Western Hunter Magazine | Issue 6 2025

Stories

12 Following in His Footsteps

BY J O E M A N N I N O

34 Los Gatos Frios

BY L E V I S O P EL A N D

46 Twice in a Lifetime

BY JA RYD B ER N ST EI N

54 Of Bou & Bow

BY R EM I WA R R EN

76 Brown Ducks in Pothole Country

B Y B R O D Y L AY H E R

82 Heart of Endurance

BY R A N DY U L M E R

90 No Regrets

B Y L I N D S AY P E R S I C O

94 More Than Number Four

B Y G E O R G E B E T TA S

Quick Reads

42 The Hunt for a Public Land Giant

B Y J A M E S YAT E S

70 Bear Hunter

BY A NT H O NY D O R S EY

84 This Life Chose Me

B Y M AT T W A R D

100 TrailDuster

B Y C O DY B A R N E S

104 Winter's Decor

BY ED G A R C A STI L LO

112 99 Problems

B Y H E AT H S E I N E R

126 Dialing it Back

BY C H R I S D EN H A M

Good Stuff

66 Full Circle

BY K YL E G R EEN E

72 Made in America: Exo Mtn Gear

BY K E V I N G U I L L EN

98 Historical Highlight

B Y B R O D Y L AY H E R

114 The Library

B Y B R O D Y L AY H E R

116 Featured Artist: Josh Smith

B Y P E D R A M PA R V I N

120 Wild Kitchen

BY CO U RTN EY G U I L L EN

124 All Tagged Out

BY W E ST ER N H U NT ER S U B S C R I B ER S

Gear

21 Gear Guide

B Y W E S T E R N H U N T E R S TA F F

30 Kids Gear Guide

B Y W E S T E R N H U N T E R S TA F F

50 Element Optics Nexus Gen 2 Rifle Scope

BY D O U G L A S M O R A L E S

86 Workin' Man's Custom Rifle

BY L E V I S O P EL A N D

108 Backcountry Passage

B Y J A M E S YAT E S

Letter From the Publisher

BY C H R I S D EN H A M

F

irst of all, thank you for your feedback on the previous issue, our first with the new format. As much as the team loved it before we sent it to the printer, we could never be sure what you would think. The feedback was overwhelmingly positive, in fact it was unanimously positive, not one single negative comment. That feels good, but it also makes me a little suspicious that some of you didn’t speak your mind. The only way we can improve future issues is to acknowledge our weaknesses and build back stronger, so please let us know what you didn’t like, or what you think we need to improve. Our team is strong, they can handle the truth, so don’t hesitate to let us know. Of course, feel free to give us positive feedback too.

We are not bulletproof!

This is our holiday issue, and regardless of your religious beliefs, this time is always special. Families and friends gather at Thanksgiving, company Christmas parties, New Year’s celebrations, and more than a few extra days off from work. But I must say, the world doesn’t feel like a joyous place right now. Recent events, especially the fallout over the Charlie Kirk assassination, have further divided our country. Media, especially social media, continues to thrive on the idea that the entire country is filled with hate.

I have been vocal about my disdain of all current forms of media, but like a drug addict, I couldn’t help but scroll through social media the past month or so. Of course, the algorithm devil knows my right of center viewpoint from years of living in my phone, so that demon showed me post after post of young leftists denigrating, and some cases, physically assaulting someone who dared not agree with them. Does this actually happen? Yes, it does, those posts were real, they were not generated by AI (yet). It made me angry, resentful, and ready for a fight. These left-wing radicals were not born filled with hate, they have been groomed by society and trained by their media channels to believe we are all Nazi racists and need to be put in our place.

Media thrives on attention, that is its lifeblood, and its source of revenue.

So, it is in their best financial interest to keep us coming back, the more we look, the more they learn, the more money they make selling our souls to advertisers. But just how prevalent are these radicals on both sides? Really... how many have you seen in person? I travel more than most and I have never been accosted for wearing hunting branded apparel or camo clothes at a gas station, fast food joints or an airport. But I have had hundreds of people ask me how my hunt was going and offering up where their brother in-law’s best friend saw some elk just last week.

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Again, I know these people exist, the videos are real, but we are being gaslighted by the media into believing they are around every corner. I am not saying we do not need to be vigilant and prepared to handle a confrontation with intelligence or even with violence if provoked, but we need to fight allowing it to taint our view of the world around us.

