Far northwest corner of South Dakota, last Monday. I have not drawn a speed goat tag for 6 years, if I remember right. And I was plenty excited to draw this year.
Since getting COVID, among other things, I ain't even 10% of what I used to be just a few years ago. A flight of stairs leaves me winded and my balance is downright crappy. In the past, I could always count on using a spotting scope to find a small herd way off in the distance on some of these 3-25 sq mile tracts of public lands and then spend a good part of the day making moves to stay out of sight and get in close. I think my longest ever shot on an American pronghorn was about 150 yards, proof that even a poor rifleman like me can seal the deal if he wants to earn the opportunity.
That ain't in me right now, so I steeled myself to eating a goat tag, much like I did with my turkey tag this year. But I've never so much as blown a stalk from the recliner much less shot game from one, so I got up off my twin sitting muscles and got out there. I planned on staying at a hotel nearby rather than camping, and I allotted 4 days to give it the ol' bootleather and brainpower one-two punch. Monday morning dawned with upper 60's temps, 30 mph sustained winds and heading for a high in the low 70's. By the time I was in my hunting zone we were getting 40-45 mph sustained winds and gusts up to 60 mph. This was starting to suck the farts out of dead chickens.
Several times I parked alongside a gravel road and got out to walk to see over a hillside and the wind blew against the door so hard I could barely get it open! More than once when I was walking the prairie a gust of wind caused me to stumble and fall. A few hours of this and my morale was lower and less appealing than a Grand Canyon snake fart. I was seeing a lot of very respectable bucks in the 14-15 inch range, and many of them close to the road. But they were all consistently on well marked private land. Also, I was running into a lot of pickups with drivers wearing blaze orange - I had competition. Several times I stopped to glass goats on public land only to see one or more people in blaze orange stalking them already.
I drove along one state leased walk-in public hunting property and saw two small young of the year female pronghorns in the corner. I just kept rolling past them, it was only the first day after all! Up the road I came to another one square mile of what we call here in the west "school land", lands set aside within a county to be leased out to grazing or farming to help fund public schools. Depending on whether the initial settlers on that county were community-minded or greedy sods, those school lands will be some of the best land or some of the worst land. In this county, the folks setting aside the school lands were generally parsimonious, tight fisted, and cared very little for providing for the teaching of their kids. Much of this tract was taken up with a dried out alkali lakebed. Nothing there.
I turned around and as I came over the hill I was reminded of the two young does in the corner of the pasture. I slowed down to look at them and realized I had fallen for one of the worst rookie hunting mistakes.....focusing all my attention on the first critter you see! Not 200 yards past these two kids was the rest of a respectable herd of about two dozen, including a decent buck. I kept a steady speed of 25 mph as I drive past them all, eyeing the terrain for every nuanced bit of undulation or wrinkle. When I got a mile past them I pulled off the road and got out of the vehicle. I looked back and saw that the north fenceline of the pasture ran toward the east along the top of a ridgeline. There were two slight finger ridges between the north-south road and the herd. In the first little swale were the two young of the year does, a couple more in the next swale, then the main herd. I figured I could drive back north, just crest over the hill, then park out of sight. With the gusting wind, they'd never hear me stop, much less slam a car door! I would just walk back to the northernmost corner of the public land, slip over the barbed wire, and follow the fencelineto the east. The first two does would be 40 yards away and in plain sight. The next ones would be 100 yards south of me and would only see me as I crested the first finger ridge. I figured the twins would spook and go south along the road, not bothering the main herd. But I was giving it a 50/50 shot whether the second bunch would spook to the south and set off the main herd or spook straight into the main herd and run off the whole shebang. Or just maybe, with the wind bothering everyone, and me never facing them, and just taking a steady pace along the north fence they might all ignore me.
By the time I had walked the 100 yds to get to the corner of the public land I was winded (damn you, COVID). I belly crawled under the fence and lay there out of sight and calmed myself, waiting for my heart to slow and my breath to normalize. Once I got onto my feet, the two young goats raised their heads to look at me with curiosity. I never looked straight at them, just out of the corner of my eye as I pointed my face east and stepped out with confidence along the fenceline. Sure enough, they were too young to have enough sense to spook! First roadblock fell.
I came over the second little finger ridge and the half dozen young kids and does were busy grazing. I never slowed, never wavered, never looked...I just walked along calmly beside the fence ignoring the satellite herd below me. As they passed from the very edge of my eye, I saw several of them lower their heads to graze and I knew I was in the game now!
