Victory Aoudad in the Trans Pecos

We all know VE Day stands for the day the allies declared victory in the European theater during WWII; likewise, VJ Day signifies the day when Japan surrendered, bringing a complete end to the war. So why not have a VA Day for the day my twenty-year war with the aoudad was won? The final battle for Victory Aoudad went like this.

Bruce, my little brother, bought a ranch a number of years ago while I was aoudad hunting in the Glass Mountains just northwest of Marathon. While having breakfast in the White Buffalo saloon in the Gage Hotel Bruce interrupted my blithering on the lack of progress on the aoudad trail with the following comment, “I think I’ll go into Alpine today and find a ranch to buy.” Continuing my aoudad chase seemed to be much more fruitful to me. well, a week later he settled the deal to buy the Brindle Canyon Ranch, and the rest is history, as they say. We never saw a trophy aoudad, though the outfitter did have a really nice advertisement predicting easy success. Bruce encountered Adam Johnson shortly after he began restoring the ranch. Adam owned the ranch just to the north of his and was carefully developing it for recreation and seasonal hunting. Adam grew up in the desert in New Mexico, and his ability to convert desert scrub into a productive and inviting landscape was evident.

Bruce, with lots of ingenuity on Adam’s part, has beautifully restored the original adobe ranch outpost dating from around 1900 when the rolling hills between Sanderson, TX and the Rio Grande was deep in grass from good rainfall. Bruce has an innate understanding of history in general but near–Google perfect recollection of it from 1820 to 1920 when the west was being settled. His ranch house is outfitted to relive those days, right down to the two-foot-thick adobe walls. A collection of branding irons and deer sheds hang from the raw cedar posts supporting the tin patio roof while period furniture complements the interior.

While his wife, Julianne, made sure all the amenities’ ladies require were included as well. The patio and flagstone courtyard serves as the main living and outdoor cooking area. It is outfitted with a cooking grill along with a central sunken firepit for everything else. The first shots of the final battle were fired from around the raised flagstone edges of the firepit as the three of us made sure our chairs surrounding the firepit did not float off in Jack Daniel’s dirty water current.

It was the winter of 2008 in the Chihuahuan Desert. Our nearly empty sundowners meant a thousand shades of pastel color were firing up behind the Santiago Mountain peaks as we looked west. God’s promise of a tomorrow was once again passing below the horizon. The pinion pine fueled firepit was hotter than a new horseshoe as the red and yellow flames flickered hints of what was to come from Adam and Bruce’s face as maverick cinders swirled towards the still hidden Milky Way. As darkness surrounded us a silence erupted that can only be heard in the desert. Time passed, thoughts traveled to all the good places until the coyotes’ nightly marshaling yelp broke the trance. These are the times when it is easy to relax and forget about all of life’s details and pressures. It is the whole reason Bruce lifted this present-day oasis from the dust and refused the free satellite phone the government offered.

Before I completely sorted through my happy places the intent of Adam’s recent expressions came into light. Adam asked me a question that sucked in my attention like the last breath of air under a capsized boat. He asked me, “What caliber of gun should be used for aoudad hunting out in these parts?” His question turned my stare into the Mexican TV towards a dark place full of  haunts from years of hunting the Holy Grail of the Texas Hill Country. I took a long slow draw from my leafy snorkel miraculously pinched from one of Castro’s fields seemed to last years. The draw was not finished till the outer gray ash had lengthened and the inner red core glowed like a mini-Chinese blast furnace. Vivid memories of fleeing aoudads after solid hits from calibers ranging from .243 Winchester to 7 mm Remington Magnum filled my mind. Then, more memories of countless hours of busting through cedar scrub with a never-ending dose of dry cedar needles falling down the back my neck and shirt while bent over trying to find the next precious drop of aoudad blood spore. The shattering memories drowned out the many good times along the way.

Smoke from Fidel’s gift to capitalism began to challenge Bruce’s robust fire as it settled around us like an early morning swamp fog. Perspiration rolled down from my brow. Bruce and Adam’s conversation was muted in the background as years of aoudad generated frustration waged war in my brain. Just before my brain broke, I emerged from my trance. My first words were choppy and conflicted as parts of me said no while others begged me for just one more swing at my nemesis. Part of me knew that only a victory could release me from the ghosts of aoudads past. Eventually the pain from my nearly broken brain was beaten back with the following conjured response, “You could shoot them with any caliber you want, but if you want to find them, nothing less than a .375 H & H magnum would be sufficient”. Feeling spent and self-absorbed in my conclusion the subject ended with my offer to put that theory to the test someday with him if he could find the “right” ranch for us to hunt.

Then, several years later in August 2010, the same amigos were watching the sun set behind the Del Norte Mountains while Bruce stoked the smoldering coals in his main firepit. We were discussing the various paths the setting sun takes through the mountains depending on the time of the year. Bruce interrupted us as he passed us with a plate of sizzling steaks from the cooking grill that compelled us to follow him inside to the table in a near Zombie-like procession.

Moving inside to the dining room for dinner, Bruce served us his favorite ranch meal. Hand-cut 20 oz. USDA prime ribeye steaks from his favorite butcher in Uvalde, aged red wine, salad, Mrs. Shubert’s rolls, and a baked potato with all the good stuff. We counted our blessings, then the conversation settled out as our attention centered back on our plates.

Though our attention on Bruce’s steaks was intense it was interrupted when Adam asked Bruce if he had told me about the hunt he had ready for me. Shocked with this new information, my face must have looked like I had just overheard the pilot ask the stewardess to look out of the window and count how many motors were hanging down below the wing.

Summer in the desert is powerful, but at 4,000 feet and low humidity, the evenings can be tolerable. A cooling breeze blew through open windows on either side of Bruce’s dining table that was set with wine glasses big enough to get my nose in and that is to say oversized and much to my liking. Blue enamel settlers’ plates were classy targets for the forthcoming steaks.

Bruce’s expression and eyes in the dim light stayed focused on the cracked pepper and garlic ratio of his steak while mine hung on Adam’s next words like George W’s first national address after 9/11. Which, by the way, marks one of my failed aoudad hunts in the Glass Mountains, but I digress…Adam’s narrative seemed to excite the desert gods as our dinner candles twinkled unusually bright as the details emerged. I’ve been waiting on a Trans Pecos aoudad hunt on a ranch without commercial hunting pressure for almost ten years. Based on my experience, only large ranches devoid of commercial hunting can offer true trophy quality aoudad as the nearly twenty years of maturation needed to produce the patriarchs can’t be found with even “seasonal” hunting pressure.

Leaning into the candle’s pale glow Adam laid out the rules of this game. As he spoke, the light revealed his chiseled facial features from a lifetime of hard knocks and hard work. His jaw muscles tensed as he wanted to make sure he said everything just right. He knew just how precious access to “this” ranch was. He also knew he was offering up his reputation as the one last, best hope of putting his new neighbor’s brother on a trophy he had hunted for twenty years to find.

Several years of my campfire stories tempered Adam’s delivery as he gauged my interest. With so many West Texas aoudad hunts behind me, I had become a mule. That is to say, I don’t jump until I look, though Adam is no ordinary guide. His reputation of making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear in the desert preceded his offer. Adam opened with a pair of high cards in the hole. Adam was looking for a couple of hunters to cull several feral buffalo bulls from a ranch west of Sanderson. Adam went on to explain that the American bison were detrimental to the rancher’s cattle breeding operation as they broke fences and killed his mother cows from interbreeding. Having laid out his opening wager he waited for my reaction before he delivered the flop from the safety of the shadows. Easing forward, my mind grappled with the prospect of another West Texas buffalo hunt. In just one instant, metered through time by a slow chew of ribeye steak, my imagination tossed Adam’s proposal from ear to ear.

Bruce continued to enjoy his steak and even tried to divine the importance of the evening from the swirled red wine legs dripping within his wine glass while my equally impressive rations simply grew colder with Adam’s every word. A wisp of pine smoke drifted through the open window and under the century-old wood plank door as I inched away from the unforgiving straight-backed dining chair toward the table’s edge. Though I’d spoken no words, Adam sensed it was time for the flop. Adam further explained the situation at “this” ranch. The ranch, northwest of Sanderson, known still today as the Stumberg Ranch, the family that settled it, lies between Sanderson and Marathon (pronounced Marathun locally) lies in the middle of the Housetop Mountains of the Trans Pecos. It had been Adam’s place of work for most of the past year. The current ranch owner had hired Adam to cross-fence 20,000 acres.

Since feral buffalo are too strong to fence and too wild to herd, the only option is culling for food. He explained that the ranch owner was very protective of this ranch as he was an avid mule deer hunter and does not allow any of his ranch hands except Adam to carry a gun on the property. Of the rancher’s hired hands, only Adam was offered the opportunity to round up some hunters to help “address” the feral buffalo problem.

Adam then delivered the flop. The flop of the cards sent my mind racing. He threw down the following, “Once the buffalo is culled and sent to the meat processor then we could have a chance at his rarely hunted aoudad population”. He said he had seen them routinely in several areas and the chances were very good that we could get a mature old ram. This bit of information was the final card in his hand, the river card, and he was showing me a royal flush. Adam wanted me to know that the aoudad, if taken, would require the payment of an additional fee.

His last play explained his initial tensed jaw. He closed with the fact that the rancher would allow us on the property for only forty-eight hours, but he assured me that we could achieve all our objectives in that time.

Bruce’s aged steaks and red wine were good, but it was Adam’s proposal that stole the evening. He said that he needed two hunters to make it worth his time and that the hunting would be on foot and along the ridges and peaks of the Housetop Mountains. He wanted his hunters to be physically ready so they would not be disappointed because the desert offers up few free lunches. When Adam finished his soliloquy, we all relaxed against the perfectly vertical backs of Bruce’s antique German settlers’ chairs, though I’m not sure “relaxed” is the correct term when these chairs are considered, to absorb Adam’s offer. A cooling north wind whistled past the corner of Bruce’s outpost on its way to old Mexico as if to say some opportunities pass just once and then are never seen or heard from again.

Bruce interrupted my imagination, which at that moment was affixing aoudad horns on the blue wildebeest hanging on the wall over the dining table by asking what I thought. Though my left eye had long been lost to a dust-up with an unknown pistolero back in Arkansas, even the glass eye that had taken its place must have sparkled with growing interest as I leaned back into the candlelight.

Adam at the time was forty years old. Even then, with proper financial incentive he would and could still demonstrate his prowess as the first “big name” cage fighter. With over 300 cage fights in many foreign countries, he has stories that make his 175-pound body leave you believing he had had his pain-o-meter completely removed. Unregulated cash fighting in a cage accurately described his past line of work. The prize money determined who fought — nothing more, nothing less. The only two rules were no eye gouging and no fish hooking of the cheek. It was all about the prize money. After one look at his unblemished face, it becomes clear that he had dispensed far more pain than the considerable pain he had endured.

Many years of unlicensed and uncensored cage fighting might lead one to believe he is a ruffian. However, if you jumped to this conclusion, you would be wrong. His manners are impeccable, and he is humble beyond comparison for those with such a past. Ranchers and lawmen across the Trans Pecos bank on his word, and he is loved by his neighbors and all those he works for on the ranches surrounding Sanderson. Fighting proceeds have earned him a beautiful desert canyon ranch in southeast Brewster County. He prefers quiet days surrounded by the hardest of work and the serenity of the desert. His main business is ranch maintenance and fence building, but he spends a good bit of his time helping train the border patrol in hand-to-hand combat while also guiding hunters.

Over the years we have discussed hunting and the prospect of a true trophy aoudad hunt. Patience is the key because he is busy, and unhunted land is hard to come by as aoudad hunting has become quite popular over the last twenty years. Experience has taught me that four-color advertisements don’t deliver the type of hunt often required to produce a fully mature aoudad. Experience. Adam knows this too and would not even consider putting someone in that position, as it implies an unfair deal from the start, of which is not his style.

Two years had passed since our first conversations on this subject. Adam’s reputation with this ranch owner permits him to be the only non-family member allowed to hunt the ranch. The ranch wasn’t even named as far as Adam knew. It is just an adjunct parcel of land the owner has outside his core holdings near Laredo, so it is still referred to as the old Stumberg Ranch. In terms of ranching value the arid Trans Pecos will typically provide enough grass for six mother cows and calves per section. That’s one pair per 100 acres, more or less.

Adam’s first guided hunt on this ranch in 2009 was not so successful. After two days of unsuccessful buffalo hunting, the owner granted them a third day to try for aoudad. This “combo” hunt resulted in just a couple of almost-trophy aoudads but not from lack of sightings. The aoudad is just smart enough to occupy the most remote mountain tops that require significant perseverance to climb.

The Housetop Mountains are in the Chihuahuan Desert. Though the Housetops offer less peak elevation than the nearby Davis Mountains, they are well noted for some of the more majestic views down into Big Bend from their peaks. From base to peak they rise approximately 1,000 feet. The dearth of moisture in this region leaves the sidehills largely devoid of scrub or tree vegetation, thus exposing eons of strata that typifies the Trans Pecos. A minimum of geologic activity has left the sedimentary rock layers generally as flat as when they were first deposited. Unlike the Davis Mountains, the Housetops are capped with flat limestone mesas. Over time, shards flake off. The loose limestone shards litter the ground and sound like plate glass breaking with every new step. Sneaking amongst the limestone clatter is quite an art as each misstep releases a new plate of glass from its eternal rest.