I must confess, I am a big fan of romantic comedies, especially those with a Christmas theme. One of my wife’s and my favorites is Love Actually.

The opening montage and accompanying monologue are exceptional and articulate my views better than I can. (Please imagine Hugh Grant’s British accent and inflections!)

“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport.

General opinion’s starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don’t see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere.

Often, it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it’s always there–fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends.

When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge–they were all messages of love.

If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion... love actually is all around.”

I know this might be a strange intro to a hunting magazine, but life is messy. This holiday season we all have the responsibility of making our world a better place, and that starts in our own hearts, homes, workplace and community. Take the lead in taking back the joy!

Whew... I am stepping off my soapbox and encouraging you to dive into this latest issue of Western Hunter Magazine. We hope you enjoy it as much as we enjoyed creating it. WH P.S. Die Hard is not a Christmas movie.

Publishers Chris Denham

Reader Submitted Stories Floyd Green

Jaryd Bernstein

Western Hunter Staff

Anthony Dorsey

Contributing Writers

Ryan Berg

Joe Mannino

Nate Simmons

Cody Barnes

Lindsay Perisco

Kevin Guillen

Douglas Morales

Randy Stalcup

Edgar Castillo

Randy Ulmer

Courtney Guillen Brody Layher

Kelsey Mannino Pedram Parvin

16851 East Parkview Avenue Suite 101 Fountain Hills, AZ 85268

Levi Sopeland

(480) 993-6972

WesternHunter.net

George Bettas Kyle Greene

Heath Seiner

Remi Warren James Yates

Matt Ward

Copyright 2025 Western Optics Hunter | All Rights Reserved Proudly printed in the USA

Watch The Western Hunter Mondays at 6:30 PM MST on the Sportsman Channel

TAKE IT TO THE LIMIT ESSENTIAL HUNTING GEAR TO HELP YOU TAG OUT THIS SEASON.

Introducing the new X-BOLT 2 SPEED RIFLE

Browning redefines Total Accuracy yet again with the new X-Bolt 2 and Vari-Tech stock.

This new stock design is engineered with three-way adjustment that allows you to customize the fit of the rifle to meet your specific needs, helping you achieve consistent, tack-driving performance while retaining the silhouette of a traditional rifle stock.

GRIP ANGLE Two interchangable grip modules are available for the Vari-Tech stock: The traditional Sporter profile and the Vertical profile. Both let you optimize finger-to-trigger reach and control.

LENgth of pull Internal spacers lock in length of pull.

Adjustable from 13-5/8" to 14-5/8" right from the box, this system is sturdy and rattle free.

COMB HEIGHT Achieve consistent eye-to-scope alignment and a rock-solid cheek weld even with large objective lens optics. Six height positions offer 1" of height adjustment.

SCAN TO SEE IT IN ACTION AND FOR MORE INFO

TOTAL ACCURACY. REDEFINED. browning.com

The Big Picture

“I have always tempered my killing with respect for the game pursued. I see the animal not only as a target, but as a life granted.”

Photo: Joe Mannino

~ Fred Bear

Following in His Footsteps An (un)successful elk hunt

BY J O E M A N N I N O

It seems that every time I need to write about my hunts, the story revolves less around the kill and more around the auxiliary aspects of hunting that keep me coming back season after season, regardless of whether I kill, miss opportunities, or get completely skunked and succeed only in taking my weapon for a walk.

My 2024 Arizona late rifle bull elk hunt is no different, well, except this time we did kill–two bulls actually–but that’s not the point of this story.

For me, hunting and family don’t just intersect–they’re intertwined. Like most hunters, I learned from my father. He and I have spent the majority of our lives hunting together. Year in and year out, it was just him and me chasing deer in 90-degree heat, fighting Metallica concert-sized crowds on those 6A and 22N late rifle elk tags, and chasing pigs in February underneath Arizona’s iconic (probably just to me) Mt. Ord.

All Together

Throughout the years, my uncles or my grandfather would accompany us, and that always made for a bit more of a special occasion. I remember a couple of fun years where my dad, his three brothers, my two cousins, and I made coues deer camp near the border. Nights were filled with laughter, loud voices, lots of hand gestures (Italians), and music. Those hunts when we were all together still hold a very special place in my heart, they’re core memories for sure. But they didn’t happen often enough.

