by Boone
Time interminable passes. The rocks I sit on gouge and torture my motionless figure while I anxiously watch the buck nod his great head. Then, with the suddenness of a flash of lightning, the buck is up and out of sight. My confidence plummets into despair. However, a flicker of hope returns when the doe walks up the ridge. Then she looks directly my way. Sensing danger, she snorts and stomps the ground, bringing the small buck to his feet.
Exercising powers of will unknown to me, I sit, hardly twitching an eyelash. Finally the doe relaxes and ambles back down the ridge. A shadowy movement from behind a leafless mesquite alerts me that the big buck is still here. I recall leaving my extra cartridges in the pack; this must be a one-shot kill. The buck steps into a clearing, and I squeeze the trigger. He staggers two or three steps, then goes down. One would expect me to give a big “whoopee,” but I didn’t. It was 2:40 p.m., more than five hours since I saw the deer, and I had been sitting on the rocks for two or three hours. I stand up, and it feels so good that I don’t get very excited.
I walk over to the deer, and I am overcome with contradictory emotions of elation and remorse that perhaps only a hunter can have after making a kill. I look at his rack and it is bigger than I thought. I also look at his teeth and guess his age as between six and eight years, an old-timer.
Some two months later, I took the skull and cape to John Doyle, a master taxidermist, for mounting and measuring. The rack was scored at 128 for the entry measurement. As I told the story of the hunt to this long-time friend, it was also with mixed emotions. I thought of the pride of accomplishment, yet I sensed the end of an era.
For 20 years, I had annually looked forward to these exciting and spiritually rewarding hunts. Now my enthusiasm is diminished by the loss of two friends: Cosine died a year later and I have learned of the passing of John Doyle. But when I walk back over the wilderness, feel the warm desert breeze on my back and watch the sunset in the west, I think of the memories, wonderful memories, of Cosine and John Doyle, who now do their hunting in the great beyond; of the camaraderie of my son Jon; and of the immeasurable pleasure of my association with the wilderness and its wildlife.
Photo from B&C Archives
Typical Coues’ Whitetail Deer, Scoring 133 Points, Taken by Michael E. Duperret in Pima County, Arizona, in 1990.
A Memory To Be Kept Forever
By Michael E. Duperret
21st Big Game Awards Program
IT ALL BEGAN AND ENDED WITH BOB KRAMME. I HAD KNOWN BOB LONG BEFORE I EVER MET HIM. TO ME, HE WAS MUCH MORE THAN A HARDWORKING, GENTLE, RUGGEDLY INDEPENDENT COWBOY. SIMPLY MENTIONING HIS NAME EVOKED THOUGHTS OF OLD-FASHIONED ROUND-UPS AND MESQUITE CORRALS, WILD CANYONS AND LOST MINES, RUGGED HUNTS AND HUGE COUES’ WHITETAIL BUCKS. I FELT I HAD ALWAYS KNOWN BOB KRAMME, FOR HE FILLED A PLACE IN MY HEART FOR THE REAL OLD-TIME COWBOY, THE PRODUCT OF AN ERA THAT HAD COME AND GONE, NEVER TO BE SEEN AGAIN.
In fact, I was thinking of Bob when I placed my Leitz 10x40 binoculars on the tripod that precious morning of November 17, 1990. I did not realize that a magnificent Coues’ whitetail would soon enter my field of view, the buck of a lifetime, a buck that would have made Bob proud, if he had been alive to see it.
My hunting partner, Jeff Volk, who had introduced me to Bob Kramme only six years before, and I were on the eighth day of our nine-day November Coues’ whitetail hunt in southeastern Arizona. We were physically and mentally exhausted, our feet were stone-bruised from the rugged canyons, and we had enough scratches from catclaw, cactus, and shindaggers to last a lifetime. We openly cursed the unseasonably warm weather, yet knew in our hearts that the hunting had been excellent despite it.
We had begun our hunt in a different hunting unit of southeastern Arizona. Friday night after work, Jeff and I had left Tucson for something we dream about all year long: our annual Coues’ whitetail hunt. We drove into our hunting area, slipped on our backpacks, which contained provisions for a potential nine-day backpack hunt, and began our journey. A half-moon cast its silvery glow on the rugged maze of canyons as we silently passed through, guided by familiar nighttime landmarks. Thrilled about our upcoming hunt, the three-hour hike was quickly over, and we pitched our tent under the brilliantly starry Arizona sky. Anticipation hung heavily in the air, so sleep did not come easily.
