Filling My Doe Tags.....

This is not the year for me to buy a lotto ticket. I have not drawn a single buck or bull tag in my home state of Wyoming, save a general deer tag. That relegated me to buying several doe and cow tags in order for me to support my addiction to dine on wild meat. This morning I set out to fill a couple of pronghorn doe tags.

Recent rains have made the desert into a muddy, mucky mire. My tags stipulate that the animal must be taken on private land, and several landowners have told me—no, make that pleaded with me—and my buddy to help rid them of the pesky pronghorns that are depredating their farm ground. Ordinarily I’d be done with this in an hour or two at tops, but these landowners or their managers have been hazing the speedgoats all summer. That means when the prairie ghosts see a pickup closer than a mile they light their afterburners. I had expected to spend this afternoon boning out a pair and preparing to make a year’s supply of jalapeno summer sausage, but it was not to be. I’m not too concerned yet; I have two months to get it done. But it gets worse…much worse.

So what do you think a guy might come across when he has nothing but doe tags in his pocket? A nice buck? No wait, how about a really nice buck? No wait, call right now and make that two pronghorn bucks that would make Boone & Crockett! And they were within a mile of each other. To pour—make that dump—salt in the wound, each of these bucks stood for several minutes within 250 yards of me, unalarmed, non-plussed, shaking their poofy-white butts at me as if to say, “Nanner, nanner! Pbbbt!”

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