McRae in Montana: Two Botched Shots and One Chance at Redemption on Mountain Mule Deer

Bill McRae was a hunter, a wildlife photographer, and the optics editor emeritus of Outdoor Life. He died on Aug. 21 in Montana. You can read more about his life and legacy here. This story, originally titled “My Sun River Dream Buck,” first appeared in the November 1973 issue of Outdoor Life.

I DUG MY HEELS into the loose talus as I tried to get a comfortable shooting position on the steep mountainside. The mule-deer buck was about 150 yards away, standing broadside and looking at me. Through my 4X rifle scope I could see that he was a dandy. I guessed that his antlers had about a twofoot spread. As I steadied the crosshairs on his shoulder and squeezed the trigger, I had no idea how much trouble he would cause me, or that my experience with him would end with a strange, almost mystical twist.

It was early November, and I was camped in high rugged mountains on a small tributary of Montana’s Sun River with my brother John and my uncle Tony Sotak.

John is a contractor in Billings, Montana. He and I were raised in Cornell, Wisconsin, where at an early age we learned to enjoy the outdoors with our father and Tony. We came to Montana together in the early 1950’s to do construction work. We both fell in love with the country and settled down here. I live in Fairfield and am now a freelance outdoor writer and wildlife photographer.

Tony, who I regret to say has passed away since our mule-deer hunt, lived with his family at Donald, Wisconsin. He was an architect and a lifelong hunter and fisherman. He was also active in conservation programs, including the preservation and development of wildlife areas, flowages, and parks. Tony had hunted whitetails in Wisconsin since he was old enough to tote a gun, and he had made two previous hunting trips to Montana on which he was­­­ fortunate enough to shoot both elk and antelope.

On this trip Tony came by car from Wisconsin, picked up John at Billings, and continued on to my home in Fairfield. We loaded our pooled camping equipment into my four-wheel-drive vehicle and headed for the mountains.

Our camp consisted of an 11 x 14-foot umbrella tent, two catalytic heaters, a gasoline lantern, a cook stove, canvas cots and sleeping bags, cooking utensils, and a full grub box. These items, along with the clear mountain stream that flowed right by the tent, provided all the comforts we wanted.

We had planned our hunt to coincide with the rut, in order to make getting a buck a little easier.

The first morning was cold. A few clouds drifted over the mountains and dissipated as they moved out toward the plains. We went about a quarter-mile up the creek and separated. John climbed a ridge; Tony and I followed different forks of the creek.

About 30 minutes later I heard two shots from the direction John had gone. We hadn’t seen any other hunters in the area, so I felt sure John had scored.

The trail I was on followed the creek until it came to a little falls where the creek poured out of the mouth of a canyon. There the trail switched back up the mountain for a way and then ran through heavy timber along the rim of the canyon. Across the canyon a large park was intermittently visible through openings in the trees. It impressed me as an ideal place to take a deer.

My judgment was correct, for in a few minutes a lone buck appeared near the top of the park. He was about 200 yards away and offered a fairly easy shot, but he had only three-point antlers. I decided not to take him.

About 10 a.m. I started back. On the way I ran into John. He had indeed shot a deer, and he had dragged it down to the creek. I helped him carry it to an old road, where we later picked it up with my 4WD.

Over lunch John filled Tony and me in on the details of his kill.

“After I left you guys,” he said, “I climbed up the ridge and through a small saddle. I sat down for a few minutes. Then I heard some rocks clatter and saw a herd of deer coming along the mountainside in single file. The buck was bringing up the rear. I waited until he was almost to the saddle and blasted him.”

John was using a Model 742 Remington .244 with open sights. Tony had a Model 700 Remington .270 with a Weaver K4 scope. My outfit was a Model 70 Winchester .30/06 with a 4X Lyman scope. In addition to the rifle, I carried a small rucksack attached to a large packframe. I find a rucksack just right for toting such items as a knife, extra cartridges, and a camera. I would use the packframe for carrying a deer to camp if I got one too far away to make dragging it practical.

After lunch we rested for a couple of hours and went out again. I moved up a long ridge until I was almost to timberline. Then I cut across the top of a large basin. The cliffs, rockslides, and down timber made for rough going.

