blog

Rock 'n Roll

Wed, 25 Oct 2017 19:49:17 +0100

ROCK 'n ROLL
December 31, 2016
-Jordan Seitz-

Drawing the late season cow tag near my home isn’t as easy as it used to be. However, this year I was one of the lucky ones.

I waited until Christmas break so my father-in-law Dirk could join me, and so I’d have the time to mess with it. For goodness sake, at the onset of break I still had to process the frozen quarters from my bull that were packed in the freezer!

Days passed as I waited for timing and weather to line up. New Year’s Eve was the day.

Dawn was barely breaking as we left the truck and crunched past the building’s at my friends’ ranch. We topped the first hill – where we would stop to glass – with perfect timing. It was a beautiful clear morning and our breath hung around as we peered across the meadows up to the foothills. “Jackpot!” I exclaimed when I spotted a cow and calf beyond the first set of cottonwoods. We watched them a few minutes and Dirk mentioned his hunt had “already been made” by just seeing them.

About then, I realized I’d forgotten to replace the shells for my rifle that I’d placed on the dash of the pickup when we’d gone predator calling the previous week. I still had the three shells in the Cannon, but was slightly uneasy continuing without my usually backup half-dozen. It would cost me at least 15 minutes to get them, and we needed those minutes to hunt. When Dirk said I’d just have to treat it like a muzzleloader hunt, I shrugged off the nagging doubt about having enough shells and we quickly continued on to where we could drop out of sight along a creek bottom.

We made good time under cover of the trees and creek bank. The snow was terribly crunchy when we cut across a meadow corner, trying to keep a patch of willows between us and the elk, hoping they might think we were one of their own even if they heard us.

Finally, we were where we needed to be…and of course, the elk weren’t. Their slow feed was still too fast and had just moved out of rifle range. On a positive note, we noticed two other groups of cow elk, all in places we could get to if we hurried.

Returning to the seclusion of the creek, we made our way further up the meadows. My second attempt for a shot was still too slow.

At that point, I knew we needed to make a decision, because the elk were out moving us. We’d had a fun hunt already, so I suggested we call it a day, and be happy with the success of just seeing elk. Or I could take off running, and try to catch the elk before they hit the timber. Dirk would then follow my tracks to meet up later. Basically, Dirk’s response was, “Go!”

With his encouragement I took off running…which wasn’t smart in knee deep snow, because by the time I got back up into the next open meadow, I was already sucking wind. I slowed, but still moved as fast as my lungs would allow. My goal was to get to the last patch of aspen, and use it as cover to sneak the last 100 yards for a shot. I made it there undetected, but didn’t plan for a straggler cow to bust me at 50 yards as I crunched through the trees. Feeling like my chance was slipping through my fingers, I hurried through the aspen, crouched through an open section of willow, and then quickly snuck through the last chunk of trees to where I could drop my pack and put my crosshairs on tawny hide. The group of 20 or so cow elk should have been within 1-200 yards. Instead, the busted cow spooked them up the hill and they were all about 300 yards away on the sky line. I couldn’t line up a good shot. As the last couple cows fed over the ridge hill top, I decided not to rush and shot and wait. Once their heads disappeared, I grabbed my gear and sprinted toward the top. I crept over the apex, expecting to see the herd standing in the sagebrush below just before the timber. No elk. I looked around trying to figure out what happened. Finally deciding they had either charged away without stopping, or they were very close right below me, still on the hill. Creeping a little further, I suddenly saw several cow heads facing me from about 40 yards below me. I ducked, dropped my pack, and crawled forward several yards. Then I shouldered my rifle and stood, hoping I’d moved enough for a shot. I had indeed, but the cows didn’t tolerate my intrusion and the whole pack started to run. At around 80-100 yards, they all stopped. I scanned over them with my crosshairs, trying to find one standing at a good angle, but one that also was a mature cow and not a calf. At this time of the year, many of the calves were quite large, and their dark manes sticking straight up due to the cold, making them look even bigger.

Finally settling on a mature cow quartering away on the left of the group – this all occurred within seconds – I took careful aim. The cannon kicked and the herd took off running again. My cow was hit hard through the back hip, but she was still travelling well and keeping up with the rest. I rushed my second shot when the paused again over 150 yards away. They were over 200 when the group paused one last time before entering the timber. My cow slowed in the deepening snow, so I grabbed my pack, threw it down in front of me, and lined up a prone shot. As the echo subsided, my elk was still alive and bedded on the edge of the trees.

That’s when the enormity of my situation hit me. I was 2 miles from the truck, I’d shot my last of three shells, and my elk wasn’t dead. Right away I knew I should have saved that shot, but in the moment I’d been paranoid that my cow would get away either into the timber and waist deep snow, or she’d turn around and speedily cross the last meadow onto the neighboring property. I’d been confident that my last shot would have anchored her, but something went awry. Later I’d discover that my first shot had taken out the offside lung, and one of my subsequent shots had passed behind the ribcage.

Trudging back down the hill I tried to figure out what I should do. Dirk had watched the whole thing through his binoculars, seen the elk run off the first time, heard the cannon’s report, and seen me jarred from the recoil of the shots.

We met up down below.

He said, “Three shots, that’s not good.”

I told him my first shot had put the cow down, but that she wasn’t dead yet.

Once he knew that, he got excited and we shared a Mountain Dew he’d packed in to celebrate.

Leaving our packs and my now useless rifle, we hiked back up the hill to survey the situation.

Looking through my Nikon 12x glass, I felt excitement rise back up inside me as I exclaimed, “That’s a dead elk!” She’d expired shortly after I’d turned around.

As temperatures slowly rose out of the single digits thanks to the clear skies and rising sun, we spent the next several hours enjoying the moment and quartering the elk.

