The Buck of Persistence

As a person grows older he or she begins to understand that life is actually rather simple. I know, I know many reading the opening sentence may have just spit their coffee across their computer screens in disagreement but if you really think of it, life isn’t all that complicated. After you toss out the common misconceptions, you end up with just a few things.

First, you have the ups and downs. They pretty much dictate the cycle of life. We all go through them. Second, we eventually (or should) understand that life is more times than not directly related to what we put into it. Some go on to live that “perfect” life with seemingly little effort, some fight their whole life to accomplish their goals, and some just seem to float through with no plan. Lastly, you have what is defined as luck whether it be dumb luck or prepared luck which is often diced in with the above two ingredients.

Admittedly, the pathways we all follow are much different and complex than one another but when you dissect life as we know it, there are only a few things really left to explain and/or reflect upon. The same can be said for the outdoors and the pursuits we seek among field and water. Often times, persistence pays. And for me, I finally did collect.

The 2008 deer lottery was very friendly to my family and immediate friends with me pulling my third Antlered Mule deer tag in six years, my good friend Chris being awarded an Antlered Mule deer tag after his first year applying and my sister Tessa with her Antlered Mule deer tag after just two years applying. For those of you avid mule deer hunters seeking a covenanted Badlands tag I do apologize for our fortunes as I understand your spite. But hey, I’ll take the luxury of defying the law of averages as long as it lasts.

The weekend before deer opener, Chris, my uncle Bob and I set out to the North Dakota Badlands for a scouting trip. Ideally, we should have been out there a few more weekends but with weddings to attend, my dad getting an Any Pronghorn tag and my commitment to try my hand at fishing tournaments, time just didn’t allow. Regardless, we did give it a last second effort. One, you could say, scripted the story I’m about to tell.

Chris grew up on the flatlands of Eastern North Dakota. Hunting is a little different in open country than out in the rugged North Dakota Grasslands and since the upcoming hunt would be his first time hunting mule deer there were some finer points to discuss. Atop the conversation was my desire to help Chris get his first mule deer in the time frame we had. Normally, opening weekend is something I do not get too excited over because of hunter numbers and the fact I enjoy hunting the rut, but Chris and his family had an elk hunting trip planned, and the opener was Chris’ only weekend to hunt.

Our conversations quieted in relation to the narrowing roads as we dipped deeper into the Badlands. Darkness was giving way to dawn and as it did the skyline served as a painter’s palette providing an outline of the swallowing terrain and array of colors from the hiding sun. Each time I enter the Badlands it seems I’m consumed by its beauty and mysterious effect. Judging by the lack of conversation it was safe to say Chris and Bob were victims themselves.

We crept into familiar territory as our eyes peeped through the dusty windows. Soon, I’d be at one of my favorite vantage points giving the first opportunity for the binoculars and spotting scope to be pressed against our eyes. First stop…nothing.  Continuing to the west the rising sun cast an orange glow upon the rolling contours but dark shadows remained glued to banks, cuts and creeks of the rugged deep contours. Our first mule deer sighting…a doe and two fawns.

Curving along the ridge the next vantage point provided a spanning view of upper flats where mule deer funnel back down to the bottoms. Finally, a distant bunch of mule deer included a specimen worth getting a closer look. Chris and I actually tried putting a bow sneak on him. If we failed we at least would have a very good look…and that’s just what happened. I estimated him in the high 150s to low 160s with just his heavy horned main frame forks. A good buck for Chris to pursue next weekend and it had to be…we didn’t see any other impressive animals the rest of the scouting trip.

Now at the farm, Chris and I spent most of Sunday getting things organized for the upcoming hunt. It is work getting things organized to camp in the Badlands, but through the years I’ve spent in the rugged country, I don’t think I’d have it any other way. A wall tent can provide very comfortable accommodations. Yeah, sometimes I like to say we rough it when camping, but with carpeted floors, a camp kitchen, wood burning stove, propane lanterns and cook stove and even a home made toilet, it really isn’t too bad. I suppose it isn’t as fluffy as staying in a motel but I can’t say we really rough it. Although, at times it can get a little taxing on the body and mind…if you let it.