I slowed as I got to the high point on the ridge looking for the tips of the ears of the herd to my southeast. Pretty quick I saw them and dropped to my knees. My heart was hammering and I took another 5 minutes to just breath and enjoy the moment. Somewhere I had crushed a sprig of skunk mint along the way, as well as wormwood sage. The smells mixed with the dust and alkali in the air and it smelled to me of Harding County speed goat hunts of years gone by. It dawned on me that I was alone and I had no one left to invite to go on this hunt anymore. One lost to old age, one to a sudden heart attack, another to PTSD/schizophrenia, and the last to politics. I also fear this is the last hunt for me, as well.
Things started to take a maudlin turn and I was feeling like the joy was sucked out of me, leaving me as dried out and blown away as the dust coming off the nearby alkali lakes. I thought of the antelope and how recently two extremely bad winters back-to-back had wiped 95+% of the herd out of this area. I thought of how for at least 7 years there were no seasons for antelope in this county and how today I had counted over 100 head before noon! I reminded myself that the individual animal matters very little, but the general population and the environment needs the consideration. I am ok with never getting to hunt again, just so long as I know there are still antelope left out there on this magnificently inhospitable lands for the future.
Pity party over, I began to crawl on hands and knees toward the herd. Between the goatheads and the prickly pear, this was no easy task. I crested the rise and moved slowly closer. Between me and the herd was 90 yards of knee-high sage and mixed shortgrass prairie with clumps of little bluestem. I eased down the legs of the bipod and got my butt firmly on the ground. There was no shot. The sage and grasses blocked everything but the tops of their heads. I backed out as slowly as I came in until I was out of line of sight. Easing my way another 40 yards down the finger ridge I saw the small satellite herd lift their heads to look at me with all appropriate suspicion. Nothing I could say or do would fix this. They'd bolt or not. If they bolted hard, the main herd may take the cue and follow. I pressed on.
Up over the finger ridge again, this time I was 60 yards out and yet again blocked by the grasses and sage. Nothing left to do but to do it, I said to myself. Here's the situation: Positives - 1) I am close, 2) the satellite herd behind me didn't blow, but turned and ambled off west to where the initial two young does were grazing, 3) I have 3 1/2 days ahead of me, Negatives: 1) I cannot rely on the bipod to help me get steady because I cannot get a clear field of fire, 2) I suck at shooting rifles and my lack of confidence is well deserved, 3) I am being buffeted by these 40 mile an hour winds and 50-60 mph gusts making my not so great shooting skills really sketchy. 4) this alone should be the absolute dealbreaker, but the wind is blowing across me and right into the herd!!!
Sure enough, one of the little bucks raises his head and points his snooter right in my direction as if he were laser guided. I am taking the military kneeling position and trying to get a line on Big Guy. Young buck starts to walk through the herd toward me and a few of the does lift their heads up, too. Big Boy is moving left to right and in and out of sight behind does. Sometimes he has a doe behind him, sometimes in front of him....and more heads are coming up. Young buck is now steadily coming my way and at least 8 others are starting to form up around him. Many prey animals will do this when they suspect a predator lying in ambush. They will get themselves all keyed up and slowly approach the suspected predator, trying to push the killer into making an unprepared charge. Soon the entire two dozen or so of this herd are walking toward me, even Mr Big Guy.
They closed to 40 yards and some are stopping. It's go time. And it's THEM that's a-gonna go! Mr Big takes two steps forward and to the left. He has no animals behind him and he is facing me dead on square. I center the crosshairs on a hair about 5 inches below the base of the throat and take up the slack on the trigger. I squeeze and nothing happens. Right. Safety. This isn't a flintlock, it has a safety. I push the safety forward with my booger hook off the bang button while I try to re-acquire my target. Mr Big has stepped forward a bit more and again I place the crosshairs 5 inches below the base of the throat, return my finger to the inside of the trigger guard, and take up the slack. The trigger breaks, the recoil lifts the muzzle, and I see the herd spin and accelerate like hooved Nike missiles, Mr Big's broad as a boat backside blaze white rump patch erect in pronghorn semaphore for RUN-FOR-YOUR-LIVES!
He makes about 20 yards and begins to list to the port side like a slack-in-the-stays merchantman taking on water. Still his powerful legs churn, even as he goes over and a cloud of dust billows up. A few more kicks and thrashes, but there is little energy behind them. The Black Hills Ammo all copper hollow point has dished him out.
Large bases I cannot fully get my hands around, 11 1/4 around the outside curve on the small side, 12 3/8 around the outside curve on the larger side. Not a trophy by any means, but I am guessing because the the girth of the mains he is an old buck on the decline. His head is at a friend's place, she carves skulls and wanted him. I've asked her for pics of the molars in the jaw when she gets the skull cleaned up. If they are well worn down, he's old. We'll see.