Finally I decided to climb a high saddle and look over some country I had never seen before. One of the things I like most about mountain hunting is the vista that awaits a hunter at each new pass. This one was no disappointment. I looked down into a beautiful timbered valley with numerous side canyons. Far below a series of beaver dams formed emerald-colored ponds.

I climbed down a little way and stepped out onto the edge of a small cliff. I heard a clatter of rocks as a herd of does and fawns erupted below me and headed down the mountain. I sat down with my binoculars and shortly located half a dozen more deer, including a small buck about 200 yards away. He stood and watched me for a long time and then bounced away.

I knew that an area with so many does was certain to contain some big bucks. I decided to get back on my side of the mountain before I saw one, because I would undoubtedly be foolish enough to shoot it. Wounded deer have a way of running or falling downhill before they die, and I would probably have to carry anything I shot back up over the pass to get it back to camp. I’ve learned the hard way that in some places it just doesn’t pay to kill game.

The sun had disappeared behind the mountains, and only about 90 minutes of light remained. But the deer would be coming out to feed, improving my chances of getting a buck. I decided to hunt my way back to camp by way of the draw next to the one I had come up.

As I started down from the pass I heard a faint honking sound in the distance. At first I couldn’t locate its source, but as it came closer a familiar V appeared against the deep-blue Montana sky. Through my 7 x 35 Nikon binoculars I could see the forms of snow geese. In the rays of the evening sun their white bodies took on an amber hue, giving them the appearance of a golden chain being pulled across the sky. I had often wondered how geese kept from running into mountains while flying at night. Now I saw. The ridge behind me was almost 10,000 feet high, and I estimated that the geese cleared it by better than half a mile.

To get into the draw I crossed over a shoulder of the mountain and headed down through a patch of timber. The descent was so steep that I had to hang onto the trees to keep from falling. I came out onto a large rockslide and started to cross it on a well-worn game trail. When I had gone about 200 feet I saw a deer browsing at timber’s edge at the bottom of the slide. I was in the open, but amazingly the deer hadn’t seen me. I sat down and studied the situation with my binoculars and located four other deer, all does.

“There must be a buck somewhere,” I said to myself.

THEN I SAW the buck I mentioned at the beginning of this story. He was off to my right, about 50 yards from where I had seen the first doe. His body was facing downhill, but his head was turned straight toward me. His heavy antlers swung out past his ears and then up. This was the buck I wanted.

As the sound of my .30 / 06 echoed through the mountains, the buck wheeled and ran toward the does. Then the whole herd was running. Though my shooting position hadn’t been the most stable, I never considered that the buck wouldn’t go down after a short run.

The deer disappeared into the timber and then came out again and ran across a narrow opening in the bottom of the draw about 300 yards away. The buck came out last, and since I felt sure that he was already wounded I tried another shot. It had no apparent effect. I caught another glimpse of the deer as they crossed a snow patch in the timber. Then they were gone.

There was only scattered snow cover, so I went down to where I had last seen the deer. As I had feared, a few drops of blood were on the snow. By then it was almost dark, and I managed to follow the trail for only about 100 yards before I lost it on the bare ground. The deer had been headed toward the end of a ridge in the direction of the park where I had seen the three-point buck earlier in the day.

Reluctantly I gave up and headed for camp. I felt sick about wounding and losing the buck, and I tried to tell myself that the deer would probably survive and that every hunter occasionally loses an animal. But rationalizing didn’t make me feel any better.

After we turned in for the night I lay awake for a long time thinking about the buck. I knew I couldn’t follow his tracks on the bare ground, and I figured I had lost him for good. Perhaps because the matter was so heavily on my mind, I dreamed about it. In my dream I saw the buck standing in the same park where I had seen the three-point buck.

The next morning we left camp before first light. John and Tony decided to work the ridges above camp. Though I had dismissed the dream, I decided that the park with its concealed approach through the timber would be as good a place as any.

It was just getting light when I stepped out into a small opening that afforded a good view of the park. At first I saw nothing. Then a faint movement about 100 yards away caught my eye, and a gray shadow materialized into a buck. He moved ahead a few yards, showing a definite limp. Then he stopped and turned his head toward me, revealing his heavy antlers. There was no doubt: it was the buck I had hit the evening before.