Spirits were pretty high that next week until the National Weather Service released its forecast; rain then snow, wind and then more snow and wind. Under normal conditions I would have been ecstatic at the forecast but the Badlands is no place to be when sprinkled with moisture let alone a forecasted inch of rain and then wet snow. Doubts began to linger as road closures swept through the western third of the state. Good news was Chris escaped the road closures near Bismarck, ND. Even better news aros when I was informed the area I hunt was hit by little precipitation; plus, the forecast called for cold temperatures. Any moisture would be sealed against and beneath the badland clay and scoria. Things were looking good.

Saturday morning Chris and I were on the road at about 5:00 a.m. We had the pickup packed and behind it was the less than stylish pickup box trailer with the remainder of supplies and camp amenities. I’m pretty particular with a lot of my possessions but the old beat up trailer was the best thing we had but the color was to be desired. That evening, before Chris arrived, I gave it a new face lift with brown spray paint. After that, I didn’t feel so embarrassed. The small things matter sometimes.

The plan was to get into the Badlands deep enough to do a little glassing with the optics en route to our camping location. It was hard to accept not being out on a wind blown point overlooking a coulee bottom, but we made the best of it by spotting a couple bucks. Unfortunately, they were not quite what we were looking for so we continued toward our camping location. Now mid-morning we were greeted with sunny skies and very light winds. A rarity for North Dakota falls (the wind anyway). Besides pleasant weather, we were greeted by two small bucks standing just a few yards away from where the wall tent would rest. Too bad they were young critters. Or maybe I’m glad because it would have spoiled one of the greatest hunts I have been on.

I’ve set camp up four out of the last seven years I’ve been hunting in the Badlands. The problem is, there is always a year in-between most stays. That opens the door for forgetting the most efficient process. My forgetfulness, and it being Chris’ first wall tent trip, probably took us a couple hours to get camp set up including fire wood cut and chopped. The chores were dwindling and with seemingly perfect timing, my cousin Travis and Uncle Mark popped over the hill. It was early afternoon and they had mule doe tags to fill. Camp was set, the weather was perfect, the hunters were ready…the first walk of the season was about to commence.

With Mark’s pickup it was a prefect opportunity to leave a pickup at one location and start from another. We agreed to break our legs in on a coulee system with smaller fingers ideal for Mark and Travis’ does. Chris and I would skirt the area we had seen what I hoped would become Chris’ first mule deer buck. The hunt was officially underway.

The mid-week storm which dumped up to 20 inches in some areas of the state only left one or two inches below my feet. The air was crisp making the snow crunch with every footstep. Now climbing my first steep incline, the crunches were met with my search for air. I stopped and looked back. I’d be lying to say it was to put up the binoculars; I was already looking for a rest. Stopping isn’t such a bad idea, however, since the more you stop and use the optics the more deer you see. Sure enough, I noticed Chris off to the east of me and next to him, a fleeing mule deer doe. This type of occurrence would be common for the remainder of our weekend hunt. Lots of rests, lots of glassing and lots of deer.

Now moving up the coulee system Chris and I came to a deep creek bottom. He stayed high while I skirted the lower ground. As we moved slow utilizing our advantage with optics, more and more deer appeared. I sometimes wondered when the calm crisp air would be interrupted by Travis or Mark snipering their does. But my focus drifted to a small knob atop the location Chris was working. By naked eye I could not see anything, but with the binoculars, the hill came alive with four browsing does. I took a look at Chris and he too was drawn to the location where three creek systems created a perfect area for bedded and browsing mulies. I decided to sit tight and watch as Chris ventured closer to the confluence.

The does were content with Chris moving closer. I glassed the ridge further toward the creek confluence and noticed Chris reach for his rifle. I thought, “Could this be it?”