The next morning found us high on a vantage point, glassing with our binoculars, as the flame-red glow of the rising sun cast hues of coral and buff on the deeply cut, jagged canyon walls all around us. The stunning sunrise illuminated the tan grassy slopes where we searched for the elusive Coues’ deer, turning the slopes into golden, shimmering seas of desert grasses, accented only by an occasional stately yucca. Red-tailed hawks soared high above in the lavender-blue sky, hunting for rabbits and Gambel’s quail, like those that noisily cackled from their roost below us. The quail were silenced only momentarily by the lonely howl of a solitary coyote who, like us, seemed moved by the stark beauty of the Sonoran desert at dawn. But the mysterious desert hid its secrets well that first morning; we saw only a few deer.
Four days of warmer weather followed, with surprisingly excellent hunting. We saw countless deer, glassing up as many as 60 in a single morning. We never saw another hunter, and each day we moved into wilder, more remote areas. The right buck for Jeff did not emerge from the manzanita thickets, grassy slopes, and cedar trees that we glassed. We saw some very nice bucks, but we were in no hurry to end our adventure with a shot from the .243.
On the fifth morning of our hunt, we glassed up a very large buck with an unusual, non-typical rack, watching him the entire morning from a strategic peak a mile away. That evening we made a long, difficult stalk, but darkness closed in before we could locate him in the thick brush. We had to bushwhack around a huge mountain to get back to camp, arriving two hours later, tired and dejected.
We located the same buck at dawn the next morning, and Jeff led me on a long, grueling stalk. We ran, climbed, and crashed through brush, making a huge loop that brought us to a high ridge above the buck. An hour later we arrived at the ridge, sweating, gasping for breath; we waited, hidden, intently glassing the cedar-choked ravines below us.
A tense half-hour passed. Then, out into the open fed the non-typical buck and his two smaller companions. Jeff easily made the 300-yard shot using an 85-grain, boat-tail handload from the .243.
The enjoyment of picture taking and well-deserved congratulations were followed by the meticulous work of fielddressing and boning the meat. By midmorning we were finished, and for the next 11 hours, we hiked out, finally arriving at the truck at 9:30 p.m., tired and sore. Midnight found us at the nearest town, icing down Jeff’s deer and eating a very late dinner.
I held a permit for Coues’ whitetail in a separate hunting unit, so we drove to my area late that night, slept for two hours, and made the long hike in. That first day in my hunting unit, we were tired but we hunted hard, happy to be in new country.
The following morning, the eighth day of our hunt, we were downright exhausted. We arrived at our vantage point late, and quickly set up our tripods to begin glassing. It was then that I began to think about Bob Kramme. I thought about Bob often when the going became tough, because life had always been difficult and challenging for him.
Fond memories of Bob wandered through my mind as I glassed the slopes below me: the respect and love he felt for his wife Romaine; the joy in his eyes when he reminisced about adventures with his son Kolin; the excitement of guiding big game hunts near Jackson Hole, Wyoming, many years ago; the pride he felt after a hard day’s work at their ranch in the rugged Galiuro Mountains.
My memory of first meeting Bob at their ranch was nostalgic, yet vivid: his work-hardened frame sitting beside the old wood-burning stove; his sparkling eyes and warm, handsome smile; his tales of wild, remote places; his respect for the land and creatures that inhabit it.
I shivered beneath my warm jacket as I recalled the harsh drought that had begun in 1988. The Kramme’s ranch was hit hard. The grass shrivele
d up and blew away like dust, stock tanks went bone-dry, and the Krammes had to sell off many of their cattle. All of this weighed very heavily on Bob. I could see the worried look on his wrinkled brow. On March 28, 1990, Bob died in his sleep. It was a huge loss and a shock to all of us. I felt shaken and hollow inside. One of the most special people I had ever met had died, and an era passed with him, an era never to be seen again. The world has seemed like a smaller place since.
After Bob’s death the drought quickly ended. A few weeks later, while at the Kramme’s ranch, we sat in the old stone house once again with the wood stove burning. Bob was not with us, and our hearts were heavy and sad. He had made a deep, lasting impression on all of us, and we talked for hours about him, as a huge rainstorm raged on outside. In our hearts, we each felt that somehow Bob was responsible for bringing back the rains.