We left the quarters in the shaded snow, I packed the loins on my back with the rest of my gear, and we began the hike back to the truck, scouting a route for the Land Cruiser because Brooke planned to meet us and ease our pack-out!

The final couple hours comprised the wildest snow ride I’d been on in many years, as we revved the motor and sent rooster tails of snow flying. Despite the clutch losing pressure, we managed to bounce, baha, roll, and blast our way over and through ditches and drifts, nearly getting stuck several times. The reward for the white-knuckle ride was parking within 50 yards of the elk quarters! Ironically, Archie – who’d fallen asleep just before Brooke met up with us – didn’t wake up the whole time! I guess that’s one way to rock a baby to sleep…

Tracking a Jackalope

Wed, 25 Oct 2017 19:36:08 +0100

TRACKING A JACKALOPE
January 2017
-Jordan Seitz-

Dirk and I have a standing tradition to bowhunt jackrabbit, cottontails, and jackalope when he visits at Christmas.

Last year we’d successfully removed several rabbits from the local population, but their antlered cousins eluded us. Later in the winter, I’d seen a jackalope running with a herd of deer nearby, so I knew there was a possibility we’d finally get our chance at one.

Usually I carry a recurve for rabbits, but this time I was armed with my Drenalin for its long range capabilities.

Shortly after arrowing a cottontail, we cut a set of tracks that suspiciously looked like they might be a jackalope. These tracks are very similar to a regular white-tailed jackrabbit. In fact, one cannot tell the difference between the common jackrabbit and a doe jackalope. However, a skilled tracker notices subtle differences in the track of a buck, such as the depth of the impression left by a jackalope’s extra weight, or pieces of bark and weed seeds left on the surface of the snow, which have been carelessly knocked out of place by the buck’s antlers.

We threw caution to the wind because darkness was approaching and we wouldn’t have time for another hunt. Therefore we speedily took up the trail. It led us away from the willows we’d been hunting, into a wide draw, where it cut perpendicularly up and to the right into a thick patch of sagebrush.

Dirk took the right side, I took the left, and we slowly walked through it, hoping to spot the wily buck before he took off running. Such was not the case. An explosion of snow at Dirk’s feet resulted in him bellowing that the buck was headed my way. Normally I don’t take running shots, but with jackalopes, one can’t be picky due to very rare shot opportunities. In fact, it had been about 7 years since my last chance.

I drew my bow, anchored, and frantically looked about. I suddenly saw a pair of spike bounding through the sage in the direction Dirk gestured.

My pin wobbled around crazily, but I steadied my nerves, and readied for a shot when the buck broke through his cover. A blur of while emerged crossing to my left at an estimated 53 yards, so I raised my 30 yard pin about 15 inches above the buck and led him about 31 inches due to his speed.

In slow motion, I watched my arrow arch through the air, and then lose elevation until it intersected the buck! My three blade muzzy broadhead zipped right though him and he did several summersaults before coming to a dead stop. Both of us stood in shot, first looking at the buck, then looking back at each other. Finally I gave a whoop and trotted over to retrieve my long sought trophy.

Darkness quickly enveloped us, but we didn't notice as we gleefully headed home, my second jackalope swinging over my shoulder.

Mangy Madness

Wed, 25 Oct 2017 15:15:16 +0100

Mangy Madness

July 30, 2017

-Jordan Seitz-

*Disclaimer: I generally only take calculated, high success rate shots. With big game this is an absolute. But in the occasional case of varmints, especially deer killing coyotes, calculated estimation on a lower percentage shot has to do!

It was about 8:15am and I had family visiting. Looking window, I saw a canine crossing the pasture and said, “is that a coyote?” My uncle said, “Naw that’s a dog.” It was manged up and had a scrawny tail, so it wasn’t an easy ID right away. I took a second look and decided it was a coyote!

I ran out the door, grabbed my .17hmr out of the truck along with a predator call, and sprinted to my yard fence. I rested my stock over a crosspiece, and squalled on my call. Earlier in the summer it had brought another coyote right up to the pasture fence, 30 yards away. The ‘yote looked back at me, paused, and then mosied further into the pasture, sniffing at prairie dog holes and glancing at the pronghorn it was approaching. In my haste, I’d left my range finder in the truck, so estimated the ‘yote was almost 200 yards away.

When she stopped broadside atop a dirt mound, I had to sled to my left for a clear shot through the fence. Aiming high, I squeezed off a round. A second or two later my bullet hit and took out the coyotes elbow! It growled and immediately began spinning circles while my uncle hollered from the window that I’d hit it. My second bullet missed and then I realized my clip was empty and the rest of my shells were still in the truck!

I ran back, grabbed shells, and loaded a second clip as I ran back to the fence. By the time I jammed the loaded clip into my gun the coyote had stopped spinning and was licking its wound. I rushed my third shot and the song dog sprinted to my left about 100 yards before it stopped next to a patch of sagebrush to survey the situation.

I settled into my shot, held high again, and squeezed off another round. This time I focused through the scope as the bullet whistled across the pasture. I saw the coyote collapse and heard a whop! My uncle hollered “You dumped it, you dumped it!”

I was wearing crocs at the time, so I went back to the garage again, got some shoes, and grabbed my range finder. I discovered my first hit had been 250 yards, and my second 215.

I climbed through the fence and circled around towards where the coyote was laying. In the back of my mind I was thinking that my tiny bullet shouldn’t have dropped it so hard at that distance - it just doesn’t have that much energy. I should have really slowed down, maybe even crawled, because suddenly the coyote jumped up and sprinted across in front of me, disappearing from view in some deep grass. Behind me I could hear my little boy yelling that “It’s running dad, the coyotes running!”