Watching through the binoculars Chris lowered his rifle as quickly as he raised it. In the upper left portion of my binoculars two bucks appeared. One appeared to have a decent set of antlers given the distance I was away from Chris. More deer filed out of the confluence and still Chris kept his rifle at bay. Continuing his walk I assumed it must not have been big enough or there was some other reason he did not fire. I’d have to wait for about another mile of ups, downs, bends and turnarounds before I’d find out why.

A half hour passed and we found Mark, and a bit later Travis appeared. We met and then traveled back to the pickup to discuss the hunt. Mark and Travis had seen a lot of does but didn’t get the shot they were looking for. Chris and I had similar experiences, but we had a few looks at bucks that deserved a closer look. Already 4:30 pm, we were well behind schedule for our evening walk so we abruptly said our goodbyes to Mark and Travis.

The plan was to head a mile north of where Chris had walked. The bucks he saw didn’t really spook making us believe they would be in the area. Besides, the scout buck was yet to be seen. With the sun already setting, Chris went one way and I went another. Normally the evening walk would be a sit and watch type hunt but the fading light motivated me to move quickly to a far reaching point. A half mile from where I began, my point came to an end. As I approached, I looked to my left and froze instantly to the snow covered ground. I stood staring at an impressive animal. My initial feeling was shooter but in being bitten by infamous ground shrink in the past I slowly backed behind a juniper tree and put the binoculars on him. In doing so, my blood pressure instantly rose as I peered upon his deep cutting right front fork. The fork then swung to my left as the dark horned buck turned face to face with me. Brow tines!

It was late…very late and looking at the clock I had about three minutes of shooting time. By now, my adrenaline had skyrocketed. With it, my better judgment was affected when I began forcing myself into shooting position. I slid on my belly for a bit but then lost my patience and began crawling on my hands and knees. The wind was light and the snow was hard casting every move I made over the quiet Badlands. I continued forward ignoring the unavoidable consequences and I paid for it dearly by spooking three deer below me I could not see. With their alarm he became wary and trotted into the distant creek bottom. I could have rushed a shot but it was less than desired. My heart sank.

It isn’t often I sit and have a conversation with myself but I did just that. Choice words included. My emotions were raging from disappointment, to excitement back to disgust. How could I have been so stupid? If I would have just proceeded like I normally hunt I would not have prematurely spooked the deer below me. But then again, if I didn’t move quickly I would have run out of shooting time. It was what it was…I had a case of buck fever. I turned to gather my binoculars, spotting scope, gloves and backpack. They were scattered all over the top of the knoll. You could say it was a trail of stupidity. A trail my mind would wander throughout the night.

To make things worse I had to stumble through the Badlands in darkness. Chris must have noticed the mixture of disgust and excitement on my face when I reached his pickup. That or he noticed me fumbling my binoculars as I laid them on the dash. He asked, “How did it go?”

I rested my forehead against my palms and replied, “I just missed an opportunity on one of the biggest deer I have ever seen.”

At camp, it was a long evening. Not even the crackling wood burning stove was comforting. My only hope was to find him again. Chris was probably looking more forward to tomorrow morning than me. He had to be tired of the “what-ifs” I spewed while we prepared dinner and stacked firewood for what looked like a cold and windy night’s sleep.

Tomorrow morning came with a surprise…we were late. How could I be late for one of the biggest deer in my life? We rushed from our warm sleeping bags.  With already an hour lost reaching the desired high point overlooking the outskirts of the deep creek I watched him vanish wasn’t feasible. Instead, I crept below a long ridge while Chris slowly worked the creek bottom. After a five hour walk and optic session we came up empty as deer movement ceased to the early afternoon sunlight. Both being physically exhausted, we made our way back to camp for lunch and a short snooze. Or we thought…there was still firewood to be cut. We used up a good portion of our supply the night before and it appeared the wind and cold showed little sign of letting up. So cut we did.

It wasn’t too long after 1:00 p.m. when Dad and his girlfriend Brenda made it to camp. Even though it was a short walk from the pickup to the tent she welcomed the warmth from the wood burning stove. Standing in the tent, Dad explained the finer luxuries of deer camp.