When Adam mentioned the hunt to me in the summer of 2010 around Bruce’s firepit, I immediately thought of my friend Mike Cunningham of Georgetown. We had hunted another aoudad ranch in 2009, and his passion for the animal, which seems to me to be very closely akin to the Tur, burned nearly as deep as mine. The chance for a feral buffalo was just icing that we thought we would never taste. Mike jumped at the opportunity when it was presented to him, so we booked the hunt for the first dates the ranch owner offered ahead of mule deer season. After nearly twenty years of aoudad hunting, I knew it was a tall order to deliver just one true trophy aoudad in two days after addressing the rancher’s buffalo problem, but Adam was very confident we would be successful.

Adam is in superhuman shape, so knowing that Mike and I were flatlanders, I asked Adam how the hunt would be conducted. He replied that he thought we would just walk from the camp house. Having a bit of laziness in my spine it was only natural to press the inquiry further as to “how far” the camp house was from the hunting area. He replied that it was “just out the back door”. Sensing we needed a bit more “help,” I offered to bring my K5 Blaser specifically upgraded for overlanding just in case we needed it. It turns out that “just out the back door” meant a six-mile walk to the base of the aoudad area and another six miles through valleys that may hold a few buffalo. To him that was no big deal and all in a day’s hunt. Thank God Almighty we had the monster truck!

A couple of months passed by the time Adam met us in Sanderson on October 7th with a reserved table at Sanderson’s best restaurant as we arrived at sundown. Sanderson is one of those dried up but living desert towns from a different era. Sanderson sits in the dry creek bed between various sparsely covered hills. Interstate 90 separates the town as well as doubling as Main Street while it shoots bullet straight through town. With hundreds of miles of desert between themselves and modern health care facilities they have learned to survive on little and in their own way. Sheep ranching gave Sanderson its boom but now the old wool processing factory’s corrugated tin roof slaps and moans with every wind gust. Dust storms and illegal aliens from Mexico blow through with equal regularity. Some of the people are good and others, not so much. The story goes that a new sheriff came to town and after a few uneasy days was called to a meeting with the local “community leaders”. A few minutes into the meeting the small talk ended with a hand gesture from their leader. As the small talk wound down the new sheriff found himself squared up on the ringleader. The “community leader” asked the sheriff what type of plans he had for “his” community. As the sheriff outlined his plan to “help” the city he was interrupted by the headman. Looking deep into the sheriff’s eyes he told him that everyone around here liked the way it was before he showed up. He let the sheriff know it was “their” town and they didn’t want any trouble from him. When the sheriff asked if there was any specific problems, he needed to tackle the headman simply said, “None that a few funerals will not fix”. The sheriff took his first transfer offer and now all the sheriffs are elected by the locals so “cooperation” between the law and the community couldn’t be better.

We were the last customers for the night. The newly remodeled dining room was very nice and had some real décor with paintings and pictures. We were eager to hear his updated plan for the hunt. The exceptionally good news for me was that Adam had cleared a new approach with the owner. Based on the owner’s confidence in Adam’s abilities, the owner had agreed to allow Adam to guide us for buffalo and aoudad simultaneously. This was quite an improvement, because it allowed us to be much more efficient by taking the first animal we saw of either kind. Otherwise, my constant aoudad companion, Mr. Murphy, would have surely guided me to 300 aoudads before seeing the first buffalo, and then once the buffalo was harvested, the aoudad would have vanished.

The good news for Mike was that he was equally excited about both as he was just a few years into his war with the aoudad. Adam thought it would be best that he hunt with Mike. Adam mentioned a particular mountain he had scouted for me that was not too far from where they would be. He planned for a mixed-hunt location for Mike. He thought Mike’s location could easily yield either animal while mine was much more an aoudad area, though it would be possible to see down into valleys for buffalo in two directions, from the high country.

Mike had spent hours shooting on the range behind his office in Wahlberg while my idle hours were spent concocting cartridge loads suitable for buffalo and aoudad. Many hours of discussion concerning the proper rifles for this hunt concluded with one solution. The perfect caliber was the .375 H & H in our collective opinion.

Adam regaled Mike with a few cage-fighting stories from one of his Asian tours while we ate. He described the tour when he fought for two straight weeks, one fight every two to three days, with a broken arm suffered during his first fight of the tour. I noticed Mike kept hitting his cheek or chin with his fork as Adam dribbled his story out.

As we wiped the splatter from our cheeks, he began sketching out the hunting area on a napkin. Adam drew out the mountain range that he thought held the most aoudad. He planned to hunt with Mike from the east to the west while I solo-climbed the first peak and worked my way west to east. If these areas were fruitless, we would meet in the middle of the ridgeline after three miles of climbing. We agreed that this sounded like something we could do.

After wiping the food crumbs off our shirts, we loaded up for the drive west out HWY 90 to the ranch. After almost an hour we pulled into the small and rustic ranch house around 9 p.m. Though small by modern standards, in its day it raised several generations of Stumbergs. I know this because Fred Stumberg was my private banker at Frost Bank in Boerne, my hometown. Small world huh? 

Adam had the keys and let us in. It didn’t take long to see the faded aoudad picture on the refrigerator. Adam indicated it measured out at thirty-eight inches. After paying our respects to the daddy of all aoudads we dropped our gear then went back to unload the monster truck

Mike brought his Remington Mountain Rifle in .375 H & H caliber and pre-packed backpack. On the other hand, I needed a full hour to pack my backpack with the barest of essentials to carry up the mountain. My first thoughts were to be sure to take my binoculars, compass, range finder, and extra bullets. Beyond those essentials enough water and food were needed for several days so some jerky and fire starters were added for good measure followed by a small first-aid kit. My belt carried the Leatherman multi-tool, shooting sticks, flashlight, and two separate shell cases giving me fifteen 300 grain A-Frames loaded to 2,550 ft/sec. My Ruger RSM .375 H & H heretofore had seen its share of duty in Africa, which served to remind me of just versatile the .375 H & H is as this was open desert scrub.

As this story testifies, Adam is on par with my impression of the best African professional hunters I have had the pleasure of hunting with. Furthermore, this hunt is for an African animal, so it all made perfect sense to use our .375 H & H caliber rifles as they were the right and only weapon for this battle, based on my experience.

The last important component was my homemade two-point rifle harness that allows me to climb with both hands. Finally, an idea I had used before from my Flying J hunting buddy Corbin Crews was implemented. His idea of taping an accurate ballistics chart to the rifle stock is handy and really helps me think through the bullet path for the longer shots typically taken in West Texas. The chart noted the bullet drop out to 500 yards.

After packing, I took a moment to step outside and look up into the heavens. Once away from the house, the almost moonless night showered me with billions of stars and many constellations. In the near-perfect darkness the Milky Way appeared as a faint pinkish streak across the heavens. The nightscapes in West Texas are very similar to those everyone remembers from Africa. The Davis Mountains, less than seventy-five miles from here, are known to be some of the clearest skies in the United States. For this reason, the Davis Observatory exists.

Darkness is measured by the Bortle Dark-Sky Scale. Officially, no level-1 sky exists in North America because total darkness, the darkness free of “city glow,” only occurs outside of a 300-mile radius of a city. The 300-mile buffer allows for the city glow to be finally extinguished by the curvature of the earth. Well, take it from me, the Bortle scale measurement team needs to visit this part of Texas as the Texas map will testify that Sanderson is 300 miles from the nearest “city of consequence” in any direction. Stars are the show, and you can’t see them like this from the city.

According to the Bortle scale, a person standing on top of the Empire State Building on a moonless night can see one percent of the stars Galileo saw when he studied the heavens. The glow from the city simply overshadows all but the most brilliant stars. Finding spectacularly dark and clear spots like Bruce’s Brindle Canyon Ranch, Africa, southern New Zealand, and northern Alberta, where the Northern Lights rolled through one really cold spring night, are glimpses into our ancestors’ unspoiled past. Times like these remind me to count my blessings. Starlite illuminated the white wood-framed ranch house that anchors this “little parcel” as I made my way back to the door.

Adam settled into the south bedroom while Mike unloaded into the north bunkroom. The couch under the fan in the living room seemed to suit me so my sleeping bag was unfurled across its length. The heat of the day had dissipated, and the cool of the high desert drifted through the open windows.

The next morning the sun was not even thinking about waking up until 6:50 a.m. My walk out to warm up the monster truck was under last night’s stars and a flawless quarter moon. The Milky Way was overhead, and a very light wind wafted across the valley as my time machine roared to life.

Thirty minutes later we were loaded up. Unfortunately, the monster truck’s heart was dead as a hammer when I tried to restart her for the trek out. This didn’t make sense, so we jump-started it with Adam’s welder from the bed of his Chevy 3500 work truck.

Before we departed, we thoroughly discussed the handling of the hand radios. Adam wanted to keep them on all the time, but unanticipated messages break the otherwise silence of nature, so with little debate we agreed to scheduled communications on the half hour. To save batteries we would turn the radios on for five minutes on the half hour. If no message was heard, we would assume all was fine, and none of us would start worrying until three consecutive communiqués had been missed. We synchronized our watches then made for the vehicles for the ride east to the hunting areas.

Our two-vehicle patrol headed south from the camp house along the two-track dirt road with one barren strip for each wheel and a slightly wider path of grass between. We intersected HWY 90 and turned east for about six miles to the hunting area. As we passed inside the gate, the faint outline of the hills surrounding us were apparent as any moonlight or even starlight will light up the whitish limestone outcrops forming most of the hills of west, south, and central Texas.

Aoudads are smart and they like what they like, which is open country and vertical rock face cliffs. You better be opening with something better than jacks because they can throw a full house back at you all day long. Their long hair retards blood loss while their heavy muscle and dense bones provide enough protection to survive a leopard attack let alone your poorly placed shot with poorly constructed bullets. The benefits of their eagle-like eyes are maximized through their appreciation of the highest elevations they can find. Their only weakness is an unusually strong sense of curiosity and their general acceptance of tumbling rocks. Their heavy weight plus their herd mentality means rocks are generally always being kicked. As such, clanked rocks that would send a deer into warp drive will not even raise the pulse of an aoudad.

At approximately 7:15 a.m. we went our separate ways in order to execute our plan. The ridgeline paralleling HWY 90 is only about two miles long, so we were never very far apart. The first gray shades of light were silhouetting the flat topped Housetop Mountains to the east as I gathered my gear from the passenger side of my jacked up K5 rock crawler. My goal was to be in position on the mountain near the summit when the first rays of sun hit the east-facing sideslopes of the bowl section Adam had pinpointed for my hunt.

Adam had thought that the hike up the mountain would take twenty minutes, so I allowed forty minutes to reach the summit and find my lair. After loading my Ruger RSM with three carefully measured hand loads in the magazine my homemade two-point climbing harness was slung over my back. When the thirteen-pound rifle was equally balanced on both shoulders, my backpack was positioned over the gun and harness. The morning was cool, but with time my short-sleeved gray hunting shirt would be more than enough.

Given that morning sun would hit my face before illuminating the side hill that Adam pre-scouted for my hunt I smeared brown camo paint over my face as a precaution. From this point it was just one foot in front of the other and up the mountain.

The summer of 2010 had been very wet, and the desert was in full bloom. The climb up the face passed through pockets of flowers and various types of cacti. Apache plume bushes were blooming in the valley, and their fluffy white flowers looked pretty similar to a whitetail deer in full flight from a distance. The climb up wasn’t too bad as I climbed past alternating layers of limestone and sandstone.

Sanderson was sure earning its title as “The Cactus Capital of Texas” on this climb. The yin is that they sport long needle-sharp tines. The yang is that they have some of the most vibrantly colored flowers in nature. The claret cup cactus normally blooms in spring, but higher on the mountain one solitary plant with a vibrant red flower stopped me in my tracks. Another cactus easily encountered is the Coryphantha calipensis or stone cactus, which blooms in either yellow or fuchsia. It looks like a prickly skinned pineapple sitting on the ground with an explosion of yellow flowers bursting from the top. Even the lowly prickly pear cactus has beautiful purple bulbs that are an excellent source of water and vitamin C in the summer with equally spectacular yellow flowers when they bloom.

Claret cup pictures courtesy of Peggy Carrigg; others courtesy of Julianne Bartlett

Top L to R: Claret Cup, Langry Rainbow, blooming Ocotillo
Bottom L to R: Blind Prickly Pear, Lindheimer Prickly Pear, blooming Ocotillo

The hike quickly transitioned to a four-point climb, making my climbing harness/sling invaluable. The cool of the morning was gone after only five minutes of climbing. Even with the weeks of jogging around the hills of our neighborhood in preparation for this hunt, my pace was much slower than Adam’s. However, after a few rests and water breaks to allow my burning legs to recover enough energy was found to continue.

