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The big-game hunting season for 2022 has drawn to a close for me. As I write this it’s three weeks behind me in fact. The delay was primarily a function of my growing distaste for “social media”, and my role in it. I have zero involvement with Insta-Snapper Chat-Facebook-Tik-Tok-a-gram…but I do reside here on the Campfire. Like it or not, the Campfire is in fact social media.
If you haven’t read it, I highly suggest taking a few minutes and reading Matt Rinella’s opinion piece in Free Range American titled, “Unfollowing Social Media Will Make Hunting Better”. You can click on the following link to read it for yourselves….MATT RINELLA ARTICLE.

It’s been out for a year now, and has been a flashpoint for lots of discussion from guys just like you and I. I’m rarely “moved” by something at my age. At 50, I’m leaning decidedly towards being curmudgeonous and am sufficiently jaded that I rarely see/hear/read something that is truly thought-provoking. I believe Rinella’s piece is. It was compelling enough for me anyway that I had decided I wasn’t going to write up the season this year as I had in the past. I wasn’t going to be part of the “problem”.

A week ago a fellow Campfire member and good friend of mine (Greg- AH64guy) called me and asked why he hadn’t seen the story yet. I’d shared a couple of pictures with him, but nothing followed as per most seasons. I explained my rational and the link to the Rinella piece. He was intrigued, so I sent him a link and told him to get back to me when he’d read it. He called me a couple of days later and agreed it was a thought-provoking piece. He said he understood my rational but wanted to offer a counter-point. He said that right or wrong, the Campfire served as a record of events. A record that someday my son might want to be able to look back upon….a record that he might someday want to show HIS son. Greg is a clever fellow, and his manipulation had the desired effect as his words bounced around in my head for a couple of days. The final straw was when my son sent me a text two nights ago and asked, “Are you going to do a Campfire write-up this year”? I asked him if he wanted me to, and he replied that he did. Thusly my resolve was broken, which brings us to the present.

We would be hunting our usual haunts in central Idaho. Camp would consist of my son Rowdy, his best friend/roommate/hunting partner Cadon, my buddy and usual hunting partner Matt, and myself. Matt and I coached both boys in baseball and football going back to grade school, so there is a level of familiarity and history that makes evening discussions a lot of fun and riddled with inside jokes no one else would likely find funny. Our hopes were high as the opener fell on a weekend, which meant the boys could come down from college to join us the first couple of days before they headed back to class on Monday.
It was hot those first few days…like Africa hot. It took me three days to even spot my first bull, and he was many, many miles away and out of our reach. In spite of our best efforts that first weekend, it just wasn’t meant to be.

They headed back to school while Matt and I continued to (unsuccessfully) look for bulls/bucks in the days that followed. Neither was to be found through the first seven days. I have a great job that allows me the opportunity to take the entire three-week season off. I had also managed to purchase an extra, non-resident bull tag back in the summer, when visions of multiple bulls were still dancing in my head. That seemed like a laughable notion as the first week ended. On about the 8th day though, the weather turned and my fortunes turned with it. We woke up to 4-5” of snow and it was still coming down. Everyone went their separate ways that morning with high hopes. Just as we stepped out of the wall-tent, Rowdy realized his windage cap had fallen off his scope somewhere along the way. To compound the problem, neither of us could remember if we’d “zeroed” it when we finished sighting in. I gave him my .280ai and grabbed the only other rifle I have in the stable…a fast-twist 22-250 I’d recently put together with the specific idea of shooting 88 ELD-Ms. I wasn’t feeling great about the idea of shooting an elk with it, but figured it would be just fine for deer if I could find one at a reasonable range.

I’d put in about 5 miles of hiking that morning and while I was cutting some fresh tracks in the snow, I had only managed to turn up a small forked-horn and a few does. I was headed back to camp and already imagining the warmth of the wood stove and a hot lunch when some movement caught my eye on the hillside above. I grabbed the bino’s and quickly located some does. Soon enough, I caught a deer trailing and could make out that he was a decent(ish) buck. Given that we had nothing to show for a week of hunting, I didn’t take long to decide to make a run. They were about 800 yards out, but there as a lot of burnt timber between us as I started my climb. They were slowly feeding uphill and about 80 yards from going over the ridge-top when I started after them. The wind was right, but I felt like it was a race against the clock to catch up before they disappeared over the top into a thick stand of timber where I’d likely never see them again. I was completely gassed when I crested the last little finger ridge between us, but relieved to see they hadn’t gone over yet. I checked the range and “374” appeared in bright red numbers. Further than i wanted, but as close as I was gonna be able to get as a doe already had me pegged. I dropped down behind a log and concentrated on getting my breathing under control as I maneuvered for a comfortable shooting position. The buck stepped between two trees with nothing but air between us. I slowly exhaled and squeezed the trigger. I was immediately met with a satisfying “THWACK”. The buck hunched up and followed the confused does for about 20 yards before stopping again. I worked the bolt and turned another round loose. Same “THWACK” came back to me, but this time the buck faltered and went down….success at last! I made my way over and with a sense of relief. Seven days of hard hunting with no yields had started to weigh on the enthusiasm in camp. Here are a couple of picture of the deer. He isn’t huge, but given the circumstances I was grateful for the opportunity.






I sent a message via InReach to all the boys letting them know what had transpired. It had started snowing hard again by then, so I was thrilled when all responded they were in camp and would start heading my way to assist with the pack out. I didn’t NEED four guys to get one deer out...but no one seemed to want to be left out of the fun and I wasn’t going to turn any help away. I went to work breaking the deer down and loading up. He was a healthy buck, and I had a hell of a time keeping my feet under me in the snow as I made my way down the hill towards the trail that would lead me back to camp.
I had only made it about a half mile when the cavalry arrived. It was approaching 2 o’clock by then, and I was damn happy to see them as my tank was running a bit empty. This is a photo of our merry band just after we linked up. Before you say it...yes, I can see my muzzle seemingly pointed at Matt's big pumpkin head while strapped across my back. I think it's mostly the camera angle because I'm usually pretty attentive to that, but I can't swear that it wasn't. The only defense I can offer is that I had already unloaded the 22-250 shortly after finding the buck fwtw. From left to right is me, Cadon, Rowdy, and Matt.





TO BE CONTINUED.....