I ran up, rifle at the ready, and scanned around trying to see where it had gone. I didn’t see it exit the pasture, so I wondered if it was just holed up hiding. I spotted a culvert and glanced into it as I passed. The silhouette of the coyote looked back at me from inside! Dropping to my belly, I fired a final 10 foot head shot.

There is a saying that “If you don’t have a picture...then it didn’t happen!” So I needed to crawl into the shoulder wide culvert and drag the mangy varmint out. A person has to really block out the feelings of claustrophobia in those situations! A funny note was that I had to remove my good jeans before crawling in so that I wouldn't get them dirty since they were brand new! It ended up being good sized female, but mange had really taken its toll.

I’d traded off my .223 for this .17hmr in the early spring, so this was the first big varmint I’d had a chance to shoot with it!

Pop Goes the Weasel

Wed, 25 Oct 2017 14:40:06 +0100

Pop Goes the Weasel
January 19, 2017
-Jordan Seitz-

In early January during a bowhunt for rabbits on a different public land section, I cut a set of weasel tracks.

Then it clicked…why wait for the fall? Furs were prime, I had a little time, why not start trapping now?

It didn’t take long for me to order a pair of #3 Bridger coilsprings for varmints, and clean up some old rat traps I had laying around. I read articles on the internet, and thumbed countless times through my old National Trappers Association Trappers Handbook. The information was as good today, as it was 20 years ago when I bought it.

I built a couple weasel boxes, modified the triggers, and collected trapped mice and rabbit hearts and livers to use for bait. Finally, I had everything I needed. Archie helped me place and bait my two sets on January 8. With the cold weather, I was able to space my checking out to every two or three days.

I’d read that weasel might not return to the same area for a couple weeks, so I tried to stay patient as the days passed

On January 19 (night 11), I wasn’t surprised to find my first box empty. The second looked empty too and I took a step to leave. I hadn’t been able to see real well into the hole; usually I removed the box lid to check my traps for sure, but I’d been getting used to them being empty. Something made me turn back around and unscrew the lid. The sight of a while weasel in the bottom of the box took me by surprise! It looked small to me (I’d only seen a few brown ones in my lifetime), but further research told me it was likely a normal sized female short-tail.

Cat Scratch Fever

Wed, 25 Oct 2017 14:20:18 +0100

Cat Scratch Fever
February 6, 2017
-Jordan Seitz-

Towards the end of the month, on January 27, I decided to move my weasel boxes to a new location. When I finally did, I cut a set of bobcat tracks that I strongly suspected was from the same cat that left tracks in December. The locations were close enough that it was more than likely, and fit into the plan I’d been slowly developing to make my first attempt to trap a bobcat.

That week I’d made final preparations by adding 4 feet of chain to my #3 Bridger coil-springs, and wiring them to t-posts I would haul to location for drags. On the morning of the 29th, I planned to make my set and left before everyone was up in search of a jackrabbit to use as bait. As luck would have it, there was one road killed just after I turned onto the country road! I decided not to waste a bullet or any more time, so I tossed it in the back of my truck and headed back home.

That afternoon, Brooke, Archie, and I headed to the spot on my weasel line I’d already pre-scouted. There was quite a bit of snow yet, however it had melted off at the base of random willow bunches, allowing me a clear patch of ground to work with. Freeze-thaw conditions and additional snows would not be conducive for my traps firing properly (they’d freeze to the ground or get covered with too much snow). However, I’d been monitoring the weather, and knew I had at least a week where it would be perfect trapping conditions. After that, it would get a bit dicey as more snow was forecasted.

Archie played with grass and sticks as I prepared my set. I wired the jackrabbit out of sight from above in the willow clump, and cleared away the leaves and chopped away at the dirt to make two level spots to place my traps in front. Any varmint coming to inspect my bait would hopefully step into one of them. My trapping trowel, along with most of my old trapping gear, was in Michigan, so I used Archie’s mini-shovel. Then I had to carry down several mini-shovelfuls of dry dirt from up the draw because my dirt was more frozen with moisture than I’d anticipated.

With my traps finally bedded firmly, I placed guiding sticks in strategic locations and Archie – 9 months old – helped by handing me some he found.

Ironically, on that weekend my buddy Anson in Iowa called in a bobcat that ended up getting shot by his hunting partner.

Nearly a month of weasel trapping helped keep the excitement down so that I didn’t rush and check my traps every day! I wanted to check them every other for scent control, and my own time management. I forgot to place shiny flagging in the branches above my set to catch a passing bobcat’s attention – I’d read that it was helpful, and Joe recommended it too. Therefore, on my first check early before work, I tied strips of folded tin-foil from three different branches to wave around and reflect light in the slightest breeze.

The next weekend, Archie started to get sick. He was in rough shape all day Monday, and I started to come down with flu-like symptoms. Legally I didn’t have to check my trap-line until the next day due to Wyoming’s 72 hour check limit on
live-catch traps, but I told Brooke my ethics required checking them even if I didn’t feel good. Plus, we had bad weather forecasted, and in the off-chance I’d actually caught something, I might need to track it down; something that would become exponentially more complicated if we got snow.

Parking my truck, I decided to leave my .22 mag revolver in the cab. Partially because I didn’t want to carry it (forgot my belt), and because being unprepared sometimes improves my odds when I’m hunting!

Half-way to my bobcat set, I heard a metallic rattle, and a crazy cat scream. Stopping, I told myself: “Nahh theres no way” and shrugged off the thought that I might have trapped a bobcat.

Slowly easing through the willows along the creek bottom, I looked about with paranoia. I’d read plenty of stories where trapped bobcats tried to attack the approaching human, and 4 feet of chain on a drag didn’t bode well for me.
Stopping where I could see my set through the branches, the torn up ground immediately told me something had gotten caught.