From a distance the slopes look uniform and smooth except for major rock outcrops. The climb up revealed boulders the size of lawn chairs clinging to the slopes like blueberries on pancakes. Many times, the trek required a lift or hop up waist-tall rocks along the way. Though the climb was brief, it will not be forgotten. Several times the weight on my back almost caused me to fall backwards down the slope. My mouth was dryer than most oil-well investment schemes when the summit was finally reached. Most mountains these days have a trail that a horse, four-wheeler, or even my K5 can climb. Not this mountain range. These mesas have never felt the weight of anything more than a hoof or a foot. There is just no way to get up these hills other than by climbing with both hands and both feet.

Once at the rock-capped citadel my final pre-hunt breather was enjoyed in the cool of the early dawn. It was apparent from the volume of mule-deer and aoudad scat that this peak was one of their favorite vantage points. The sun had already baked their spore, so they were not fresh. None of it was fresh, but there were piles and piles of it. The east-facing rocks above one of the dung piles at nearly 5,000 feet above sea level were dappled with orange lichens. Orange lichens are found only in the purest of air, and they are scattered on rock outcrops throughout the highest elevations of the Trans Pecos.

Sweat rolled from my forehead as if the ranch was at stake in a poker game on the southside of the Rio Grande with one card left to turn. The sky was clear, and the temperature was around 60°F. After a ten-minute rest my legs were as ready as they would ever be, so the trek was resumed. Last night’s darkness was quickly being flushed from the distant rock crevices and side slopes by the rising morning sun. The noise from my ascent had probably ruined the immediate area for hunting, though the east wind had been generally favorable thus far.

Following the ridgeline on a northerly tack my first thoughts were to keep my silhouette below the skyline of the small peak behind me. The sun’s rays had now worked their way from the peaks to the valley floor below. My path between the rocks and sometimes knee-high grass accentuated with candelilla cactus led me to a saddle. The candelilla cactus is easy to identify as it resembles bundles of green drinking straws growing vertically in a bunch. Though named cacti, they did not seem to have a noticeable needle like the others, so they seemed very friendly. These unusual cacti are used for making waxes and cosmetics. The occasional green Sotol (pronounced sōtō) and Lechuguilla agave and red yucca broke the brown haze of boot-high grass. The saddle looked promising. Grass-covered saddles are to feral grazers what Dairy Queens are to small-town Texas.

As I inched my way along the cliff line trail it was easy to see the steep drop-off below my path. Looking further down the slope the transition from mountainside to valley floor formed a smooth gentle curve. The rising sun finally provided sufficient light for me to take my first readings from my rangefinder. The near-facing slopes were around 400 yards, while the next side slopes to the east were approximately 800 yards away. Mike and Adam were not far from my mind as our plan had them just a mile farther to the east. Glassing the area failed to yield anything of interest below or across my view. Hiking further, aoudad dusting beds became more common, and this was a very good sign. The temperature was much hotter than anticipated which greatly increased my water intake. It became apparent that my most significant limiting factor was not my legs, but water. 

The traverse along the bluff line was easy. Within a few more minutes a better view into the saddle was located. The new spot offered a full visual scan of the entire area. From this spot the maximum shot distance was no more than 400 yards. My ambush spot was just below a rock outcrop, so my head was below the rocks, and it was very comfortable amongst the mountain grasses. The wind was perfect. A slight breeze blew directly into my face. The sun was just hitting the saddle as my aluminum shooting sticks, given to me by John Rader, were assembled. What a great gift they had been. We had caught up earlier in the year, by e-mail, and had found that we had a common interest in the unique killing ability of the little 6.5 mm bullet. John carries a custom 6.5 SAUR, while I use either my custom 6.5mm Swedish Mauser or 6.5 x 284 Norma LRH from Savage. As those thoughts passed, all the main points throughout the saddle were shot with the rangefinder.

I found a perfect ambush spot amongst the grayish white limestone boulder outcrop above the saddle. This was one of my all-time best lairs. My gray shirt mixed perfectly with the gray limestone at my back. My lower torso was broken up behind a curtain of sotol and Spanish daggers. One shiny nickel-plated .375 H&H A-Frame tipped cartridge was gently guided into the barrel from the brown tanned leather Westley Richards five-round shell holder Mike Cunningham had given me while visiting the Dallas Safari Club expo this last January. An older well-worn ten-round leather cartridge holder had been my companion for years when big game was hunted. On several occasions the full supply from both holders was needed in the course of a single day, but the one Mike gave me is better as the cartridges are much easier to extract in the heat of the moment. On the other hand, a lot can happen in an eight hour day stalking dangerous game. As they say, “anything can happen in Africa” and of course that is what you are paying for…the anything-can-happen part.

Carefully and slowly three more precisely measured nickel coated cartridges loaded with 75 grains of IMR 4350 were thumb pressed into the magazine. The three-position safety was engaged with several faint metallic clicks. The invitation to this game had been mailed months earlier. We were here and ready to deal the cards, but just one player was yet to be seen, though the morning was still young. No doubt Mr. Aoudad had been here based on the fecal deposits and dusting beds every few yards, but will he be here today? Long intense scans of the ridgelines and slopes from 200 to 1,000 yards revealed a lifeless moonscape. Mental notes recorded the numerous switchbacks and drainage cuts that could provide ample cover for a stalk, if the wind held its direction.

After fifteen more minutes of meticulous visual probing, nothing appeared in my binoculars amongst the numerous golf cart–sized boulders. It was now approximately 8:20 a.m., and the sun was high enough to fully illuminate the saddle. As the sun slide closer to me, the valley floor to my left remained gray and colorless in the shadow of my mountain. The ten-mile view over my left shoulder westward through the HWY 90 valley running from Sanderson to Marathon was silent as dawn became day.

The west-facing bowl was still shadowed, but it was glassed just the same. The bowl Adam had identified on the topo map ran to my right and to the east. The saddle in front of me separated the two. Glassing for animals allows ample time for your mind to drift into all the unanswerable questions of the day. Today it was rattlesnakes. These ridges looked like perfect rattlesnake country to me, but I tried to convince myself that the lack of water and rodents probably kept them to a minimum.

Life has afforded me many great hunts along high ridgelines, though few have been as serene as this. Every view was waiting for Ansel Adam’s hand. The wind was but a faint drift into my browned-out face. My head was on a swivel while alternating scans from one side of the saddle to the other.

The bowl on my right offered a more distant view with nearly no boulders, while the left side of the saddle was much steeper, with big boulders checker boarding the slope. The ridge, separating the slopes that ran almost directly toward my left shoulder, was dotted with various brown and green grasses. In case you did not know, Texas leads the nation with more types of native grass than any other state; 470 different species to be precise. One in twelve of those populate the Trans Pecos. Several species of grama grass, plains bristle grass, and other salt-tolerant plants thrive on between twelve and twenty inches of rainfall per year.

My binoculars found several grass patches and rock outcrops in the saddle, but the dark green sotol cactus provided the most visible reference points against a mixed background of white, gray, and sand color. The spine of the saddle that separated the ridges was around fifty yards wide, and then the side slopes fell away to either side, abruptly making a shot just off the spine of the saddle considerably longer. The silence of the new day was broken just once as a red-tailed hawk screeched overhead as it made one pass through the area. No road noise, no rumble of distance jets overhead — just the silence of the high desert in the fall of the year.

How fast things can change. Any noise grabs your attention. The tranquility of the high mesa morning was pierced by a couple of bleats from an unusual source. I had heard aoudads just a few times over the years, and the choppy sounds were hard to sort. But there were lots of them, so by virtue of elimination I thought they had to be aoudad bleats.

These are the times when your senses ramp up so fast and so completely that you feel the physical change within yourself. Your relaxing flesh becomes filled with receptors, and seconds last minutes because the new information is processed so completely. One sense overlaps and cross-checks another. Simultaneously my eyes followed my ears while my hair and face checked the wind to help direct my visual pursuit and to ensure that it had not somehow changed to my back.

The second bleat sequence was accompanied by the clatter of limestone shards sliding across one another distantly in front of me and slightly to my right. As data streamed in, my eyes finally synchronized with my ears. The clatter was coming closer, and by now the noise was directly in front of me. Seconds later all my senses connected to see an aoudad ewe chasing her yearling or kid toward the grass-laden saddle about 400 yards in front of me. They were generally coming straight down the facing slope from the far side of the saddle towards me. At this point they were still slightly above me but were heading deeper into the feeding area, which bottomed out about 100 feet below my ambush point.

The distance worked in concert with the mountain shadow to dull my perspective of this area. The rising sun behind the nearest mesa still blended the grays of the rocks, sage, and cloak ferns together. In the still-developing light it took close coordination between my eyes and ears to pick out the animals. God gave humans so many tools to work with that it is no small wonder we are the ultimate alpha predator, and those tools must be utilized to their fullest to overcome God’s most-loved sheep-goat.

These are the moments that generate unfading memories. These are the moments when my senses provide clear, deep, and vivid pictures for my brain to translate and process and remember for all eternity. Unrelated issues fade way back into my subconscious. Adrenaline has a way of stripping away all other unrelated messages to my receptors. At these times my senses work in perfect unison to gather information and assess the conditions while plotting a solution. After the information is processed and understood, my mind begins to anticipate the next move of the quarry. Thoughts and ideas bounce between synapses many times faster than normal but never more clearly. The target’s disposition is constantly updated with fresh data overlays. The information becomes more specific; the range is around 300 yards, the wind is still in my face, my rest is secure and steady, my .375 Ruger RSM is hot.

Then new information and questions drop in on top of the initial data. How many animals? Is there an alpha male with the ewes? From where might unseen and even bigger animals emerge? God’s supercomputer aligns and organizes the stimuli without fail or wasted time into a hunter’s euphoria of singular awareness. The ewe and yearling continued their meandering path generally down into the pit of the saddle toward me. The bleats must have been her calling the youngster back into her sight.

My binoculars tagged the two known aoudads and then searched the direction from which they came. The clarity of my Austrian optics quickly picked up the movement of a male following the path of the first two. The male was as large as I had ever seen on the hoof within shooting range. He didn’t seem like a monster, but he was large and seemed mature based on his long white tipped and tan colored chap hair. His horns were dark and swept back in the fat banana shape every aoudad hunter hopes to see.

Quickly switching from binoculars to rangefinder, I quickly clicked in a digital reading of 289 yards to the ram. All three aoudads were undisturbed and bouncing between the east and west sides of the saddle and then up and down the facing slope while feeding. Since the saddle held the grass, it reasoned that they were here for the morning. The only problem was that the ram was trying to run off the west side of the saddle into the shadows and possibly out of view. He would go to a prominent outcrop and look far westward and down into the shadows into lost worlds. Was he seeing the rest of his harem? Was his next move to break into a run out of sight?

There were no other animals around to compare his particular trophy quality against, so his ears were used to extrapolate the horn length. My memory of the ear length failed me as they were thought to be six inches in length. Based on that comparison, the ram’s horns were around thirty inches. My last calculation measured his horns at no more than thirty inches, but still a sizeable male. Note to self: aoudad ears are more like four inches long. An accurate knowledge of the ear length would have more accurately scored the horns at around twenty-eight inches, which was the minimum trophy for this generally for aoudad.

Big trophy animals always look big. It was time to cast judgment on this ram. Sometimes the debate lasts seconds, and other times minutes or even days if you keep seeing a particular animal. At first sight, this aoudad was not a monster, but he had all the qualities of a mature ram. As the ram bounced around on the facing slope, the debate raged in my head at light speed. My trigger finger had several good points, but my brain wasn’t so sure this ram was “the” ram to end my war so early into the battle.

Within a minute my trigger finger began winning the debate. My finger now controlled all 218 pounds of me. It was becoming clear that my day would be spent where my right index finger led me. Unconsciously, my fingers reached into my shirt chest pocket and pulled out my foam ear plugs. My mind was powerless to stop my muscles from completing this sequence of events. God Almighty had to intervene if this was not to be “my” ram. He alone must make it flee before my sinner’s flesh gently pulls the trigger.

The crosshairs moved quickly onto the ram for the shot. Apparently, God was not going to be given much time to intervene on behalf of this ram. As the ram chased the ewe, the right leg of my bipod needed repositioning. Was this the sign from God for me to stand down? Was He trying to slow me down so the ram could slip over the ridgeline?

My mind snapped back to the hunt. My flesh pushed my spirit back into the distant dark corner of my increasingly savage mind. The ram had chased the ewe around the saddle for minutes more but remained approximately 290 yards from my lair. The ram returned to what seemed to be a favorite area near a car-sized boulder. His back was to me; he was looking uphill on a steep incline, which offered a perfect spine shot. This angle allowed for the bullet drop to be badly misjudged while still being effective. But this shooting opportunity was rejected, in hopes for a broadside shot. He then ran up to the next outcrop to the west. A few more yards and he might a hard to find as last week’s newspaper. A few more feet and the curve of the outcrop would block him from my view. Was this God’s plan? Was this how the big one would get away? Ooooh — the spirit can be so easily deceived when one’s soul surrenders its piety.

