 130 lb. Florida deer for a living, every mule deer looks big. But this one just seemed different; however, he was a long way off in the dull of an overcast afternoon. So I’d keep scanning the countryside. But one time I gazed back as his head lifted and the setting sun poked through the clouds and lit up those antlers. Even at an incredible distance, it was obvious he was a shooter.

It’s illegal in most Western states to communicate deer activity like this to hunters on the ground, but it would not have helped anyway. They were pinned down by the numbers. The thought of moving would have sent all four-legged creatures scrambling up the hills. I sat there thinking about, if I were hunting him, how I could get in range but kept coming up blank.

Gradually, I lost sight of the buck as he ambled further into the field to feed under the pivot, a patch of olive trees the ringnecks would fly into obscuring my view. I wasn’t certain if the others guys had spotted him from their prone vantage point. Wasn’t totally sure I wouldn’t later find them frozen like Hatchet Jack…

Eventually, luck shines on everyone. Buy him a beer one day and Trace may relate the story of how he connected with that buck – it’s not my tale to tell. Up close, he was a gorgeous mule deer – a mainframe 4×4 with a single brow tine on his left beam. It was Trace’s first mule deer buck, and we couldn’t have been happier for him. Can’t wait for the mount to return from the taxidermist to admire it on Trace’s wall. By then the smell of his tarsal glands will have finally dissipated from my fingertips and clothing.

One forky hung around and circled The Fallen, thinking perhaps he was the new King of the Hill. It would have been a cinch shot and was pretty tempting, but Harris, the professional hunter he is, passed him up for next time.

Next time, that buck will be bigger, stronger, but hopefully no smarter. Mule deer hunting is tough enough in this part of Montana. Even when you’re surrounded by them.

(Thank you to everyone…everyone…who made this trip happen for me. Could not be more grateful. Congrats yet again, Trace! #corporatepigeon)

Keep reading below for more on this trip....

Fun in Airports - Montana to Tampa

Harris, Trace and I loped through the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport late Monday afternoon, three hunters still clad in cold-weather clothing that had, by this point, absorbed the funk of four days of travel, cabin drinks and saloons, and the residuals of our planned objective, all-day duck and mule deer hunting outside of Willow Creek, Montana. Every moment wasted was one that could have doomed us to watching our flight leave for Tampa.

The additional sweat from this sprint was cruelly inflicted by forces beyond our control. When the intercom notified us as we taxied to the gate that the jetway was not operating properly, the passengers grew restless. We had a short layover; others realized they were doomed.

One gentleman – though the term grew loose for him after this altercation – laid into a stewardess about this tardiness as if she had some charge of rule in the situation or was perhaps a contestant on Undercover Boss. She took it as a pro – I’m sure that wasn’t that the first rodeo for her. Like it or not, until they repaired the jetway or moved the plane to another gate, we were stuck in one of those small connecting Delta jets that don’t appear designed, strangely enough, to transport grown humans that care to sit upright.

So I can justify the frustration; his verbiage and manner, not so much. He even inquired why they didn’t deploy the emergency exit slides – not sure how chuting everyone onto a half-frozen Minnesota tarmac to scatter like ants for an entrance into the airport and through security would help anyone’s time frame. This guy clearly wasn’t a hunter – we’re far more adept to handling situations beyond our control and putting in the extra work to take advantage of what time allows.

Eventually, the stewardess – or, more likely, someone else – decided the best option was to taxi the jet to another gate, and the race was on. I hope that guy missed his flight – we sprinted past several who did who were forced to re-book their trips home. It had to have been funny and probably somewhat alarming in this day and age of airport security, to witness three guys in camo chug through the crowds to reach their gate. Making matters worse for me, my jeans kept falling down, and I had worn flip-flops from the camp – even though it had started snowing there as we were packing to leave – to help move things through security when in Bozeman. Tough to run with frostbite in your toes and pants around your ankles.

(Speaking of Bozeman, I will testify that airport is spiritually satisfying for sportsmen. Upon arrival, it’s the symbol that the adventure has begun. Large picture windows display the gorgeous surrounding snow-capped peaks. The line of hunters at baggage claim awaiting their firearms and gear discuss their fraternal purposes for their travel, whether it’s mulies or elk or waterfowl or upland birds. Departing will leave you wanting to return. Just a wonderful, albeit small, part of the experience.)

Our mad dash paid off as we made the departure gate in time, the lady scanned our boarding passes, and the stewardess welcomed us on the plane so the child behind us could commence kicking the back of our seats. I’ll refrain, in these delicate times of anti-bullying, from saying anything too nasty, but this kid was unruly. My fear of flying is well-documented; each thwack of his tiny foot into his tray table struck my heart, thinking for sure a wing had just fallen off. Two-and-a-half hours of this can drive nearly anyone to an outburst, but, perhaps recalling my feelings on the jerk from the connecting flight or the fact the parent-figure sitting with him and trying to correct his behavior in a helpless situation had the unmistakable appearance and weariness of a foster parent, I endured without snapping.