Dad and Brenda spent the first part of their weekend hunting closer toward the northern portions of Sentinel Butte. Dad is always interested in seeing new country and we had spoke about maybe hunting the area for my buck. But the weather was less inviting down that direction with greater accumulations of snow from the previous storm and since he had to go back north to get to New Town, he thought he’d check out how camp was. Plus, I think he was a little curious about the buck I frantically explained the evening before. Part of me believes he knew fortune was about to befall me.

The time for Chris and me to enter the Badlands for our evening walk was closing. We shared our preparations with dad and he explained his. They had doe tags so they were going to follow my directions on areas we had been seeing a good number of them. Chris and I were headed right back to the same exact location we had seen the big buck.

I exited Chris’ pickup with about two and a half hours left of shooting time. The objective for me was to hit the next creek system over and then jump back over to where Chris would be working. Including time for the optics, I figured I had just a little less than two hours before darkness would fall. As the crow flies it didn’t seem too bad but anyone that knows the badlands understands the feat at hand. I even wondered if my tired legs would make it. There was incentive at hand, so with backpack strapped I began my walk.

I stood looking down the creek that we had seen the buck I wanted to get Chris on. I started to take a few steps toward it but for some reason I decided I better take the ridge line over and then cut back down into it. It was a decision that sculpted the outcome I’m writing today.

I skipped through a narrow washout and jumped the next ridge. The wind was blowing strong out of the southeast and perfect for the terrain that lay in front of me. I stopped to catch my breath and after a few deep gasps put my binoculars up. I started to the northeast and scanned toward the south. There was a doe, another and then another. Off a little more to the south I came upon a large bodied deer browsing. At first I thought it was just a shrub extending from the thicket it was near, but I noticed as its head bobbed so did the shrub. At such a distance I knew it must be a good buck but I took the time to pop off my backpack and enact the spotting scope. “Thank you Lord!”

He lifted his head and the big deep fork I had seen the evening before teased me. A rush exploded through me and my legs weakened. I knelt down and observed his surroundings. He appeared to be by himself so I switched to viewing the terrain. To his rear was a finger extending to the major creek directly in front of me. To his north was a small rolling knoll that dipped off into the finger. That was my strength and his weakness. I marked a couple landmarks and then calculated I had about ¾ of a mile to reach the last one. I then dipped my hand into my pocket to check the time. I had about an hour and a half. Gotta go.

The decision to move on him brought back the remnants of “the” fever just the night before. I took two steps over the ridge and to my dismay, a doe and two fawns exploded below me. I scolded myself to calm down and move quickly, yet smartly. Now in the bottom of the main creek I moved along it as quietly as I could. Although the wind was blowing strong above me, it was nearly calm in the depths. There’s the tree I needed to turn south at. Uh no! Two small bucks see me…

I stood and stared at them for about ten minutes pleading they’d turn and walk the other direction. Time was against me so I carefully doubled back pressing myself against thorns and deadfall. I moved as quietly as possible keeping myself hidden from the smaller bucks. I peeked and they were gone. I could only hope they did what I asked.

In front of me was a deep impassible creek confluence; the alternative to my right was a steep slope. Once over I’d be in the finger my target hopefully remained. I clawed and pushed myself up the muddy incline. At the top I peeked and was safe from wary eyes. My legs were on fire and my lungs were burning. Flopping over, I had to rest.

As I laid resting I looked to the sky where stratus clouds began to choke the setting sun casting a yellow glow toward the east. I figured I had about forty minutes of shooting time. I moved forward ever so quietly. I was close…real close.

The wind ripped over the knoll in front of me. If the buck behaved he should be directly over it. I removed my backpack and detached the range finder. My once cold chamber became hot as I entered a shell. I clicked the safety and began my approach. The snow was soft from the day’s warm sunlight offering a quiet belly crawl. One elbow at a time I pulled myself to the top. I needed to reach a small sage bush to break my silhouette. Barely peeking over the grass…there he was. His short stout nose peered off to the west. He stood motionless for what seemed and eternity. I moved my range finder up. Damn thing, it won’t read through the grass. I shoot a bush in front of him…77 yards.