The ewe was still fifty yards closer to me halfway down the slope, so I gambled that he wouldn’t leave anytime soon. Seconds later he sprinted to the ewe and then back to his previous spot. Then he jumped onto the car-sized boulder for another look toward the slope falling off my left shoulder. After a quick look around, he resumed his commanding position on the point. He settled down and then became motionless on the terra firma in the morning light. At this point the ewe had worked her way into his area, and my right index finger felt it was time to scratch the trigger. My rangefinder pinpointed his distance at 291 yards. With my back to the gray limestone, I sat leaning forward with the bipod legs slightly outside my own. My legs had done their job getting me here; now the lamb needs to lie down with the lion long enough for me to get off one steady shot. A brief prayer produced a momentary truce between my conflicted spirit and guilty flesh.

The ballistics chart for my hand loads indicated the bullet would drop nine and a half inches in the vertical plane at 291 yards. He was slightly below me on the mountain. In the total calculation of the shot the downhill factor was deemed insignificant so the aim point was adjusted to about nine inches over the target point. The crosshairs steadied which I perceived as a reassurance from God. The firing sequence commenced with a slow release of measured breath. Finger muscles beyond my spirit’s control began to apply pressure to my somewhat heavy Ruger factory trigger. Time slowed down in anticipation of the shot. My concentration united with my muscles as my mind saw a rather myopic view of a world rarely so small or so important. Passive intensity melded my eyes to my smallest of finger muscles. The secondary and tertiary data points that had been overlain into this moment were quickly shed. It was time to focus on just one thing. It was time to keep the main thing, the main thing.

The crosshairs were superimposed on the ram’s shoulder, just a bit forward based on the slightly off-angle shot. The crosshairs remained completely steady, no sawing back and forth across the torso this time. The best possible aiming point was found. The ram remained transfixed on some thought or object in the distance. He was statuesque. His head was raised to full attention above his front shoulders. As he stood his front shoulders were well above his hind quarters as he balanced on the sandstone boulder soaking in the morning sun. My crosshairs became immovable on a spot guaranteed to hit his front legs and probably his heart as the bullet passed through the torso. The data fed to the supercomputer could get no more specific. It was time to show my cards.

Wham! My sight picture jumped as a dull thud echoed back to me from the distance. When the scope settled back into position, the ram was tumbling off the boulder it so proudly commanded so recently. The old ram tumbled through my sight picture never leaving my view. Eventually he came to rest between two boulders with all four legs stiffly pointing skyward. His torso settled down in the rocks, leaving just his legs in view. No movement otherwise. The results were so convincing that it did not occur to me to quickly chamber another round. When the world came to full rest my binoculars were finally raised for a broader look across the saddle. The ewe had initially run but had come back to within thirty yards of her fallen friend. She stood above the ram trying to figure out what had just happened.

Once it was obvious that the ram was dead, I stood and began gathering my gear. The ewe found my position once standing and broke off her vigil with a run east towards Terrell County. Before leaving my ambush site the outcrop below where the ram had fallen was mentally marked for future reference. A couple of Spanish daggers were scattered above and below the rocky prominence. In my mind the large outcrop and boulder that the ram had been standing on could not be missed so finding my trophy was going to be easy.

Thinking that Mike and Adam had surely heard my shot echo across the bowl, I reached for my radio to convey the success of the hunt. Before the “on” toggle on the radio could be activated a shot rang out from Mike’s .375 H&H in the far distance down in the valley. What a coincidence. His rifle’s echo was much fainter than expected. Regardless, it was crazy good we had both got a shot in the first hours of the hunt. You must remember this is huge country out here with no more feral animals than the country can feed, and this country doesn’t offer much feed.

Knowing Adam would be tied up with Mike’s hunt I started to walk down into the saddle rather than to immediately contact Adam. Soon Adam radioed for my report, which included proper salutes and howls of joy that were followed by questions concerning just where they were. First, he reported that Mike had shot a buffalo, which surprised me to the point that the news had to be reported several times. It just didn’t make sense to me that a buffalo would be up here on the barren ridges. The radio crackled a second salvo of information that explained that they were across HWY 90 on the south valley floor. Okay; that explained why his first shots were not heard and his location that much more sense for a buffalo haunt.

Adam’s plan was to send Mike back for the trailer while he came up and helped me recover my trophy. Lastly, I congratulated Mike by radio and then gave Adam clear directions to the saddle. Adam replied that he knew the exact saddle location and that he would be there in thirty minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, Adam radioed me to ask what my ram looked like. Even then the aoudad’s final resting place was still a mystery. Questions from the dark side of my mind began to surface. Taking the most direct route possible to where my mind thought the ram had fallen left me thinking it must have somehow gotten up and ran off without my knowledge. Using my rangefinder the distance from my present location to the lair was checked. The distance was reconfirmed again to be 289 yards, but where was my ram? Dark clouds were building; perhaps his final resting place was not so final? Perhaps the ol’ gambler had one last card up his sleeve…

Then, my mind flashed back to my last view of the dead ram with all four hooves pointing skyward. Mustering as much confidence as possible, I asked Adam to give me another ten minutes to find the ram. Adam asked if a blood trail was evident. My response was a flat no. Ten more minutes passed; he radioed in for an update, but the report did not change. Within a few more minutes Adam appeared in the saddle below me.

After congratulating Adam for setting up a wonderful morning of hunting, both arms and one gun barrel were employed to explain what had happened and where. Even with my animated windmilling arms, he said finding him would be easy and that the ram was probably very close and between the rocks. He said his experience indicated the rocks made recovering animals much more difficult than most people expect.

As he looked lower on the ridge, he described how he had seen Mike’s lone buffalo out in the valley at about two miles from their first rest stop as they climbed. They immediately decided to break off the climb and head into the valley across HWY 90 for a chance at the buffalo bull. They closed to within 221 yards when Mike determined it was close enough for a fatal shot, which it was.

Actually, Mike’s shot heard shortly after mine was his final chest shot to end the buffalo’s suffering. No sooner had that story ended when Adam said, “Here’s your aoudad.” He pointed like an AKC blue-ribbon pointer at the fallen aoudad between the boulders. Sure enough, just about ten yards from my feet Adam found him rolled up between two duffle bag–sized rocks with a big prickly pear cactus shading the crevice.

His first reaction indicated that it was not the monster we were shopping for. We rolled him over to expose his well-defined horns with a few scars from past jousts. The pelt was otherwise clean. As we looked back at the horns, we noticed that they carried a layer of dried mud. Aoudad rams, like Elk and Cape buffalo like to sport mud on their headgear. Animals wear mud to intimidate. Was it the same with aoudads? My immediate thought was that he must know where an undiscovered high-mountain water source was because this area of Texas is bone dry. On the other hand, he was within a mile of a water trough provided by the rancher, so no secret aoudad springs probably existed. Aoudad do need to drink at least once every three days. They use the water troughs along with the cows, and Adam has told me he routinely pulls drowned animals out of the trough a couple of miles to the south of here.

Adam is also an excellent taxidermist, so he began to inquire as to how this one needed to be positioned before he made the first cuts. While posing with the trophy for a few pictures, I explained that his head needed to be turned looking to the right and it should be a half-body mount. He was heavy, and it took both of us to get him into position. We noted the hole in the ram’s shoulder and the relative lack of blood. We also noticed the 300 grain A-Frame had not exited the far shoulder. He said this was a good one but now I was freed up to go find one of those really big ones, like the thirty-eight-inch specimen pictured in the kitchen of the camp house.

What? Adam was giving me a second aoudad permit? This was turning out to be the greatest hunting day of my life! Adam’s instruction energized me with the prospect of a second trophy aoudad. When you get in territory with so much sign and so little hunting pressure, you just don’t want to leave or stop hunting. This is also why we had booked this hunt to occur before the change from daylight savings time, so we had another hour per day of sunlight for hunting. Now I had daylight but just enough water for a few more hours in the high country.

It took both of us to push, hack, pull, and cut the cape from the front half of the 300-pound torso. The temperature was now around 75°F, and the skinning process produced plenty of perspiration. After twenty years my first aoudad trophy was certainly going to be more than a head mount. It is all about the hunt, and although the horns measured out at just less than twenty-eight inches, the hunt gave this animal the respect it was due. Adam had scouted the area, and serious effort was required to successfully hunt this animal. He used every feature of his body design and natural terrain to live a long life. He was going on the wall.

About the time we had him caped, we saw Mike returning with the trailer down in the valley several miles away. Adam asked how much water was left in my bottle for the rest of the day. A quick hand gesture showed him very little. Water was surely the measure by which the duration of my hunt was now measured. He said he had a bottle to spare, and he left it with me.

Before he loaded the ram on his back he asked me if my truck would start. My reaction was at best a maybe. Adam turned and faced west and pointed his outstretched arm like Moses pointing over the Red Sea as he asked his followers to run into the parted waters and said, “The camp house is just over there.”

“Over where?” I asked. Our vantage point allowed for a ten-mile view to the west and the only thing in view was a white-walled water tank on the valley floor with miles of ocotillo flats between us. Not wanting to be less in Adam’s eyes my stoic chin-up attitude told him I was ready to splash into the parted waters, if necessary. So, like the Israelites’, I reluctantly agreed to walk back to the house, if problems occurred. He said he would leave a large red Powerade® under the fender just in case. The prospect of a second, even larger aoudad was dictating my logic and plan for the day. The cave man in me reduced my thoughts to simple phrases… hunt now and worry about truck later. Adam rolled up the hide and took off straight down the mountain toward Mike. The head, hide, and front legs weighed about fifty pounds, which he wore like a backpack.

Photo courtesy of Adam Johnson

As he departed to the south, my attention focused on the hike/climb north to the next plateau. As before, the wind was still out of the north, and it made for a perfect upwind stalk along the western side of the north-running ridge. Having so little climbing to the next summit was a great start for the next chapter of my hunt for a larger Ammotragus lervia. The far side of the saddle was steeper than it had appeared. The climb farther north from the kill site up to the next flat retested my legs, and it required a short break and some water to scale the slope. The area above the saddle was flat, and then it rose to a level that equaled the height of the peak encountered at dawn. It was near this small summit where the earth was particularly barren that I almost stepped on an unusual rock. It was a round agglomeration of white crystals. All the crystals radiated from the center. I have seen many quartz crystals, but they all seemed to have a flat side, a side for the base from which they grew. This one was different; it was as if the crystals grew in every direction, and none of them were broken. The quartz crystal rock was about the size of a golf ball. It made me think of my daughter Annie, as we had picked up so many heart shaped rocks for each other during hikes past. So I put it into my backpack for her.

My crouch-crawl along the ridge was muffled by the soft clumps of sideoats and grama grass sprinkled along the ridgeline. My mind kept thanking Adam for having put this hunt together for us as more of the cliffline passed under foot. How could it get any better? My buddy Mike had shot at a once-in-a-lifetime truly wild buffalo, while my first trophy aoudad in twenty years had been bagged. Think of it; who has ever heard of a feral bison hunt? In all my reading of hunt stories nothing like this had ever come up unless it was an excess animal on a buffalo breeding ranch. These were wild, free-ranging buffalo; they went wherever, whenever they pleased. Aoudads are everywhere, but finding a wild, mature one is next to impossible. Yet Adam delivered on exactly what he had thought was achievable, and we had done it all in less than two hours of hunting.

It took approximately thirty minutes of hiking to get to the next west-facing bowl to the north. The aoudad spoor along the way was plentiful. Game trails, dusting beds, and scat led the way. Mule deer and aoudad dung are about the same size and shape, but the animals discharge it differently. The mule deer leaves a trail of pellets, while the aoudad tucks and leaves a pile as per Adam’s pre-hunt aoudad education course. Based on Adam’s description, this was clearly aoudad country as piles of scat were abundant along this ridge. The mountain grass on the west-facing side slope was substantial as compared to the barren exposed rocks and soil found between the valley floor and the peaks. A little deductive reasoning led me to conclude that they had to be feeding either on the flats below or up here with me.

The sun was already warm. A shaded hollow beneath a limestone outcrop provided some shade for a quick rest while the pitch and roll of the high country was evaluated. The cool ground was softened by a dense stand of fluff grass almost to my knees. In fact, this grass has mostly replaced the bristle grass found lower on the mountain and plains below.

This was the start of my second hunt. The climbing was behind me. This hunt would take place on the mesa and the bluff line skirting the north-running mesa. The mesas are large and with so much territory to cover this hunt would be much more of a spot-and-stalk type of hunt, although the mesa offered little if any cover higher than a sotol. Given the conditions, the natural roll of the mesa had to be my cover. This meant crawling and sliding along the bluff line while keeping my head lower than the horizon in an effort to prevent the dreaded silhouette condition.