The spring rains came and went, followed by the summer monsoons. I am not superstitious, but I found myself thinking that Bob was watching over the desert, somehow bringing back the life-giving rains. The desert responded quickly to the long-awaited water and, by the time our hunt came around that November, the desert seemed almost lush by Arizona standards. The rocky, boulder-strewn saddle I was watching on the eighth morning of our hunt showed no signs of the drought. Long desert grasses and succulent green cacti poked up through the rocks. The desert canyon looked as it always had. Then, something happened that would change it in my mind forever.
Into my field of view stalked a huge, lone buck, carefully sneaking down the saddle with his head held low to the ground, as if avoiding some danger. I barely had time to glance at his dark body and magnificent rack before he disappeared into a manzanita forest. He was gone before I had time to share him with Jeff, put up the spotting scope, or fully evaluate his extraordinary rack.
What I did notice in those few short seconds from half a mile away was that his rack was extremely large and wide. How large I did not know, but my feeling was that he was bigger than anything I had ever seen before. Jeff sensed my excitement. Something very special lay hidden in the manzanita below us.
For the next two hours, we studied the huge thicket. The buck never left, convincing us that he was bedded there. There were two possible strategies: sneak closer and wait for the buck to reveal himself; or attempt a drive using Jeff as the “bird dog” to flush the buck toward me.
The debate of a lifetime ensued, but eventually Jeff’s logic won out; we would attempt to flush him out, because he had already been alarmed by a hunter or lion and, therefore, might never show himself again. The wind was in our favor and the terrain was perfect for a deer drive. There was only one natural escape route, and overlooking it was a large, rocky outcropping from which to shoot. The only potential problem was that we had never, in all our years of hunting Coues’ whitetail, attempted a deer drive. We had long since learned that these super-intelligent deer had a logic that far surpassed ours.
Nevertheless, desperate chances and uncertain outcomes are the fiber of an exciting hunt, and win or lose, we were thrilled with the prospects. Jeff set out on a hidden, mile-long loop to get to the far side of the manzanita thicket, while I setup for the shot. I found a strategic, comfortable vantage point and placed a round into the chamber of the .243. I swung the bipod down, cleared some obstructing grass in front of me, and breathlessly waited.
After an eternity, Jeff topped out on the far ridge, half a mile away, and slowly descended toward the manzanita thicket which lay between us. I had hoped the buck would slink out of the thicket toward me, offering a walking or standing shot from 200 to 300 yards. No such luck.
As Jeff entered the far side of the thicket, the buck exploded from the opposite end, sprinting for the small canyon below me. He leaped over 5-foot high manzanitas, twisting and turning as he ran. I followed him with the scope, amazed. The only whitetails I had ever seen run so swiftly and desperately were two does being chased by a mountain lion.
I carefully led the buck and I squeezed off a shot. The sight-picture looked perfect as the report broke the tranquility of the huge canyon, but the buck ran even faster. Quickly, I reloaded the bolt action, carefully aimed, and fired again. The buck twisted just as I shot and the bullet puffed harmlessly where I had hoped he would be. The miss did not matter, though, because the first shot from the .243 had connected. The buck crashed into a ravine 200 yards below me, never to leave it.
Jeff arrived at the deer before I did and met me just below the ravine where the buck lay. A large smile crossed his tired face and he said, “Mike, no matter how big you thought your buck was, he’s bigger than you imagined. Congratulations.” He held out his hand.
When I saw the magnificent deer, I was stunned and unsure what to think. The buck was huge, and he had the most incredible rack I had ever seen on a Coues’ deer. Jeff watched silently, as I carefully examined the beautiful deer. We both knew it would be one of the largest Coues’ whitetail bucks ever taken. I glanced up toward the saddle above me and felt sad that he had only a couple hundred yards to go to reach safety.
Time seemed to stop until Jeff broke the silence of the warm November day. “I never told you this, but Kolin gave me Bob Kramme’s old camo hunting jacket after he died,” Jeff said slowly, his voice unsteady. “This is the eighth day of our nine-day hunt. I figured we needed a change of luck, so I wore Bob’s jacket this morning. For the first time ever. I guess Bob was smiling on us today.”
Then I knew what to think. A trophy is much more than a big rack. It is a memory to be kept forever. I suddenly realized that, when I looked at this trophy, I would always recall our adventurous hunt, the huge buck, but most of all Bob Kramme.