Inch by inch I moved my gun up in front of me. The problem? No shot! Earlier in the year I dialed my 7mm for long range distances. I was confident out to 500 yards but now I had a buck of my dreams approximately 100 yards away and I couldn’t shoot because only a third of his back was showing. A hill stood between me and the buck I persistently pursued. I had to wait.

Lying in the snow I began to feel the wet chill make its way through my clothes. In addition, trembles of excitement tore through me. I peeked to the west where the sun had set a few moments ago…still had time. “Come on buck, just move!”

To calm myself I looked at him through the binoculars. His horns were dark chocolate and then, drop tine! Wait…three drop tines! The buck’s horns seemingly grew as I watched him through the binoculars. To my surprise, looking at this animal’s gifted growth did not excite me further, but instead helped calm me. Completely confident I wanted him as mine, I covered my binoculars and laid them below my gun. I was ready. The move was his.

I am not sure how much time drifted by but the buck finally broke his westward stare and turned. He took five steps toward the east and then took three more graceful trots north toward me. My gun was steady, the safety was off, my heart was pounding. He stopped. I aimed low and squeezed…

The gun thumped me hard from the uncomfortable position I was forced to shoot from. I couldn’t see where the bullet entered. Did I miss? He lunged forward and I entered another shell into the chamber screaming to myself, “How did I miss!”

But then he stumbled and spun 180 degrees to his final resting place.

The buck laid motionless and 15 inches above his skull was a mass of horn. This buck was bigger than I thought. I knelt down shaking like I had just been pulled from the frigid frozen water of Lake Sakakawea, looked up at the beautiful sunset, pointed toward the sky and said, “Thank you Lord.”

It was an eerie moment as I walked up to my buck. To my north was Chris and somewhere to the south my dad and Brenda were searching for their does. I was alone with the buck of my dreams. I had no one to share my initial glee with but then realized my cell phone rest in my pocket. I climbed to the hill with no memory of how exhausted I was just moments earlier. To my delight I had cell reception. I called and left my girlfriend Dani a message. Then I do not remember if I dialed Chris or Dad but the first thing was to let them know I was not going to be where I was supposed to be. I had veered to the south…then I let them know the good news.

After a congratulatory session and a two and a half hour drag under the moonlit snow-covered Badlands, we finally got him to the pickup. The ending probably couldn’t have been scripted better. My dad was there to be a part of what our family, for one reason or another, calls the best part of the hunt—better known as the pack job or in this case, the drag. Chris explained he was actually peering off toward the west when he heard the muffled shot. He shared my excitement as he knew deep down the bark had to be from my rifle. Not to mention, he got to see the result of a hard two days of hunting. I turned to shake his hand and said, “Now, it’s your turn.”

Chris and I had one and a half days to find him a shooter buck. We struggled to find the scout buck and eventually had to assume he was either going to be the next year’s buck of persistence or had already fell victim to another hunter’s bullet. Moving to another familiar location we spent an entire day walking, glassing and walking some more. Painfully, Chris was victim to not being in the right place at the right time. I had seen two respectable bucks on the ridge I was working and my hope was to find one bedded or moving with does that I could signal Chris over to. But another day left us.

The final morning, Chris started under dawn’s darkness. His plan was to work a long ridge back down toward another road where I could save him a long up-hill backtrack which would have not been ideal given the wind’s direction. There had to be a buck or two we had seen yesterday.

Sitting atop a hill about an hour later I was scanning the landscape with my spotting scope. In the distance I found one smaller buck and one interesting decent sized buck. Watching them, it was clear the rut was officially underway as the bigger one impatiently trailed a group of does. I began to shift my scope to another direction when I was startled by a lone rifle shot. Was I returning the favor by listening to the echo of Chris’ rifle?

He was close so I remained focused on the immediate hills. Nothing was moving. I packed up my spotting scope and headed up a steep incline toward Chris when two other shots interrupted my gasps for air.