From my new high mountain perch, the complete west-facing bowl was carefully scanned several times through my binoculars. After several idle minutes of glassing, nothing quickly materialized. While glassing and sipping water in the cool shade of a golf cart–sized boulder my thoughts drifted to my 1984 time machine. Why had my highly maintained monster truck failed to start prior to our morning hunt? The debate concluded with two good reasons. It may have been a onetime event surrounding the master electrical cutoff switch installed since my last hunt, or the battery may have been damaged from my last hunt in March. My mind raced back to recall one hill climb that left my passengers uncontrollably checking the depth of the foam rubber padding beneath the classic crushed blue-velour seat cover as their fingers augured in knuckle deep. After the hunt we lifted the hood and found that the climb had bounced the battery out of its mounting brackets and into the passenger-side exhaust manifold while flipping upside down as it fell. Surely that wasn’t a problem since it has started reliably since.

Animals always move more in the cool of the mornings, so time was of the essence as the hunt was continued with the barest of essentials: rifle, rangefinder, shooting sticks, and binoculars. Food, water, compass, and first-aid kit stayed back in the shade. With a lightened load my advance along the ridge became stealthier. At times hunters must act on their sixth sense. Nothing other than that indicated anything was on this windswept and barren hilltop. That inner feeling is not felt often, just a few times in my life but this was one of them.

The valley lay 1,000 feet below me and on my left shoulder. The slope was steep enough to keep me rolling if I slipped until my tenderized fleshy lump lodged in a rock or cactus of some sort. Not knowing the mountain very well it was hard to know exactly where the honey hole might be. The roll of the crest prevented me from seeing anything over my right shoulder which also reassured me that my head was below the horizon. After a few more feet of inching along lower than a sow’s belly the contours of the butte changed. From this point a large ravine running perpendicular to my advance came cutting in from the southeast. Now 300 yards from my pack my crawl lowered yet again to a real belly crawl towards the next sotol cactus scrub ahead. Keeping the lone sotol cactus between me and the view from any animal looking back at me from the newly exposed ravine.  I stopped my crawl every five yards to check further up the hilltop ravine. The noise of my crawl was somewhat muted by the clumps of grama grass mixed amongst the limestone shards. The wind was still perfectly in my face as I followed a line of wet aoudad spore. More of the transecting ravine came into view with each yard gained atop the limestone chards. The near side of the ravine was now just fifty yards ahead. That sixth sense within intensified. Keeping low to the horizon with various shrubs and cacti in my face I slithered headfirst with my Willis & Geiger belt buckle skidding against the rocks as I gained another ten yards. At this point I could see all the way from point at which the ravine discharged into the slope facing west then up the west facing slope of the ravine approximately fifty yards. Still nothing.

What little ground cover there was pretty much evaporated twenty yards short of the point where the first good look into the depths of the new ravine was possible. The new ravine left 250 yards of open air between my sotol and the continuance of the northwest-running bowl ahead of me. One lone sotol cactus still played double agent as it partially hid me from my quarry’s view and mine from them if my senses were correct. Though the sotol was a double agent, it was the only agent available, so it was utilized for all it was worth for breaking up my pattern against this moonscape. From behind, and what seemed like under the sotol, the ravine was glassed prone while my ears tried to pick up any telltale signs of running aoudad on nearby limestone shards.

This was one of those times when your sixth sense tells you that you are in the right place at the right time. For me the hair on the back of my neck stands up and my senses of hearing go through the roof. It is like you are within nature and not just passing through it. My sixth sense raced once again, this time much more clearly than the last. The last rush indicated this was a good place for an ambush. With Mike and Adam on the way to town the nearest human was likely no closer than twenty-five miles in any direction and one hundred and fifty in most. Something inside of me said it was time… the message was ….animals imminent, make no mistakes. It is these times you can remember twenty years later like it was yesterday. Though my senses were going crazy, nothing was immediately within view. I adjusted to a feet forward position while laying my right side against the uphill slope of the terrain in order to keep my total height below that of the sotol ahead of me. From this position all my binocular scans went through the sotol as the rise of the slope blocked any view to my right; to my left was open air and a 1,000-foot slide to the valley floor. Lying against the mountain and with very little view there was nothing to do except sit and listen. When possible, hunting with your ears can be as effective as with your eyes. My senses told me the animals were there; in fact, the feeling was so strong no thoughts of moving entered my mind. It is hard to explain but everything in me told me this was the time and the place for the final battle of my war with the aoudad.

The wait was brief. The unmistakable sound of a herd of animals running across broken limestone radiated from the unseen depths of the ravine to my right. My ears easily tracked their approach. The sound of hoof-kicked rocks preceded the appearance of approximately twenty aoudad on the far side of the ravine, which was the only chance I had of seeing them anyway. My first glimpse of them was between the mountain and the lone sotol in my face. The animals trotted through the six-inch wide gap in the sotol tines allowing me to measure their forces undetected on the far side of the ravine as they approached in mass.

As each animal passed, nothing caught my attention. Then, as the herd was almost past my view, “El hefe” stepped into view. He stopped directly in front of me and in full view, framed between the mountain and the sotol. He was clearly the herd ram, and his size relative to the others was significant. They were cautious, but they never pinpointed my location. The lone sotol shielded me from the body of the herd and it from me. Previous marks from my rangefinder told me the aoudads were broadside at 250 yards. The sotol tines prevented an unbroken view of the herd but enough was seen to know this was it, the start of the battle for El Hefe.

My sixth sense had stopped me from inching farther, where my position would have been completely exposed when the aoudads made their move. My position on the sidehill was slightly above the herd. They trotted towards the termination of the ravine while jumping from place to place but stayed put long enough for me to determine my only chance at a shot would be through the sotol tines still yards ahead of me. My barrel had to poke through the sotol in order to clear my scope to the point of aim for the shot. Putting the dark wrinkled and ridged horns out of my mind was not easy. Feet first the sotol came closer, now within seven yards. Every shot solution was mentally plotted including firing through the sotol, if a clear set of crosshairs did not develop.

Slowly, lifting my .375 Ruger RSM, the first firing position was through the sotol, but it just wasn’t possible. The tines were too numerous. Next, a different location through the tine maze was selected for my 22” barrel, but no dice. Now the double-agent sotol was living up its reputation. Still more ground had to be gained while the nervous aoudad herd looked my way then all points around. It was possible to overcome the limitations of the sotol by closing more distance so my rangefinder, followed seconds later by my barrel could poke through the plant thereby opening an unimpeded aim at El Hefe.

Sotol plants are typically around three feet tall with long green spikes or tines that serve as both leaf and branch. My only option was to try to scoot and crawl the last twenty feet and then set up behind the cactus for a shot through the cactus tines on the herd ram. Even before the final feet-first crawl with my rifle across my lap commenced it was evident that this herd included several beta rams equal in trophy quality to my earlier trophy.

Though my back has the flexibility of a sun-dried barn plank, I managed to stay beneath the three-foot height of the lone sotol throughout the final slither. Once behind the last plant separating me from El Hefe, my shooting sticks were slowly set where the heavy, thick barrel of my rifle could poke through the sotol. Still, the range had to be rechecked to avoid the main reason for my misses at distance.

Minutes had ticked by since the herd had first grouped up on the far slope looking into the west abyss. Three failed range-mark attempts did not produce a digital reading. Then, finally, on the fourth attempt, a series of consistent readings of 251 yards appeared. At this point the curious aoudad’s disposition had become nervous; it was clear they were staging up for a second run. They jumped and trotted another fifteen yards to my left, which further exposed me but at the same time offered a better line of fire.

As the group jockeyed for position on the outcrop, the herd ram stepped out onto a large rock to look in all directions. Their demeanor remained calm, but it seemed that they still were not completely comfortable with their position. My camouflaged face and pants must have worked as they were not fixed on my position. Time did not permit me to plug my ears before this shot. It was just a few more seconds later when my crosshairs steadied on the upper shoulder of the largest aoudad I had ever seen while hunting. For the second time that morning I found myself in the final firing mode with pressure ever so gradually mounting on the trigger spring.

It was happening again. Many neurological theorists citing classic physics believe deterministic physics controls our brain. Should that be the case, it is times like these that the same theory works its way down through my shoulder and arm directly into my right index finger. Even though you feel you have free choice of your thoughts and actions, classical physics says you do not. Classical physics says that your thoughts and actions are doomed to slavishly follow the deterministic, only-one-allowed-future path predicted by classical mathematics. Many neuroscientists and others say that the working parts of the brain, although small on an everyday scale, are large enough so that only classical physics applies. Thus, they claim we have no real choice, nor free will. This was a time that irrefutably supported that argument because I was helpless to stop the creep of my right index finger into the firm resistance of the trigger. The perfect vacuum of time and space precluded the possibility of any other potential outcome as the trigger spring gave way to my pressure.

Wham! Thump! Just like hours earlier, the first scene in my scope after the shot was my target ram rolling down the hill, fatally shot. He fell forward off the rock ledge he had so proudly commanded a moment earlier. The herd scattered in all directions. A second round was quickly cycled. My full attention remained on the ram. Any sign of life would prompt a quick follow-up shot. When he stopped rolling, he seemed lifeless. Another convincing kill from the .375 H & H was seemingly recorded. Still my rifle was held at the ready, if needed.

After a full five minutes I finally relaxed and stood up from my sitting position. The herd was reluctant to leave El Hefe. Based on my embarrassing inability to find my first aoudad every spot in the area was marked so a direct recovery could be made. Most telling were the six bands of limestone outcroppings that ascended the bowl from the base to the ridge. These sedimentary layers were still as flat as the ocean floor that had left them. The hillside resembled a huge layer cake; all I had to do was count the icing layers separating the cake. The monster lay just below the base of the fourth layer. One scrub bush lay below the ram, and two sotol cacti were just above it and to the right of where he lay.

Once confident of his location, I went back for my pack. What a day! This was the best four hours of hunting I had ever experienced, though my closet is filled with video from some pretty incredible hunts in my past. The only other hunt in this class was the time Jay Noble, a close friend, and I hunted our way right into the middle of an aoudad herd on the Flying J Ranch years ago. This hunt stands above it simply because it was mano a mano after Adam put me on the right mountain. 

After backtracking to my pack and sipping a few ounces of water, Adam’s channel was tuned into my radio for a quick update. After a few broken attempts we communicated the fact that he was going into Alpine with Mike and Mike’s buffalo. He understood that my second aoudad was much better than the first and after looking it over I would proceed to the monster truck. If it didn’t start, the walk back to the camp house was just a matter of effort, nothing more. Adam reiterated that he would leave a full red Powerade bottle at my truck just in case. We had a plan, and we all knew the moving parts.

It took thirty minutes to traverse the ravine to where I thought the aoudad had fallen at the base of the fourth outcrop. My markers had been as clear as day from the sotol, now on the side slope; the outcrops were thin lines of limestone. My first goal was to find the two sotol plants since the limestone band idea was not working out so well from my new perspective. In this case, however, the twin sotol quickly led me to the monster lying below.

My first quick look on the aoudad was startling. In the interim he had somehow rolled over onto his stomach, and now El Hefe had his legs under him with his chin on the ground looking directly at me from ten yards. It was positioned to charge! My mind quickly flashed back to Danny’s aoudad ram that had charged him on the Flying J. The look in his eyes told me he wanted to give me a firsthand inspection of his massive horns. It was difficult to determine whether he was dead in this position or just getting ready to unleash 350 pounds of vengeance on my soul. Taking no chances, my backpack was quickly dropped followed by a quick unharnessing of my rifle. Seconds later another 300 grain A-Frame settled the matter with a shot that actually had to be centered within the curl of his right horn as he faced me from ten yards. The blast blew him back nose over tail and down the mountain another five feet from where his tail last lay. This display of energy forever engrained a visual example of what “foot pounds of energy” means. The force of the .375 H&H just flipped this 350-pound aoudad lengthwise and blew it five feet backward, though the slope of the hillside helped somewhat in that regard but not the flip.

One thing was for certain; he had not been dead when I had first walked up. Perhaps he did not have the energy for a charge, or maybe my follow-up shot beat him to the punch, but either way he was not dead until the second shot. After admiring the animal from all sides, a rock tower around five feet tall was left to help us recover the animal later. Next time I’ll bring orange marking tape.

It was nearly 11:00 a.m. and approaching 80°F when I finished inspecting the battle-scarred patriarch. His bases were noticeable larger than the first. His face alone was twenty-five percent larger than the younger ram’s. His chaps hung like Victorian tapestries. My inexperience in field judging the age of aoudads prevented me from estimating his age. It was clear he was much older than the first as his scars, size, and “broomed” horns attested. His coat was scarred from fighting along the neck, ribs and even hindquarters. Palm-sized hairless scars were common. His horns were coated in dried mud. His hooves were the size of a heifer’s. However, he was very healthy, and it was clear that he hadn’t missed any meals. Lastly, I checked the shot placement; like the first aoudad of the morning, it was maybe an inch higher on the shoulder than expected.

The sun had almost reached its apex in the sky at this point. Regrettably, my camera and tripod had been left at the ranch house to lighten my load for this hunt. That decision would cost me some great high desert pictures with a long awaited for trophy that closed my war with the bagging of El Hefe.

Lack of water and limited skills prevented me from being able to cape my trophy, so after a quick survey of his battle scarred hide, he was left in hopes we could get back up the mountain before his hair slipped from the heat. In general terms it seemed my truck was just a few miles to the south of my latest position. It was hot, and my water supply was down to just one round in an Irish pub.

