HIGH PLAINS DEER

Cheyenne Wells, 1 December 2007

~ Plains Deer Hunt ~



We awoke Saturday morning to wind and heavy, cold fog. Rolling fog, with poor visibility between 50 and 100 yards led us to Nan's Cafe on the Western edge of Cheyenne Wells. Mark and I ordered coffee and big country breakfasts, and watched and waited while the local worthies stopped in to discuss weather and crops.

At 07:00 we headed out into a thick grey morning with bitter wind and fog showing no signs of ending.

An hour later, the fog began to lift. The sky remained overcast, bitter and unfriendly.



Cloudy skies and heavy weed cover in an abandoned home site.



The wind remained low, damp and strong out of the South till about 09:00. It turned quickly out of the West. Within fifteen minutes, the clouds lifted their damp skirts and danced off into Kansas and Oklahoma, a dark shadow on the eastern horizon.



The last of the clouds moving east by south-east.



Mark and I turned North and drove to a favored ravine, running under the highway, West to East. We parked under the overpass. I loaded the .270, slung it on my shoulder and zipped up my coat. Mark pulled out his shotgun, just in case. We both packed water bottles and headed West into the ravine's deep twists and turns.


Where the deer bed down and rest, the "honey-hole".
The carcass lies at rear of the truck.



Some five hundred yards in from the highway, the ravine opens up into shelf-like steps where the deer settle in the deep grass after feeding. They bed down out of the wind, relax, ruminate and keep a watchful ear and eye out for predators during the greater part of the day.

We moved up from the ravine floor, quietly and slowly moving along one of the shelves, watching for movement in the tall grass. Mark was 5 yards behind me, about 5 0'clock. I heard him hiss, then a urgent whisper: "Steve, on your right!"

I turned to see a big doe rising out of the tall grass. She bounded to the top of the ravine in two jumps and stopped, turning to look back at us. I slowly dropped to one knee, slipped off the safety and drew the crosshairs right behind her shoulder. She moved more broadside and I adjusted, not thinking of distance. I held center right behind her shoulder and squeezed off a shot.

The big doe dropped like a sack into the grass as three younger does, startled by the shot bounded out their beds and took off at a full run into the West.




Hunter and harvest, wild meat for the winter.



Mark and I scrambled down into the ravine and headed across and up the South facing slope. At the top of the slope lay the deer, stone dead. Because I had not thought to compensate for distance, my shot had hit high, breeching the top of both lungs and traumatizing her spinal column. Luckily, I held the sights low and dead on.

When I sight in the rifle, I set it almost two inches high at 100 yards because of the "normal" long shots we take out in the wide open prairie.


One more pic of man and tool and harvest.

GIVING THANKS WITH TALL PEOPLE

ANDERSON, LUNDQUIST,
BROSTROM & WENNBERG:

~ THANKSGIVING, 2007~


Since the beginning of this tradition, back in the dark ages of the early 1980's, the Wennberg family has been hosting Thanksgiving for all the Swedish side of the family. This year is the first without the Patriarch, Wallace Carl Lundquist.

However, I noticed that we had a plethora of tall people!


Heather (Polumbus) Wennberg and her college roomate, Anne.
Alumna of U.C. Irvine, tennis players and tall people. Heather is at least 6'2" in her bare feet. Anne must be close to 5'8".



Jeff Wennberg, Heather's husband, is 6'10", a high school coach and software engineer.


Craig Wennberg (6'9") and his gorgeous, tall wife, Tijon.


The now "official old guys", myself and Jerry Wennberg.
He stands about 6'4". I am close to 5'10".


My cousin/sister-in-law: Sonia Brostrom/Lundquist.
The shortest of the lot at 5'6"


The matriarch, Theta Anne (Weller) Lundquist and her daughter Teryl (5'9").


Gary Lundquist (6'3") is Teryl's full brother and my step-brother.


Another short person, in comparison. My cousin Kathleen Schliech, 5'7".
She is not happy, having just dumped a full tablespoon of ground cinammon
on the sweet potato caserole.


Carving the bird. 16 lbs of fragrant turkeyness.


The younger generation at the feast.
Did I mention that along with being tall, Heather is drop-dead beautiful?


Dear Than, married for over fifty years to Dad Lundquist. Her steadfast faith and love of this family is a testament to a life redeemed and lived out in Christ.

With a humble and grateful heart, I give thanks for this family, this land and the great God who is the author and founder of it all.

PRAIRIE ARMS II

RANCH HAND, RIDING ARMS

Ms. D and I are in sitting here on this late November evening, watching Kevin Costner and Robert Duvall, Annette Bening, and Michael Jeter in "Open Range".


