With mule deer season getting down to the wire, opportunities to tag out are dwindling fast. The blame can be laid partially on me, but mostly on things out of my control – it’s one of those things where you just need to roll with life’s punches. The one perk to not getting out much (or at all) to chase bucks around earlier on is the pep is certainly in my boots as I head out the door.
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My stomping grounds have not changed much over the past decade. This means that while the terrain is all but engrained in my mind, each season I notice the subtle changes in the landscape. Where once I could see above the snarled mess of willows, they stretch for the sky and tumble back on themselves under the heavy weight of early November snow. The aspen are showing their age now too, with weakened trunks contributing to the list of overhead hazards to keep an eye on. While the widowmakers are arguably the most concerning of overhead hazards, giggles are stifled as my head is pelted by spruce cones that are furiously being thrust downward by the ever-industrious squirrels.
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Hunting solo this time of year leaves plenty of time for daydreaming. The vicious cycle of melting and freezing has made what little snow is on the ground unavoidably crunchy, so most times I’m going nowhere fast, my mind wandering aimlessly as I peer into the thicket, holding on to hope that I may catch a glimpse of a deer staring right back at me. The thick fog that settles into the trees in the morning adds a challenge to this task, and I’m sure I’ll be able to blame a few forehead wrinkles on my facial expressions while attempting to find my target buck.
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The clock may be ticking on muley season 2024, but I’ll give ‘er one last kick at the can until the very last day.