I couldn’t see the buck from a sitting position, so I had to shoot offhand. I centered the crosshairs behind the deer’s shoulder and pulled the trigger. He lunged and headed for the brow of a hill at timber’s edge about 40 yards away. As he disappeared I feared for an instant that I had flubbed again. Then I heard a crash and saw the top of a dead spruce swaying violently. That was where I found him.

My shot had taken the buck right through the heart. I also found a superficial wound on his front leg where I had hit him the night before. As I got out my knife I said to myself, “Well, old boy, this is the end of my trouble with you.” I was wrong.

I DRESSED THE deer and started to skin him, planning on taking the hindquarters to camp in one load and coming back later for the rest of the meat. The knife I was using had a five-inch blade and was razor-sharp. First I cut the lower legs off, and then I began skinning out the gambrels. The hide was tough, and I foolishly turned the knife toward my hand. It slipped and hit the index finger of my left hand on the second joint. In the instant before the blood started to flow, I could see the bone.

I considered going straight to camp, where I had a first-aid kit, but then I would have to come back twice for the meat. So I tore off a strip of handkerchief, wrapped it around the finger a couple of times, and knotted it tight.

It isn’t easy to skin a deer without the use of your index finger, but I finally got the hindquarters skinned out. I tied on the pack and started down the trail. My finger was still bleeding badly, and about halfway to camp I noticed that the end was turning white. Apparently the severed blood vessels and the tight bandage were causing it to freeze. I put on my glove and stuck my hand under my coat.

John was in camp when I got there. I washed my finger in the creek, and e bandaged it.

“I think you did that just so you could get out of doing dishes,” he said.

In the afternoon Tony went back with me and finished skinning the deer and we brought the rest of the meat to camp. That night we discussed plans for the next day. John and I both had deer tags left (in Montana a resident hunter may buy a second deer tag, valid only in designated areas), although we didn’t intend to take another deer unless a larger one came along. So far Tony hadn’t seen a buck.

“We’re quite a way back into the mountains,” Tony said, “and every time we’ve hunted we’ve gone uphill. Tomorrow I’m going to hunt below camp and see if it will change my luck.”

Normally mule deer are nocturnal and are seen moving about only in the early morning and late evening. But during the rut unattached bucks travel continually in search of does, while bucks that have acquired harems generally lie down with their does during the day. So during the rut you are likely to come across a buck anywhere at any time, though morning and evening are still prime hunting times.

Another fairly common rutting phenomenon is for unattached bucks to harass one another. Frequently one buck will follow another for miles, trying to pick a fight with him.

In late afternoon Tony came into camp all smiles and told us this story:

“I had stopped to rest on an open ridge when I heard strange noises in the timber below. They were sort of like bleats, but not very loud. The noises went on intermittently for about half an hour. Then I saw a buck come running up onto the ridge with another one right behind him. They saw me an instant after I saw them, and they turned and ran. I shot just before they reached the trees, and I was sure I had connected.”

Tony found his deer, a nice four-pointer, about 50 yards down the hill. The next day we helped Tony drag his deer out. Then we broke camp and headed home

 As residents of Montana, John and I each paid $3 for the first deer tag and $5 for the second. Tony’s nonresident license, which entitled him to take two deer, one elk, gamebirds, and fish, cost $151.

In most of the western mountainous part of Montana a nonresident must be accompanied by a resident who is licensed to hunt game animals. However, in many hunting districts in eastern Montana nonresidents can buy a $35 one-deer tag and hunt without a resident guide. I might add that these eastern areas are some of the best for deer in the state, and though they have no mountains that compare with those in western Montana, much of the country is rough and picturesque.

Read Next: Remembering Bill McRae, the Godfather of Modern Sporting Optics

If all’s well that ends well, ours was a terrific hunt. When I got home and took the bandage off, my finger was already starting to heal. But most important, we all got our deer.

I never told the fellows about the dream, because it doesn’t sound very believable. I’m sure it was a coincidence rather than a premonition. At least, I’m almost sure.

The post McRae in Montana: Two Botched Shots and One Chance at Redemption on Mountain Mule Deer appeared first on Outdoor Life.

Source: https://www.outdoorlife.com/hunting/montana-mule-deer-bill-mcrae/