Travel Log, written for English class
For my second hunting season, a relative offered to let myself and a friend hunt his land up in scenic Water Valley, Alberta. The previous year, I’d taken a 3x4 non-typical whitetail in the Alberta Badlands- An ample buck, to be certain, but it wasn’t the Hole-in-the-Horn buck I’d been gunning for. The scenery up here was gorgeous. Nestled about a hundred kilometers from the famous Rocky Mountains, it offered a clear view of its majestic, snow capped peaks. The snow was largely untouched; pristinely reflecting the day’s fleeting sunlight. Being predominantly coniferous forest, the deep verdure of untouched Lodgepole pine and Jack Spruce clearly contrasts the deep blanket of winter.
We stopped briefly at a Tim Horton’s, one of the 24-hour outfits. As soon as I walked in, I could tell that I was among fellow souls. The one-of-a-kind scent of Tim Horton’s coffee wafted out the door in waves, as a bleary-eyed crowd of camouflage-clad hunters eagerly awaited their breakfast. Not a single person there was without his winter hunting season gear, and I was no exception. I found myself initially quite self-conscious of the large Buck knife sheathed on my waist in a public building, but I soon realized that it would present no issue. I ordered four large double-doubles, like the patriotic Canadian that I am, and coffee for the other two members of my party as well. We devoured our ample breakfast in contented silence. Our breath was clearly visible in the biting, late November air- I could feel it stiffening the fabric of my outer layer, and I said a silent prayer of thanks to the man who invented thermal long underwear.
As it was a three-hour drive to our selected hunting grounds, and we’d planned on arriving before dawn, we had left the house around 4:00 AM. Instead of fighting with my eyelids to maintain consciousness, I was wide awake. Today, I was the hunter. I had a brand-new, just-sighted Savage .30-06 with a Nikon 10x scope. I had a tag for a whitetail buck. Now, I’m no psychic, but I could see venison in my future.
There’s something about -40 degree cold that makes scenery all the more magical. The air becomes crisp, and everything seems to become more defined. There’s nothing like it in the whole world- I’m not sure whether it’s a recognized scientific phenomenon, or if it’s just me, but it’s one of the reasons hunting will always have a unique allure that only a blessed view will ever feel.
After an hour-long sojourn into the snow-covered roads of the foothills of Alberta, we climbed out of our ‘06 Sierra, into the biting cold. I could feel my nose turning a deep red as I unlocked our deer rifle; a Savage .30-06 with something akin to a hair trigger. Having had a very discouraging experience with Federal Premium ammunition at the range earlier that year, I had selected a box of Remington Core-Lokt bullets. I removed the magazine from the stock of the gun and quickly plugged five rounds in. Feeling the satisfactory click of the magazine seating in the well, I seated the rifle’s strap comfortably over my shoulder.
The world is different when you’re carrying a loaded rifle. During the day, you walk along carelessly, not seeing the many subtle signs that our world is alive with. But when you’re out for blood, you take in everything. Your knees bend, and you transfer your weight gently in slow and measured strides, instead of a normal pace. In fact, a normal pace would seem thunderous.
Your heart will catch in your throat at the crack of a twig; much like the cliché horror flick chase through the woods.
And the most seemingly useless knowledge races through your mind. For instance, the snow only crunches underfoot below -25 degrees. Or that most species of moss grow only on the North side of a tree. Or that steam from your breath carries upward only if the wind is less than 2 miles per hour.
After a good couple of hours stalking around and not seeing anything remotely resembling a deer, I made the decision to strap on snowshoes and bush deeper into the bush. I crossed a federal road allowance, seeing a large reflective sign which read something to the effect that it was unlawful to carry an assembled weapon open within so far of the road (I remember it being some oddball number like 365). So I stripped the bolt from the rear of the breech and carried the disassembled gun until I reached what I felt was pretty close to the stated figure (“Well, that looks like a little over three football fields to me...”), tossed the bolt back in, and resumed snow-shoeing through the deep snow. I laughed as I sarcastically considered just how lucky I was that the Game Warden didn’t show up with laser range-finding equipment and nail me for being inside the threshold.
A couple of miles hike into the brush, I recall noticing a set of clear tracks. They had a decidedly feline appearance; and were from just before dawn that day, by my estimation. Profanities ran through my head as I pondered the implications of meeting a gruesome demise at the hands of a starved cougar.
I almost unconsciously slung the rifle from off the shoulder strap to a cradle carry on my arm. After another moment’s thought, I cycled the bolt and put a round in the chamber. I still laugh as I recall the sudden paranoia with which I very quickly tried to index the ‘safe’ and ‘fire’ positions of the safety mechanism. If any cougars came after me, I’d have 180 grains of high-expanding lead screaming from the barrel at twenty-seven hundred feet per second.
