2024Vol41No3NBUJournal

of us, and a large group of mature sage hens. The bighorn sheep were also out, showing off their full curls, stopping to pose for photos, and videos, close enough to us that it was like a documentary film, completely unreal. We’d also come across another outrageous buck, nestled in the fields with his does, in a unit that was not mine. Though no harvest was made that first day, even after looking for the Ghost again late afternoon, the evening antelope camp turned into a party. We were lucky enough to have friends and family hunting the same unit as we were, and the exchange of stories began once everyone made it to camp. Mike’s wife Kristie raced out after work to be with her family, and our friends, Remi and Ryan brought their little ones with them, choosing stay with us in camp that night. It was a riot of seven kids, hide and seek in the dark, half eaten dinners, spilled juice boxes

another mile or so when we’d stumbled into buck city, along with hunter congestion. I grumbled over the four trucks and UTV in the hills when Mike comes on the radio, telling me to be ready. He’d talked to the hunters in front of us and it was down to me getting the buck if they missed. “Jess, get out of the truck, now!” I hear from Mike, as shots are fired and the buck runs towards us. My next cluster of chaos ensues. Damn fire drill. I wasn’t steady on the shooting sticks, but the tripod was too short. Finally, the picture perfect buck is in front of me, broadside, at 170 glorious yards. My gun didn’t fire. Panic sets in as I try again. Nothing happens.

“Jon! The gun won’t fire!!!” “Shoot, is the safety off?” “YES!”

My mistake was that the bolt wasn’t closed all the way and by the time we realized it, the buck was gone, across the road, and I wasn’t willing to play the game. That’s when the next fire drill happened. That’s when I’d dropped the gun muzzle straight into the dirt. I should have known it would have been an insane ride after that. Jon and I decided to chase this big one and left the mostly useful items in the truck - the scope, a pack, water, our phones. We ran into the hills, coming across several other bucks and finally spotting the one. It was the most epic of stalks, and we were going to kill this buck. We had to. We were over a mile in, had left our kids with Mike and Kristie, and knew the buck was just below us as we glassed another buck rutting, trying to round up his twenty does. Everything was perfect. Except, the buck never showed. He wasn’t there. We’d hiked up another hill, getting farther in, only to realize this huge buck had turned into ether and I didn’t want the one rutting, even

and sticky hands and faces after Remi got the s’mores going for the kids.

though he was never more than 200 yards from me.

It’s a saga at this point. I realize how fortunate I was to be seeing and turning down bucks left and right. Kristie is pulling pages from her book telling me to keep waiting (after all, she killed her 80 inch buck on the last day the prior year), encouraging me to stay the course; Mike has his “Mike-isms” and Jon starts chiming in too. I’m seriously conflicted at this point. The last day is coming upon us, I don’t have a buck, I don’t want what I’ve seen, and the bizarre ice cold August wind bearing down on us that late afternoon was doing nothing for the mood I was in. We headed to camp early evening that day for a much needed reset with the kids and our families. The running slogan among us friends is “Last Day, Best Day,” which we just all need to come to grips with as the reality of our hunts. Mike had given me a “lucky” bullet, Kristie wore her lucky color, and I had worn my three day old wool socks (we all have our thing, right?). We glass at

Five a.m. rolled around too quickly, but every kid was acting like it was Christmas morning as we split ways to go find our respective bucks. Remi was with his brother, Ryan, and their kids, and Mike and Kristie ran with us. But it wasn’t long before Jon and Mike had called Remi and Ryan to tell them we’d found a buck they might be interested in, because, as you can imagine, the buck didn’t have the shape I wanted, and we didn’t see the “ghost” buck from the first morning. Five minutes later we get the text “Buck Down!” with no pic for context. Rude. The game was on for us now that we’d mused over what buck Ryan had gotten and so quickly. I’m starting to re-evaluate my buck requirements when either Mike or Kristie inform me that there was a nice buck off to the right. Now that Kristie was with us, I was going to take full advantage of her female gaze. The boys might be excited, but if Kristie wasn’t impressed, I wasn’t going to be readily swayed. I glassed and passed it. We’d driven

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