Hunting Buck in Sand Country

It's late in the season, about the last day of the hunt. For 10 days now the big bucks have been harassed by a jillion hunters in the mountain country to the north. The Cedar Mountain slopes, valleys and timbered ridges was where they'd growed big on good browse and September acorns to finish them off with hard fat. Those that run the gauntlet and survived found refuge south of the east fork of the Virgin River in the Sand Country around Elephant Butte, Harris Mountain, Rock Canyon, Cannon Mountain and Lion's Point and other high ledgey escarpments north of Cane Beds and Pipe Valley. We had been hunting the mountains but we know that in this isolated area we'll find those big spreads the last few days of the hunt.

The World War II vintage jeep travels this 2 track sandy road with ease, all four wheels turning under power. My brother, Keith and I are familiar with this land of sand, sagebrush, cedar trees, buttes, rocky canyons where grass was sparse and some browse grew in patches, where we had tended cattle and sheep here in years gone by. The War is 7 or 8 years passed and the California hunter has not as yet discovered this rough land. We make camp at a likely spot where campfire wood is plentiful. There's a cupboard fastened to the rear end of the jeep with a 2 weeks supply of grub inside and a door that swings down to provide a table. 10 gallons of water on one side with an extra can of gas on the other. Dutch ovens and bedrolls, axes and other gear are stacked just back of the driver and passenger seats. This outfit is self-sustaining for 2 weeks or more. Leather gun scabbards are slung on each side of the windshield, handy for the hunters. It's a warm pleasant evening for this time of year at an elevation of 6,000 plus. Next morning we drive the jeep to the east side of Rock Canyon where we disembark and head out on foot.

Keith crosses to the west side while I dally along, giving him time to go over. We try to work it together, hoping we'll run a big one out where we can get a shot. Big yellow saw timber grow in the canyon but it's too rough to drag any out to a saw mill. After awhile I mosey along the side about 30 yards down from the top edge on the east side and headed north. Haven't seen Keith since shortly after leaving the jeep. Ain't surprised though, cause it's a long piece across the canyon. He probably found fresh buck tracks and is trying to get a glimpse of him. I'm not in any hurry, just as likely to jump one if I slowpoke as I would when traveling faster.

Presently my eyes rivet on a big one laying at the base of a large pine tree near the bottom of the canyon. He's about 250 to 300 yards away. I kneel down to steady my aim and since it is a down hill shot the dot of the scope rests on his brisket. My 308 barks and the buck hardly moves but he did sort of lay out flat on his side. I watch him for a couple of minutes through the scope. He don't move and sure enough he's laid out there flat on his right side. So I amble down, ready for another shot in case he's just fooling me. He's dead all right. Upon looking him over I see that the bullet cut his spine, killing him instantly.

A large area of sandstone surfaces above the sand a few feet from where he lays. A good place to gut him out and cut him into quarters, aflerwhich I tote a front shoulder up the east side toward the jeep. I'm pantin like a lizard on a hot rock by the time I top out. The jeep is out there somewhere at least a 1/2 mile distance. After fetching it to my deer meat, I parked in the shade of a big tree and the front quarter is loaded in. 3 more trips are made down to the bottom and back out. Just as I was nearing the top with the last load, here comes Keith. He's made a big circle and hasn't got a shot. We fix up some fresh liver and heart in the Dutch oven, then turn the jeep to the south by a little west.

Three or four miles distance and we stop again to make another circle. I'm hoping Keith will luck out now and get a nice one. This area is comparatively flat with an upward grade of 3 to 5 percent as it runs south toward Elephant Butte. Sagebrush and scattered cedar trees with patches of edible browse here and there cover this sandy land. Some rolling hills, but not really good hunting terrain where one can scan an opposite hillside. My footsteps are soundless in the loose sand. A little breeze moves to the south as I travel west. It's not likely that I will see any deer, as visibility through the brush is 50 to 100 yards. My ears are tuned to hear the crack of Keith's rifle. In front of me are several big bushy cedar trees and as I walk around the nearest one, there stands, facing me not more than 30 feet away, a magnificent big 8 point buck, California count. He's as surprised as I am and stays momentarily motionless, enough time for my rifle to come up. It blasts off and he drops straight down to the sand, not moving muscle. The second time that day my shot has cut the spinal column. This time in the neck just under the jaw. It's instant death with no struggle. I'm gutting him out when Keith finds me. He's disgusted with his luck I can tell. Sure do wish he'd been in my shoes. We hang him up and I go get the jeep.

We make camp right there by those big cedar trees. Both bucks are big 4 pointers (Utah count), one for each of us. Next time it'll be me that has sorry luck and Keith will bring down the game which fills our meat sacks. Next morning after breakfast we load up the jeep and I take some pictures to remember things by, then we head for home.