The shortest route was straight down the mountain to the valley below. After no more than ten or fifteen steps a rattler notified me that he was irritated by my proximity as I stepped over it. Looking back over my shoulder in the direction of the rattle produced no visual evidence of his location so there was no need to look any closer in the grama grass and cactus for Mr. No Shoulders, so my pace on down the mountain was only slightly delayed.

Farther down the slope an outcrop of several very interesting and striking purple sandstone rocks littered my path. These rocks were as purple as grape jelly. I’ve always had an interest in geology and find it near impossible to pass up a good rock, and these purple sandstones deserved a closer look. They were spectacular. After briefly looking through several rocks I put a few in my pocket for my collection. My hunts over the years have produced few trophy animals, but they generally always conclude with a new pile of rocks for my collection. Each is God’s little gift, and they remind me of the times when my daughters were young and enjoyed picking out heart shaped rocks with me on our various forays into the wilderness.

With fatigued legs the valley floor was now underfoot. Turning south or to my left pointed me in the direction of my K5. There is a fine line out in these parts where walking is easiest. You want to avoid the deep water-eroded ditches that start about 300 yards from the base of the mountains. The ditches are just deep and wide enough to cause you to walk hundreds of extra yards to find a crossing spot, which is a real drag.

After thirty minutes of hiking south through prickly pear cactus and scrub, the full length of the second mountain traversed during the heat of both battles became apparent. In the cool of the morning and the excitement of the hunt it hadn’t seemed like anything, but now looking from the base, the span between the first aoudad saddle and the second aoudad ravine must have been almost a mile. This is big country so distances are hard to judge.

Thinking back over the morning helped time pass as I walked. Both hunts were similar in several interesting ways. First, both aoudad groups were heard before they were seen. Second, both rams had mud on their horns. Third, both rams found high points so they could have commanding views of the area. The most interesting point was just how far away I could hear them approaching. If I could hear them, think from how far away they can hear me in these limestone echo chambers?

After an hour of steady walking, the monster truck came into view over the final roll between the mountain and HWY 90. Minutes later the day’s loop was complete. The red Powerade was waiting under the fender where Adam had left it, and it was needed; my water supply had been consumed long ago. Finding the keys by the rock where they had been left in the predawn darkness was easy. After sitting briefly in the shadow of the fender contemplating whether my truck would start, the roulette wheel was spun as the key was turned. It was a bad bet; it was as dead as a hammer. It was apparent that she needed a heart transplant. The late-March hunt at the Flying J must have damaged the battery when we bounced it out of its mount and onto the exhaust manifold. Now it was time to pay the piper.

In level, open territory, my pace is a little less than four miles per hour. My first point in the distance was the white structure Adam had pointed out from the ridge. Shedding all unnecessary accoutrements, I headed west with just my harnessed rifle and red Powerade bottle. The morning drive on HWY 90 was about six miles by my odometer, so my walk was going to be a lot farther than four miles.

Within minutes into the walk the Border Patrol had already been alerted, probably with cameras watching drug traffic on HWY 90. Their helicopter flew directly at me from the west. It photographed me at seventy feet as it passed directly over my head. After walking an hour through the valley, the scene seemed to repeat itself with various cacti, yucca, and agave in abundance.

Somewhere between the mountain and the ranch house a cross fence forced me to change my walk from desert to asphalt. For ease of walking and to minimize the fence climbing, I decided to cross the HWY 90 fence and walked fully camouflaged up HWY 90 with my rifle. The Border Patrol had already checked me out so there should be no further problems.

The HWY 90 leg was interesting, because about every twenty minutes a cyclist would pass me going east to Sanderson. After a couple of bikers had passed with gaping mouths, I yelled to one, asking his destination. “West Coast to East Coast,” he quickly replied. I’d seen that before out here. As he rode off he looked over his shoulder just to be sure of what he thought he saw. He tucked his head and bore down on the pedals with a tad more zeal than before. Another group looked at me like I was an alien, so I yelled back that I sure wished I could afford a bicycle! They laughed. As they rode east they were overheard telling each other that they could not wait to get out of Texas. Which is fine by me, bicyclists are road hazards. They have no place on the same roads that cars occupy.  

An hour later with Powerade to spare, the camp house road running north from HWY 90 was at hand. The walk from the second aoudad to the camp house took around four hours. Given the morning started with the mountain climb at 7 a.m., it had been a full day. There was no way to recover the truck, so the cold beer in the cooler was sampled in the shade of a large oak tree guarding the front yard. Any way you slice it, it had been a ten-mile day, and certain parts of my body wer letting me know it.

Photos from David Bartlett

Adam and Mike returned from Alpine around 4:30 p.m. After a quick hello, Adam decided it was time to retrieve my second aoudad and monster truck. We jumped into Adam’s cab and headed for the base of the mountains to our east. Our first stop was my monster truck, which we quickly jumped from Adam’s welder again. We debated on whether it would be faster to drive his truck or mine back to the base of the mountain that held my aoudad captive. We tested my monster truck to see if it would restart. Nope. We briefly considered our options and decided that we could get closer to the base with my monster truck, but that I would need to stay with it idling, while Adam climbed the mountain to see the animal that had brought my twenty-year war to a close with the aoudad.

It took about fifteen minutes to drive back behind the front range and to find the best approach to the closest drainage to where the war had ended. After we found the right westerly facing slope, we were able to drive almost to the base of the mountain. My legs were still recovering from my morning climb and hike, so Adam offered to recover the animal solo while our radios kept us in touch and him on track. Before he left, we discussed the location of the animal as marked by the fourth outcrop line and five-foot-tall rock tower left to help relocate the trophy. Now, as Adam hiked up the mountain, the five-foot rock tower was indistinguishable from the other rocks on the mountain without prior knowledge and other reference points. Next time I’ll include some orange tape in my pack to wrap around the top rock.

It was the right decision as Adam nearly ran up the grade, which would be equal to the steepest stairs you could ever imagine climbing for 1,500 feet. It would have taken me at least forty minutes to re-climb that hill, though Adam made it in the twenty minutes he had estimated for me the previous night. He chose a ravine to the south of the kill sight as his fastest approach; probably because it offered the least cacti, and the rocks were all barren up the crease. Once he was up on the fourth outcrop I helped him zero in on the ram’s location by radio. 

Upon reaching my aoudad, he radioed to me that it was a real trophy and it was of the class he had hoped we would find. His excited tone told me this aoudad was different. The radio went dead as my binoculars told me Adam was doing something with the animal, although from 2,000 yards it was not clear. When he reported back, he was yelling so loud he could be heard in the distance as well as on the radio. He said both horns measured over thirty inches, and both were slightly broomed. He said my first aoudad’s bases averaged thirteen and a half inches while these were fourteen and a half inches.

Sadly, the cloudless day that hit a high of almost 90°F had cooked my aoudad. The skin had spoiled, and that had ruined any possibility of using the actual skin for the mount. Adam radioed that his chaps were the longest he had ever seen, but that the hair easily came free from the hide when pulled. He said he would cut the head off and be down in a few minutes. Sadly, the war ended with no pictures of me on the mountain with my trophy and guide. Sometimes war ends like that.

Adam sawed the head off with one of his tools and scrambled down the mountain with one pretty good spill that could have been dangerous, but he made it back without any broken bones. We took a few pictures of the head and horns on the front bumper of the monster truck, though neither of us had more than phone cameras. Sure, the horns were larger, but what struck us the most was the fullness of the face as compared to the younger ram. Though the horns were just fifteen percent larger, the face was maybe twenty-five percent larger. The nose-to-horn distance was longer, and the width of the face was noticeably wider as were his cheeks. This was the first time we were able to compare a younger ram to an older ram because we had never shot two before, and none of my previous hunts ever produced a ram of this age. The slick, taut face of the first ram was quite different than the broad fleshy and scarred face of the old master of the mountain. This comparison will make me a much better judge of future animals. Yes, the war may be over, but I’m not ready to lay down my guns just yet. Adam was already laying out new areas to hunt for next year, so by no means is this the end of my aoudad hunting days.

As we drove back to Adam’s truck, we discussed whether Adam could mount the horns of the second ram onto the hide of the first. He said that because of the size differential between the animals it would be difficult but that he would try. The grizzled old face of the second ram will be sorely missed, but that is the price I must pay for not skinning my own animal when it was first shot.

We picked up Adam’s truck and made tracks for the camp house where Mike was “chomping at the bit” to get back in the mountains. Once back at the headquarters we re-iced the first ram so the hide would not spoil and switched out a battery from Adam’s work truck to my monster truck.

That left just enough daylight for a good trip into the backcountry on the south side of HWY 90. Mike was very patient with all this, but now it was time to get Mike into the aoudads. To this point he had hunted only a couple of hours before the buffalo consumed his day. Based on my success he must have thought an aoudad hid under every tree, and he was ready for a little “recreation.”

We entered the south ten (that’s 10,000-acre) tract across from where my truck had died. We rambled through several long valleys running from north to south with a smattering and mix of various grama grasses and cacti on the valley floor. As we closed in on the mountains, we found a nice stand of piñon pines skirting the mountain, but we saw no four-legged life whatsoever. Adam pointed to a steep mountain road and felt that higher elevation might be more productive. So, we headed for the trail leading up the mountain. The truth of the matter was that it was still the heat of the day, and the animals were deep in the shade.

The mountain road was no effort for the monster truck, but not wanting any mistakes that would precipitate a fifteen-plus mile walk out; we locked the hubs and shifted into the rock-crawler ratios. We topped out on a ridge looking into a 30-acre high mountain meadow. Anything in there would have been easily field judged and followed up with a stalk in good cover. But it was empty.

After fifteen minutes of glassing, we motored on to the southwestern edge of the ranch. The trail followed the rim of a south facing bluff line. The sheer cliff dropped vertically several hundred feet to the Marathon Flats below. I had hunted through the Marathon Flats several years ago on another aoudad hunt that had yielded a couple of trophies for some customers from El Paso. Wild Elk, pronghorn antelope and feral hogs share the flats with the cougars, coyotes and bobcats that scavenge there as well. Looking due south over the flats from the rim we could clearly see the Chisos Mountain Range down in Big Bend National Park, about forty-five miles away. If you like the high mountain desert, then you would love this place.

Our final glassing point from the southwest corner of the ranch offered us views into Big Bend that included the distant Emory Peak, the highest peak in Big Bend at an elevation of 7,625 feet. The mountain was framed between two Housetop Mountains in the foreground. As we departed we discussed the market value of this spot for a secluded house, if it had access and utilities. We concluded this was one of those fabled “million-dollar views” as we headed back. We wanted to stay but knew we needed to press on so we could find Mike an aoudad.

We retraced our path past the meadow that resembled a mini Ngorongoro Crater. After a second look we headed down the mountain through the pines and juniper into the valley. Adam gave Mike the choice of turning to the right into yet-unexplored valleys or back the way we had come. Mike wisely chose the unexplored. The trail led to one of the best valleys with the best concentration of grass we had seen. It had a water well and trough at the end of it to boot! It looked really enticing to me, and I didn’t even eat grass or drink from water troughs….normally!

As we approached the water trough on our left, we crossed through a small stand of piñon pines on our right. As Mike and Adam were looking into the darkness to our right, something large and woolly caught the corner of my eye. A second later a huge lone buffalo trotted across the road. He must have been in the pasture as we approached. Adam did his best to get me into shooting mode, but it was time to focus on Mike’s aoudad, and I wasn’t looking for a cheap shot on a buffalo. Adam and Mike eventually talked me into loading my gun. Mike fanned out to our left while Adam and I followed the buffalo with our ears into the pines. The heavy-hoofed trot of the lone bull was easy to follow, and within a few minutes Adam had me in position for a twenty-five-yard raking shot as he trotted between pines. Like I said, I wasn’t looking for a cheap shot, so we broke off the hunt and reloaded ourselves in the monster truck. Dusk was heavy by this time, and we switched on the lights for the ten-mile drive back to the south entry gate.

Given the burdens of the day, we were all ready for sundowners and even more ready for another aoudad for Mike in the morning. We agreed to rally at 6:00 a.m. We decided the gentler contours of the south pasture favored our needs more than clawing our way back up into the high mesas that I had hunted. Adam prepared us a rib sticking meal while we both listened to Mike’s well-organized dissertation on why I needed to shoot a bison if one should cross my path. Mike’s persuasive points included a listing of all the accoutrements we had that would make the recovery easy, not to mention the fact that we were in bison country, and we had agreed to cull another bull if encountered. After full consideration of his points and the needs of the ranch owner it was an easy choice.

Buffalo Down!

The final morning of the hunt found Mike leading our convoy while pulling my trailer just in case. We dropped the trailer just inside the second gate. We stopped at the first Housetop Mountain south of HWY 90. Mike and Adam had ridden out together in Mike’s truck. As they got out and began checking their equipment, Adam explained that they decided to hike up into the hills surrounding the northernmost valleys in this section of the ranch. Then, Adam pointed his outstretched arm into the far hills to the south. His index finger showed us the way to our destiny while saying we should be able to walk the entire six to seven miles of valleys before lunch. Adam’s agenda for me was intimidating after yesterday’s twelve-mile hike up the mountain and then back to the ranch house. After we checked our radios we parted ways for another spectacular morning of hunting in the Housetop Mountains west of Sanderson, Texas.

