It’s been a busy fall for our family with a bison hunt, MT elk and AZ early rifle bull hunts all in the books.
Hunter was next up with a Kaibab youth tag in his pocket. Due to less accountability with online school he found himself making up assignments instead of hunting on opening day. Mom was merciful and let him hunt after his assignments were made up.
We arrived late Saturday. From past experience and lots of driving 67 in the dark going/coming from bison camp we knew they were stacked up in the burned areas. So we literally plopped down a tent right next to the highway and grabbed a few hours of sleep before the alarm went off early Saturday.
About 5 minutes after we left camp Hunter spotted some deer feeding in front of us. He quickly setup and fired a shot and MISSED at the startling distance of 30 yds. He looked straight at me and said “I was right on her shoulder, if I missed the scope is messed up.” Almost word for word something he heard on MeatEater this week. We looked but it was a clean miss. Within 30 minutes we found a small group feeding down the ridge from us. This time there was a little more breathing room between us to setup the shot. He had to stand because of brush. We got the triclawps under the foregrip and the Bogpod under the butt.
He was steady and told me he was ready to squeeze. At the crack she lurched forward and then stumbled two steps before piling up behind a log. Hunter had filled his second tag in two days with his little brother and I both by his side.
At 267 yds he couldn’t have placed the shot any better if he did it by hand.
We spent the rest of the day scouting for Nash’s 12AW late hunt, admiring the fall colors and bemoaning the fire damage.
As I reflected on this in a way only Father’s do, I realized how far he (and I) have come. Which then also made me consider what heights he might yet achieve. We did this hunt two years ago when he was just 10. He was freshly diagnosed with CMT, hyper-mobility and bilateral hip dysplasia. It was between the first and second reconstructive hip surgery. It was a year I had waited my entire life for, a year of first hunting expeditions, but had turned into a year of doctors, surgeries, therapy and tears; both his and mine. At that time it felt like a monumental effort just to fill that tag. This year, it was a layup, probably too easy for him. He found his own deer, dialed his own scope, called the hit and navigated his own way back to the truck. I wish the me now could go tell the me of 2018 that it’s going to be ok. You and he can do this. My buttons were all busted on Saturday from puffing out my chest.
One more Bab trip for our crew left this year.