A story about a Wyoming woman, her horse, and the friends who helped them harvest their first mule deer.
By Haley Fitzgerald
Development Director, Wyoming Wildlife Federation
My story starts before the ass crack of dawn. It turns out I'm not highly motivated at 4 a.m., so my boyfriend (Matt) kindly assigns me the task of feeding the dogs and making myself a coffee before we go. By now, he knows the coffee is more for his safety than my well-being. He opts to do the brunt of the labor before we depart.
At the bottom of our road in Jackson, Wyo., a friend meets us for the adventure. As I sip my coffee, our horses paw the trailer's rubber mats, and our friend Ryan tosses his bag and scabbard into the back seat of the dodge. Upon arrival at our what will remain an undisclosed location, it is still pitch black, and the horses shift uncomfortably as our headlamps reflect off their eyeballs. I'm riding the four-year-old half draft, Rio, we acquired off a retired outfitter a couple of months ago. He is somewhat reliable at this point in our career together, but I can feel his discomfort as I douse my headlamp and begin up steep hillsides. As we ascend, the light starts to brighten. A sliver of orange moon guides us until the sun begins to wake up. At this point, we are on a familiar ridge and tie up to start on foot. We glass for hours. The pink skyline is met by the dry reds of an early Wyoming fall, and there isn't a critter in sight.
Alas, my binoculars do work, Bovine! It's opening day of rifle season for deer, and all we have seen are cows. We know who holds the grazing allotments here, and after several hours the group begins to joke that we should call up and inquire about the cost of a tag. Finally, a buck appears in the shadow of a pine that is surrounded by yellowing aspens. We are collectively here to fill my tag, and everyone has gotten eyes on this fellow except for me. I must admit my eyesight is low, or rather, my eyes just haven't had enough experience to recognize the camouflaged shape of a tawny hide in the tan dried grass. We crunch our way to a ridgeline that will hopefully allow me to see the buck that I'm apparently hunting. The ridgeline doesn't allow for a decent view, and ultimately the bovine blows our chances.
I'm not very ego-driven when it comes to killing things. I find that this is a trend that I see and respect in women and myself. I only want to take the chance if the shot is there, and I know the animal will be harvested humanly. It's opening day, and I have all season to fill a tag. I'm not just looking for any opportunity; I'm looking for the perfect opportunity. Also, did I mention I still haven't laid eyes on what I'm hunting!
We collectively decide to make our way back to the horses. During the hike back, we run into a group of Wyoming good old boys. I haven't met any of them personally, but I've heard the legends and folklore. Of course, Ryan and Matt talk with them like they are old friends, which they are. I listen to one of them tell tall tales about a buddy who keeps finding trouble with ladies of the night he takes on as full-time housewives, and he has us in stitches. Not the most boring way to end a morning in the woods. We all glass a bit longer, and the legends take-off on horseback. I enviously watch as a fjord horse takes up the rear. We are still on foot, and the ascent looks daunting.
We finally hit a plateau, and my breath is heavy. I take a hard right at the three horses I see in the distance. As I've mentioned, my vision is poor, and as I trudge closer, I realize - not our horses. I go to veer back on the path with my comrades, but a waiving orange hat catches my eye. All three of us make our way to the Wyoming legends walking as quietly as possible per their gestured request. "We've got your buck!" was followed by instructions on finding him in my scope. I found him, still as a statue between to trees. I couldn't see his rack, but I could see his girth and mass and knew he was a prize. The pressure was on. I had an audience of 6 men who intermittently commented on if I missed the shot, they'd be sure to get it and also, I needed to remember to breathe. I wouldn't have this opportunity without them, so I asked them to shut the hell up as politely as possible. One in the chamber of my Remington 25-06, three breaths in followed by three breaths out, squeeze don't pull. Follow the ritual.
Despite the adrenaline coursing through me, I took him down with one shot through the lungs. That's all I care about, a humane kill. One and done. Matt assured me by the way that he had tucked up that he had taken a few bolting steps and fallen. He was right, and he was proud of me. I also really care about that!
We quickly found him 80 yards away, a beautiful mule deer buck in full velvet. We made quick work of field dressing him with my New West Knife Works 4-inch Outfitter knife- the only hunting knife I'll ever use. After the first few cuts, I rubbed blood in Rio's nostrils. Today would be my boy's first day packing out an animal, and he did it like a goddamn champ, securing his forever home. We packed out, and on the car ride back, I was notified I would be receiving an early Christmas present in the form of a shoulder mount. I'm not sure where it will fit amongst his trophies, but thanks, Matt.
