The steel-gray light of dawn lingered, drawing its cold bony fingers across our shoulders and under our bellies, raising goosebumps and cramping chilled muscles. Two young hunters lay motionless behind their rifles, muzzles steady on the towering rim above. Coues deer flirted with the shadows up there, dancing wraith-like between burnt trunks and oakey scrub patches. One was dead already, shot by my buddy Jim right at the thin edge of dusk the night before. This morning we’d approached the ridge through the gunmetal luster that comes just before the light of day. Topping the wash bank at its base, we spotted another handful of bucks partying in the same tavern—five or six bucks in a land where one or two is a lot. We hit the deck, the kids deployed their Javelin Pro bipods and dialed their scopes, and we all waited with bated breath for the right shot to present.
That had been almost an hour ago.
Coues deer are the second-most diminutive members of the whitetail deer family, and earn their nickname “Grey Ghost” honorably every day of their lives. In most areas a hunter does well to spot three or four bucks during a day of glassing. In fact, it’s common to go several days at a time without seeing a deer at all. On wet years native grasses can grow as tall as the deer, all but obscuring them from sight. Autumn vegetation turns to gray, straw and russet, blending perfectly with the smoky color of the little whitetails. Couple these conditions with a standard of vigilance that would make our Secret Service proud, and the Coues deer becomes a challenging quarry indeed.
The smorgasbord Coues crew, from left to right: Ryan, Josiah, Elayna, Jim and Micah happily haul meat and antlers. This was the author’s most fun and productive Coues camp ever.
Despite all this, we’d somehow been covered up in deer ever since backpacking into this remote territory. Well, sort of. Jim, a deeply experienced backcountry hunter (but one who had never before pursued Coues deer) hiked in days before we did. Due to a conflicting state championship shooting event my family were all entered in we couldn’t make the first few days of the hunt. So Jim headed in solo, his intent to scout for water, size up the region and look for deer. We would hike in to join him as soon as our event concluded, leaving us with four days to fill five tags. It was a tall order.
That order got a lot taller when we arrived tired and wrung out from our match only to learn that Jim had seen just two does and one buck in five days of scouting and hunting. That wasn’t good news, but I knew how hard the Grey Ghost can be to see. Even though Jim was using premium Swarovski optics, I suspected that he’d missed seeing some deer. Tomorrow would tell, so I made sure my youngsters were set for the night then crawled into my Stone Glacier bag. I was played out.
“Is that a bear?” My son Josiah’s voice came muffled from behind his tripod-mounted 15X Zeiss binocular. “Where?” four of us replied at once, soon training our glass on the same high basin he was studying. Sure enough, an ebony black bear turned rocks and dug for grubs a thousand feet above us. I thought of the bear tag in my pocket and wished this unit were still open. Alas, the quota had already filled and the unit was closed to bear hunting. We turned our attention back to the deer Josiah had spotted a few minutes earlier. On a steep mountainside opposite our position Coues deer frolicked and browsed in remarkable numbers. At least a half-dozen bucks were among them, sparring and filling their bellies as sunlight chased the shadows from the mountainside.
With two new deer hunters in our group we were excited for this hunt, and not feeling too picky about trophy size. Micah is a 17-year-old buddy of Josiah’s who had never hunted before. Ryan is a good friend of mine who had hunted elk but never deer. And Jim had never killed a Coues deer before. It was a fun group, with three youngsters and two enthusiastic adults who really wanted to harvest Coues deer. I hadn’t drawn a tag, the result being that I was relegated to the office of supervisor and coach.
We watched and glassed as the deer followed their morning routine across the far mountainside. I quizzed Jim about his previous unfruitful efforts and learned he had mainly been glassing the heavy brush in the canyon bottoms and on the north-facing slopes. Internet-based research had led him to believe that was where the deer would be. I told him, “With Coues deer, you have to look everywhere.” Several times I have spotted and killed good bucks in unlikely locations—lending credence to my belief that these deer are adept at finding and moving into implausible, undisturbed places.
