Fair Chase in North America

by Boddington, Craig

  There are a fair number of wilderness areas and limited entry units that offer the same kind of odds for a really big blacktail...provided you’re in good shape and willing to work hard to get him. So there’s a choice. You can pay for your blacktail with a lot of research and plenty of sweat, or you can hire a good outfitter and pay in the coin of the realm—but either way, your chances of coming home with a really big buck are actually quite good. There are several reasons for this. One is that, in comparison with the other deer, the record book minimum for blacktail is still relatively low. This is undoubtedly an offshoot of the general lack of interest in this deer; there are few serious trophy hunters who pursue blacktails, and over the decades very few big blacktailed deer have been measured.

  Perhaps a more valid reason is that blacktails tend to have a much smaller home range than mule deer, so they can be managed well even on relatively small ranches. This does not happen, of course, on public lands that are accessible. However, limited entry units (Oregon has several good ones) and wilderness areas such as California’s Trinity Alps and Yolla Bolly don’t receive heavy hunting pressure, so the blacktailed bucks can mature and grow large.

  A good example of the homebody nature of the blacktail is a buck they called “Rattler.” He is not my best-scoring blacktail, but he’s certainly my best buck. I can’t tell you that it was a fabulous hunt; it was too short and too simple for that adjective. This was some years ago when Schaafsma was hunting a different ranch. Rattler hung out in the canyons and hills close by camp. He’d been big for several years, and so they’d tried to get him for several seasons. He had been fairly visible as well as recognizable, and was apparently a lot more lucky than smart. Over the seasons he had been missed several times, and even more frequently had somehow just slipped away.

  I did not come to hunt Rattler. I hadn’t even heard about Rattler, and Jimmy had never mentioned him because, for the first time in years, Rattler had not been seen. The assumption was that he had finally died of old age. But he hadn’t. He was sleeping peacefully on a little oak-covered knoll not much more than 100 yards above the track to camp. It was the first or second day of my hunt, and we’d seen little that morning. We headed back out in the heat of the afternoon, and I doubt we were five minutes out of camp when Schaafsma glanced up the hill to his left and spotted him.

  Schaafsma knew immediately that the bedded buck was Rattler. I didn’t; I only knew that I was being told this was my buck by somebody who knows more about blacktails than anyone else I know. So I took a careful rest and shot Rattler, and he died peacefully in his bed. At that time he was at least 9-years old, possibly 10. Although he’d been a “book buck” in his prime, he was seriously downhill in the antlers now, with mismatched points but wonderful mass. He was not downhill in the body. We got him to a scale whole, and he weighed a whopping 180 pounds, a monster for a blacktailed deer.

  In many ways it’s unfortunate that I shot Rattler, for I surely didn’t earn him, nor had I hunted him through the years. He does have a place of honor on my wall, and I hope I appreciate him properly. To this day some stranger will walk up to me at a sportsmen’s convention and say, “You shot Rattler.” And then I’ll hear yet another story about how Rattler evaded an earlier bullet.

  The Sitka blacktail deer is altogether different. In fact, so different that one of the few things it has in common with the Columbia blacktail is the black upper surface of the tail. This came as somewhat of a revelation to me. I’m not much of a “splitter” in the taxonomic scheme of things. I think we have too many caribou categories, and (as much as I love to hunt them) I’ve never fully understood why the Coues’ whitetail, out of some 38 subspecies, is the only one singled out for a separate place in hunters’ hearts and record books. So as soon as the Sitka blacktail was separated out as a record book category I was not one of the guys who dashed up to Alaska to get one. It seemed to me a long way to go to hunt deer, especially with all of the other unique species that Alaska offers.

  The only thing I was right about is that Alaska is a long distance to go for deer hunting. The Sitka blacktail is entirely different in both appearance and habit from the Columbia blacktail. He deserves his own place in the record book, for there is absolutely no correlation in antler size between the two mule deer subspecies. Moreover, the Sitka blacktail-at the right place at the right time—offers the finest deer hunting in North America. And moreover still, the Sitka blacktail hunt is one of very few Alaskan hunts that can be taken on an unguided basis with every opportunity for an enjoyable and successful hunt.

  As with Columbia blacktail, there are two good options for hunting Sitka blacktail: guided or unguided. Also as is the case with Columbia blacktail, prospective clients aren’t exactly beating down the outfitters’ doors. (The old “long way to go to hunt deer” syndrome.) However, virtually all the Kodiak bear outfitters do offer Sitka blacktail hunts. Prices are reasonable, especially as Alaskan hunting goes, and this is a very good option—perhaps better than you might think. Unguided is another sound option, but it is not quite as inexpensive as do-it-yourself hunting in the Lower 48.

  You can hunt Sitka blacktails from the very limited Kodiak road system, which is by far the cheapest option. Some very fine bucks are taken this way, but understand that the concentrations of deer are generally found on the southern tip of the island, and no roads will take you there. So you need transportation and logistical support. No problem. There are plenty of air charter float planes in Kodiak that will drop you at a lake and pick you up a week later. Or, many of the commercial fishing boats take deer hunters in the fall. Charter planes are expensive and boats more so. However, to my mind the latter option is far the best. This is because you can use the boat as a camp, not only offering warm, dry quarters; but also providing a place you can bring your deer to where bears can’t go.

