'The Dead Zone' By Scott Faiman

 Smartphones, e-mail, Facebook, texting, tweeting, let’s just call it what it is; unnecessary information overkill.  Many embrace technology and what it has to offer.  I guess I have old school wiring because I spend most my time trying to avoid it.  I believe this is why I have developed a passion for high country DIY backpack bow hunting.  My favorite hunting spot just happens to be a cellular “Dead Zone”, how perfect.  My son and I frequent this area every bow season.  One-on-one time with your children is something I hold very close to my heart, and bow hunting is the best way I’ve found to experience it.

     We have one small but manageable personality issue, my son is my polar opposite; texting, e-mailing, and talking to his buddies as we hike up the ridge towards paradise.  As we drop into the “Dead Zone”, his smile fades as mine broadens.  When he finally concedes his signal is gone he turns off the gadget, places it in his pocket and the hunt begins. 

     On opening day we had next to nothing going our way.  Deer were scarce, but there was one glimmer of hope we had seen far in the distance in the bottom of drainage a day earlier.  Three mule deer of unknown stature were seen feeding adjacent to their quaky patch bedding area.  Chris decided working outside the box was needed in order to make something happen, so he headed down the mountain in an effort intercept the bucks as they moved from their beds.  I told Chris I would head up the mountain to glass another area.  Just as I had reached the top of the ridge I received a radio transmission that he had just arrowed a beautiful mule deer. It turned out that as he was approaching a sage flat he just happened to catch a glimpse of a rack above the high sage, he ranged the buck at 65 yards, told himself, “I can do this”, and drove the Spitfire home.  When I received the transmission that the big buck was going down, my emotions hit me like a sledgehammer.  I can’t explain why good news can tear me up so bad, it may very well be some deep seated hidden feelings surfacing from a near death experience Chris had as a child. Every joyful moment he experiences may mean more to me than most. There was a time when I wasn’t sure he was ever going to see any more great days or super smiles. When I know that smile has become as wide as the Ruby Mountains, the tears start flowing.

 After a few days of re-hab it was my turn to turn up the heat, but finding a solid buck had become seemingly impossible.  Near the end of day two we caught a glimpse of a tremendous buck we quickly named 'Big-Bertha' layed up in an area we called the Hell-Hole.  This area has swirling winds, very little cover, absolutely nothing advantageous to a bow hunter.  We had stalked deer here for years and the outcome is always the same with the deer blowing out.  This stalk on Big-Bertha was no different with him catching my scent at 65 yards and disappearing down the mountain.

     Returning to work for the week had me thinking a new area might be a welcome sight, but after a few nights of cooling off I came back to my senses and realized the reason we have been so successful on this mountain in the past was that we knew it well.  It seems that as the season progresses it has a tendency to improve as far as quality and numbers goes.

    The morning of the third weekend was outstanding with three shooters being watched in the scope.  A buck we nicknamed ‘Big-3’ layed up near a 400’ vertical cliff-face, ‘In-Line 180’ bedded in the hell-hole, and ‘Grumpy’ found his usual place under a mahogany tree near the top of an avalanche chute. 

    Grumpy got his name from a behavior we witnessed; every time another buck would come close he would charge them and stick his hooves in their face. I chose to make an attempt at In-Line 180, but unfortunately the results in the Hell-Hole were predictable.  Upon climbing out of the hole I took a hard look at Grumpy and thought he might be stalkable today.  I headed out around the mountain trying to psych myself up for the three hour climb to Grumpy’s hang out; when out of the corner of my eye I saw a buck browsing in a small quaky patch 200 yards directly beneath me.  Upon closer scrutiny I decided he was worth going after, with big matching eye-guards and lots of mass.  The wind was perfect, after watching him lay down I made a bee-line to a high brush clump.  I removed my quiver, ranged the distance to the buck at 42 yards and began the waiting game.  About a half-hour had passed and he decided to stand to shake some flies off.  As he stood I drew my bow and let’er rip.  My arrow flew like a laser beam, seemingly knocking the buck off its feet. As it turned out there was a twig about 5’ in front of the buck, when my arrow deflected off the twig it deflected right into the base of the bucks skull, killing him instantly, crazy day!  

    After a photography session, the bagging, capeing, and packing began.  A mere 22 hours after the start of the day we arrived back at the truck with my trophy on our backs.  What a fantastic season it had been with lasting memories permanently stamped in my head. Sharing a great hunt with your son is what quality living is all about.

 The long hike out gave me lots of time to think. A childhood memory about Chris and his best friend Steven kept coming to mind. They were discussing a bicycle crash Steven had.  Steven said, “I hit the dirt so hard I saw stars”, Chris responded, “That’s nothing, I’ve seen angels”.  Thank you dear lord for bringing him back from the brink of death.  Each year I look forward to additional time spent in the “Dead Zone”.  What a heavenly place it is!