Thirty miles southeast of Dumas, Texas, I pull up to a boat ramp that has been closed for almost 30 years. Through the headlights of my car, I see the end of the concrete ramp disappear into a seemingly endless canebrake. I am the only hunter in the lot at 4 a.m., and I am pleased that the solitude I desire is inevitable. I hook my Diamond Outlaw to a carabiner on my pack, buckle my Scott Sabertooth to my wrist and head off into the Panhandle darkness in search of a good place to glass for a species I have never hunted.
Having spent the first quarter-century of my life chasing whitetail in the brush country and pine thickets of South and East Texas, the idea of hunting mule deer in backcountry canyons is as foreign to me as hunting Markhor in Asia. Due to a copious number of hours spent watching backcountry hunts on the internet, I am naively confident that by the end of the weekend I will return to the boat ramp with the horns, hide, and edible meat of a mule deer buck.
I have only walked 50 yards but the parking lot is out of sight. The trail I hit is minimally travelled and after another hundred yards and a series of ups and downs, I realize that I’m traversing my first cliff face of the day. I know that I can move quicker if I get out of the cliffs and follow the edge of the old lake bed. I go down the cliff face and find myself on flat ground but the only clear trail disappears into a forest of dry cane reeds. There is a bounty of open country between where I am now and my final destination, but no part of me wants to disappear into this floral labyrinth to find it. The option is singular, so I head off into darkness. The path through the canebrake is only wide enough for me and my bow, and the turns are so many that I can only see out a few steps in front of me. I realize how tense I am and begin to laugh. My last right turn leads into a country that seems to never end.
After persevering through the anxiety-inducing black of the sky-high canebrake, the openness of the old lake bed is a welcome expanse. Breathing easy at last, my headlamp illuminates a northbound pair of boot prints that is preserved in the Texas clay. Amazed at its size, I slide my boot into the print and immediately begin a silent prayer.
“God, if it is your plan to have me come face-to-face with a wildness-wandering serial killer, please don’t let it be this behemoth of a human.”
I quietly utter “Amen,” and head north along the western bank of the Canadian River.
Enamored by the crimson skyline, I nearly walk face-first into a solid wall of phragmites. I walk up and down the horizontal line of high vegetation in front of me and fail to find a path with less resistance. I take a deep breath, curse Mother Nature and plunge ahead into the Panhandle jungle.
In times of struggle, my father always says, “Bow your neck. Keep fighting. Keep moving forward.” Though my current situation isn’t dire, I repeat this to myself as I press through the brush because there is no trail before me. Thank God I’m not claustrophobic.
A handful of trips and falls and hundreds of yards later, I emerge from the phragmites to find that two of my arrows have been stripped off my quiver, lost to the chaos behind me. Most days, I would take this as some kind of omen, but I’m too sweaty, itchy and uncomfortable to search for any meaning.
I slowly make my way across the last stretch of open country and scurry up the side of Evan’s Canyon. Upon reaching the glassing knob I spied from the ground, I realize that there are higher and more sufficient vantage points, so I keep making my way up towards the sky.
Before I have the opportunity to skyline myself, I sit down and set up my binocular tripod.
I spend hours looking through the glass. I see nothing with a pulse. Rocks, cactus, palmettos and trees.
After hours of nothingness, my mind begins to wander away from the task at hand. I watch the sun slowly making its way behind the ridgeline in the distance and begin to question my current quest. I ponder my reasons for being there and attempt to pragmatically justify my actions. I could have driven to our family ranch instead. 30 miles instead of 700. A 5-rung climb into a box blind instead of 500 feet up a cliff. But here I am in the middle of the wilderness, looking for deer, and pretending I am Daniel Boone. What a jackass.
Something moves at the mouth of the canyon and these thoughts cease. I swing the binos to my left and glass up a pair of mule deer does. As I watch them make their way into the land’s fold, I spot another mule deer doe about 200 yards behind them. In a few weeks, the rut will kick in and Big Rack Jack will be following close behind them. A coyote trots through the brush below me and crosses the canyon. The late-evening happenings in the draw before me pull me back into the moment. My hope is revived.
I silently pray for a glimpse of horns, but as the sun makes way for the moon, I come to terms with the fact that I have a five-mile trek back to the boat ramp, empty-handed. I stow away my gear and head south.
The hike back goes by quicker than my morning’s journey. Perhaps it is because as my boots march forward, I am dreaming up images of my return trip.
I know that what I seek is out here. And I know where to be when it rears its head.
Excellent read!