  To some extent it depends on the time of year. The season is very long, generally from August to the end of the year. In August and September most of the deer are usually high, well away from the beaches. At this time of year you are probably best-served by a float plane that will drop you off well inland. In October and early November the deer have usually moved down, so the boat option becomes much more viable. Beware of hunting later than mid-November. Sitka blacktails drop their antlers very early, and after mid-November you run the risk of a lot of antlerless bucks!

  This was the story on the first Sitka blacktail hunt I planned—which never actually happened. I was going up to hunt with Leon Francisco, a great brown bear outfitter, and the hunt was planned for around Thanksgiving. A few days before departure Leon called and canceled the hunt, telling me that it was an early winter and the bucks were shedding antlers like mad. I was disappointed, and to this day I’ve never met Leon Francisco (let alone hunted with him)—but I will never forget the professionalism required by that phone call.

  A couple years later Jake Jacobsen called. Jake is an Alaskan Master Guide, but he’s an Arizona native and we’d hunted Coues’ deer together several times. Jake asked if I’d like to go Sitka blacktail hunting with him, not as a guide but just to hunt together so he could collect some winter meat. It sounded good, and indeed it was.

  We hunted with some friends of Jake’s on the King David, a well-appointed salmon boat. From Kodiak we cruised to the southern tip of the island, catching some halibut and ling cod on the way. Thanks to the boat, we could anchor in a different inlet every night and hunt different country every day. It was a short hunt, just a week, and to date is my only experience with Sitka blacktail deer. However, I know I saw more than 500 bucks in that week!

  Given that this was my only experience with this deer, this is what I think I learned. First, they’re real different. At that time of year, early November, they were extremely visible on the open slopes—not at all cover-loving like the Columbian variety. Their body build is also altogether different. Well-adapted to their harsh climate, they are big-bodied deer that put on a lot of body fat. In profile they look
like barrels with legs, much larger (at least on Kodiak) than any Columbian deer that walks. Live weights of 250 pounds are not unusual for mature bucks.

  They have long hair, as you’d expect, and the capes are luxurious and colorful with the double white throat patch very common. Perhaps unfortunately, their antlers are not so spectacular. The trick is to hunt them for what they are, not what you’re used to or what you wish they could be (Coues’ whitetails are much the same). I think I saw 500 bucks, certainly 100 bucks per day on the five days we could hunt. I know that I never saw a clean four-by-four. They exist, but are very rare. I saw two or three four-by-threes. One was a very nice buck and I shot him; the other two had the points but nothing else. I doubt that I saw more than ten three-by-threes. I shot two of these. One was my first buck, a very nice typical “eight pointer” —three-by-three plus eyeguards. The other was my last buck, a real monster that easily exceeded the B&C minimum of 108 points. All the other 480-odd bucks were lesser animals; a few three-by-twos, a very few spikes, and hundreds of forkies of various persuasion.

  The lesson here is that, at maturity, forked-horn antlers with eyeguards is probably normal for most Sitka blacktail bucks. It takes a lot of looking to find better, and it takes a lot of luck to find the clean four-by-four with eyeguards that we seek in other mule deer subspecies.

  But what a hunt! I have never seen so many deer, nor so many bucks, nor had so much fun stalking them and sorting them out. Early on, in August and September, the brush is high and visibility is more limited. By November, when I hunted, the cover was down and the deer were extremely visible. It was a glassing hunter’s delight, with deer somewhere on virtually every slope we glassed. The hunting was not easy, and it was cold, but it was a truly fabulous experience.

  Although it’s possible, and you hear a lot about it, we had no trouble with bears. The secret is to hunt in pairs and agree upon who has the shot. When a deer is taken, bone it on the spot, make up your packs, and walk away. The real danger comes from returning to a carcass the next morning. You really don’t want to do that, especially if the kill site is obscured by brush and you can’t glass it from a safe distance!

  The last deer I shot, the big one, came out of a little draw about 200 yards below us, and I just flat missed him. We relocated him, with some difficulty, far up on a bare slope. He was standing with a doe, and as we watched he bedded in the tall grass, now completely invisible. I traded my now-outdistanced .35 Whelen for Jake’s .300 Winchester Magnum, and we waited. Finally he stood, facing us, and I held a few inches into the wind and shot for his white throat patch. That’s where the bullet took him. To date he is my finest North American deer, and one of my most memorable shots. The aftermath was most memorable as well.

  We had no sooner walked up to the deer than a big brown bear, hearing the shots like a dinner bell, appeared on the ridge above us. Fortunately this bear was a gentleman. He sat on his haunches, the wind rippling his long fur, and waited for us to finish our chores and make up our packs. Then we headed for the beach and he sauntered down the ridge to claim his share.

