Shortly after the shot he slipped and fell, bruising his ribs and damaging his bow. To add injury to insult, my buddy also shot a buck, in the shoulder, and didn’t recover it. We hunted a few more days before calling it a season. Those feelings of excitement and anticipation have been replaced with those of inadequacy and disgust.

The feeling of failure is nearly impossible to overcome. Unfortunately for me, the pin was too far forward and the buck would live to tell the story. The fact is, I had done everything right, the stalk was perfect, the shot broke clean, and the arrow hit behind the pin. After two stalks and one arrow in the shoulder, the blood trail dried up.

We watch them as they work their way towards us on the hillside across the canyon. A short ten minutes turns up three bucks, two of which are deer any of the three of us would gladly notch our tag on. After settling into the feet of a boulder, we begin our search through our binoculars. Massive boulders, a sea of down timber, and willow bottoms are sure to be hiding a muley buck or two. The landscape is overpowering, a burn from two decades ago engulfs the mountains as far as the eye can see. We traverse upward and crest the rise onto a ridge top. I had hunted this spot once before for a very brief time, but never with the full power of a team of certified killers like I had in tow on this occasion. As we leave the truck in the darkness, I feel the excitement of entering the unknown. Two and a half hours and almost 200 miles later, we arrive at plan B. At 10pm on the night before the opener, we call an audible. My anticipation was short lived as we receive a call that there are seventeen camps in the basin and surrounding area. September 1st, I find myself driving to hunt the high country basin I faced off with the giant mule deer from last year in hopes he had made it through the rifle seasons and the harsh Colorado winter.

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