By Ken Judd

When my good friend Dan called and asked, “How about coming out to my place and shooting a buck this Fall?” there was only one possible answer.  The arrangements were quickly made.  I got lucky in the draw so I was all set for a good hunt in December.

Dan owns a small ranch tucked hard up against the Palmer Divide in south Douglas County, Colorado in GMU 104.  His place sits at about 7,500 feet elevation and includes a rocky ridge about 100 feet in height above the terrain.  There are rolling open areas as well as some heavily wooded places along the ridge and bordering a pasture.  It is a beautiful piece of land and both Dan and his neighbor to the north have taken some good-sized bucks in past years.

I have read that one’s values and attitudes are set at an early age and, if that is true, then my own hunting values were established in the rolling hills and deep woods of western Kentucky where I grew up in the late 1950’s and early ’60s.  I clearly recall my Uncle Cummins saying, “eat what you shoot, boy.”  Deer were not common in those days in western Kentucky so most of my hunting was for small game, ducks, and quail.  I have no quarrel with hunters who are after wall-hangers – Dan is a trophy hunter himself and I’m always a bit envious when I see those big mounts – but personally I hunt for the meat.

I come from a long line of hunters.  Most of my ancestors settled along the frontier areas of Kentucky and Tennessee long before the Revolutionary War.  Hunting was a way of life for them.  That’s how they provided protein for their families and a myriad of other necessities like fur for warmth and for trade goods.  Antlers were used for tool handles and for making buttons and beads.

In the months before hunting season, I got my rifle ready and worked to make sure I would be in good enough physical condition.  I think of myself as more of a shooter than a hunter so I’m always tinkering with loads and tweaking the rifles.  I decided to use my old Ruger model M77 chambered in .308, a reliable, solid rifle that I shoot well.  I developed a load using 150 grain Hornady Interlock bullets that would shoot consistently under MOA, zeroed the rifle 2” high at 100 yards, and put it away.  It was ready and so was I.

On the first day of the season I got up about 0300 to cold temps and clear skies.  I got my pack and other gear ready and was headed out to Dan’s place about 30 miles away by 0400.  Cold or not, it was time to go hunting.

I met up with Dan and we stood in the pre-dawn darkness sharing the thermos of coffee I brought, talking easily as old friends do.  We stalked up the ridge to be in place before the sun came up.  The top of the ridge is heavily wooded and on that day it was dead silent.  Not a breeze stirred the pines and because two or three inches of snow deadened our steps, we made little sound as we picked our way to our spot.  Dan knew his land and the deer that moved across it and had scouted a good ambush site for sunrise.  We sat down in the rocks and became very still, rifles loaded, safeties on, and hats pulled low.

Nothing moved in the woods as the sun lit up the tops of the trees and the dawn arrived, clear and cold.  I checked the little thermometer I keep clipped on my vest and it showed it was only two degrees there in the deep cover of the woods.  After a couple of hours, Dan said, “Let’s scout down the ridge and see what we can scare up.”  We moved slowly and quietly but the deer were not visiting his woods that morning.  After a while, we went back to his house for coffee and some breakfast.  He suggested that we go out in mid-afternoon and see what might come along in the hour or two before dusk. “Sounds like a plan,” I said.  We spent the rest of the morning talking about our families, our jobs, and swapping hunting yarns from other years.

We hiked back up the ridge about 1500 and moved silently through the trees.  I was not feeling well and was having more and more trouble breathing.  (I found out later I actually had pneumonia.)  I finally told Dan I had to take a break.  He is an old friend – and neither of us is young anymore – and by then he had figured out that I had some kind of bug.  As old friends will, he still hassled me about it but he led us to a rock formation that looked out over the pasture area and we sat down in the low winter sun.  “What a view!” I thought.  In the distance Pikes Peak stood above rolling hills and the large forested conservation ranch across the valley was in shades of green, brown, and gold.  The sun felt good and my breathing became more relaxed.

Just as my eyes shifted away from the scenery, I saw movement in the tree line to the left of my field of view between two large Ponderosa Pines.  I tapped Dan’s arm and pointed while I focused my compact binoculars on the movement.  Even through the trees, I could tell it was a big muley buck, moving slowly from left to right.  The buck stopped to check for danger and then came into clear view at the edge of the pasture.  Dan whispered, “he’s yours.”  I was in a bad position, the rocks blocking me from shouldering the rifle on my right side so I brought it up for a left-handed shot.  My two eyes are very different and I didn’t have clear focus through the scope that was adjusted for my right eye.  I thought for sure that I was about to up a good opportunity.  I estimated the range at about 150 yards and adjusted for the downward slanting angle.  I had a good-enough sight picture if not a very clear one and I squeezed the Ruger’s trigger, feeling the load’s power in my shoulder and ears.

I saw the bullet strike the buck a little high but still a good solid hit in the vital zone.  Dan yelled, “you got him!” and the buck went down hard.  A twitch or two and he was still; a quick humane kill.  I felt relief that I wouldn’t have to track him – by that time my lungs were telling me I was about done for the day.

We hiked down the ridge and across the pasture to where the deer lay.  He was a heavy-bodied 4x4 and was wearing a deep winter coat, a beautiful animal.  After we dragged him over to some trees for easier access, Dan went back to the truck to get his gear as I stayed with the deer.  I silently gave thanks for the animal, a German hunting tradition I learned when I lived there for a few years while I was in the service.  As I sat there next to the deer, I took in the spectacular view again.  The light was golden in the way it gets late in the day in the Colorado winters.  It was very quiet and I watched a hawk circling high above us.  The near land was in shadow so Pikes Peak gleamed even more brightly by the contrast.  The sky was deep blue and cloudless.

When I read about hunts in Africa and Alaska I am always impressed with the grandeur of those stories and the notable trophies they produce.  My hunt had no glory, no charging rhinos or grizzlies, no exotic game to shoot, no high adventure, no trophy, no “there I was” story to tell.  I came to Dan’s ranch to hunt and fill my freezer and that is what happened.  Tens of thousands of hunters have the same experience every season.  No stories are written about those exploits simply because they are just ordinary hunts.

Still, in the fading light of that beautiful winter day, I was content.  A good hunting buddy, a beautiful wild place, a well-built rifle at my shoulder, my skills tested, and a good deer to supply my family with high quality, healthy meat.  My hunts may be ordinary but when I go to the mountains I can feel the presence of my ancestors and I know I am carrying on a long and proud American tradition.