As I mentioned, we’re a big, New York Italian family. My dad is one of four boys, each with a family of their own. When I was a kid in the ‘90s, life was all about family. At one point, two of my uncles lived within walking distance of our house. Most weekends, and EVERY holiday, we were all together, all 30+ of us by the time you add my grandparents, cousins, and unrelated “aunts and uncles.”

Over the years, our extended family dynamic changed quite a bit. We kids got older, went to college, moved states, and had families of our own.

Sometime around the mid-2000s, we even stopped getting together for Christmas Eve. Any American Italians out there know how big that night is–seven fishes and all. Honestly, it’s the thing I miss most about growing up.

My family is awesome and loud, angry at times, and fiercely loyal (you’ve seen mob movies). We say what we mean, and we mean what we say. We are equally unafraid to tell you that we love you as we are to tell you that you’re an idiot and doing whatever you’re doing wrong.

So, last year, when my dad asked if I wanted to put in for elk with my Uncle Mike and Uncle Tony (I know–I made that Robert De Niro face when I wrote that), I jumped at the opportunity. As luck would have it, our app got pulled, and four elk tags showed up in the mail.

True Characters

I’ve hunted with Uncle Tony a bunch. He taught me how to shoot a bow, and he’s taught a lot of people how to shoot a bow, whether they wanted his input or not. Let me put it this way: if you visited Archery Headquarters in Chandler, AZ anytime between 1998 and 2012, you probably know my uncle, Doc Mannino. You may have left that place thinking “That old dude is nuts,” and you would be right. However, he’s one of the best archers I have ever seen. The guy is absolutely nails and has been completely obsessed with the sport for going on 40 years.

Uncle Mike, on the other hand, never hunted with us much–just a few trips here and there. He was absolutely stoked to go on this hunt with us and even more excited to roll up to elk camp in his 40-foot RV. No frozen tents or stiff sleeping bags this time. We had heat, real beds, and my mom and aunts would send us with homemade Italian food. You don’t hear about many elk camps where dinner revolves around baked ziti and garlic bread.

Sure, we still grilled burgers and ribeyes on the Blackstone outside, but there was always pasta in the fridge, ready to reheat in the microwave, filling the RV with the smell of home. I don’t care what anybody says, that kind of comfort food hits different after a full day of hunting.

More Than Tags

AZ elk hunts don’t come around often in general, but this one was lining up to be something special. We drew one of my favorite units in the state, the same unit in which I killed my first bull back in 2017. I was dangerously stoked since the moment our card got hit. I was determined to make this hunt special–usually a recipe for disappointment.

I didn’t spend as much time up there scouting as I had wanted to. I only made about four trips, but it was enough to check on the area where I killed years earlier and get a good bead on some country I wasn’t familiar with but super interested in. My priority was getting my dad a bull.

He last killed an elk in the ‘80s. Every hunt since, he has put me first, making sure that if we were to be successful, it would be me with the first shot. He prioritized taking me into the field over his own ambition. Somehow, I’ve always been conscious of that and extremely grateful. As I’ve gotten older, that gratitude has turned into a desire to guide him to success.

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Call it ego, call it whatever you want, but he taught me those skills. I feel like the best way to say thank you for the life I’ve spent outside is to get him another bull or that wall hanger muley he’s always wanted. It’s the only sufficient way for me to say thank you, and even then, it’s not enough.

That was it, that was my motivation. Of course, I wanted to kill a bull, too.

Anyone who says otherwise is blowin’ smoke. But going into that hunt, I was okay with coming home empty-handed, so long as he didn’t.

Slow Going

Opening day was frosty. Leftover moisture from a rainy Thanksgiving, plus a timely drop in temperatures, left the woods covered in a thin layer of ice.

That type of cold always seems to increase my excitement level and, frankly, my expectations. The elk, however, did not seem to share that same excitement, and the weather only made for some nice photographs and more enjoyable nature walks.

The next few days played out pretty similarly. My old stomping grounds seemed to be devoid of elk, and I started to feel like that grass would be greener a little further north, where I had spent my summer scouting. I had planned to start to tackle that area once the weekend warriors headed back down to flat land. That plan changed once Sunday morning turned up nothing but boot tracks.