IMHO, one of the best Post-Modern Western genre films made, so far. The scenery alone is worth the price of admission



This brought to mind the historical fact that many cow hands, ranch hands carried only two firearms, a side arm and a saddle carbine, both of which were chambered for the same round.



'Tis nothing new.



I do the same with the following :



"Cap'n' Ka-Runtch", Ruger Super Blackhawk Hogleg (7 3/4 inch) in .44 Magnum.



AND.............







My incomparable Marlin eight shot, lever action saddle carbine;
the sweet shooting, dead on, iron sighted brush gun. Its great for deer and pig up to about 50 yards. At home, its an easily handled goblin killer and low-life snake shooter also chambered in .44 Magnum.



*COUGH*

Pardon me?

OK, what is that "knife" below?


That is a hand forged, English Sheffield steel knife. The cutting edge is 6.375 inches in length, shaped in the traditional long drop point Bowie shape, sharpened along both edges, solid brass guard and hafted in cocobolo wood.

PRAIRIE ARMS

The .270 Winchester

(All photos can be enlarged by clickiing on the
image with the cursor.)


Woodbine turning Autumn colors in the garden.

Late summer turns her weary head, early Autumn arrives and the sportsman's thoughts and eyes turn to the sky, the prairies and the woods. When the constellation of Orion, the hunter rises in the evening starscape and wanderlust grows strong in limb and heart, the preparations begin.




Deborah, Nate and Sprocket outside, next to the smoker.


Outside in the BBQ/smoking/gardening/flyfishing/reloading shed, a transition begins. Garden tools and flyfishing gear are put to the side and hunting tools come out. I take an inventory of reloading supplies and equipment for rifles, pistols and handguns. This year I find that I am low on rifle ammunition for the venerable .270 Win. and out come the scales, powder measure, press and dies, along with the powder, primers, bullets, sized and polished brass casings.



The workbench, set up for rifle/pistol reloading.


When I bought my Smith and Wesson Model "1500" some twenty years ago, it was almost new, neglected, had no scope or recoil pad and a tough, factory trigger. I had the stock cut to match my arm length with an attached recoil pad and mounted a good scope. I purchased different makes and weights of factory ammo and began testing to find what the firearm shot best.


It shot better groups with 150 grain bullets than with 130 grain and it seemed to like the Federal Premium Safari loads over all others... very expensive loads.


After a long discussion with a knowledgable gunsmith friend, I bought a set of dies and an assortment of different styles and weights of bullets. I began experimenting. Long story short, the following is the recipe that has proven itself to be the best, most accurate in this particular long gun:



Case: Winchester

Primer: Remington #9 1/2 magnum rifle

Powder: IMR 4831, 54 grains

Bullet: 150 grain Speer Grand Slam






Winchester cases, Speer 150 grain Grand Slam bullets.


When well practiced, I consistently shoot 2 to 3 inch groups at 200 yards from a bench. Although I have not chronographed this load, it supposedly leaves the barrel traveling at nearly 2,900 fps and carries enough energy to knock down a deer or antelope at over 3oo yards.



I had the stock cut and a Decelerator recoil pad installed bringing the LOP to 14 5/8 inches.

The original trigger was sticky and required about 6/7 pounds of pressure to touch off a round.

My Lakewood LEO gunsmith friend removed the trigger group and performed some of his magic. The trigger now breaks crisply at about 3 pounds of pull.

The bipod is invaluable as a shooting platform for hunting out in the empty prairie. The scope is a variable 3/9 power Weaver set at one inch high at one hundred yards, at 6X power, effectively making zero at 200 yards.




The .270 Winchester was developed in the early 1920's and came into production in 1925 by Winchester Repeating Arms Company. It was the first of many "wildcat" cartridges based upon the venerable .30-'06 Springfield cartridge and still well liked by American hunters. It's populariuty is eclipsed only by its parent cartridge, the .30-'06.

WIND -and- ANTELOPE
Cheyenne Wells, Colorado

October 4th, 5th, 6th, 2007

*Please Be Advised:
The following essay contains images and descriptions of the hunt and the harvest of wild game. ______________________________________________________________________

We departed Denver at 11:00 hours on Friday, 4 October 2007 headed East on I-70. The wind was blowing gently out of the South, gusts around 20 mph. Mark set his trip odometer to zero. The Interstate makes a gentle dogleg turn South-East at Byers and heads towards Limon, which sits on the Palmer Divide, a ridge that defines two watersheds. To the North is the Platte River drainage, to the South is the Arkansas River. Limon is about an hour out of Denver.



I-70, looking West at Byers.

At Limon I-70 turns due East heading to Kansas. Mark took the third exit which put us on combined US Highway 40/287. Once again we were headed South by South-east on a two lane highway.