Even a professional fitness trainer would say I made excellent time over the next mile or so. After my heart detached itself from my uvula and resumed its normal position beneath my ribs, I got my head back in the game. It was not a hundred yards later I positively identified some rut marks. A seven- or eight-foot Jack Pine sapling which had most of its bark peeled away by an overly ambitious buck in the rut- A big one, too, by my estimation. The marks were a good six feet up the tree; which, by my estimation, was not even an hour old. The wood was still moist. Not frozen, moist. I very stealthily took a prone position and brought my rifle’s scope to bear with the tree line on the opposite side of the clearing. Feeling lucky, I took two rattling antlers from my pack and began to rattle them, simulating a fight between two dominant bucks. If there was a big buck anywhere near here, this would bring him charging headlong, vessels surging with equal parts testosterone and adrenalin. The whitetail species takes its breeding privileges very seriously.
My heart caught in my throat when he entered the clearing.
Then, with a moment of bitter disappointment, I realized this character wasn’t the one I was gunning for. He was a little four-pointer; maybe a hundred fifty pounds when he was soaking wet.
I briefly considered bagging him on the spot- I could take him through the head, as I had no desire to keep the antlers. He’d drop on the spot, and the young ones always have the tenderest cuts of meat. That’s all I was really after; something to put in the freezer.
Just as I was steadying to take the shot, though, I decided against it. He’d make a nice trophy buck in another couple years. I decided to hold out for something a little bigger.
I noted his ears perking up. Then, his stance became erect and he bounded off. I thought to myself with some bitterness that I’d missed my window, and I might go home empty-handed. I took my eye from the scope, taking a moment before I would go out looking for something I might not see.
Just then, I noted some movement in my peripheral vision. Over, in the dense canopy, a slight movement. I fought my instinct to crank my head over too quickly.
Clearings are a frequent destination for deer, especially in the winter. The long grass which grows underfoot lasts until the new spring, which allows deer to pick through it and find food with no real difficulty. The large clearing also had the advantage of being nestled between two large hills, affording easy access to the water table. Because moose would frequently attempt to traverse what in the summer was practically a quagmire, the ice was broken open. This offered good drinking water for deer that would otherwise have to resort to eating snow for their survival. Another advantage to this location was that deer will frequent areas that are between hills, or otherwise occurring in low-elevation areas. They are, by instinct, a creature given to stealth.
I very slowly glanced over, half expecting a shootout with a cougar or a grizzly. I’d learned all about predator encounters in Outdoor Ed. And Hunter’s Safety, but had stubbornly determined that if I ever stumbled across a predator, I’d still be shooting them.
I rotated my head with agonizing slowness towards this mysterious moving entity. If I moved too fast, I would have scared it away. After all, I saw it move only slightly from two hundred yards away.
I eventually brought my eyeballs to bear on what would momentarily be a highlight of my life- a huge 5x6 whitetail. A hundred and sixty-five points would be a conservative estimate. Ever-so-slowly, I brought the rifle to bear and peered down the scope. The crisp air gave me a beautiful sight picture.
It was time to crunch a couple numbers. I picked out a good reference piece and measured it against my reticule. I figured it was twelve inches in height, and appeared to be about 1.5 mils in height. The target was just over two hundred yards, then. Possibly two hundred and twenty-five.
I knew that Remington Core-Lokt Ultra 180 gr. .30-06 Springfield ammunition had a ballistic co-efficient of .402, which, using the G1, or Ingvalls, model for bullet drift on my ultra-handy handheld ballistics computer, would mean about an inch and a half drop from the hundred-yard zero mark. Not a big deal. With dead-quiet wind and a nice low bullet drop, I set my thumb over the safety mechanism. I almost winced at the volume.
I’d never been plagued by the onset of so-called ‘buck fever.’ There are few things in life I take completely seriously, but shooting is one of them. Complete gravity would envelop my spirit moments before the shot. I took a deep breath to steady up for the shot, and prepared to pull the trigger.
Euphoria overwhelmed me. I was perhaps the first human to stand in this clearing in years, or even decades. I’d pushed back the bush miles into the foothills on snowshoes to find this pristine clearing. I’d woken up at 4 AM to endure miserable, - 40 degree weather. I’d been alert all day long; walked within God-only-knows how many feet of a starving predator, and now this deer was mine.
I centered the crosshairs over the back of his neck, where his brainstem met his spine (allowing for an inch and a half drop, of course). This would ensure an immediate and humane kill. I took up the slack on the trigger, remembering the shooter’s mantra I’d had drilled into my head hundreds of times in my life. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Take your time, do it right, and it’ll be over in a heartbeat.
Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
His stance was erect; his ears perked up on end. This buck was looking for a fight. He might move any second now. I had to take the shot.
Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
An unbelievably loud crack tore across the clearing and echoed through the mountains. The deer slumped down, stone dead. This signalled the worst part of the hunt. I walked across the open clearing to see my dead deer. After a quick picture, I set to work on him with my knife. After about fifteen minutes, he was field-dressed and ready to be hauled back.
The drive out of the mountains was pristine and gorgeous. Discovering the local terrain was exactly what being an outdoorsman is all about: Seeing sights that nobody has ever seen before. Whether it’s creosote bush in the scorching desert, deep quagmire in northern Alberta, or pristine, snow-capped mountains. We stopped at a Subway on the way home. Despite a few sideways glances at the blood on my jacket, I voraciously tore into a foot-long sub. I was asleep in the truck by 6:00 PM, thankful for the opportunity.