The unit we were hunting in consists of a ton of timber, very little wide open, glassable spots, and a lot of shallow canyons and draws. It’s perfect for parking the truck and still-hunting through the timber.

I spent my childhood following my dad through country like this. On this hunt, I didn’t need him to lead anymore, but I realized I still wanted him to.

My dad’s getting up there in age. He’s losing a few steps and a bit of that fire that filled our living room with memories of hunts past. But there’s still a 14

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part of him that loves cold weather, tall pines, and a chance to see the ivory tips of a big bull’s rack.

I, on the other hand, am still filled with piss and vinegar, loaded with ambition to get out there and experience all that comes with western hunting. It’s honestly quite the dichotomy between the two of us. I can’t seem to balance my ambition versus his ability and lack of ambition. But, again, this hunt was different. I made it a point to slow down, dial back my own goals, and focus on being present–with my dad, my uncles, and with the place.

The Powwow

One afternoon, after a long, 3-4 hour loop, we ended up back at my truck.

The sun was dropping fast behind the ponderosas, shadows stretching across the dirt road. We stood there, the four of us, leaning against the tailgate, eating snacks and sipping that afternoon cup of coffee.

Then the stories started.

They weren’t hunting stories. They were stories about my grandpa, off the boat from Sicily, raising his boys in New York before moving them west.

Stories about fist fights, about riding Greyhound buses cross-country from Arizona back to New York for family emergencies or weddings, about beatings that would make today’s parents call CPS in a heartbeat.

They’re proud of it. I am, too. Life isn’t always clean. People suck sometimes–even family. But using it as a crutch isn’t what we do. We don’t sit around feeling sorry for ourselves. We push through it, we laugh about it later, and we move on.

I don’t remember if we ended up actually hunting that afternoon, but I remember every laugh echoing through those pines. The late light turned everything gold, and I just stood there listening, wishing that time would slow down.

Perfectly Imperfect

When my dad finally killed his bull, it wasn’t cinematic. We were driving out of an area when we spotted two bulls from the road. True western chaos.

We scrambled out, rifles in hand, trying to make the best of a fleeting opportunity. Shots rang out across the timber as the bulls quartered away. I was focused downrange, trying to find an angle on one bull, when I heard my dad shoot again and again until the other bull lay down out of sight.

We marked the spot as dusk swallowed the last light. Driving back to camp, we retold the events of that evening over and over again and tried to make a game plan for the next morning.

Before the sun came up, we were back in that patch of timber. The first thing I did was find our spent brass, retracing our steps to where we last saw the bull. We walked slow circles in the frozen grass, scanning for blood.

Eventually, we found him. Coyotes had already gotten to the bull overnight, leaving ragged marks on the hindquarters.

My dad didn’t say much. He never does about the good stuff. He’s quick to speak when something needs fixing or someone needs chewing out, but gratitude and pride come quieter for him. I get that now that I’m older.

He just looked down at his bull, set his rifle against a pine, and let out a sigh that said everything words couldn’t. When I hugged him, we both knew what it meant.

That morning taught me something about him I hadn’t fully realized before. Even after all these years, even after losing some of his passion for hunting, his instincts are still there. He knew where to stand, how to find the lane, how to put an elk on the ground. But it also taught me he doesn’t have all the answers, not about hunting, and not about life. Somehow, that made me feel closer to him.

(Un)successful

We killed two bulls that week. Part of me felt accomplished, proud that my scouting and preparation put us in the right places at the right times. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel unfinished driving home. My tag was still unfilled, and the hunt was slow. I kept thinking about the stalks that never came together, the bulls I never even saw.

Still, if I had killed, I don’t know that it would have changed much. Part of this hunt was realizing that I can’t do it my way when I’m with my dad and uncles. Sometimes it’s not about being efficient or maximizing the hunt.

Sometimes it’s about just being there. Watching him notch his tag one more time.

I hope my dad remembers that part most–the laughs at the truck, the cold, quiet morning walks through the pines, the relief and pride in his eyes when we found his bull. When I think back on hunting with him as a kid, those experiences shaped who I’ve become. I don’t know what the equivalent is for a man in his late sixties. Maybe it doesn’t shape him the way it shaped me, but I hope it still leaves an impact.