Movement about 6 feet further in drew my attention. My eyes about popped out when I focused on a bobcats face staring at me! Once I collected my thoughts, I slowly backed out and jogged back to my truck for my revolver. A bobcat! I can’t believe it! After procuring my Ruger, I snuck back towards the cat.

Paranoid that the cat might escape if it wasn’t trapped well and I scared it enough, I tried to minimize my disturbance. The cat growled at me as I approached with deep raspy voice. It was crazy. As I attempted to take a quick video to record the wild sounds being emitted, I got confused. One second the cat would look at me from the left side of the next willow clump it was behind, and the next second it would stare at me from the center of it. At first I thought it was thrashing around, but I suddenly realized there were TWO bobcats boring their eyes into me! They were so close together I wondered if they’d somehow gotten trapped in the same trap!

Easing forward just a little more, I decided I was as close as I dared. Another couple feet and I’d be within striking distance – or attacking distance – if the wildcats had full mobility with the chain and drag.

Looking down my open sights, I crouched to find a clear shot at the first bobcat, touching off a shot aimed at his shoulder as he quartered to me. He sunk to the ground and I lined up on the second cat, dropping it with a neck shot threaded between even more branches. I was a little taken aback when the first cat stood back up and squared off towards me, so I thumbed the hammer and dropped him for good.

I left them where they were so I could collect my thoughts, give them time to make sure they were dead before I tried removing them from the traps, and continued on to check my weasel boxes which ended up still being empty.

It was with disbelief and reverence that I knelt to untangle my first bobcats.

As a trapper, I actually accomplished quite the feat. I’d trapped two wildcats with two traps, placed at the same set. Turns out, they both got trapped separately, but then tangled themselves in exactly the same spot, so their feet and the traps were overlapping in the branches. One was beautifully clean, and the other looked like it had rolled in the mud puddle between my set and their entanglement. Leaving the traps behind – I’d get them later – I took pictures in the fading light.

I’ve trapped and shot a lot of different animals and critters, but these wildcats were something special.

The walk back to my pickup became increasingly difficult as my fever spiked and my chest constricted, I should have been on cloud-nine, but I felt too sick. That night I bagged them both and stuffed them in my freezer, displacing a lot of edibles to a pair of coolers. I assumed I’d trapped a mature female and juvenile.

Nearly a month later I removed them from the freezer to clean up the muddy one and thaw them both to get them registered with our local Game Warden. Was I thought was a juvenile, began to grow as its fur dried and began to fluff. After a minute of inspection, the Warden told me I’d actually trapped a mature male and female that had been travelling as a pair! They weighed around 18 pounds, and stretched about 4 ½ feet toe to toe!

Rural Education

Wed, 07 Dec 2016 23:09:26 +0100

Rural Education
August 31, 2012
-Jordan Seitz-

I wrote this in 2012 and it was published in Eastmans’ Bowhunting Journal!

Whoever coined the phrase, “Third time’s the charm,” never spot and stalked public land pronghorn with a bow! 2011 was my first year hunting speed-goats, and they very quickly humbled me as an archer. Luck more than skill led to my arrow connecting with a buck that fall.

2011 – First Pronghorn, and First Archery Pronghorn!

By the time the 2012 season rolled around, I’d become a savvier stalker, and my success ratio for closing the distance on any animal had greatly improved. A couple days into the pronghorn season, I thought I had my tag filled. On my knees, I patiently waited for a bedded buck to stand up from below the curve of the hill so I could whack him. Just as I planned, he eventually stood up out of his bed at forty five yards, and I sent my arrow on its way. Unfortunately, he ducked and spun ninety degrees before my arrow even reached him. Later that morning, I had another buck duck my arrow at thirty five yards. Days later, buck number three stood staring through me, broadside, forty yards away. He was the biggest pronghorn I’d ever seen: a gray colored hog with heavy horns, and a massive mule deer shaped body. Thinking I had the game figured out, I aimed right below his chest, anticipating he would duck and drop right into the arrow. I was devastated when he didn’t flinch until my arrow sailed directly below his chest and shattered on a rock behind him.

First Miss

Second Miss

The early morning hours of Friday, August 31, found me restlessly tossing and turning, wishing my brain would slow down and succumb to sleep. Rising to the surface above the many thoughts, was the reality my time for bowhunting pronghorn had run out. September’s focus would be on elk, and I tried to reflect positively on the great encounters I’d already had. I’d seen a lot of animals, made many stalks, and even photographed a group of fifteen bighorn yews and lambs. Unfortunately, the reflection was marred by the three tag-filling opportunities I’d successfully blown!

Wearing out my Shoes

Bighorn Lambs

Rain pounded the evening before, and it was a clear, full moon night. I knew the conditions were going to be prime for the pronghorn herds to be feeding on the BLM slopes up off surrounding private ground at sunrise. By the time my alarm went off, I’d made up my mind to hunt once more, and to do it before work started! My wife thought I was insane as I pulled on camo and tossed my teaching clothes in the backseat of my pickup. Disgruntled, I recalled I was almost out of gas, and the gas station was closed…so I tossed my gas can for the lawn mower in the back. Half-way to my hunting area, I had to pull over and pour the three or four gallons from the can into my pickup.

Sunrise

It was after 6am and into the shooting light as I crept out of the first aspen patch on the hillside. I was surprised to see a group of does to my right within bow range! They didn’t spook, and I watched them file up over the hill. Quickly moving out of sight below, I followed the hill’s base until I approached a spot where I thought I’d intercept the group.

Carefully sneaking uphill, nearly to where I thought I’d see the does, I was startled to see one skyline to my right. Dropping low and moving a few steps farther, I ranged the doe at fifty yards and was about to draw when I noticed the small bunch had grown to around thirty does and fawns. I had a doe tag in my pocket, but with that many does, I thought there had to be a buck with them. I missed my window to shoot as I looked over the group and they moved out of range. I snuck closer and glanced around for the buck, finally spotting him behind me and off to my left, bedded on the next hill watching my group. Bringing my attention back to the does, I crept forward again, only to have them feed into a position that wasn’t stalkable from my angle.

