Driving through the majestic mountains and past the gurgling Methow River, my experienced eyes scanned relentlessly side to side, ever searching for a shape out of place or a color that didn't belong. There was an overcast sky giving depth to my surroundings, and the easy 45 mile an hour pace afforded me ample time to pinpoint an irregular line here, an odd clump there. I began to invent deer out of logs, rocks, people in the river... everywhere! I had heard the canyons were coursing with deer, so many the WDFW in their wisdom had seen fit to grant 100 people the opportunity to kill a SECOND deer, unheard in Washington State. I passed a road sign boasting the number of deer killed by motorists and the dollar amount of damage incurred. It was an absurd number, and I was unsure where it was a warning or local bragging.
With my daughter nodding off in the back seat and my eyes ever searching for deer near the roadway, it was a good 500 yards before I realized I had passed my aunt and uncles house. A quick U-turn got me pointed in the right direction, and we eased over to the shoulder at their gate. I suppose it might have helped that my cousin Sarah was in the front yard waving me down like a deck boss on an aircraft carrier. In my defense, I haven't visited my family at their home in something like 20 years.... and I was looking for deer, only 3 of which I had managed to spot on the 4 hour drive! With my daughter awake, we made the necessary introductions, Anya being her shy self as always. A few quick calls uncovered that my other cousin, Pete, was waiting for me at the local grocery store, Hanks in Twisp, to give me the grand tour of the area I was to hunt. Having been in town only 30 minutes, I was off to meet a landowner that was friendly to antlerless archery hunters.
Peter and I caught up on our lives in the 10 minute jaunt to the home of the landowner, NOT seeing any deer on the way. I mentioned this to Pete, but he assured me as soon as the sun went down we would be dodging deer on the roadways like slalom cones. I was dubious, as though the areas adjacent to the road LOOKED like deer heaven, I had yet to see one for over 80 miles! Upon arrival and in our discussion with Charlie (landowner), we learned that the majority of deer activity could be divided into two areas, mountain and river. Mule deer descended from the mountains at night to feast on the agricultural crops, while the whitetail of the area left the relative safety of the river bottom to cross the roads and damage cars. Oh, and eat crops and gardens. Charlie pointed to an abandoned barn and corral across the road and told lies of herds of deer pouring through the narrow path each evening, then laughed when I mentioned my 60 yard max shooting range.
"Good luck sneaking up on a deer close enough to stick one with an arrow! You've got to be crazy! With a gun, no problem, but... is that a MARTIN bow? HAHAHAHA! Good luck!"
Charlie seems like a great guy, I thought to myself as Pete and I climbed back into my wife's clean, shiny 2006 Toyota Highlander. Charlie was still bent double caught in a fit of hysteria over a joke he must have remembered from earlier. Nice guy, maybe a little odd...
We raced across the road, dodging non-existant deer and parked next to the old barn, right on a two-track access road to begin our scouting trip for the evening. I looked down as I stepped out, and BY GOLLY, there were deer tracks! LOTS of them! Right through the corral! At this point, I figured even though this was only a scouting trip, I'd better grab my bow, just in case.
I threw on a Predator camo shirt, screwed my Smooth Stability stabilizer on the front of my bow, and grabbed my binocs and rangefinder. I left behind an entire Highlander worth of hunting equipment, from knives, backpacks, leafy suits, Predator camo pants, facemask... you get the idea. Pete and I were just going to look for tracks and maybe get an idea for an ambush spot. I was eyeballing the derelict outhouse near the barn and two-track, figuring deer would never notice a leafy human shape inside such a delapidated structure. But the thought of 40 years worth of spiders crawling up my spine canceled that notion, but fast!
Peter and I did some light glassing of the surrounding mountain sides, but honestly, there was so much sagebrush, I wasn't sure where to look first.
"I think we should take a look just over that hill right there." Pete said, pointing towards a low hill with the crown of a cottonwood tree showing from the other side. "There's a bowl on the other side we used to party in, and if I remember correctly, sometimes there was deer in there."
I felt that was a fine idea, as the hill Pete proposed climbing was but 30 feet up, whereas the surrounding mountains soared upwards until they began to mimic the Alps. No, I have never been to the Alps, but I would bet they are high, and so are the mountains around Twisp!