Driving home, I felt accomplished, unfinished, and grateful. A few months later, I found out I’d drawn an early archery tag in that same unit for next season. Maybe it’s redemption. Maybe it’s just another chance to walk those trails again. Another chance to follow in his footsteps, even if someday it’s only in memory. WH

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DAYS AFIELD Western hunters make serious sacrifices for their passion, many carving out 16–20 days, nearly a hundred pushing for a month or more, and dozens logging 41+ days in the field every year.

HUNTERS TRUST HANDS-ON ADVICE

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When asked what gear they bought this year, hunters most often picked up optics (187), firearms (162), and camping gear (143), with knives (115) and packs (109) rounding out the list.

TAGS OVER TIDES

“Once you get a tag, you hunt in whatever weather nature gives you.”

Most hunters either prefer snow (29%) or don’t care either way (32%), with fewer choosing dry ground (18%)

UB

E

IN -P

N/SHOPS SO

Data gathered from Western Hunter Magazine newsletter poll.

Packs

ER

When asked about their primary source of gear information, hunters pointed first to in-person gear shops (120), followed closely by magazines (118) and YouTube (78).

Knives

YO UT

26-40

Camping Gear

ES

This season, hunters proved that tradition isn’t always about turkey and pie.

Here’s a look at how fellow hunters are spending their time in the field, making gear decisions, and shaping their year.

Optics Firearms

MAGA ZIN

Hunter Insights 2025

OPTICS TOP EVERY HUNTER’S SHOPPING LIST

The vast majority (91%) don’t factor moon phases into their hunts or applications.

65

%

Hunt on Thanksgiving Nearly two-thirds of hunters have skipped Thanksgiving dinner to head into the field.

REDEFINING PRECISION ONE COMPONENT AT A TIME H-S Precision crafts elite, precision-engineered firearms and shooting products using cutting-edge technology, proprietary innovation, and state-of-the-art equipment delivering unmatched performance for serious shooters.

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HSPRECISION.COM | (605) 341-3006

// R O O M T O R O A M A tribute to wild western places.

Tonto National Forest, Arizona 18

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Photo: Joe Mannino

Spanning 2.9 million acres, the Tonto National Forest is the largest

“Tonto,” in Spanish, translates to silly or foolish. Interpretations

from 1,300 feet to nearly 8,000, the Tonto holds an incredible

country for over a millennium proves the name fits. And speaking

in Arizona and the ninth largest in the U.S. With elevations ranging range of biomes and biodiversity. Low saguaro desert gives way to

piñon-juniper country, which rises into the ponderosa pines of the Mogollon Rim. It’s home to a full slate of game; Coues deer, mule

vary, but the fact that people have carved out a life in this brutal from experience, those of us who hunt this land are indeed chasing a fool’s errand.

deer, javelina, elk, and desert bighorn sheep, just to name a few.

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ABSOLUTE PRECISION

It only takes one—one that does it all. The new VX-5HD Gen 2 features our Professional-Grade Optical System and delivers the repeatable accuracy and precision serious hunters demand.

VX-5HD

INTEGRATED THROW LEVER SPEEDSETTM ELEVATION DIAL

GEN 2

ILLUMINATED RETICLES WITH MOTION SENSOR TECHNOLOGY (MSTTM) PROFESSIONAL-GRADE OPTICAL SYSTEM

YETI 10oz STACKABLE LOWBALL

This is the classiest liquid receptacle any outdoorsman can own. It’ll keep anything cold, from water to whiskey, and always make sure your coffee stays hot. I can’t say I’d take it on a backpack hunt, but I’ll never leave for a base camp hunt without at least a couple in the truck. ~ BL Yeti.com

HARDSIDE HYDRATION SWIG RIG

Sick of wrestling your water bladder or cleaning it constantly? Upgrade to the Hardside Hydration Swig Rig. It has the hose function you love and Nalgene durability you need.

Easy to use, easier to clean. It’s compatible with all Nalgenes. I’ve ditched the bladder and never looked back. ~ DM HardSideHydration.com

MSR TITAN KETTLE

A titanium kettle is one of the most useful tools in the backcountry. You can boil water from your stove, or if you find yourself in a bind, you can stick it in the fire. The rubber grips on the foldable handles keep you from burning your paws without adding any unnecessary weight. If you’re looking for a simple solution for a backcountry cook kit, this is an item to keep in mind. ~ BL CascadeDesigns.com

BORN OUTDOOR BAJA BUNDLE

This is hands-down one of the most luxurious sleep systems I’ve ever drifted off in.

