Palouse Outdoors:The Gift of Venison

"There. On the crest of the ridge. Do you see her?" Matt asked as he pointed toward the protruding ears of a bedded mule deer doe.

"Yup, and at least one more," I answered. "But there's no shot from this side – no backstop. Let's make the loop and see if we can come up from behind them for a different angle."

The evening sun was warm upon our backs as we moved east to flank the bedded deer. My mind wandered in alpenglow-induced revelry. There's nothing quite like autumn's atmosphere, with protracted mornings and evenings bathed in the sun's peachy hue, and the cool of the settling evening air.

Wild turkeys fed all around us, scuffling and bobbing, their black backs shining. Valley quail called to the covey, and rooster pheasant cackled from the distant riparian. Powder-soft soil puffed from beneath our boots as we walked and conversed in hushed voices.

Songbirds flitted in the crackling, tawny weed skeletons along the creek bottom precipice. Quail tracks littered bare ground, and black barred turkey feathers were scattered about, likely falling from molting birds roosting high in the nearby black locusts.

The sun was blinding on the opposite side of the ridge and lit up Matt and me like beacons as we strained to peer through the shadows of the tree cover.

"Hup," Matt said with a huff and a balled-up fist - a universal sign to halt.

Three deer were bedded approximately 50 yards up the rise and still without a suitable backdrop for shooting. We knelt and glassed the deer, taking note of which were fawns and which were mature. All three had beautiful, thick, charcoal-gray winter coats.

A single fawn was bedded in the open while another and the doe were behind a few trees. While repositioning wouldn't help with a shot, I did it anyway to get a better look at the doe. Her age was apparent with heavy white margins on her face and around her ears. She had two distinct, stark-white neck patches and was more than twice the size of the fawns. She was clearly smarter, for she stood and put trees between us the moment I shifted into an opening.

Matt and I watched intently, sizing and aging the deer for fun, as the trio moved across the ridge, wisely keeping vegetation between us. Most interesting to me were the other deer that appeared as they filed away, including a mature doe, smaller than the older doe, and bigger than the fawns. Her ears were still large compared to her muzzle length, but more equally proportioned with long legs and a thick barrel. I recognized her instantly as the deer I wanted – the perfect age, size, venison quality, and likely a year-and-a-half-old doe with no fawns.

"They've gone to the south side. I bet we can swing around and bump into them again," Matt said.

"Yes, let's loop around to the west. We've got plenty of time," I said.

The sun was settling closer to the horizon as we moved west, then turned south. A small buck spooked from a secluded patch atop the ridge as we crossed over the hilltop. Although young, he took no chances with us.

Matt and I dropped to the bottom of the ridge, then turned east with the sun at our backs, our shadows stretching out nearly 30 feet before us. We were more vigilant than before, as the deer could've been anywhere, either the group we pursued or a new group entirely. And, while hunting is a game of stealth made easier with experience, the elements of randomness, coincidence, and Divine Intervention are both mercilessly and mercifully ever-present in the predator-prey relationship.

As we moved east, we stepped up to the edge of a swale and spotted the small herd feeding at the bottom. The sun, still behind us, cast black silhouettes on the horizon. The deer glanced up, then continued feeding, completely unalarmed. I can only assume that we looked enough like turkeys.

My right hand clutched Dad's old Remington Model 700 .243 as I readied the shooting sticks with my left. The rifle was a gift from his brother in the 1960s. Dad hunted whitetails for sustenance during my early childhood, and the heirloom rifle has filled our freezers for nearly 70 years now. As I glanced through the scope, sizing up the does and fawns, I was pleased to see that the middle-aged doe I wanted was positioned perfectly for a safe, clean shot, approximately 80 yards below me. A gentle tug on the trigger sent the doe loping out of sight into the trees. Matt and I looked after the older doe, allowing some time to pass, as she eased off in the opposite direction with her fawns in tow.

"Found her!" I yelled to Matt, concluding a short search and the gut-wrenching second-guessing that follows the shot. No matter how confident I am, I cannot shake the twinge of doubt. Why? Because of the ever-present randomness, coincidence, and Divine Intervention that can change an outcome in an instant. Which was it that allowed my perfect approach and put the doe exactly where I needed her to be?

Her coat was an utter masterpiece - immaculate, sleek, heavy, and striking. A smooth, tawny ring encircled her eyes, and a dark, nearly black band of bristly fur stretched the length of her brisket and chest. Her underside was a light buckskin with a stark-white rump and stubby, coal-tipped tail. Two to three inches of fat covered her brisket – fatter than any deer I've hunted. She would feed us well over the next year. Standing in the fading light of the coral band glowing on the horizon, I gave silent thanks, as I had done so many times, for the life that this beautiful creature gave for my nourishment.

Matt and I rolled up our sleeves and carefully split the hide along her belly centerline. We removed the heart and liver, placing them in a game bag, then left the remaining entrails for the coyotes. I prefer to break down game in the field and leave the carcass, but her coat was too beautiful to destroy. We gently dragged her to where we could load her up whole, allowing for meticulous processing on the gambrels at home.

I've been hunting for nearly 40 years now, and I'm well past the days when possession of the animal defined success. If not for the irreplaceable table fare, I'd only shoot big game with a camera. Emotions aside, the hunt connects us to our ecosystem, fostering an awareness of our place within it. There's a deep, primal satisfaction borne of hunting and gathering one's own food. Venison, good friends, and sunset hunts like this are truly a gift.