The buck was just begging to be stalked, so I crept back down the hill, putting the only available tree between us. Eventually I ranged the tree, and ranged the area buck was bedded. If I could get to it, I’d be able to peek out from the tree and have a seventy or seventy five yard shot. I slowly moved forward and had nearly closed the gap when the buck popped up and moseyed off his hill onto mine, quartering slightly towards me, heading in the direction of the does. With the sunrise to my back, I mirrored his movements and every step we each took decreased the yardage between us. When he paused, I ranged him at eighty and drew back. He began walking again so I let down and moved forward. I was crouching as low as possible and shuffling forward on one or two knees. When he paused broadside, I ranged him at seventy five and drew again. My pin was settling behind his shoulder just as he resumed his movements. This time he walked over the crest of the hill. I tediously snuck closer and when I spotted his head and back again, he was behind a jumble of rocks with a doe and fawn. I drew and was going to arch an arrow over the rocks like Fred Bear, but he spun his butt to me. In the next couple minutes, I tried to get off another shot or two, but he would either turn, or the doe or fawn got in the way at the last moment. I slowly shuffled around, hoping the does would remain oblivious to my presence. The time clock was ticking; I knew they could lock onto my presence at any second.

Eventually I had a good position and ranged the doe at sixty yards. Re-setting my pin, I readied for a shot. Finally, the does fed to the left, the buck turned broadside, and he stepped to the right. I drew my Drenalin once more, sinking into the zone. Predator mode overtook my mind and muscles as I anchored and released. In slow motion, I watched my arrow arc up over the rocks and drop into the buck. He ducked and stumbled as I heard a loud “whop!” The rocks blocked my view of his lower chest and I couldn’t see my arrow’s impact. He stumbled and turned, taking off running and kicking soil six feet into the air. The does scattered as I ran up to the rocks to keep an eye on him. He got to seventy yards with some effort and nose dived to the ground. The way he acted prompted me to think I’d hit his leg or spine, so I nocked a second arrow and took a couple steps closer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the rest of the herd stare bewildered at me before bolting away. I was about to loose the arrow when the buck’s legs stiffened and his chest ceased to expand. It was with great thrill and nerved feelings that I knelt down by my buck. I’d hunted hard and was proud of the work I’d done: thirteen hunts in two weeks equated to a lot of time glassing, running, stalking, and crawling!

“Thirteen hunts in two weeks equated to a lot of time glassing, running, stalking, and crawling!”

Leaving my bow and running back to my truck, I realizing there was less than an hour left before I had to be in my sixth grade classroom! I snapped photos, field dressed, and loaded my buck in record time. A quick post-mortem inspection revealed my Thunderhead 125 tipped X7 Eclipse had drilled him in the crook of his elbow, cleaved the top off his heart, and exited through the other shoulder. In a cloud of dust, I pulled my truck up to my school with barely enough time to change, and make last minute preparations for the day’s lessons before the bell rang. To start off our first period, I led my class outside with a mischievous look on my face and did a little “show and tell.” They loved it!

2012 Pope and Young Buck

I’ve developed an immense respect and appreciation for pronghorns in the two seasons I’ve stalked them with a bow. They are beautiful creatures, unique from any other animal on the planet. Without fail, they almost always walk off in the wrong direction, and have an uncanny ability to utilize the terrain to their advantage. My stalking and long range shooting skills have greatly improved out of necessity, but I still have no idea how to tell if a speed-goat will duck my arrow!

Second Thought

Mon, 31 Oct 2016 18:04:52 +0100

Second Thought

September 24, 2016

Jordan Seitz

I said I wasn’t going to worry about shooting my pronghorn until after deer season. I’ve learned I don’t multitask too well and wanted to dedicate my hunting time to deer. To force the idea, my gun was still stowed and it’s zero unchecked when opening day for pronghorn arrived. A couple days into that season, we were taking a family drive with the old Land Cruiser on some new trails when I spotted two nice bucks. The first one was real nice with the second being runner up. I immediately kicked myself for being unarmed.

Within a few days I’d checked the zero on my rifle and tried hunting for the buck. I had one blown stalk and then the biggest buck disappeared. There were plenty of other people out hunting and all the goats were spooked.

Admittedly, I should have been deer hunting. But without enough time to get to-and-from the mountains before my cousin arrived for a visit, I decided to capitalize on an early morning pronghorn hunt. I hadn’t driven very far in my hunt area before I was a surprised by my #2 buck standing on the side of the road. I slowed and opened my window. It was only minutes into shooting light and we stared at each other from a distance of little more than 20 yards. I could have shot him right there. But it was too easy, and too close to the road. So I drove on.

Five minutes later, I was whipping my truck around and high tailing it back to where I’d seen the buck. When I’d given the buck a second thought, I realized he was mature enough, unpressured, and in a huntable location.

By the time I parked, the buck was nowhere to be found. Three quarters of a mile later, I found him with a couple does, but the shot was over 400 yards. Lying prone, with wide open country between us, I watched him in my crosshairs. After waiting a long time in the light rain that was falling, they finally fed a few hundred yards further, and down into a shallow draw. Before they could pop back up, I sprinted down off the hill I was on. A half mile later, I snuck over the rim, and seeing nothing, continued down into a wash that would provide me some better cover as I continued on to where I thought they’d gone.

I finally found the buck, and crawled, slithered, and drug myself and my pack and rifle through the dirt and mud, weaving between sage and bitterbrush.