The Baja Bundle pairs a Therm-a-Rest MondoKing Sleeping Pad with a rugged bed shell, cozy Baja Quilt, and soft bamboo sheet set. The system is capable of handling summer days and winter nights depending on the layers you bring along. It’s your ticket to the most comfortable night’s sleep in the million-star motel. ~ DM BornOutdoor.com

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// 2 0 2 5 G E A R G U I D E

CRAZY CREEK HEX 2.0 ORIGINAL CHAIR

This handy apparatus has been the source of the most “what the heck is that?” I’ve gotten for the past year. It looks a little odd and weighs a little more than your average pad, but it can turn a guy with a bad back into an all-day glassing machine. The chair allows you to lean back rather than having to hunch forward all day. It has not only enhanced my glassing ability, but it also lets me enjoy a glass of whiskey in the evening without having to find a stump to lean against. ~ BL CrazyCreek.com

CAMP CHEF GRIDIRON GAME DAY STOVE

Overbuilt is not an over-statement when it comes to the Gridiron Gameday from Camp Chef. This Hoss has a large enough cooking surface to feed you, your family, and the families in the two campsites next to yours. This thing is extremely versatile, and portable enough to earn a permanent spot in any serious camping kit. ~ JM CampChef.com

DOMETIC CFX 75DZ

This is the future. The first time I fired up my CFX3 (previous version), the temperature in the back of my Land Cruiser was around 110 degrees, and it dropped to 35 degrees in about an hour. The voltage requirement is extremely low, and this unit is so smart that it will never overdraw your regular car battery. It hardly runs once it’s cold. The DZ stands for dual zone, so you can run it fridge/freezer with everything controlled and monitored via an app and Bluetooth. Assuming it lasts a few years, the cost isn’t a whole lot greater than a regular cooler plus ice. ~ LS Dometic.com

LAST LIGHT

Headlamps are one of those pieces of gear I never put much thought into. That is, until I was deep in a wash in bear country with a dim bulb and dying batteries. I realized I needed to up my game. The Strike 1800 headlamp from Last Light is built for hunters and outdoorsmen who need reliable brightness in all conditions. With a powerful 1,800 lumen output, it provides unmatched visibility whether you’re on the trail, in camp, or tracking game after dark. Its lightweight design and rechargeable battery were two must haves for me. Pro tip: Get it as part of the Back Country Bundle they currently offer. You will get a great solar charger and LED light rope that are just as useful as the headlamp. ~ RB LastLightllc .com

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LEUPOLD VX-5HD GEN 2

I’ve always thought that to beat the Leupold VX-5 as a hunting scope would be very difficult... or very expensive. It’s lightweight, tough, and the glass is great. It’s got a redesigned turret with more travel, some ergonomic improvements like a handy-dandy throw lever, and the same SpeedSet system that was launched with the new VX-6HD. For me, this combination of small improvements takes the VX-5HD from the “most functional” category to the “best” category. It’s a lot like the original, but more so. ~ LS Outdoorsmans.com

HELIX GEN 2 6-24x50 FFP

If you recently got a new hunting rifle to add to your collection (that your wife may or may not know about), then it’s time to get it dialed in and ready to put to good use. A quality riflescope that you can depend on is always a necessity, and there are a ton of choices in the riflescope optic world. In my opinion, one of the most bang for your buck options is the HELIX Gen 2 6-24x50 FFP by Element Optics. A First Focal Plane riflescope with reliable tracking, a tool-free turret system with a zero-stop, a 30mm tube, good reticle choices, and a lifetime warranty at this price point is undoubtedly a big time value. If you can afford a few tiers above this price point, Element Optics has some real heavy hitters in their NEXUS and THEOS lines that you’ll definitely want to check out. ~ PP Element-Optics.com

ZEISS SFL 10x40

The SFL 10x40 is the best binocular that I’ve seen under that $2000 mark. I’ve had these out in the field and was hard pressed to find many differences in quality between them and a pair of Swarovski ELs. The best I could come up with is that the ELs gave me a little more finite detail, but not by much, not enough to justify a $200 price difference.