  Jim Schaafsma and I approach a very fine Columbia blacktail buck, taken in northern California.

  Classic blacktail country in northern California. Country like this allows glassing, and also has better and more varied food sources than the true forest farther north—two reasons why California and southern Oregon dominate the records for blacktails.

  This is Rattler, a very old buck that was massive in both antler and body. He was at least 9-1/2 years old when taken, and had carried much better antlers in his prime.

  The King David made an ideal camp; we anchored in a different cove every night and hunted different country every day.

  In November, when the cover is down, you find Sitka blacktail deer out on the open slopes. It’s ideal glassing country, and the numbers of deer are staggering.

  This Sitka blacktail deer is a big three-by-three with eye guards, with antlers very similar to a northeastern whitetail. This is arguably the best deer—of any variety—I have ever taken.

  BISON—An Echo from the Past

  Hunting the Bison Today is but a Shadow of What Once Was—But in his Presence You Still Hear the Thundering Hooves!

  The American bison is an awesome animal. A big bull stands nearly as tall as a horse, and weighs well over a ton. Heavy through the shoulders and distinctively hump-backed, he is one of the largest of the world’s wild bovines, fully a quarter larger than Africa’s famed Cape buffalo, larger than the Asian water buffalo. Only the legendary gaur, the Asian bison, is distinctly larger. With his woolly coat he is able to withstand the most brutal Great Plains winters. A herd animal, he uses his numbers to paw through the deepest snows to find grazing. Wolves will follow the herds and pick off the young, but the mature bison has no natural enemies, and he remains unchanged since long before man the hunter came onto the world’s stage.

  This, perhaps, is the bison’s undoing. He is a creature of the wide open plains, and he never learned fear. His enemies were drought and desert, and his friends were grass and water over the horizon. He has close relatives, too; the European bison or wisent is virtually indistinguishable from the American breed. By the early years of this century the last major population of European bison had retreated into Poland’s forests, and was nearly destroyed during World War II. Today the European bison exists in small private herds and preserves scattered across western Russia and eastern Europe—not unlike his American cousin. It is not known whether the European bison ever approached the numbers of his New World cousin. Perhaps, but not within the time of mankind. Throughout known history his numbers have been small. As we know, this was not the case with the American bison.

  Just 140 years ago as many as 60 million bison roamed the Great Plains. He was the most numerous large mammal the world has ever seen, second in numbers only to man himself. Although our Records of North American Big Game now has its own history of some three-quarters of a century, and listed therein are many spectacular bison, we simply do not know how big the horns of this animal might potentially grow. Our records list only a smattering of heads that have survived from the 19th Century, and these few are from that century’s last decade, long after the time of the bison was past. This does not denigrate the great bison listed in our book, but think of it like this: The few bison records that exist from the 1890s were taken from a remnant population of a few hundred animals. Those that are hunted today are taken from a still-remnant population of a few tens of thousands. What might the best bison horns have looked like when there were 60 million to choose among?

  I suppose it doesn’t matter, since we cannot turn back the clock—but wouldn’t you like to see those mighty herds of bison stretching to the horizon? I’m a native Kansan, and I’ve never driven or bird-hunted through the Flint Hills or the endless plains to the west without imagining the time of the buffalo.

  In paleologic time they were there for a very long time, and even in time as measured by man it seemed they would be there forever. But by both measurements they were gone in the wink an eye. Lewis and Clark first made the East aware of the great herds of bison, although their extent remained long unknown and little believed. By the 1850s the existence of vast numbers of bison was both known and believed . . . but man’s impact on the great herds was still small.

  With the end of the Civil War and the coming of the railroad, the buffalo was doomed. Now there was unheralded westward expansion, accelerated by rail access. Those same rails could transport hides and meat and buffalo tongues back to a hungry East. There were fortunes to be made in buffalo, and all too many headed West to cash in. An incredibly short twenty years after the Civil War, and the buffalo were finished.

  The great Kansas herds, the most accessible due to the railroad, went first. By the early 1870s they were gone. Then the “buffalo hunters”—quotes around both words, because bison are not buffalo and those who slaughtered them were not hunters as we know the term—turned south, er
adicating the southern herds in Oklahoma and northern Texas in a few seasons. Then they turned to the northern bison, the last great herds. By the winter of 1884 it was over. A few survivors hung on here and there—along the Canadian border, in what became Yellowstone, and in the depths of the Black Hills. Theodore Roosevelt himself took one of the last South Dakota bison; you can read about it in his Hunting Tales of a Ranchman (1885).

  By then the Great Plains were “pacified.” Even if there were buffalo to return, there was no longer room for them. The last survivors in the breaks and badlands continued to be hunted for food, until finally protection came and our bison could begin the long road back from the brink of oblivion. The problem is that, unlike our whitetail, elk, wild turkeys, pronghorn, and so many other species that—with our help—have made a dramatic comeback, there is little room for the bison. He needs a lot of grass and space, and he’s hard to fence in. Although there are many bison today, they are scattered in small private and public herds throughout their former range. And elsewhere.