Successful Hunter July-August 2018

The shot was one of those a hunter dreams about, but which never happens in reality: A white-tailed buck, standing broadside on a point of rock, perfectly still and silhouetted against the sky. You’re lying prone 250 yards away with a rock-solid hold, the crosshair motionless behind the deer’s shoulder, and one glittering instant in which to make the shot. Miss it, and you’ll be kicking yourself for the rest of your days. ...Read More >

A reliable source tipped me off the day before the news went public. The Montana Department of Fish, Wildlife and Parks had discovered chronic wasting disease (CWD) in a mule deer buck shot some 15 linear miles from my front yard. A short time later, another muley buck tested positive from the same area. A whitetail doe about 25 miles farther north was also confirmed as a CWD carrier. ...Read More >

I could always count on one thing when hunting coyotes and gray foxes with Gerald Stewart, son of predator-calling pioneer Johnny Stewart: The cab of his Suburban would smell like a road-killed skunk. Gerald was a huge fan of using cover scents, and his favorite was a concoction of two chemicals – inert until mixed together – that produced a powerful skunk essence he insisted we use at every setup. His favorite method for dispensing this raucous odor was to soak a cotton ball and stuff it in a 35mm film canister, replacing the cap between setups. ...Read More >

Just barely a scrawny teenager, the first “deer rifle” I ever hunted with was placed indifferently into the palms of my hands – by a fellow I had never met – in the cold, early morning darkness on opening day of deer season atop some forgotten ridgeline in the southern desert country of California. ...Read More >

Ron Shelton applies for an Arizona Coues’ deer license every year, but because the December hunt takes place early in the rut, there are a limited number of tags available. ...Read More >

In this issue is a well-written feature, “Arctic Grizzly,” by Guy Miner, who pursued a lifelong dream in a state that long ago earned its reputation for fantastic sporting opportunities through careful, often highly restrictive, game management. ...Read More >

It seemed a good idea at the time. My family’s penchant for pronghorn in the shape of succulent grilled loins, juicy burger and spicy Italian sausage had been thwarted for three seasons by our failure to draw tags in our home state. A leftover doe/fawn license was available for purchase in Wyoming – in a hunting district adjacent to an older brother’s home in Gillette – for a price just eclipsing that of a large pizza. ...Read More >

During middle school and high school, I usually drew a muzzleloader elk tag every other year, and hunted with a bow when I did not draw. However, none of my hunts ended in success until my junior year. I didn’t draw an elk tag that fall but finally connected on my first deer with dad’s old CVA Hawken muzzleloader as he proudly looked on. Unknown to me, that year started something that would come full circle nearly 25 years later. ...Read More >

This year’s elk hunt started the same as many before it, with much research and staring at maps, followed by anticipation that only a hunter could know, and lastly a long cross-country drive to Colorado. The stage was set with two long-time hunting partners, a brother and a friend who was an adult-onset hunter. We would be hunting public land in a wilderness area of a national forest in Colorado. Access to our honey hole of a drop camp would be a 3½-hour horseback ride preceded by a two-hour drive in 4WD low. ...Read More >

It was time to go after the bear. We each jettisoned our warm clothing, grabbed our rifles and quickly headed out from camp. My .30-06 had four cartridges in the magazine, but an empty chamber. Joey, my guide, was 30 years younger than me but taller with an athlete’s conditioning. He moved out in a hurry, and I was so glad I’d spent many hours in the gym, hiking and riding a bicycle before the trip. We literally ran across the tundra, down from our observation point on the hill. Neither of us was wearing our wading boots. ...Read More >

Crawling between stands of sagebrush while weaving around patches of dried and noisy ceanothus (lilac), I made my way toward a saddle between two hills. Far below were a pair of mule deer bucks, both larger than any others I had ever seen during hunting season. Now I was trying to close the gap, and it was as if I could already see myself wrapping my notched tag around one of those wide and tall antlers. While making my way around the last sage, however, I came to another area of “buck brush.” ...Read More >

Heading home from a wild boar hunt one morning, I spotted movement along a willow-lined creek. I pulled off to the side of the road and got a good look. It was a cougar. This happened in California, where I couldn’t shoot it, but I wanted to see it better. My binocular, though, was just out of reach in the back seat. ...Read More >