Plus they’re smaller, and lighter. ~ JM Outdoorsmans.com

VORTEX RANGER HD 3000

If you’re looking to enter the rangefinding binocular lifestyle, the Vortex Ranger HD 3000 is absolutely a great starting point. For $800–the price of many decent binoculars without rangefinders–you’ll have a tool to use for many seasons and maybe even pass down when you’re ready to step into something a little more feature-rich. ~ JM VortexOptics.com

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// 2 0 2 5 G E A R G U I D E

KESTREL 5700 ELITE WITH APPLIED BALLISTICS

In a world where any Tom, Dick, and Harry can run out to the range and ring a 1000-yard gong with just about any off-the-shelf rifle, you should have a ballistic calculator that allows you to be as accurate as possible. The 5700 Elite is still the gold standard and won’t be dethroned anytime soon. ~ BL KestrelInstruments.com

HORNADY 6.5 CREEDMOOR 140-grain ELD-MATCH

Our team shot thousands of rounds of Hornady’s ELD-M cartridge this year, training for and competing in NRL Hunter matches. The consistency in speeds, accuracy, and reliability in a number of different conditions made this feel like one of the few easy buttons for shooting matches. If you aren’t handloading, or even if you are and aren’t very good at it, you should be shooting Hornady’s ELD-M cartridge. Plain and simple. ~ KG MidwayUSA.com

HATCH OUTWEST GEN 2 STANDARD BIPOD

The American-made bipod is a favorite among our crew. Its aluminum and stainless steel body holds up to any environments you’re willing to put your rifle through. It’s fast, stable, and easy to use once you’ve ran a few dry runs. The three sections and adjustable angles let you comfortably shoot prone, sitting and even kneeling in most cases. ~ DM Outdoorsmans.com

UNKNOWN MUNITONS PREMIER SCOPE RINGS

Scope rings might seem like something you can pick up at any old sporting goods store, and as long as they fit, they’ll be fine. Well, that couldn’t be further from the truth. Rings provide the foundation for your rifle holding zero. If your rings fail, your whole rifle system fails. These rings from Unknown were purpose-built to never let that happen. ~ BL UnknownMunitions.com

LEUPOLD RENDEZVOUS BOW CASE

There is no greater balance between a highly protective hard case and an ultra-portable soft case than the Leupold Rendezvous Bow Case. I’ve never felt short on storage space with this thing either–there’s perfectly sized compartments for storing everything from stabilizers, releases, tools, you name it. With 900D water repellent nylon, beefy zippers, and reinforced padding, your bow is safe from just about any reasonable threat in its way.

Except for a grizzly bear. A grizzly bear would still jack this thing up. ~ KG Leupold.com

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OUTDOOR VITALS VENTUS ACTIVE HOODY

Nearly every hunting apparel company has jumped on the “active insulation” train, but other companies (Outdoor Vitals in this case) have been perfecting them for years. This 7oz mid layer keeps you at a perfect temperature, no matter if it’s 40 and raining or 70 and sunny.

This simple piece is well worth having in your closet. ~ BL OutdoorVitals.com

DUCKWORTH MEN’S POWDER HOODY

This hoody checks all the boxes for me–ideal weight for all day wear, loose and comfortable but not baggy and boxy, durable quality, and American-made with Montana raised wool. This piece gets worn in the truck, on the stalk, and in camp around the fire. It’s a great option for a cold night in the sleeping bag as well. ~ KG DuckWorthCo.com

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FIRST LITE YUMA HOODY

Out of all the adjectives and keywords I can use to describe this base layer, essential is the most appropriate. I do not know what kind of sorcery First Lite used in producing the Yuma, but it is the most capable article of clothing I own. From keeping the summer sun off me during my kid’s soccer games to being my next-to-skin layer during late season hunts, the Yuma can do it all. ~ JM FirstLite.com

DUCKWORTH MEN’S VAPOR HOODY

I’ve been highly impressed with the quality of this merino wool/polyester blend. Every stitch is sourced and sewn right here in the USA and delivers with the breathability, soft feel, and comfort you need to spend multiple days in this piece. You may stink after day 5 in this hoody, but it won’t be because of its performance. You’re probably just a stinky dude. ~ KG DuckWorthCo.com

// 2 0 2 5 G E A R G U I D E

KUIU ULTRA MERINO 120 LT LS HOODIE

I’ve worn many Kuiu base and mid layers over the years, and without question, the UM 120 LS Hoodie is my favorite and a non-negotiable piece for any warm or mid season hunts.