While parking under a gray thorn tree farther south in the valley, my radio crackled with a report from Adam concerning his potential buffalo sighting amongst a few cows at the base of the mountains farther to my south but still in my same drainage. Acting on his advice my .375 RSM was harnessed for a trek through the greasewood and tasajillo flats.

This valley was unusual. After almost a mile the valley flared out in both directions. In configuration the valley floor was shaped like Christ’s cross. My hike southward was along the longer base plank, and then adjacent valleys flared to the east and west while the central valley continued on south for just a bit until mountains blocked its continuance. However, in the middle of the cross where the two planks crossed stood a conical hill maybe 700 feet from base to peak. It was perfectly round and fairly pointed, like a small volcano. Very unusual. The northeast corner of the intersection of all these features offered a needed vantage point into the southwest mountain bases where Adam had seen the animals. It was maybe 1,000 yards from this point to where Adam thought he had seen the bison. By this time, it seemed as if Adam had seen the rancher’s beef cows. Past experience had taught me that Adam is rarely wrong when he makes a statement, so I kept moving upwind to expose more of the area behind the conical hill anchoring the intersection of the four valleys.

While scanning the valley from my first Elevated glassing spot, approximately thirty-five cows were found in the piñon pines near the water trough. That is where we had been the night before. The cows were studied to determine if they were uneasy from the presence of any nearby buffalo, though nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The cows were meandering their way to the west along the valley floor. Following their direction, I scanned the mountain bases ahead of them.

A few minutes more and a new more remote area of the valley would come into view. My binoculars strained to bend my view around to the backside of the conical hill separating the four valleys running in opposite directions. Just seventy minutes into the hunt on 20,000 acres in the middle of the Chihuahuan Desert surrounding the Housetop Mountains my mind was not willing to believe what story my eye was trying to tell it. My eye wanted my brain to believe three woolly black buffaloes were standing in the shadow of the conical hill. A double take confirmed one, two now three buffalo were grazing and dusting not that far from me. It was very strange to be at this place and time. Hunting stories I’ve read by the hundreds, but never one told the tale of a wild buffalo hunt. The typical hunt is for an excess animal from a breeding or meat operation. Adam has put me on maybe the only true feral buffalo hunt in one hundred years. Sure, we knew some were probably on the property, but 20,000 acres of mountainous territory gives them more than a fair advantage. This was a real buffalo hunt. 

The conical hill blocked Mike and Adam’s view, but they were probably focused on hunting aoudads anyway. With the wind in my face the contour of the hill helped hide my movements. One palmita cactus several feet tall with several side arms making it look somewhat like a scarecrow was used as a blocker for a quick glance at the buffalo to see if they had moved. Again, I’d never seen wild buffalo, but the black curled cape across their front shoulders and heads led me to believe they were all bulls.

After taking stock of the situation, Adam was called to report that his trained eye from maybe 2,500 yards was correct. He had seen buffalo, and in fact they were all buffalo with at least one bull in the group, but probably three bulls. Adam asked me how I planned to slip up on them. In response I explained that I was just going to try to stay low and behind whatever I could in an effort to get within fifty yards for a fair shot. He reminded me that these were totally wild and once spooked would run straight up and over the closest hill, never to be seen again.

I wasn’t sure how far buffalo could see, and they deserved a fair stalk though the cover between me and them was typically sparse. The airspace above knee level is broken occasionally by Spanish daggers, ocotillo cactus, and various soap tree and beaked yucca plants while the sotol, candelilla and lechuguilla covered the interstitial space. Dangers below the knee included limited tasajillo, prickly pear, and a good dose of shin-to-ankle–high cacti such as devil’s pincushion, horse crippler, eagle’s claw, pitaya, and dog cactus mixed in for good measure. Tasajillo probably being the most common with their little barbed thorn that sticks itself in your flesh like a fishing hook.

If you wanted to crawl across the valley floor while averting the aforementioned attention getters, you might also want to avoid the scorpions and two common rattlesnake types (velvet tail & diamondback) plus the occasional Trans Pecos copperhead, which shakes its tail like a rattlesnake but lacks rattles. So, the cover has its pros and cons, if you know what I mean.

With these little nightmares in mind, the stalk started at approximately 1,000 yards. The first order of business was to leave the cows that were 600 yards to my left to their morning routine. The second order of business was plotting an approach. Halfway between me and the buffalo was that conical hill in the center of the cross. Closing the distance to 500 yards with the conical hill as blocking cover would be relatively easy.

The cows quickly locked onto my movement, but my goal was to not alarm them into a stampede that may flush the buffalo. Obscuring the buffaloes’ view of my progress with the conical hill allowed me to focus on the valley floor in an attempt to leave my legs unperforated by God’s Chihuahuan wrath, cacti maxi or worse.

A certain passiveness remained cast over the rancher's beef cows, so I pressed on in a serpentine route, evading the dog and tasajillo cactus while keeping the occasional beaked yucca and ocotillo (the devil’s stick) cactus in front of me as double protection from my quarry’s curious eyes.

Reaching the base of the conical hill in short order with most of my blood still in my body was a real victory against the legions of cacti ready to drain me. Every few minutes I’d lift my attention from the desert floor and scan the area in front of me for new clues. The cactus up on the sidehills, just twenty feet off the desert floor, were considerably less numerous, so it was necessary to stay on the valley floor whenever possible. A chest-tall green scrub juniper provided Excellent cover for my first long look at the bison. After a quick look through the binoculars to confirm they were still unaware of my position, they were ranged at 400 yards. Luck upon luck, three bulls were dusting themselves and grazing in front of me! The cow herd kept its distance to my left while the three beef cows to the right of the three bison bulls stayed to themselves. From this distance all three bulls looked about the same size, and at any one time one of them was dusting while the other two grazed.

In the twenty minutes it had taken me to close 400 yards through the valley minefield, they had moved about 150 yards to my left or generally to the south. They didn’t seem to be eager to go anywhere in particular, but as the heat of the day filled the valley their attention would be drawn to the cool shade of the piñon pines, so time was of the essence once again. Their huge, shaggy black neck fur looked hot even from several hundred yards. The black shag turned into shiny short brownish-red fur as it left the front dorsal hump and flowed toward their rear flanks.

My binoculars turned from the bison to the ground cover between us. My final 400 yards would be back through the cactus with a few sotol or yuccas along the way, but no other choice was available. My eyes connected in my mind a few gray leafy scrubs, deadfall brush piles, and sotol cactus for a fairly direct approach. Each advance was timed with all three bison either dusting or having their heads down feeding.

It took thirty minutes to close the first 250 yards from the conical hill base. The last 150 yards were more difficult as nothing other than a few sotol rose above the knee. During the final leg of the stalk several previously unseen tire ruts were used for cover. They were maybe twelve to twenty inches deep. The key was to keep low and to keep cover between us while moving only when they were feeding or dusting. The slower I went the more the sweat began to roll off my forehead and arms. With so little cover every cacti had to be utilized as concealment. Mr. Echinocereus stramineus (hedgehog cactus) now greeted me almost at eye level. The hedgehog cactus is the little six-inch-tall round fat cacti that look like they are going to explode stickers into you if you touch them, and they will, if you do.

At each plant or drainage capable of breaking my pattern a new distance reading was taken. Sometimes the readings were false or just unattainable due to the debris separating me from the 2,000-pound renegades. My feet-first palm walk scoot stalk led me from hill to deadfall to cactus to scrub bush to ditch and then finally to the last sotol separating us. No closer approach was possible from that sotol. From here to the bison were just boot-high prairie grass and cacti. A quick range reading between sotol spines found that I had closed the gap to 112 yards as sweat dripped off my forehead onto the dusty sand below. Now it was time to decide whether my stalk had given the animals their proper respect.

Every animal has a unique sense of self-preservation that is defined and refined by the conditions it finds itself living in. Even then, some are naturally more nervous and suspicious than others. Hunting pressure from natural predators and man will generally influence their behavior. However, without hunting pressure, some animals are more trusting of their own survival based on their inherent defenses. For example, deer are easily killed by a number of predators as well as rivals. They are always on guard, and their “zone of wariness” is much greater than that of a bear. 

I prefer spot and stalk hunting, but I also hunt from blinds as required. In particular, hunting from a blind simply removes the chess game that spot and stalk hunting facilitates. Bears, for example, have limited eyesight but an exceptional sense of smell. Their poor eyesight makes hunting from tree stands more of an exercise of marksmanship than anything else if the bear is more than fifty yards away, when the wind is in your favor. Is that bear hunting? Having said that, I must admit to hunting over bait for them in Northern Alberta several times, though the blind was always on the ground making it much different hunt with bears within ten yards on numerous occasions. With bears so close and no other human within seventy-five miles one’s nerves are tested. To me, that is the difference between bear hunting and deer hunting. If you put yourself potentially within their reach. Bear hunting offers the hunter an opportunity to test one’s nerves and it should be taken advantage of, in my opinion.

It has been a great privilege to hunt behind native African trackers during my safaris. Their hunting instincts prove we can be very close to nature if we just open our senses and train ourselves to “feel” our way through the stalk. Life’s best lessons are always learned firsthand and up close. Sure, my rogue elephant could have been shot from one hundred yards, possibly to greater effect than my frontal brain shot from fifteen yards, but even the rogue elephant deserves better. When booking the hunt, it was clearly stated that no shot would be taken any other way. We stalk until we get it right. No cheap shots. Same with Cape buffalo; at fifty yards you have either their full attention or have successfully breached their defenses.

So here I am looking at a bison from 112 yards. My stalk started at 1,000 yards. I’ve crawled lower than a sotol for the last 75 yards, avoiding the vilest of all cacti along the way, the tasajillo with its hook thorns and springy branches that wrap around your flesh before snapping off and leaving a six-inch string of one-and-a-half-inch needles hooked into your skin at approximately one hundred points.

At that point, no farther cover permits a closer stalk. Two choices remain: a banzai charge shooting from the hip or a careful shot from the sticks through the last sotol. Though the banzai charge seemed somewhat fun it wasn’t an option for an ethical shot, so the second choice seemed the only right choice. Besides, this would be one of the first American bison to be shot with the new 380 grain Rhino bullets. Shooting a stationary animal achieved all my goals let alone being able to load it in the flat of the valley, which was immensely preferable to dragging 2,000 pounds out of the hills.

The Rhino Bullet Company is the brainchild of noted author, PH, and veterinarian Dr. Kevin “Doctari” Robertson of South Africa. His bestselling book, Africa’s Most Dangerous, is the definitive book on hunting Cape buffalo. His experiences hunting Cape buffalo went into his recommendations for the best calibers and ballistics for shooting Black Death. The field reports from the performance of the Rhino bullets in the spring of 2010 seriously altered my intentions of buying a 450-400 three-inch double rifle in preparation for my 2011 dangerous game safari to the Caprivi Strip. The double rifle had pros and cons. The best part of carrying a double rifle is the satisfaction of carrying one and the pictures with it next to the dangerous animal vanquished with it at short range. The negatives include the fact that they require a second rifle for plains game and that my very limited number of dangerous game hunts will never make my double much more than a prop…though the desire for one is overpowering. And if the quickest possible second shot saved someone’s life just once, it would never be confused with a prop, at least not in my book.

Until the Rhino came along, the .375 H&H was limited to a 300-grain bullet. My 2008 safari was successful, but the 300 grain A-Square Monolithic Solids were not really convincing when I tried to brain shoot a rogue bull elephant from fifteen yards. Honestly, it was poor shot placement rather than the fault of the bullet. Like Lou Hallamore said, “the .375 H&H is lethal in the hands of an expert because you must hit your aim point as it offers very little shock value on four tons of elephant.” Based on my elephant experience, it was clear I needed more “KO value” as first identified by John “Pondoro” Taylor in his classic African book, Big Game and Big Game Rifles (1948). Safety in Africa is measured in stopping power as “classic” safari shots on dangerous game are taken within fifty yards. The field reports of the bonded copper 380 grain .375 H&H loaded down to 2,200 ft/sec were quite conclusive. One of Kevin’s last reports detailed the results of a frontal chest shot from the 380 grain Rhino bullet in .375 caliber. The report indicated it raised the two front legs of a bull Cape buffalo off the ground. It was clear that Doctari had significantly improved my “KO value” with my .375 H&H for future safaris.

Safari Bullets, the U.S. distributor of the Rhino bullets sent me three boxes, one for me and two for my buddy Don Ricketts. A couple of days later, Chris Melgaard, president of Safari Bullets and BFF of Dr. Robertson, called with the recommended powder type and powder charge to get the magic 2,200 ft/sec performance Kevin references. The initial loadings were developed by Kobus Van Der Westuizen and Mauritze Coetzee of Rhino Bullets. Their loadings along with Kevin’s research seemed to indicate that the 2,200 ft/sec might duplicate the speeds of the turn-of-the-century Kynochs that scored tens of thousands of head of game during the early cropping years. This is a revelation, as the old Kynoch boxes reported a speed of 2,600 ft/sec, thus precipitating 100 years of hunters with modern ammo loaded to 2,600 ft/sec.