But, I noticed everyone looked weary on that flight as we got settled. The stewardess told us we would be waiting on another passenger, a big fellow who clearly had not run from Gate C2 to F13, nor seemed capable of. A lot of Western Hunts are physically demanding. The most strain I had was climbing in and out of a duck blind and this run. The details of the actual hunt are coming later this week. As a preview, let’s just say the scent of a rutting mule deer may not be scrubbed off us for another week or so, which probably rendered us more offensive than any other person on these flights.

We landed without crashing in Tampa, our mercy for not killing the seat-kicking kid rewarded by God, in my opinion. (Quick aside: when compared to the final approaches in Minneapolis and Bozeman, landing in Tampa feels like you’re setting down on the Vegas Strip.) Though completely wiped out, we spent the truck ride back to our respective homes talking and scheming about next year’s adventure – and happy to have been on this one.

Nothing that happens in an airport can detract from a hunt like that.

The Fear of Flying and More Montana Pictures

When people tell me flying is safer than driving, I generally assume they think I am stupid or drive to work in a Miata. It’s a ludicrous notion. A several ton machine carrying a tankful of high octane jet fuel and ill-mannered children, speeding along at a brisk 600 MPH 36,000 feet over places where I know no one. Yeah, sounds safe to me.

You know, where’s my sign?

I am terrified of flying. Palm-sweating, convinced I will die at any second terror. For years, I have rambled about this ad nauseum to anyone who’ll listen. Always have been scared. Never had a bad experience, minus the one time my parents had to literally peel my fingernails off a jetway ramp at Tampa International when I was 8 to load me on an Ohio-bound aircraft.

It’s really a control thing; namely, I am not in control. Next, I have no understanding how it all works but am all too familiar with the lurid news reports when one has a crash “landing.” True, I don’t have a great idea how the lights turn on in my house either, so I guess I shouldn’t get too worked up.

But I do. My trip to Montana. To begin, let me apologize to anyone flying from Orlando to Denver by way of United a couple Wednesdays ago. It was the airline’s fault they sold me those little bottles two at a time. Apparently there were kids aboard that may have broadened their vocabulary. I was cut off again on the flight into Bozeman, but at least I had reached that magical point where I was staring at the lights on Final Approach like a child entranced by a Fourth of July sparkler. I also spilled one drink on each flight directly on my crotch making it look like I’d had a pair of Uh-Oh’s.

We landed safely on all flights, as you may have deducted already. To my dismay, our return flight from Bozeman to Minneapolis to Orlando was re-routed due to some unspoken delay, thank you, Delta. We had to go from Bozeman to Salt Lake City to Atlanta to Orlando adding an extra death-defying takeoff/land routine to my travels.

The flight to Utah was awful in that Sardine Can they packed us in. I could feel the anxiety rising to my face and fought back the tears and urge to yell up and down the aisles demanding they pull over and let me out. The air marshal would have loved that.

Salt Lake to Atlanta wasn’t too bad other than the fact we were landing in Atlanta. Those of you who have been there will agree with me, this airport was designed by sadists. I’d describe it further but was too distracted by the sobering realization I'd split the butt part of my jeans and half-mooned God knows how many innocent weary-eyed frequent fliers in at least two different time zones.

By the Orlando flight, I was too dehydrated from sweating to care about my fate. The entire trip back I said the Lord’s Prayer approximately 2,513 times and contemplated for a few hours what song they should play at my funeral or wherever they’d dump some ceremonial ash for me. I settled on The Long Road by Pearl Jam, for no particular reason.

Every bump and pocket of air was certain doom. I was scared to shift my weight for fear of tipping us over. These aren’t the thoughts of a rational human.

I will provided my Top Three (out of 10,000) Moments I Was Certain of Doom.

3. The stewardess from Bozeman had a thick French accent. Just a little HR advice – if you are going to bother with the pre-flight safety procedure, please do it with someone we can understand. Due to my inebriation during the first flights, I had no idea what to do in the event of a water landing until we were about to depart for Atlanta. Not that this mattered because the Mississippi was about the largest body of water on this journey. Doomed.

(Also, forget the oxygen masks. Think “nitrous oxide.” Or, perhaps, self-administered shots of Demerol.)

2. From Atlanta to Orlando, Travis showed every stranger he could pictures of his soon-to-be one year old girl. Have you not seen any war movies? Do you not know how this works? Don’t go saying lines like you can’t wait to see your wife and child when in potentially lethal situations. You'll curse us all. Doomed.

1. In a similar vein, though much more potent, before we landed in Atlanta, the captain came over the intercom to wish one of the stewards good luck after 42 years of service and asked we all clap for him. Switch “war movie” from the above scenario with “cop movie.” Doesn’t anyone watch cut-rate cinema where a detective is just a few days from retirement but has to go on one last case. Guess what always happens to him. That's right. Doomed.