Hugo, Boyero, Aroya passed behind us. Bladders began to mutter and legs cried about some kind of atrophy. We stopped in Kit Carson...named for a legendary trapper/scout who, in the employ of the Bent and St. Vrain Company, helped to knit the early Colorado/New Mexico settlements into a territorial unit.

The bluffs, mesas and deep folds that define the prairie hard against the Front Range Mountains were behind us. We were now riding the rolling waves of the great, dry inland sea of the High Plains.



Here, the land becomes deceptive to the eye, seemingly flat, it rolls distant in perception and hypnotic to eyes unaccustomed to the immense sky and impossible long sight. Here is an environment perfect for the Pronghorn Antelope, "Speed Goats", "Prairie Ghosts."

At Kit Carson, we logged another hour as we turned east on US 40 towards First view and then Cheyenne Wells. The wind grew in strength. I'm guessing it was steady between 25 and 30 mph with gusts up to 35 mph.


East of Cheyenne Wells, an abandoned homestead in the middle of a
full section (640 acres~ 1 square mile) of land. One quarter was planted in winter wheat,
the above quarter section was left fallow and the remaining half stood dry corn, ready for harvest.

Mark checked his trip odometer. We had traveled 168 miles in a little under 3 hours, not counting the pit stop in Kit Carson.

Cheyenne Wells is the County Seat for Cheyenne County. It is a straight up community of hard working farmers and ranchers, most of whom welcome those hunters who ask permission and treat them and their land with respect. Unlike many of the other small towns which are mournful and threadbare in appearance, lamenting the loss of families and jobs, Cheyenne Wells is bustling, clean and still has that no nonsense, dirt-under-the fingernails, Carhartt overalls, calloused handshake, kick-ass American can do attitude.



Mark and I checked into our motel and headed out into a strengthening wind. Our plan was stop off at the Mockleman ranch to shoot a few rounds to check our firearms, shake off the pre-season willies and then to drive the section roads, searching for the elusive and exasperating Pronghorn.

I shot my S&W model "1500", .270 Win. loaded with 150 grain Speer Grand Slam bullets backed with 54 grains of IMR 4831 powder. Two groups of three shots under 3 inches at 100 paces in a wicked, blustery wind...not bad. Mark did equally well with his Pre-1964 Model "70" Winchester in .308 calibre stoked with 165 grain factory loads.

We packed up the long guns and headed out to scout. The Pronghorn were out there, as expected...dancing on the prairie, feeding in the winter wheat and keeping an eye out for anything unseemly, unusual. The wind was growing stronger. Mark and I decided to call it a day, have a beer or two, eat a bit and prepare for the next morning's hunt.


A forlorn, abandoned farm lying fallow, a great place to hunt dove and pigeon.

Saturday Morning - At 05:oo, we rolled out of the sack, made coffee, threw on hunting uniforms including the requisite hunter orange and stowed our firearms in the truck while breakfast burritos warmed up. There was a light wind, maybe 15 mph gusts.

The sun cracked the eastern curve of the earth and not one cloud in the sky as we spotted the first group of 12 to 15 antelope about a half-mile away, in the center of a full section of winter wheat. We stopped before the herd spotted us, discussed tactics and decided that we would attempt a flanking maneuver, approaching out of the rising sun.



Mark dropped me off where I could begin a sneak from almost due East, using a large mound of prairie left from some forgotten construction project as cover. He drove to where the road dipped enough to block him and the truck from view.

He gave me a thumbs up and we both began to make our way towards the herd. I headed east by south-east, Mark moved in east by north-east. As we closed in to about 600 yards, we were both stooped over, almost on our hands and knees, ready to crawl the last couple hundred yards.

Then it happened. A satellite buck, one of the younger males who is somehow chosen to be lookout, spotted Mark and trotted up to within 150 yards of him. The buck, stomped a couple of times, then turned and ran back to the herd. Mark, being closer than I, quickly dropped to one knee, picked out a doe standing apart from the rest and squeezed off a shot...which kicked up a cloud of dust right at her feet. 600 yards is a tough adjustment.

It was a melee of hooves and dust and the whole herd took off at a full run, heading north, and we could do nothing but head back the 600 or so yards to the truck. And that's why they call it hunting.

As we turned into the rising sun, the wind grew stronger out of the South.


An old adobe house and windmill set on a nominally high rise. A favorite spot for lunch
and a quick climb to glass the surrounding fields for antelope.


That incident set the tone for the rest of the day. Every time we thought that we were almost close enough, one of the herd, or small group, or twosome, would spot us just out of range and they were gone. And we were left with a rising wind and more sand in our eyes, burning our noses and gumming up our rifles.