My wash dropped into a deeper wash. It’s a good thing I was paying attention when I reached the confluence, and that the rim wasn’t a mud cornice, because it was a ten foot vertical drop. Instead I had to crawl to my right a bit further and drop down in plain sight of the buck who was a bit over 400 yards from me. In a position where I was again blocked from view, I hurried to the last finger of dirt that would provide me cover, and a good rest for a shot. I pushed my pack in front of me and inched up high enough to where I could view the buck in my crosshairs.

I ranged him at about 320 yards, and took my time settling into the shot, and calculating my hold-over. When he presented a broadside shot, I squeezed off a shot. After the roar of my .375 cannon subsided, the buck was running like I hadn’t hit him. In seconds he was out of sight down the draw. Launching to my feet, I ran looking for another view. When I saw the does running alone, I posted up in case he lagged behind, but he never showed up. I knew that meant he was down!

Gathering up my gear, I made my way over to where I thought he might have dropped, and sure enough, he was piled up with a perfect double lung shot. He’d run about 100 yards.

I took photos, dressed him out, and then headed back to my truck, planning to return later with the family.

A couple hours later we all returned, my cousin included. We were able to drive down a different trail and park within ¼ mile, which was much closer than the 1 ½ miles I’d walked, run, and crawled as I’d stalked my buck! We took a few more pictures, and then for kicks, I strapped the whole animal to my Eberlestock Mainframe pack to see if it could handle it. I was impressed with how well it managed. My load was about 100 pounds with pack weight included.

I’m glad I didn’t shoot the buck when he was next to the road. However, I’m am glad I had second thoughts and eventually went after him. I had a riot crawling around for over 2 hours trying to get near him again. In the end, I took my longest hunting shot to date with the cannon and the buck is my second biggest!

All in One

Sun, 30 Oct 2016 15:44:21 +0100

All in One

September 2, 2016

Jordan Seitz

So much anticipation precedes the first hunt of the year. In fact, a person usually has such a hard time sleeping that they are up well before their alarm. This was the case for me...until I fell back asleep and woke up 40 minutes late because my alarm wasn’t loud enough. It’s a good thing I had packed everything the night before because I went into near panic mode getting ready and out the door. When I’m hunting, I loathe tardiness.

Bombing down the road, I ran through my plan one more time in my head. There was a monster wallow I knew of, but I’d never been to it at first light because it was a long, steep walk through the timber. Today would be the first time I hunted it at dawn. I made a quick stop partway up the mountain, and locked my bike to a tree along the highway. I planned to hunt a giant loop. I parked my truck several miles further up the road.

Weather was predicted to be clear and sunny, so I almost left my rain gear in the pickup. About an hour into my hike (at times I was almost running), the rain began to come down and I was certainly glad I had it.

Between sleeping in, and donning rain gear, I arrived at the wallow 10 to 15 minutes later than I had planned...and it cost me, because I bumped a nice 5x5 that was only 40 yards from me out in the middle of the wallow.

I spent the rest of the morning with freezing feet because my not-so-goretex-anymore Salomon hikers soaked right through. Regardless, I still managed to chase a few bugles and jump a 6 point that was bedded with half a dozen cows.

Shortly after noon while pulling out lunch, a distant bugle caught my attention. After pinning down its location, about a ½ mile distant, I stowed my food and took off running towards it. I sparingly bugled a couple times when I was still a ways out to reorient myself, but then became quiet as I closed the distance. Approaching a small meadow, I slowed to a sneak, but it was a couple steps too late because a cow noticed me and jumped up about 50 yards away. She ran off, taking with her the other cows and another 6x6 who was bedded in a wallow 10 or 20 yards past her. I’d thought the bull had been calling from the other side of the meadow! I chased them about ½ a mile until I realized I wasn’t going to catch them...and I was much further off track from where I’d planned to be at that time!

Moving through the timber like a mountain ninja, I was rewarded with the satisfaction of moving past a cow and calf who fed 70 yards from me, completely unaware of my presence.

A couple hours before dark found me overlooking an unscalable cliff. After a short time, I finally found a series of game trails that I could safely follow to the side of the rock face. It didn’t take long before I strapped my bow to my pack so I could use both my hands for balance and for grabbing onto things as I stepped and slid downhill between two boulder fields.

Nearing the bottom, I surprised an elk just as I was thinking I’d been seeing some fresh elk sign and should pay attention. Raising my binos, I almost couldn’t believe it when I saw antlers. He looked like a decent bull with broken beams and tines. That was the last time I looked at his antlers.

I assumed he wouldn’t give me a second chance, but I dropped my pack, unstrapped my bow, and mouthed my diaphragm call. A quiet cow call turned the bull around, and I realized I might still be able to make a go at him. He was 40 yards downhill when I drew back. A single branch was in my way, and by the time I was in a position to shoot, the turned and walked away.

Then next 15 or 20 minutes was a cat and mouse game...or rather, a bull and cow flirtation session. The bull would walk away, I’d stalk down after him, and stop him with a sweet cow call or an innocent bugle. At one point I was at full draw and had him slightly quartering to me at 60 yards. I floated my pin tight to his shoulder but kept telling myself “don’t do it,” because the angle wasn’t perfect. It took a lot of control not to loose the arrow part way into my shot sequence, but past experience with marginal hits on elk was enough to give me pause.

With one tree left before I’d be out of cover, I stopped the bull in a small opening beyond the boulders below me. I ranged various objects between 35 and 45 yards, and then stepped out from behind my last conifer, simultaneously coming to full draw one last time. I thought I’d have a shot as he moved into the timber to the right, but a soft call turned him back towards me. He was 40 or 45 yards (35 with the angle) at this point. As he stepped out from behind a large boulder, I stopped him him with one more mew. A second later, my arrow was on its way. My periferal vision saw it arc above his back and then drop in right behind his shoulder, where I thought it would center lungs. My arrow disappeared and a resounding CRACK met my ears as my bull bolted. I heard him crashing for longer than I would have liked.