Three members of the five-hunter party—Elayna, Josiah and Jim—beam smiles behind three great Coues bucks taken from the same spot. We may never see that again!
In this canyon, though, the deer seemed relaxed and comfortable, meandering across open sidehills and to and from shady oak groves. It was exhilarating to see so many; I’d never seen such a smorgasbord of Coues deer in one location before. One was a nice buck sporting four points on each side—not that it mattered to Micah and Ryan, who would be happy to tag any buck.
At length Josiah took off with Micah and Ryan to cross the canyon and stalk the deer. Unfortunately, we’d waited too long, and the bucks disappeared into thick brush before the hunters arrived. It was good practice though, and enabled them to reconnoiter the area a bit. Waiting for the hunters to return, I turned and glassed a low sunbathed saddle almost 1,000 yards behind us. There, lit by the late morning sun, was a massive buck. Several does and one smaller buck fed nearby.
Time was short; these deer would move into bedding cover within minutes. Elayna, Jim and I grabbed our packs and scuttled down from our vantage point, speed-stalking toward the deer. By the time we crawled over a low brushy ridge within shooting range of the saddle the deer were gone. Settling in, we tried to get comfortable among the cactus and rocks. Nightfall was still eight hours away but we were determined to stay and glass, hoping the big buck would show back up before dark. As the day grew long a few does frolicked around, but the bucks never showed. Tired and sore, we snuck off the brushy ridge and trudged back to camp through the darkness.
Dawn found us glassing the same big mountain face where we’d seen so many deer the morning before. They were there again, scattered across the mountainside. The same nice buck fed in a copse of oaks and this time our new hunters didn’t wait. With Josiah as coach they stalked across the canyon bottom and up the far wall, using a low tributary ridge for cover. On pins and needles we watched from our little hilltop as they belly-crawled into position at the base of a rocky outcropping.
Ryan was nominated to shoot first if an opportunity presented, so he settled in prone behind his rifle, crosshairs trained on the opposing ridge some 280 yards distant. The biggest buck never showed, but another nice one fed broadside through an opening, offering a good shot opportunity. Josiah and Micah watched through their glass as Ryan dropped the buck with a perfect shot.
Deer scattered and flushed in every direction. The hunters watched, hoping to spot another buck and shoot a double—a challenging feat in the Coues deer woods. Another buck finally showed, sharply above them and climbing steadily higher. Micah contorted his body into some semblance of a good prone field position atop the rocky point and dialed his scope for the distance: 412 yards. It was a very tough shot but he made it, dropping the deer with one well-placed round from his 6.5 Creedmoor. The buck came tumbling downward through the rocks and cliffs, eventually tangling in some brush and coming to a stop. Scrambling up the steep mountainside, the boys recovered Micah’s deer, bringing it down to take photos with Ryan and his buck. Jubilant, I donned my pack and hiked across to help with the processing and packing chores, leaving Elayna and Jim to glass.
That afternoon Jim and I climbed stealthily into position to glass the saddle where we’d seen the big buck the day before. Here and there a doe moved, and two little forkhorn bucks browsed hungrily along the top of a big burn-faced ridge some thousand yards distant. Shadows grew long as evening approached, but search as we might the big buck never showed. The sun set below the westward mountains, and I turned my optic to check on the burned-ridge bucks. A mature buck had joined them—not the big buck of the day before but a shooter nonetheless. The distance was much too far for a shot so Jim grabbed his rifle and I collapsed my Spartan tripod. With not a moment to lose we took off through the brush, trying to close the distance for a shot.
