Carmichel in the Backcountry: A Packtrain Pileup, Quick Shooting, and a Trophy Mule Deer

THE CROSSHAIRS lurched away from the buck’s chest as pain tore through my arm. Dropping the rifle, I flexed the cramping arm and quickly looped the sling back around, settling the crosshairs on the deer’s chest.

The buck mule deer faced me, head low and ears focused. I sat above him with my Ruger M-77 .280 aimed at his chest. Normally, I would have fired at such a trophy as soon as my rifle was ready. And he would have run. But there was another deer hidden in the brush. It might be an even better trophy. I suspected it was a patriarch. Guesswork and hunches are part of trophy hunting, turning down big bucks for even bigger ones. The visible buck was a fine trophy, but the one in the bush might be better.

The partially hidden deer moved. He stood up. I knew I had a moment to choose and get off a shot. But the second buck just stood there. All I could do was wait. My arm cramped again.

The kill was made below the cleft in the skyline. Outdoor Life

MY PAL FRED HUNTINGTON and I were hunting in the Greys River area of Southwestern Wyoming. Our outfitter and guide, Bud Callahan, operates the Box-Y Ranch and runs one of the slickest outfitting operations I know of. Fred, founder and president of the RCBS-OMARK reloading tool company, is a relentless hunter. We have hunted together on four continents for some mighty exotic species, but the lure of the big buck remains strong. Every autumn, we search for trophy mule deer in the high country.

I had hunted pronghorn with Callahan the previous season, impressed by his guiding, the beauty of the Grey’s River country, and the abundance of game. So, I booked a hunt for Fred and myself the following season.

Box-Y hunters stay at the ranch in warm, comfortable bunkhouses. Since the ranch is in prime game country, the hunting areas are close. Callahan minimizes horseback time by trucking the riding stock near the hunting area. You mount up before daybreak and make the final ride.

On the first morning, the sun kissed the peaks as we reached the mountain summit. Stopping to let my horse rest, I surveyed the incredible panorama.

The Salt River Mountains glimmered to the west, the Wind River Mountains and Gannett Peak to the east. To the north stretched the Snake River Range, the Gros Ventre Mountains, and the glistening tip of the Grand Teton. Our hunting party split up here, with our California friends and their guides circling to the South. Fred, his guide, Bud, and I planned to hunt the upper part of the mountain along the ridge crests.

For three hours, we didn’t see anything of interest. As we were settling down for lunch, Bud spotted a fair buck at the edge of a timber boundary below us.

The boundary was on a steep slope, and with luck the deer might be pushed out for an open shot. Fred’s guide circled behind, and Fred positioned himself with his rifle rested along a pine. I stood behind Fred, camera ready. After a tense wait, the guide appeared from the timber. The deer had been there, but as he approached, it turned and ran the other way, refusing to cross open ground.

Later, in the sun after lunch, I studied a sheer rock face a few miles to the north.

“That’s Sheep Mountain,” Bud said.

“Do you ever hunt there?” I asked.

“Not often. It’s tough to climb, but there are good bucks. Most hunters leave it alone. That’s why the bucks get old and big.”

“Interesting,” I said, and thought no more about it.

That evening at dinner, Bud brought up Sheep Mountain again.

“There’s a way to take a horse up from the backside,” he said. “A Basque shepherd told me about it. It’s rough, but we can try.”

“I’m in,” I answered. “How about you, Fred?”

“Count me out for tomorrow,” he said. “I’m taking the day off.”

“In that case, I’d like to join,” said Ozzie Davis, a well-known international hunter from Heywood, California.

“That settles it,” I said. “Tomorrow, it’s Sheep Mountain.”

I’m glassing the slopes from the edge of a cliff. Even after finding a fine buck, getting close enough for a shot can still be impossible. Outdoor Life

NEXT MORNING, we were at the base of the mountain waiting for enough light to begin the climb. As we rode toward the mountain, an eerie chorus of coyote calls drifted out of the darkness. If I had known what waited above, I would have heeded their warning.

As darkness turned to gray gloom, we started up the mountain. The trail was easy at first, winding around the lower slope. But it narrowed and steepened in switchbacks. At one point, the trail narrowed and crossed a steep rock slide. The footing was treacherous. Rocks rolled under our horses’ feet.

We were almost across the slide and had one sharp switchback left when Ozzie’s horse slipped and fell to its knees. The horse struggled, but loose rocks gave way, and it fell again. In a panic, the horse lurched wildly, falling toward us. My horse reared, and the trail gave way. The horse toppled in a rearward somersault. In midair, I cleared the saddle and landed on my feet under the falling horse. Running, I escaped just as a cliff edge approached.

After collecting my hat and making sure the horse wasn’t hurt, my concern turned to my rifle. Miraculously, it wasn’t scratched. Ozzie’s rifle, on the other hand, didn’t fare as well.

From there, the trail to the top of the mountain got easier. Bud was right about the deer on Sheep Mountain. As soon as we reached the crest, we spotted four good four-point bucks. Their behavior confirmed that there had been little hunting on the mountain.

Glassing the backside revealed only one solitary buck. He was a long way off, so Bud set up his spotting scope for a closer look at his rack. It wasn’t impressive, so we continued.

A weather front moved in, changing the sunny day. Low clouds covered the mountain, and thunderheads rose on the horizon. We huddled on the ridge, glassing the trees and scrub.

After an hour, we rode along the crest. Bud and the guide rode into the trees to push the deer, and Ozzie and I circled around for shooting positions. Before we reached the trees, the guide rushed after us. Bud was waiting with his spotting scope. Two bucks were bedded down in a small thicket. One had good antlers, but they hadn’t seen the other’s head.

I sorted through rocks, and I had the first shot. I moved closer to the brow of the crest, crossing open ground. The buck spotted me but didn’t run.

This standoff lasted several minutes. The other hunters gathered around me.

The hidden buck took a step forward, and I saw the perfect match of his rack. I wanted to shoot, but the deer was mostly obscured by brush. Bud whispered to wait until he was in the open.

But the situation reminded me of a missed opportunity for a fine elk. Waiting for a clear shot, the elk turned and ran. I couldn’t risk it. I fired, and the deer fell. It rolled down the mountain.

The steep mountainside made it challenging to reach the deer. We took our chances hunting big bucks on Sheep Mountain.

This story originally ran in the February 1978 issue as “We Get High for Mulies.” Read more OL+ stories.

This story originally ran in the February 1978 issue as “We Get High for Mulies.” Read more OL+ stories.