Sneaking down, I was a bit perplexed due to the crack I’d heard. Had I hit the tree above his back? Had I hit the shoulder blade? A bloody arrow in the branches behind the bull’s position told me I’d made a pass through where my arrow shattered some dead pine branches, and the air bubbles in the blood said I’d hit at least one lung. Wanting to give the elk some time, I filtered more water from a nearby stream, and crazily was able to power up my phone and have enough service down the in that canyon to text Brooke to tell her I’d be home many hours after dark. I also gave her my approximate location in case someone needed to come find me in the morning!

The blood trail started out being very visible for the first 100 yards. I was excited, but the second hundred was mostly hands and knees work as I searched for pin drops of blood or tracks. With darkness approaching, my third hundred yards was more or less me wandering in the direction I thought the elk had run, and occasionally picking up a track. It had been a long day, and my eyes were beginning to wig out.

It was with great relief that I spotted the tawny hair under a conifer. Admittedly he was a smaller and younger bull than I’d initially thought...though it explained his curiosity. My arrow had entered perfectly, but then somehow deflected upwards and the exit hole was several inches higher than the entrance...even though it had been a steep downhill angle. A quick photo session took place and then I went to work as fast as I could. At one point I had to force myself to slow down in fear I was going to sever one of my own appendages. I finished deboning by headlamp. My goal had been to pack out my first load on my way to the truck. After consulting my GPS and having a reality check about already covering about 9 miles, and having about 5 left, I decided to leave all the meat to cool with hopes a bear wouldn’t get to it before I could the next day.

2 ½ hours later I was glad to see my truck’s tail-lights reflect in my headlamps beam as I doggedly pedaled up to it. It was after 11pm when I made it home. What a day! I’d never tagged an elk on the first day, and in a way was disappointed that my season was already over. Lucky for me, I’d had a season worth of close encounters over the course of the single day!

The next day was an adventure in itself because myself and my help were tormented by thunderstorms, hail, and much colder temperatures! A person would think I would have known better at this point in my life...but I left my raingear at home anticipating clear skies and regretted it, getting to wear multiple layers of garbage bags for a jacket instead!

DEER YEAR

Mon, 24 Oct 2016 21:44:59 +0100

DEER YEAR -Jordan Seitz-

It was my deer year. At least that’s what I told people. I’d spent several years reading, researching, absorbing advice from my mulie-savvy friend, and hunting a lot of country. With a good tag in my pocket for 2016, I made it my goal to shoot my first mature public land mule deer (4.5+ years old), or eat my tag trying. To help make it happen, I intended to shoot the first branch antler bull I got a shot at with my bow. Eight or nine miles into a 14 mile day on my first bowhunt of the year resulted in a 40 yard double lung pass through on a raghorn; it was only September 2nd, and my bull tag was notched.

I’ve run into, and even missed mountain mule deer while bow-hunting elk. But this year, after toiling through wildfire smoke and rain for a month, I still hadn’t seen a big mature buck. In fact, I’d had several days where I never even saw a deer. I did however pick up some nice elk sheds, glass a Boone and Crockett porcupine, and photograph a big mama bear with her cub. There were moments I was reminded why I love bowhunting elk so much: like when I heard elk antlers hollowly colliding in the timber below me, and bugles echo down through the canyon.

The weather was mild all through bow season, as well as on the rifle opener. When colder temperatures and snow was in the forecast, I knew my best chance for a mature mulie was about to arrive. Taking two strategic days off work, I planned to seal the deal before it warmed back up.

The morning of October 5th dawned clear and cold. Correction: it was downright frigid. I joined my friends at our predetermined location, and we trudged through several inches of snow as we weaved through the timber atop our chosen ridge. Arriving at our first glassing spot, we found a small herd of elk, and a few random deer. We finally glassed up my first mature buck of the season, and had a raghorn bull feed up to close bow range before he noticed the three orange clad statues and spooked. The buck was too far at that point to make a play on, so we parted ways and I descended towards a small bowl I call paradise valley because of its beautiful location and the various game species I’d encountered in it over the recent years.

Easing behind my last piece of good cover, I intently searched the sage and buck brush below, looking for a body, an antler, a tail, or the flick of an ear. Eventually I noticed a mulie about 220 yards below. Bringing my binos up, I felt a surge of adrenaline when I saw two big forks sticking above the brush. The buck had his head down and I couldn’t tell if he was a big forky, or if he had a full rack. I continued to scan the bowl, and picked up a decent 3x3 beyond this buck, and another small buck off to my right. Bringing my focus back to the first deer, I saw him lift his head and show off front forks too. His rack was tall, ear width, and a richly colored brown. I wasn’t convinced he was the age class I wanted until he turned and I saw his belly sag under him. Immediately my friend’s words came to mind: “Antlers don’t always tell you how old a deer is. But if you see a buck with a big belly under a blocky frame, shoot it because you’ve found a mature deer!” It took no time at all for me to decide this deer was going to die.

I slid on my belly cautiously downhill 20 or 30 yards, dragging my pack behind me and pushing my rifle in front of me. When I ran out of low cover, I crab crawled on my back over to a dead ponderosa pine, and was able to sneakily stand up behind it, finding a solid rest for my rifle, grandpa’s .375 H&H Winchester. It had already helped me take down four bucks over eight years, and I was relatively confident this buck would become number five.

Minutes passed as I tried to calm my nerves, and keep my trigger finger thawed out. As the deer fed to my right, a branch obstructed most of his body, and therefore any chance at a good shot. I waited, stupidly fidgeting, trying to keep myself in a perfect shoot position. The buck was standing about 200 yards away when I realized he was looking right at me. In trying to position myself for the steep downhill shot, I’d braced my leg behind me, but out away from the tree in plain view. His body language was such that I knew his next move was to bolt, and within seconds he’d be over the rim and into the timber. Frantically I weighed my options: I could try to shoot right under the obstructing branch, which could result in a deflection, I could move my rifle down to a lower branch, though I doubt the buck would stand for it, or I could slide my rifle a couple inches to the left, down my current branch to the crook of the tree.