I had an arrow nocked (you know, just in case), and I handed Pete the rangefinder with rudimentary instructions on its use. He seemed to have a knack for pushing a button and reading the digital readout, so I was confident in my partners skills. We both had had a pretty long day by this time, and body odor was a bit of a problem. (Bit of a problem being I could hardly stand to be near myself after 4 hours on the road!) Wind direction would be key if we where to avoid spooking any deer in the surrounding 3 miles. My corn starch puff bottle showed the wind to be perfect... for the deer. Straight from behind us. Ahh, I love a challenge! Stealthily we crunched through dry sagebrush and crisp grasses to finally crest the towering 30 foot pinnacle. Sure enough, Pete's memory held true, as there was a pit of sorts behind the hill, positioned just right for a high school kegger. Nothing but an airplane could see down this depression, and there appeared to be lawn furniture evidence of past soirees.
Having just climbed such a monster hill, I was a bit breathless when, wonder of wonders, a mule deer doe leaped from the floor of the pit! She did her stiff legged mule deer bounce up the opposite side of the hill, and I saw Pete raise the rangefinder.
"24 yards." he called out, none too quietly.
"That's the tree right in front of us. Try the other side of me." I whispered under my breath in a barely audible shout. I've watched enough TV hunting to know you have to whisper from the time you exit your hunting vehicle until you return home that night.
Pete hopped to the other side of me, the doe having stopped quartering heavily away and looking back over her shoulder at us. (How had see seen us? I was wearing a Predator camo shirt with dark green cargo pants, and Pete was in a white short sleeved T shirt and blue jeans... It boggles the mind!)
"58 yards" Pete relayed to me. He was almost shouting at this point. Obviously he hasn't watched enough hunting TV!
Now I must admit, 60 yards is a heck of a poke for me. Inside of 50-55 yards, I'm pretty confident, but 60, well, that's another 5 yards! The doe must have sensed my lack of confidence at 60, as she took a couple of steps through the sage. Pete and I mirrored her movements. She stopped again to look back, again hard quartering away. Maybe if she was broadside, I told myself. She started to sidehill across the depression, and I drew my bow. I bleated at her, but she didn't stop. I bleated again and, GASP! she stopped broadside! I stuck the 60 yard pin on her high shoulder, figuring her at 60-62. Somehow my release fired and an Easton XX75 2215 aluminum arrow fletched with 4 inch feathers arced it's way towards her! I saw the arrow start to die, the bright white feathers and wrap looking for all the world like they would impact vertically at her feet. I heard a wet thump as she mule-kicked when the arrow dropped through her chest! I saw the shaft squirt out behind her, settling on some sage with the broadhead pointing skyward. The stricken doe raced along a trail parallel to Pete and I, and I saw a blossom of blood appear right in the crease at her elbow! A solid hit! I shook a tinge of adrenalin from my fingers, as I tried to calm myself and Pete enough to wait for the doe to tip over. She had just crested the hill just 70 yards from where we stood and we lost sight of her, but I was confident she wouldn't travel far.
"Did that really just happen?" one of us asked the other. We stood in awe at the insanity of a 5 minute hunt and perfect heart shot on a 60 yard doe. This was just a scouting trip, for goodness sake! I had planned to hunt all weekend! Now it was over! We laughed and joked as we retrieved the bloody arrow. My beautiful bright white fletch and the camo shaft were absolutely soaked with bright red blood. The G5 Montec had done its job beautifully, opening up a hole that allowed the arrow to enter and exit in one piece, as well as let blood flow freely. I marked the spot with my Predator camo shirt, hoping I would be able to find it again after I went back all the way to the car (a whole 180 yards!) to retrieve my camera, knife, water, etc.
Picking up the blood trail was easy, though there were a few spots we faltered, as the doe was scrambling so fast she careened off the trail straight through sage and other brush. After an exhausting 50 yards, I spotted a white rump and tan side laying a few feet away. She had fallen on the impact side of her body, with a bloody exit wound exposed at precisely the perfect place on the front shoulder. A quick poke with the toe of my boot showed she had expired, though Pete was unsure. He swore she was breathing, but I implored him to check for himself by poking her in the eye. If she was still breathing, the jab he gave her cornea would have stirred SOME kind of reaction!
Now, don't tell my wife I put a dead deer in the back of her car!
