Bang...flop

Not quite pegged to the floor but running generously over the speed limit with me and Max Stalling singing loud about freedom and the road and seventh season bucks. The spotty remnants of snow hiding in the shadows and on the north side of hills and tank dams slipped past for a few miles before I realized what they were. Originally, I was just surprised by how many people had small piles of calichi laying about. In the process of doing the ole windows down and the heater on, the real temp was overlooked…it was cold, not Michigan cold but 34° is cold none the less. I slid into Bronte about 30 minutes behind Russ who had high tailed it out of Amarillo ahead of schedule to beat the snow and impending I-27 closure between AMA and Lubbock. We sat about for a few minutes exchanging pleasantries then grabbed our gear and hit the hunt.

The game plan was to scout and hunt together for a few hours then run over to another property and see if the roads would allow passage. So we glassed one field from a hilltop and spotted some does at about 600yds. Russ was running a 22-250 and, after seeing the terrain last year and being out distanced by several deer, I carried the 300. We decided to close the distance by half and stalked off the hill. We made it to 328yds, I know this because as I was silently relaying the distance to Russ, he loudly responded with a laugh, it don’t matter now. We were busted, they were gone. We climbed the hill to the other side and again were busted by another set…my fault, bad footing, I slid a rock. These deer had but one weekend to survive, they made it through the whole season. The only thing that stood between them and the relative safety of 8 months of not being shot at (except occasionally from the roads) was the next 50 hours. And they seemed to be taking no chances, everything was danger. No casual raising of the tail and blowing, just swap ends and gone.

We headed out of that spot, known as “the place” and made tracks to another area where I had shot at a doe and hit a tree the year before. We slid our way through the roads reassuring each other that it was “not that bad”, and “seemed to have a hard bottom”. Fortunately the story did not go the way it often goes once those words are muttered. We hemmed and hawed around trying to determine where to hunt and finally I decided on a stand. Really an area, as I had it in my mind that the caprocks trumped a box blind any old day. After a nice climb I found myself setting on a rocky outcropping about 170 ft above the scattered salt cedars, junipers, and bunch grasses below.

This is how I love to hunt. The stalk is nice too, don’t get me wrong, but to be king of all you survey, that’s the way I like it. The view made up for the weather; it was cold and wet. Seems like it could not make up its mind between sprinkling and sprinkling sleet. But about 20 mins before twilight I spotted some movement. There, stepping out of the brush line at 470 yds were two deer. “This just got interesting” I was startled by my voice. I ranged ahead of them and dialed in for the distance. Looked like 500 on the money would be the shot, I got comfortable and began to breath rhythmically. Math flew through my mind as I checked and triple checked the value and direction of the wind. It has been since Amarillo since I shot over 300yds. This could be tricky, but I know the bullet, I have hard data, I developed the charts based on this 150 gn bullet with a velocity of 3190 fps, I interpolated the data from 150 ft above sea level to the 1,600 I was at now, the math was there but it had yet to be proven. Hesitation allowed the deer an extra 27 yards, trust put it down. BANG…whump-flop. At recoil the deer disappeared from my scoped eye, then settled back into view, broken in a pile where it had stood. This is my Kung-Fu…and it is strong.


I ranged again, 527. My personal best on a deer. I scampered down from my perch as sunlight faded. Russ picked me up in the truck at full dark and we went to go pick up my deer. He had a nice neck shot doe in the bed of the truck from a shot he touched off moments before I fired. We walked out in the general direction of my deer, “farther?” he asked several times, “yep” I replied as many. We walked up on the spike, with me trying not to jump up and down, as I had finally assured that I would not be skunked for the season. The shot broke the lead shoulder and exited just at the diaphragm on the far side, top of the heart trashed, lungs were gooed. Then the whiskey.

Russ doesn’t drink as he took too much of a liking for it in an earlier life, but his ole man will certainly carry his water. If you ever find yourself in Bronte, TX, make sure you have a handle of Black Velvet Canadian Whiskey, and you will have hot meals and a place to stay.

I sat smug and quietly, sipping some Jeremiah Weed from a flask I had left in the bed of my truck so it would be nice and cold. We discussed the evenings hunt, shot placement, plans for the upcoming morning, and how Mr. Weed made such a fine beverage.

Morning skunked us all, only a few deer to be seen; an exceedingly wary doe skirted in and out behind some brush piles at about 200yds while a few others hovered out near the 600yd mark. We were going to do the 1, 2, 3 BANG method of combined firepower hunting, but Russ’ doe would have no part of it. I then opted out of my end of the bargain due to the weather conditions. It was a good day to be a duck: rainy, windy, and cold. We broke for some breakfast and a beer, try ‘em again at noon. Noon offered nothing different, the weather had the deer hunkered down, we saw zero. Back to the house.

The rains finally stopped at 3:30 and we burned out to “the place”. I opted the ridge line above the east field with the option to stalk across the road to the west field. Both offered a generous view and an even more generous shot. I glassed the west side and spotted movement at the brush line some 750yds out. I crept closer to find a more level shooting surface to watch from. I spied a yearling buck and opted to watch him, study his habits. He was safe, I came for meat and this feller didn’t have enough of it yet. I lay in the wet watching, visualizing the shot for some ten minutes as he crossed the field. Back to the east.

As I crept down the calichi road, cautious about busting myself again with the rocks underfoot, I saw them. I hunkered down where I was then slid back a few feet off the road and into the base of the cedars. I was not gonna be busted this time. On my belly, I conducted every movement slow and deliberate, as though they were there and not way out there. The way out there became difficult to pinpoint. I kept getting erroneous and non-readings in the range finder. The target was not distinct enough for a solid reading. There was however a point of trees extending into the pasture at 480yds. Remembering the year before I had hunkered at the edge of that very point and taken a deer on the other side at 350ish yards with the .22-250, I tried to remember how far it was from that point to the fence. I felt confident it was between 40 and 60 yards, split the difference, 50 yards. 530 was the total, about the same as the day before, 22 clicks of elevation and the value and velocity of the wind called for 18 inches…trust it, you know it is good. The two fat does were oblivious to my presence. I sighted in on the larger of the two and waited, watching. They were walking toward each other! How cool would this be? Wait, easy now, my chart says time of flight at 525 is .61 seconds. I assume they wont just walk up and stand there waiting on me to get my mechanics right, so I improvise. Monitoring them, I get a good idea of the value of their lazy stride, as soon as their necks come abreast of each other, I need to be sighted on the hams of the nearside deer. It feels wrong but trust it, I press the trigger. Recoil fogs the brain but recovery shows one deer, the hind side deer, in the air in a high jump. Thoughts of a poor shot and a big scoreboard flashing MISS in huge red block letters run through my mind. She lands and bounds over the fence only to crumple in a pile, white belly shining. My mind had been so filled with thoughts suboptimal shot placement I didn’t notice the lead doe in a pile at the fields edge, it worked, it freekin worked. I had dumped a double in excess of 500yds, what could be better?
Half an hour later I found out. The next hour provided several more targets at extended ranges. But these were easy, the math was solid. My longest was 580 and my best was 510ish, at a full run. Shot placement was elk style, high shoulder anchor in place, DOWN. No tracking necessary. I’d go into the details now, but you boys know I need to use my hands to tell a good story. Besides we all need a drink for the likes of this story.