PRONGHORN IN THE SNOW

Story and photos by DianaRupp

The thermometer on the dashboard of the truck read 14 degrees. About four inches of fresh snow covered the vast expanse of sage flats. Flat-topped buttes in the distance, glittering white, were crowned with scattered blue pine trees like spearmint sprinkles on a vanilla-iced layer cake.

This was not exactly the weather I had anticipated for a pronghorn hunt in early October, which is usually a balmy time of year in eastern Wyoming. On most early season antelope hunts, the first concern after shooting an animal is getting the meat on ice immediately to cool down. At least that was not going to be a problem on this day.

The storm had blown in during the night, the high winds rocking the fifth-wheel trailer that served as an auxiliary bunkhouse for our stay at Converse County’s Tillard Ranch. As a frigid day dawned, outfitter Brad Kooiman of Xtreme Dream Outfitters served hot breakfast burritos and strong cowboy coffee in the ranch’s rustic bunkhouse kitchen, and then our group of six hunters layered up in all the wool and fleece we had brought with us and piled into several pickup trucks to begin our hunt. My hunting companions had arrived from such diverse parts of the country as Pennsylvania, California, and Virginia, all of us looking forward to a fun hunt and hoping to take home a cooler full of antelope steaks.

It’s hardly a secret that the Cowboy State is the go-to destination if you’re hoping to take a good, mature pronghorn buck on a fun, fair-chase, spot-and-stalk hunt. Wyoming is home to an estimated 400,000 antelope, more than any other state, and there are plenty of tags available. It’s also a beautiful place, and I had been admiring the magnificent wide-open spaces on either side of the highway on my drive up from Colorado when I had first seen the storm clouds gathering over the plains. I knew then that we were in for some weather that was going to make this hunt especially interesting.

The wintry setting added an extra layer of beauty to an already stunning landscape on the first morning, and the abundance of pronghorn on the ranch added to the appeal. Right off the bat, we spotted a number of nice bucks and put on a couple of stalks, but the animals were spooky, and the windy conditions, poor visibility, and periodic snow squalls added an extra level of challenge. Pronghorn are known for their wariness and incredible eyesight, which stands them in good stead on the open plains. The best plan is to find some broken country—ridges, coulees, or other breaks in the terrain—to increase the odds of making a successful stalk. The usual drill is to glass a buck from a long distance, then plan a stalk, often detouring a long way around to take advantage of whatever cover may be on offer.

These long stalks are the fun part of antelope hunting. The not-so-fun part is dealing with Wyoming’s legendary wind. At one point during the first morning the outfitter, Brad, and I glassed a particularly nice buck as it trotted down into a steep draw—a perfect setup. Getting quietly out of the pickup, I chambered a round in the Franchi Momentum 6.5 Creedmoor rifle I carried, then closed the distance by jogging, bent over, as close to the drop-off as I could. Dropping on my belly, I wormed my way to the edge of the slope, plowing small drifts as I pushed the rifle in front of me. Through blowing snow I spotted the buck, which was feeding broadside some 250 yards below.

As frozen pellets pelted my face, I rested the rifle on a low set of shooting sticks, which rocked in the howling wind despite my best efforts to maintain a steady hold. My bullet kicked up a puff of snow a foot to the right of the antelope’s chest, and he whirled and vanished down the draw. Chastened, I got to my feet, slinging my rifle on my shoulder and stuffing my nearly frozen fingers deep into my jacket pockets to warm them. I staggered sideways in the swirling squall on the hike back to the truck.

That evening, our group compared notes over a hearty meal of steaks and baked potatoes in the bunkhouse kitchen. Just one hunter out of six of us had scored, making an impressive 300-yard shot in a stiff crosswind and dropping a nice buck. The rest of us had seen plenty of antelope, but had been unable to get within range or had been, like me, flummoxed by the wind. We hoped for better weather conditions on the morrow.