A sharp and deep ravine halted our progress; there was no time to scout up and down to find a crossing. The distance to the bucks was long, just over 600 yards. Belly down in the rocks, Jim found the buck in his scope. The upward angle was extreme and uncomfortable, but eventually he settled in and took the shot. Then darkness was upon us. We both had the impression that the impact was a bit far back so we elected to wait till morning to recover the buck. It was a somber walk back to camp, and I knew Jim was berating himself for taking the shot in the failing light. We made plans to return at first light, boiled water for our Mountain House dinners and crawled into bed. Josiah and Elayna determined to accompany us to look for Jim’s buck at daylight, with the stratagem that we glass along the way. Maybe luck would be with us and we’d spot another good buck.
The air was still and cold as we hiked toward the big burnt ridge at dawn. Sunshine had not yet begun to paint the mountaintops with gold as we peeked over a low tributary ridge toward the high burnt basin. Sure enough, there were bucks; several of them were feeding right where Jim’s buck had been. One looked good with nice mass and curving main beams. Off to the left was another buck, this one sporting a good 4x4 frame and more width. It was Josiah’s turn to shoot, since Elayna had previously harvested a big Coues buck and he had not. They both settled in prone, side-by-side on the frosty mountainside. Josiah would try for the buck on the left, and then Elayna for the one on the right. The moment was sparking with excitement; one buck down high on the mountainside, and my kids with two more bucks in their Leupold scopes.
We had a problem, though. The old ridge-top burn had a veritable jungle of blackened tree trunks reaching their dead fingers every which way, mixed with patchy green scrub oak thickets. We could see bits and pieces of the deer, but it seemed that Josiah’s buck was being coached by Houdini himself; every time it stopped there was a limb, a tree trunk or a shrub covering its vitals. We’d been in position for nearly an hour, the kids belly-down on the cold mountain ground and Jim and I hunched on our knees behind our tripod-mounted optics. Painful and cold, we waited. Suddenly Elayna’s buck turned and walked into the open, presenting a good broadside shot.
“Josiah, I think Elayna better shoot this buck now. You’ll probably get a shot once your buck starts to move,” I said. He agreed and I checked the range: 471 yards. Elayna adjusted the turret on her Leupold and settled in for the shot.
“Take your time and squeeze the trigger,” I whispered. Both youths had suppressors mounted to their rifles, so I was confident Josiah’s buck would not immediately bolt after Elayna’s shot. Focused on her buck, I watched it collapse a half-second after her rifle spoke into the morning, sliding downward till it lodged against a big burnt trunk. He started to flop and Elayna shot again, hitting him perfectly through the shoulder. She’s always been a great shot. Swiveling my 14x50 Swarovski binocular, I hurried to find the second buck in my glass. There he was, sneaking away up the mountainside. He stopped, a big burnt limb angled perfectly across his vitals. Once again there was no shot. Ready in the scope, Josiah waited. Twenty minutes later the buck moved and stopped, still without presenting a clear shot. Finally, he stepped into the clear. Josiah shot, the deer jumped and kicked, and Josiah shot again as the buck blasted down the mountainside. Tumbling and sliding, the deer went down and disappeared into the burnt jungle.
Shaking from excitement and cold, we staggered to our feet, trying get circulation back into our extremities. The air was fresh in our lungs as we climbed, eagerly struggling upward through the chaos of burnt branches and green undergrowth. We found Josiah’s buck first, a beautiful 4x4. Hurrying on, we came to Elayna’s buck. Much to our surprise and delight it was also a sleek 4x4 with curving main beams. Jim’s was next, but our hearts sank: the buck was not where we’d seen it bed the night before. Circling, Jim spotted the buck dead under a big blackened tree 30 yards above. His was the oldest buck of all, with thick bases and a heavy body. We dragged the bucks together, knelt to give thanks then celebrated our successful hunt.
It was the first time I’ve experienced a family-style deer camp deep in the backcountry, with the entire group living out of their backpacks. The feeling was incredible. Working together and helping each other, we accomplished a monumental undertaking, filling five Coues buck tags during three days of hardcore backcountry hunting. Young hunters and veterans alike experienced a great adventure. They’d be heading out of the backcountry with sore feet and shoulders, packs heavy with meat and antlers, and memories to cherish for life.