We dressed the deer, carefully keeping all of the meat, the great rack, and the hide for a shoulder mount and fly-tying. Then, we hiked out of the ruggedly beautiful canyon with Jeff in the lead, carrying the rack. I glanced frequently at the old, faded camo jacket he wore and the huge rack in his hand. The connection between Bob and the buck seemed to be no accident. We hiked slowly, quietly savoring the experience. As the sun set, we somehow knew that we were a part of something bigger than ourselves.
We were humbled to be a part of it.
Moose & Caribou
Canada Moose
Alaska-Yukon Moose
Shiras Moose
Barren Ground Caribou
Central Canada Barren
Ground Caribou
Photo from B&C Archives
Canada Moose, Scoring 211 Points, Taken by M. Nathan Sabo near Red Earth Creek, Alberta, in 2000.
In the Land of Giants
By M. Nathan Sabo
24th Big Game Awards Program
“NATH,” MY DAD’S VOICE CUT THE TENSION, “YOU BETTER PUT THE CAMERA DOWN AND GET READY TO SHOOT. YOU CAN VIDEO HIM ALL YOU WANT ONCE HE’S ON THE GROUND.” MY FATHER WAS BEGINNING TO EXPRESS HIS CONCERN THAT THE BULL WOULD GET AWAY, WHEN BOOM, THE SHOT FROM MY RUGER .300 WINCHESTER ECHOED THROUGH THE WILDERNESS. AT THAT MOMENT THE FIRST FOUR DAYS OF THE HUNT DIDN’T MATTER ANYMORE.
Our annual moose hunting trip was planned for September 28, 2000. My hunting partners Lou Gajdos, Don Sabo, Fred Bullegas, my father Moses, and I planned to spend ten days calling moose in the area near Red Earth, Alberta. Due to unfortunate circumstances beyond our control, the trip was not starting out very well. With flat tires on the trailer and mechanical breakdowns with the ATVs, we were beginning to wonder why anyone would spend so much time and money to be so frustrated.
On the morning of October 3, we were finally ready to put in our first full day of hunting. We awoke to a frozen, windy morning. Our spirits were a little down because of the howling winds, but we were happy just to be able to finally hunt. Lou and Don wanted to spend the day at a lake where Don had shot a young bull the previous afternoon, while Fred, my dad, and I decided to try a lake about three hours south of camp.
We arrived at the lake by mid-afternoon and started to call. While I was calling, I noticed something black on the other side of the lak
e through a clearing and into the willows. I didn’t know if it was a bull or a cow, but I knew its body was big. Between wind gusts and sardine sandwiches I continued calling when I faintly heard a grunt. I then noticed something that resembled a sheet of plywood on the far side of the lake. Through my 10x42 binoculars I realized that the sheet of plywood was actually the antlers of a massive bull looking over the willows in our direction. As I continued to call, the bull sauntered toward the ice-covered lake. With the strong crosswind blowing, I gave out another cow call and the bull was hooked. He stood on the shoreline and seemed to be debating which was the quickest route to the love-sick cow. The direction he chose was the closest, but a frozen creek about 40 feet wide lay in his path. Failing to find a way across the creek, he decided to try and cross on the ice. Putting his front legs on the ice, he broke through causing him to make a hasty retreat. I let out a grunt hoping to persuade him to try and cross again. This got the big bull’s juices flowing, making him mad. He started thrashing his head from side to side and ended the life of the closest willow bush. He then forged back into the creek. Using his front legs he began to break through the ice. We watched in awe as he disappeared and reemerged with his legs coming up on the ice in front of him, busting his way through. About half way through the creek, our hearts sank as we watched the bull turn around and head back to the bank he came from. We were starting to doubt he would be able to cross at all. I figured I had nothing to lose, so I let out the loudest bull grunt I could possibly conjure up. Without hesitating, he turned around and plunged back into the ice-covered creek, sending an array of water and ice into the air. Occasionally we would catch a glimpse of his antlers as he lunged forward through the ice. It seemed like an eternity as we waited for him to appear on the other side. Finally, out of the creek he emerged, looking for stable ground as he stumbled from exhaustion. Finding his footing, the bull stood and shook his coat violently, ridding himself of the freezing water. I gave a cow call to set his bearings straight and get him moving.