Resting at the top Chris finally came into my view. He was walking back up a hill without his back pack. I took it as a sign he had made a final shot and it turned out as such. I met him as he came back down with backpack in hand and after a short trailing we found his mule deer buck. There were plenty of smiles and handshakes to go around as we took photos of his great first time mule deer buck.

Just like it had begun, it ended with Chris and I admiring the Badlands from our respected pickup window. We had two trophies in the back of our pickup but the ride home wasn’t about our trophies. It was about how we wished others we like sharing the outdoors with could have been a part of our hunt. Chris mentioned how he thought his Dad would like it at camp and afoot. I contributed to the conversation with how I couldn’t wait for Dani to draw her first buck tag so I could be a part of her first mule deer buck hunt. The conversation continued, but once the road curved atop a ridge looking over the Little Missouri River and its steep mysterious breaks, we both became silent. I can’t vouch for what Chris was thinking, but I drifted into thought of how special it was for me to have my Dad with to see his son’s excitement. I probably won’t ever forget when he walked up almost in disbelief and said, “That’s a mighty fine animal, Tim.”

He continued, “Oh how I wish my Dad was here to see this.”

Hunting and specifically hunting in the Badlands was introduced to him by his father. I never had the luxury of hunting with my grandpa, but I was handed down the memories through stories. When he and I stood above my buck it felt like we were one of those stories. Looking up at him I said, “I bet he’s looking down on us right now.”

We stood silent for a moment and shook hands.

Scoria sprayed up from Chris’ back tire as it stuck to the trailer. It broke my concentration but looking back in the mirror I had a final thought.

Like life, the outdoors leads us down different paths filled with—you guessed it—ups and downs. In both endeavors we all sometimes lose focus of the true meaning. Of course, I’m extremely happy to harvest the animal I did, but the buck’s end didn’t justify the hunt. Instead, I was more concerned with sharing the moment with those close to me. The moments that matter are what we should judge our success and failures by…not by the moments that don’t.


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Author's Note:  A special thanks to my Dad, my Mom, Dani, the state of North Dakota, North Dakota Game & Fish, family, friends and conservationists such as Teddy Roosevelt for having the insight to perserve what has become one of North Dakota's biggest treasures, better known as the Badlands.  Each listed entity has made this happen one way or another and for that, I'm forever in debt to you.  Of course, I need to extend my gratitude toward Chris for being not only a good friend but one heck of a camp cook!  It was a fun hunt Chris and I can't hardly wait to do it all over again.

The buck I was fortunate enough to harvest is a once in a lifetime buck.  Like I've said on forums thoughout FishingBuddy and other Total Outdoor Network affiliate sites I wanted to prepare the story before sharing the photos.  Why?  Because it is the hunt that I'm most grateful for.  The buck I have labeled "The Buck of Persistence" was harvested on North Dakota Public Land and done so with traditional hunting techniques.  Lots of boot leather, lots of time with the optics and lots of patience.  If you put those types of tools toward your hunt, eventually, you'll have luck befall you.  And when it happens folks, all that time and hard work is well worth it.  My sister Tessa learned this on just her first hunt and it's obvioius from her story she is grateful and understands these type of outcomes do not happen in frequency.  For another Do-It-Yourself North Dakota Badlands story take a look at The Buck of Circumstance.

For photos of Chris's and my buck click on the thumbnails below.  You'll also enjoy some camp photos.

Arrival at Camp	Camp Buddies	Chore Station...or Stations
Good ole Camp Kitchen	Camp Bunks	Chilly Outside
First Night at Camp	Better Than Forced Air	Back for Lunch
Someone Needs New Boots	Camp Cook...Venison Steaks	How He Laid
Persistence Buck	From a Different Angle	Dad's Favorite Angle
Always Need this Angle	I Think My Favorite Angle	Pretty Good Spread
Still Can't Believe It	Good to Have Dad With	Good To Have Chris With
Brenda Gettin' in on the Action	Officially Over	Not Gonna Leave My Sight
Monday Afternoon Noon Break	Confidence is High	Chris' First Mule Deer Buck
A Different Angle	Mission Accomplished?	Pickup Clean = Hunt a Foot