Even worse than feeling like The Day Has Come for every drop of turbulence, is panicking others. From Salt Lake, this nice gentleman took the time to talk baseball, guns and hunting with me. He could tell I was nervous. Then he – and I don’t know what psychological trigger sparks this in others when I tell them I am scared of flying – told me about his worst flying stories. Thanks. Jack, please!

One poor sap on the last leg of the trip told me he had flown all the way from Toronto to see the final space shuttle launch. Fully understanding that NASA cancels these launches like a picky old man sends steaks back at restaurants, I did wish him luck, not wanting to endanger my own. (They ended up canceling, too.) I told him it was just as reasonable excuse to travel as was duck hunting.

Back on terra firma, I am happy I survived the odds. It had been ten years since my last flight. Doubt it will be another ten. Montana is too gorgeous not to return, and there’s much more to see out there on this Ol' Blue Planet.

Next time I’ll just be tranquilized and tossed in the cargo hold.

No kids should hear me curse from there.

The Waterfowl of Montana

Mallards are big ducks that get swallowed in the steel blue of the Montana dawn, especially as they circle against the backdrop of a distant mountain or foothill. A pair of drakes had looped Cliff Pond a half-dozen times before dropping from the air that’s as fresh and thin as a July bride. They cupped up and bombed towards the decoy spread as we waited motionlessly, fingers on the trigger and breaths rolling out of the blind.

I did not fly to Montana to duck hunt. I flew to Montana to see Montana. And because Harris invited me to this beautiful 1000-acre private ranch near the Lewis and Clark country of Three Forks and Willow Creek. The hunting was strangely an afterthought in my mind. After four mornings of waterfowl hunting, my next trip will definitely concentrate on duck hunting, no question.

The waterfowl is mindboggling. My Lord, the ducks! In the rivers and irrigation ditches near the ranch, thousands of greenheads puddled with wigeon, gadwall, coots, Canada geese and wild swan. It’s quite possible I’ll never fully Q-Tip the hooting of honking geese from my eardrums. All day long you could sit on the back patio of the ranch house and watch waterfowl of some variety. With a long season and liberal bag limits, this region of Montana is a sportsman’s dream.

I am but a casual waterfowler. I’d never hunted ducks outside of FL or GA. I’ve killed more mottleds than mallards and found these wild greenheads strikingly beautiful when compared to the tamed ones so problematic to the aforementioned mottled ducks of the Sunshine State. It’s somewhat embarrassing to report that despite the amount of waterfowl we spied, we killed only a dozen or so greenheads. It’s the Beast of Hunting.

One, this place is impossibly open. Even the far expanses of Okeechobee marsh feel tight. We huddled in cut-out septic tanks buried in dug, shallow ponds. Those of us without waders were pushed with gear in a canoe to the hide-outs. Some service, I say...and said multiple times to the boys ferrying us. But anyway, you could see ducks and geese a long ways off. Having them choose this one particular drop of water amongst the reaches of the river and similar honey-holes on un-hunted land is a challenge that’s being addressed according to the ranch’s agenda.

Next, the weather was unseasonably warm for late October. The mornings were no colder than 40 degrees. Ranch Manager Ron said the migratory birds simply had not winged down yet. The ones that were there were residential ducks.

Which brings us to our third difficulty. A party the week before had put a solid hammer on what local birds lit on the property. They evidently had a fine shoot. The ducks that circled us did so with the careful, detail-oriented eyes of a jeweler.

I wanted a mallard for the wall; however, when pairs and trios come within gun range, the Five-Gun salvo made it awfully difficult to claim birds – probably hard for the Taxidermy Man to repair, too.

I especially craved a honker for the wall. I’d never hunted geese. It is its own challenge. One morning a flock flew over that we skyblasted at, but armed with 2’s we might as well be slinging rock salt at them. They would land in a pivot field of cut wheat and feed in groups of a hundred or more. We simply did not have the gear for this routine. I am pumped for the next crack at that.

Still, we made the most of it and hunted hard. Duck blinds are places for friends, anyhow. One of the two drakes mentioned at the beginning flew past Clark at butterfly-net distance. He failed to dump the quacker, something that was not easily dismissed. I missed my opportunity on one greenhead, getting the barrel of my BPS caught in the blind material on my right. Watching these big ducks cup and drop towards the decoys is a matchless experience.

Hopefully, I’ll be able to return one day. It’s truly beautiful country that is beyond writing, especially for an amateur wordsmith. The game is astonishing. Mule deer fed along the foothills. The long-tailed, Ring-Necked Pheasant cackled in the early morning and pitched between patches of deep grass. Coyotes howled in the coulees. Up the road on a private ranch, a green alfalfa field was literally swarming with pronghorn and mule deer. In the cottonwoods near the river, a herd of whitetails fed under the trees, a couple of the bucks bigger than anything I’ll catch up with in Florida anytime soon. Hell, even the black and white magpies impressed me. It’s a great place for the heart.

I’m a big game hunter, first and foremost. I long to travel many, many places in pursuit of this passion. The waterfowl of the Big Sky State now have me just as hooked.