We got our wish, as the weather improved dramatically on the second day. While it was overcast and still windy (this was Wyoming, after all), the storms had passed and the temperature climbed steadily. Brad was guiding me again today, and by late morning, we were glassing several distant bucks feeding in the lee of a tall bluff. We watched them for nearly an hour from across the valley, waiting to see if they would move off or stay where they were. They seemed relaxed and not inclined to go far, so we decided to make a stalk. Leaving the truck, we hiked in a mile-wide half-circle to stay well out of the bucks’ line of sight, dropping into a sage flat cut with shallow, jagged watercourses. We crossed the flat well to the east of the bucks, and then made the climb up onto the bluff behind them, coming into a copse of scattered pines above where we had last seen them.

As we snaked our way through the pines, a large antelope that had been bedded under the shelter of the trees leaped up, almost at our feet, and sprinted to the top of a pointed bluff, where he stood for a moment, magnificently skylined, tall black horns set off against the blue sky. I had dropped to a kneeling position when he flashed past me and now had him dead to rights, but I knew I couldn’t ethically take the skyline shot. I watched through the scope as he regarded us briefly, then dropped down the opposite side of the bluff and vanished. I looked ruefully at Brad, who just grinned and shook his head. The copse of trees was the last place either of us had expected to see an antelope.

We continued on, creeping quietly out to the edge of the trees, relieved to discover the group of bucks we had glassed initially was feeding in the open below us, not far from where we had last seen them. After some leopard-crawling to get beyond the trees, we squirmed and belly-crawled through the snowy sage to the cusp of the hill where we could look down.

Four bucks were below us, feeding calmly, about 170 yards away. Two of the bucks were very nice. Brad suggested I shoot the one with the taller horns, but I focused on the other one, which had particularly large cutters. “I like that one,” I said.

“He’s the one you missed yesterday,” Brad said.

“I thought so,” I said. “Even better.”

Just as I was ready to touch off a shot, all four bucks abruptly bedded down. Their bodies were now hidden behind tall grass, and all I could see were the four heads sticking up, facing away from us, as they contentedly chewed their cud and regarded the valley below.

Since we could, we crawled twenty yards closer. I eased into a solid sitting position, the rifle resting on sticks. The setup was perfect, except that I had nothing to shoot at. The wind was now funneling directly down the slope toward the antelope, and I was certain they would scent us and stand up at any moment. But all four of them just lay there. The buck I wanted tipped his nose forward and appeared to doze. The contrast between the spooky, switchedon animals of the day before and this lethargic group was striking.

“You want me to make them stand up?” Brad asked.

I shook my head firmly. We were in no hurry and I didn’t want to spook them. “Give them a few minutes,” I suggested.

Ten minutes later, Brad lowered his binocular and looked over at me, one eyebrow raised. “You know, we could be here all day,” he said.

I realized he was right. The antelope appeared to have no intention of going anywhere; they seemed to have settled in, possibly for the afternoon.

“OK,” I said. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”

Brad whistled softly. The antelope ignored him. He whistled again, louder this time. Still no reaction. He lifted an arm and waved it. Two of the bucks looked back at us curiously, then went back to dozing. Brad waved two arms, then his hat. The bucks looked at him impassively. I still had the scope solidly on the pronghorn, but it was getting harder to hold it steady as I was inwardly chuckling at Brad’s antics and the non-reaction of the antelope. It was a 180-degree turnaround from the day before, when the storm had made the animals so spooky they were practically unapproachable.

At last Brad made as if to stand up, and at that point the bucks had apparently had enough. They heaved to their feet, not seeming particularly alarmed. The buck with the nice cutters gave me a perfect broadside presentation and the 143-grain Hornady ELD-X took him right behind the shoulder. He went less than thirty yards and piled up, shot through the heart.

As we approached the fine, fat buck, the sun came out and shone down on us from a blue sky. As I knelt beside the antelope to pay my respects and admire his curving horns and long, thick prongs, I had to shed my outer jacket. Brad shook my hand and I thanked him for leading us on a perfect stalk. I notched my tag, and we took pictures of the buck in the rapidly melting snow.