After a hundred years of mixed results, questions continually arose as to whether full pass-through shots were better than those that fully expend their energy in the animal without exiting. Still other results indicated the faster speeds were counterproductive as they tended to destabilize the bullet after hitting their first bone or even “blow up” on the exterior of the animal. Dr. Robertson wanted to know the truth, and he clearly has the resources to do the right research.

A week later and two weeks before this hunt; my cartridges were loaded to Doctari’s spec while a new Burris Signature Select scope was being fitted onto my rifle. Eight days before departure everything came together, so my new configuration was tested at Fort Lundberg. His estate is just down the street and is very convenient. Though the test shooting ultimately worked, my first table rest was way too flimsy and produced excessive muzzle jump. Curt mentioned that watching me repeatedly missing the target from fifty yards was as painful as listening to a Q&A session at a free hearing-aid sales seminar at Wal-Mart. Admittedly; the fifty-yard dashes to an empty target were a bit unnerving until we figured out the muzzle-jump issue.

All that being said, here I sit, 112 yards from North America’s largest land animal, and it is time to fish or cut bait. Because only a few test shots had been fired with the Rhino bullets my zero at 110 yards was not fully understood. The Rhino bullets were twenty percent heavier than the A-Frames so they should shoot a tad bit lower at 100 yards, thus the need to get as close as possible.

Even while squeezing my earplugs into place, it was not clear to me that a proper stalk had been accomplished. My senses were collecting themselves for the final moments of the hunt. The clarity of purpose defined at dinner the night before was not nearly so strong today. Commitment to hunt a beast should require an understanding of the beast hunted. That clarity was lacking because I simply didn’t know much about the bison’s eyesight, sense of smell or hearing. My lack of preparedness generated doubts that this might be nothing more than the bushwhacking of an animal with limited eyesight. Much the same as hunting a bear from a tree stand at 100 yards. Full satisfaction cannot be gained until the hunter is knowledgeable of the quarry’s strengths and weaknesses. Adam had said that with the first hint of danger they would run like spooked deer into the thickest trees or more likely over the ridge. These buffalo were not welcome, and they had been tormented routinely by the ranch owner for the damage they had done through breeding with his cows and knocking down his fences. If that was the case, then a proper stalk had transpired. Their unconcerned disposition was my reward for the stalk, which should result in a one-shot kill.

The three bulls were strung across my sight picture. The biggest bull seemed to be on the right. He was alternating between feeding and dusting. After several minutes of deliberation, I decided to fire on him the next time he stood up. The buffalo on the far left was partially hidden behind some deadfall. The middle bull immediately disappeared into his dust bed as mine stood up. The shooting sticks were very steady as were the crosshairs. I studied the beast through my scope in search of where I thought the heart might be. I did not want a misplaced shot that might generate adrenaline and taint the meat. The bull, fresh from dusting, faced north and nearly broadside to my sitting position. It was now or never. My rifle’s safety was pushed forward, and I slowly began to increase the pressure on the trigger.

Boom! Thud! For the third time in two days the same scenario played out in my scope. After the shot, the Burris scope settled back on the sticks. This time the big black woolly beast fell over and away from the force of the impact. The 380 grain Rhino, pushed at a paltry, but well researched 2,200 ft/sec, poleaxed the behemoth. At the impact his legs straightened and fell over like a brick wall. Once on the ground his hooves released nervous energy but no attempt to stand was evident. His legs remained rigid without the least amount of kicking. 

Interestingly, the beta bulls came over to defend their fallen comrade. They formed a barrier between me and the downed alpha male. They both faced me with their heads lowered. Both beta bulls looked at me from 100 yards with indifference. Their stare did at least confirm they have the ability to see 100 yards. Our standoff continued for about ten minutes while the downed bull was studied for signs of prolonged suffering. It was still twitching a bit, but I did not want to incite a charge by the remaining bulls, so I backtracked out of this area and hoped the beta bulls were gone when we returned in mass.

On the way back Adam was radioed with the news. He said the rancher would be very happy with his report now that two bulls had been harvested even though several more remained. Adam was informed by radio to meet me at my truck when he was able. Adam said he planned on continuing his aoudad hunt with Mike while the cool of the morning remained. He reported that his immediate goal was to find Mike, who had somehow slipped out of his eyesight at the last lookout point. He said that once he found Mike he would report back.

It took me about forty-five minutes to hike back to the truck, which meant the downed buffalo was approximately two miles from the parked monster truck. The walking was slow over cactus-infested scrub. Once I was back at the truck, Adam received a progress report while my attention was squarely on Mike’s location. Adam commented that he had never lost a hunting client before. Not to worry, Mike was from Missouri. Give him water and a gun and he is apt to be fatter when you find him next. The only real worry was the rattlesnake known to these parts and that could be a real problem if it got into the otherwise comical mix.

Noting Adam needed some time to track down Mike, I decided to check on the buffalo. Dust kicked up from behind the thirty-five-inch Pro Comp rock climbers as the first hill on the northeast corner of the cross-shaped valley passed. The sky was winter blue, and since the monster truck has no horsepower-sucking air conditioner, the morning heat was beginning to get my attention. Given the way ranch roads lay out, it made sense that a ranch road somehow looped around to where the buffalo had fallen but if so, it was not apparent. After passing the conical-shaped mountain, a view of the southwest corner materialized. The two beta bulls were still there!

Yards of cactus, dried deadfall, and ground juniper crushed under wheel as the distance closed. Once within fifty yards, it was clear they were not leaving, so a quick honk of the horn got them bucking across the south end of the valley toward the wind gap that separated this valley from the next one to the south. They ran, but due to the sparse cover it was easy to see them as they stopped before entering the next valley. An hour had passed since my shot. Unfortunately, he was still moving a bit, so a second shot was required to put him out of his misery. It should have been done sooner.

Looking at the fully mature bull bison, I could easily see how Indians could live quite well off the protein from such a kill. Based on the resources at my feet, it was understandable how only a couple of bison could provide enough hides to make a teepee. The meat from just one buffalo would feed a family for many days. One hide would make enough clothes for a family of four. The big black curly mane around the neck and front shoulders would surely repel any winter. The hooves were as big as a giraffe’s, which is to say they were almost twice as big as a cow’s. The blocky head with fight-shined horns looked like it was made for pushing freight trains. The hindquarters seemed unprotected as compared to the front. God probably made them that way so the tail end would dissipate the heat stored in the front end. The comparatively hairless hindquarters were infested with ticks and flies. Dusting helps fend off the parasites and it must be a full-time job. On the other hand, none of the aoudad harvested over the years had very many ticks or flies on them though they too love their dusting beds. Interesting.

Adam’s voice crackled over the two-way just after my first inspection was complete. He had found Mike, and they were coming down to help me load my buffalo. Once again Mike’s hunt had been cut short by my actions, but Mike would not have it any other way. Processing the buffalo was impossible without their help. Mike and Adam met at the base of the mountain they were hunting. Together they hunted their way back to Adam’s truck. No luck though. Thirty minutes later they reached me, and we proceeded in tandem to the second gate for my trailer. It was a slow grind driving in tandem back to the second gate as the dust, called “enchantment” in New Mexico, was plentiful. After hitching the trailer to Mike’s truck, we drove back into the cross-shaped canyon to recover the bison with both of our vehicles. The unloaded sixteen foot dual-axle trailer was just sturdy enough to haul the K5 truck over paved roads to and from our hunts, but unloaded it twisted, bounced, and flexed with each rock and pothole as we pulled it to the recovery site.

Shortly thereafter we arrived at the downed bull. The two beta bulls had returned. We honked, and they again ran for the hills. This time the two beta bulls stopped and looked back. It was as if they finally realized that the alpha bull wasn’t coming back. At that point they began to fight in order to establish a new dominant bull hierarchy. Mike and I fully appreciated the rarity of what we were watching. Few modern-day people have witnessed truly wild bison fighting for herd dominance. It also meant there must be some females nearby they had their eyes on.

Once we ran the bulls off, Mike swung into action. He quickly surveyed the recovery area and began directing Adam into position like a real construction project. He had it all figured out in his mind well before the wheels had stopped moving. After having loaded Mike’s bison the day before, he had all the kinks worked out in his mind. First, he asked me to use my truck to tow away all the deadfall between the buffalo and the little ditch ten yards from the buffalo’s back and then clear the area on the far side of the ditch so he could back his truck and my trailer into the ditch without running over deadfall and rocks.

When the area was clear, Mike explained how the trucks would be used to pull the buffalo onto the bed of the trailer. His grand plan was flowing from his waving arms and commanding position from the center of the trailer. Every team needs a commander, and we had ours. He made it fun as his plan unfolded. One step led to the next; it was all going very smoothly and quickly. We used some climbing rope in the back of my Blaser to pull the 2,000 pounds of very dead weight up to the edge of the ditch. The deck of the trailer mated perfectly to the elevation of the ditch on the buffalo side. The next step was for me to bring my Blaser side-by-side against his truck. He had his truck at a slight cant to the trailer, so when I backed up next to it, my rope, which was connected to the bull’s head, pulled the bull onto the trailer more or less centered. Interestingly Mike didn’t want to remove the guts until the buffalo was on the trailer. This must have been learned from yesterday’s buffalo recovery.

Maneuvering the buffalo onto the trailer took brawn and the mind of a brain surgeon. Adam started with the real dirty work of removing the guts. Moving the buffalo onto the flatbed of the trailer was much easier than the broken ground near where he lay. Mike pulled his front leg back while I tried to hold the back leg open so Adam’s access to the chest cavity would be enlarged. Adam had to crawl headfirst into the bull’s chest cavity in order to separate the 400 pounds of guts from the inner ribs. Once he got the chest cavity open, Mike had me move my K5 over the rear of the trailer so Adam could attach the rope to the guts and pull them out. Five minutes later it was all done. Naturally, Mike provided the brains, Adam did all the hard work, and I tried to look interested and busy.

After the guts came out and I had towed them ten yards from the trailer, all I had to do was jump back in my vehicle, release the tension on the gut rope and disconnect it, and then we were basically free to go. After inspecting the guts and the gutted buffalo loaded with ticks and flies around its back legs, I skipped back to the monster truck and half-jumped onto the running board as I got into the driver’s seat. No sooner had I done that than I heard a faint rattle from the snake first described by the Apache as “Rattlesnake” below the step. Sure enough, a four-foot rattler was sitting there in the shade under the running board. A less-energetic mounting into the monster truck would have put my exposed ankle right on top of Mr. No Shoulders. I’d guess the chance of a bite would have been nearly one hundred percent. Adam quickly came over and found a forked stick that allowed him to grasp the snake behind the head with his bare hands to show us it was no big deal, which is true if you expect it and are looking for it.

Anyway, Adam finished gutting and cleaning the chest cavity with his right hand while he held the fully live and pissed-off rattlesnake in his left. He eventually threw Mr. No Shoulders back onto the valley floor no worse for the wear. How about that for a West Texas hunting story?

Loading Buffalo; Photo courtesy of Adam Johnson

From that point, Adam and Mike led the way as we made our way back to the camp house some fifteen miles in the distance. The afternoon plan was for Mike and Adam to continue hunting while I drove the buffalo carcass into Hip-O Taxidermy in Alpine, about sixty miles away. Thirty minutes later we were back at camp. Mike was given the nickel tour of how to operate the monster truck, and then we quickly parted for separate points.

After bouncing around in my K5 for a day Mike’s truck rolled like a Cadillac down HWY 90. Marathon came into view in about fifty minutes. The first gas station offered me the chance to buy a couple of bags of ice for the buffalo’s chest cavity while attracting a good bit of attention on the street. After quickly loading the ice Alpine was the next stop. Along the way a state trooper passed me heading east. He quickly turned around and pulled me over 400 yards short of the taxidermy shop. Nice guys: and all they really wanted to hear was the story and location of where it was shot. After a brief check of my records, they released me for the final 400 yards to the taxidermist. Details are not necessary, but please think twice before you use Hip-O Taxidermy in Alpine, Texas. The woman running the front desk is simply crazy and very offensive in my opinion.

After dropping off the buffalo with the enraged buffalo lady, I pulled into the local NAPA Auto Parts for a new battery for my monster truck and then refueled and headed back to the ranch. The one-hour trip to the ranch house was uneventful. Adam and Mike were out hunting and hopefully they would return at dusk with a fresh aoudad trophy.

The hunt ended with Mike and me saluting Adam for the best hunt either of us had ever been on in Texas. To be successful in the desert you must know the ways of the desert. Adam has learned these ways, and as my friend Gary Bowers would say, “He’s as smart as a tree full of owls.” Adam was so “on” with his assessment of the area that it made connecting the dots as simple as following his plan. This was the best of real hunting. The final battle that concluded my twenty-year war with the aoudad required the implementation of every theory and tactic I had learned throughout the war. The victory would not have been won without a worthy field commander. Adam played that role to perfection. The war was now over.