I chose the latter and was rewarded with the full buck in my crosshairs. With the angle, my rangefinder claimed 175 yards: I could aim dead on. I settled my finger on the trigger, and thinking he was broadside, fired my first round several inches behind his shoulder to save the cape with prior intentions of selling it to a taxidermist. Recoiling from the shot, I saw my buck hunch up and begin trotting away like I’d gut-shot him. Perplexed by a bad shot, I sent my second bullet towards him and watched him belly flop. I thought he was down as I racked my last shell in, but then saw his front legs brace under him as he heaved back onto his feet. Knowing I had one chance left - since I’d forgotten to carry a 4th and 5th shell in each front pocket, and my spare ammo was in my pack several feet behind me - caused me to take a breath and focus a split second longer before anchoring him with a quartering shot behind his shoulder.

Surprise and disbelief set in when I realized I’d actually accomplished my goal. It was only about 8:30, and the feeling lasted for a long time that morning. Approaching my buck, I wasn’t just drawn to his tines sticking above the ground, but the enormity of his body. “So this is a mature deer,” I thought. I couldn’t believe the difference in size compared to the 3 ½ year old deer I’d shot in past years.

I was sitting munching snacks and soaking in the sun and the hunt, when my friends showed up to congratulate me and generously offer to help me pack the deer back to the truck. They admired my buck and confirmed it was a mature one, perhaps even 5 ½ years old by the side of his body, his bladed G3’s, and his rack’s gnarly bases.

The comradery and swapped stories that took place over the next several hours provided me a uniquely memorable conclusion to my deer year.

A Laughing Matter

Sun, 30 Oct 2016 15:59:37 +0100

A Laughing Matter

-Jordan Seitz-

With a buzz and a ring,

My alarm emitted its sounds.

Another one of those 3:30am mornings,

Where I’d drive to my hunting grounds.

A shower, some food, some coffee,

Then I was out the door.

The clock said I was running late,

So the pedal got pushed to the floor.

90 minutes later I shifted into park,

Where for 3 days I’d leave the truck.

Threw the day’s gear together;

Grabbed my bow; shouldered my ruck.

Faint rays of light erased the stars,

As I hopped the creek, weaved through the trees.

Navigating over a boulder field,

Noticed there was no breeze.

Up Up I climbed,

Until I tripped on a rock,

And fell over a log,

Somehow my bow avoided a hard knock.

I regained my composure,

And I stopped to cock an ear:

Not a bird, squirrel, or elk,

The sounds I thought I’d hear.

So I decided to change things up,

And out of my pack I did pull,

My old bugle with fresh band;

Figured I’d try to excite a bull.

Calm smooth and easy,

My call whistled and flowed.

A nearby response sang down,

Maybe a certain bull I did know?

Further uphill I charged,

And a plan I did make.

Perhaps this would be the bull,

To finally make a mistake.

Another bugling exchange

And I knew his location.

Notching my tag today,

Was my only vocation.

Speedily but stealthily,

I moved in alert and quiet.

Then once I “crossed the line”

Thought maybe I’d start a riot.

Clear lane ahead to 40,

And to my right and left side.

Predator instincts took over,

I let them be my guide.

He bugled and he chuckled,

I sent it right back.

The attitude I presented,

Surely felt like a slap!

Carrying out my intrusion,

For the first time I felt,

That I surely was,

His nemesis an elk.

With a crash and a shatter,

I decided to show him who’s boss.

His territory was at stake,

For him it’d be a great loss.

I stomped and I kicked,

I smashed and I threw,

Causing such a dead branch raucous,

For me was something new.

In the midst of it all,

I ripped a crazy bugle,

From an elk who’d lost his mind,

I certainly wasn’t being frugal.

I finally stopped to catch my breath,

Wondered who’d make the next move.

He bellowed his irritation and frustration,

This was HIS place, he wanted to prove.

Suddenly he was pounding ground,

Angling to my left were flashes of yellow.

In moments I assumed,

Would appear the big fellow.

Rock at 17, Tree at 30,

And I had my various ranges.

Dropped to my knees, clipped a release,

And prayed he’d not make any sudden changes.

It felt like a toy

As I drew back my bow.

I had so much adrenaline,

Anticipating the moment he’d show!

Then there was silence;

Where he was I didn’t know.

But after much too long,

My anxiety really began to grow.

Still at full draw

I slowly leaned back,

Then froze and shut my eyes,

For there was ½ his face and rack!

30 yards away he stood,

Facing straight at me.

Why do they always do this,

And stop behind the last tree?

Maintaining my composure,

Upright I slowly returned.

Once again in shooting position,

But my muscles they did burn!

The seconds creeped by,

I felt like they were years.

The bull he pulled a houdini,

Was at the top of my fears.

My arms were quaking

When the bull showed his full face.

One step, Two steps,

And he quickened his pace.

Halfway through my shooting lane,

He was fully in the clear.

After a soft mew and smooth release,

I watched my arrow disappear.

He bolted and kicked up dirt,

At 15 paces he took a spin.

Standing broadside I saw the red blotch grow,

And I knew this time I’d win!

He took off in a sprint,

And then ricocheted off a tree.

Heard a crash; saw an antler then a leg,

He was going down...I couldn’t believe!

Then all was silent,

I sunk to the ground.

I laughed and I laughed,

As I looked around.

The sun wasn’t fully up,

And my bull was already dead,

Now there was plenty of work to do

To pack out the meat and head!