Taking a lunch break in 30 mph winds.

By mid-afternoon, we had driven some hundred plus miles, tried every trick we knew of to put a good sneak on these wily critters and grown more and more exasperated.

And the wind kept rising. Heading due north at 40 to 45mph, the air outside the truck stood seemed to stand still. Driving across the wind was a hoot, and a challenge.
It made scouting interesting, to say the least.



Mark scouting for speed goats.

We circled back to the windmill site, Mark clambered up the windmill and spotted what looked to be a small herd about 3 miles away, feeding close to a field of standing corn. That meant cover, that meant he had a chance to actually make an approach which would allow him a shot...in 40-plus mph winds with gusts hitting 50.

I told him I would spot for him, but that I wasn't even going to attempt a shot.

About an hour later, he called me on the walkie-talkie. The stalk had taken him to within about 500 yards and he was attempting to close the gap when another satellite spotted him. The rest is a story already told.

He asked me to drive down the seam between the corn and winter wheat to pick him up. The man was exhausted, frustrated.


Late afternoon in the empty, windy Eastern High Plains.


We headed back to town as the sun settled down in West. The wind was howling, raising dust devils, laughing at all us dehydrated, windburned hunters. Of all the hunting groups with whom we spoke, two antelope had been harvested opening day.

Sunday Morning - We packed up and headed out into a very chilly morning. During the night, a Canadian cold front had moved in. The wind was now out of the North and not quite a bad as Saturday...so far.

We began our search without much hope. In fact, we didn't see any goats at first. It was as though they had packed up and headed for Kansas...or Oklahoma! Our first spotting was a pair, buck and doe who turned tail and ran the minute they saw the truck. The next pair gave us a chance to stop the truck before they sped off.

We came to a crossroads, both literally and figuratively, where neither of us had a clue as what to do. I pulled out a quarter which happened to be imprinted with the Wyoming Cowboy. As a joke I said:

"Well, if its heads, we turn West. If its tails we head for Wyoming."


10:45 AM, Sunday, 07 October 2007. Two antelope down ready for gutting and skinning.

Within fifteen minutes of the coin toss coming up tails, we spotted a group of three goats, a buck and two does. They spotted us about the same time and ran ahead of us and started to cross the road. As we rolled out of the truck, jacking loads into the chambers, the group stopped, seemingly confused by the fence on the north some 300 plus yards away.

Mark took a long shot and missed. The three sped off back from where we had first spotted them. As Mark and I jumped back in the truck to chase after them, the lead doe made her last mistake.

She led the other two back across the road, right in front of us. She crawled under the fence, the other two followed. They then stopped and milled about which gave Mark and I time to exit the truck, set up our shots using fence posts as shooting platforms.

Mark shot first. His doe took one step and dropped. The buck danced about blocking my shot until the first doe hit the ground. He then turned and ran, leaving me with a shot at a quartering away doe, some 200 yards away. I had no time to set and drew down quickly and touched the trigger on the old S&W. It barked, the doe hunched over and stumbled away about ten paces and crumbled into a heap.


Two Prairie Ghosts, a yearling and an mature dry doe. Meat for the winter!

Mark and I looked at one another in disbelief. Two animals down in less than the time it took for all the synapses to fire off recognizing that it could happen. Two hundred plus yards on each shot and one shot kills on both.
Now the work began. Time to gut, skin and pack out the meat. As we began the process, we did the forensic work on how each animal had died.
Mark's shot had entered at the right side behind the last rib. The 165 grain bullet sliced through the upper lobe of the liver, tore through the left lung and blew through the left shoulder as it exited the beast. The sudden shock would have shut down the yearling's electrical system. In all probability, it was dead before it hit the ground.

The Speer 150 grain Grand slam bullet screamed out of the old S&W.270 rifle, flew 220 paces and blew through the big doe's rib cage directly behind her left scapula. It then ripped through both lungs and mushroomed as it hit her right shoulder. What I thought was a gut shot, given the manner in which she hunched over after the bullet hit her, was a reaction to having both shoulders traumatized and her lungs destroyed. My guess is that the ten or so steps she took were more an autonomic response to flee than a choice to run. Such damage, with a high degree of probability, shut all of her systems down within milliseconds of impact.

The large doe, gutted, and ready for skinning and rough butcher.
My guess at her live weight is over 110 pounds...truly a big doe.


Mark and I took each gutted animal, hung the carcass and skinned it. We packed them in a large cooler, repacked the truck and headed into town for ice to cool down the sweet meat. Four hours later and, according to the truck's odometer, almost 700 miles logged, we pulled into "Nuevo Los Angeles de los Torres en Colorado", which used to be known as Denver, Colorado."