Earlier this Summer I wore this piece at a two days NRL Hunter match in New Mexico, with temps in the high 90s. I stayed surprisingly cool and comfortable the whole match, especially when throwing the hoodie up was the only shade I could find. After taking my pack on and off a lot that weekend, I noticed some decent pilling of the wool around the mid section which was purely aesthetic and didn’t appear to weaken the fabric at all. ~ KG Kuiu.com

SITKA CORE MERINO 330 ZIP OFF BOTTOM

Easy, warm, and comfortable. These make a huge difference when it is extremely cold and windy. I really liked the clam-digger cut that falls just over the top of my boots, although it felt a little funny to begin with. Being able to zip them on and off is a godsend, but it backfired on me last year. If anyone finds a pair of these on a peak in the Matzatzals, they used to be mine. ~ LS SitkaGear.com

KENETREK MOUNTAIN EXTREME

This year marks my fifth season in these boots. Over the last five years, they’ve seen just about everything Arizona can throw at a pair of boots; triple-digit desert heat, sub-freezing mornings on the Rim, and every kind of dirt, rock, and cactus in between.

One of my favorite features is how reliably they keep my feet dry, whether I’m crossing ankle-deep creeks or chasing deer and javelina during those rare low-elevation snow dumps. I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I’ve never sent them back for a resole, and I’ve only waxed them once. I should take better care of my boots. But that just shows how tough these things are. If they can handle Arizona, and a hunting dad who barely thinks about boot care, they can handle anything. ~ JM Kenetrek.com

QOGIR SNAKE GAITERS

My least favorite backcountry nightmare scenario is being bitten by a rattler in the middle of a hunt. These gaiters give me the protection and peace of mind that I need without costing an arm and a leg in more ways than one. They’re also pretty dang light and breathable, so there’s no reason to not strap them on for those hot early season hunts. ~ TH QogirGear.com

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EBERLESTOCK MODFRAME

The new Eberlestock Modframe is a major leap forward in both comfort and versatility. Fully compatible with the entire EMOD system, swapping from my Brooks 3500 to my old Batwing and Scabbard set up was seamless and took me less than a minute. The totally revamped suspension system features larger padding and an integrated load panel that handles heavy meat hauls with ease, while the redesigned load lifters shift weight off your shoulders and onto your hips for unmatched comfort and stability. Built with Eberlestock’s signature durability, the Modframe is ready for years of abuse–and when it’s time for a mid-day glassing nap, the lumbar pad doubles as one of the best camp pillows you’ll ever find. ~ JA

EBERLESTOCK BATWING V2

The updated Batwing V2 quickly became my favorite pack setup due to its minimalist style while adding meaningful improvements like internal pockets and an exterior zippered pouch for better organization. When paired with the EMOD lid, this slim and lightweight pack system is built to go in light and come out heavy. ~ JA Eberlestock.com

Eberlestock.com

MEAT! GRINDER

Handing the meat off for someone else to grind and wrap was starting to feel... off. Like stopping an inch short of the finish line. Last year, I changed that. Picked up a MEAT! grinder and chamber vac, and took the last piece of the process back into my own hands. Now I can make what I want: burger, bulk sausage, links, whatever flavor, whatever batch size. It’s cleaner, more personal, and way more satisfying. If you care as much about what hits your plate as what hits the dirt, I’d recommend MEAT! processing gear. Worth every penny. ~ BB MeatYourMaker.com

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SONY TOUGH CARD

I’ve gone through so many SD cards in the last 15 years that I have become an expert at recovering data. A few years ago, my A7RIII came with one of these TOUGH cards, and since then, I’ve added more and more of them. I refuse to use anything else. They come in all flavors and sizes, and they lack the little pins that are always the source of breakage.

Filming one episode of The Western Hunter is plenty to kill a card, let alone a dozen, and I’ve yet to have one of these die on me. ~ LS Electronics.Sony.com

// 2 0 2 5 G E A R G U I D E

MONTANA KNIFE COMPANY STONED GOAT

The MKC Stoned Goat strikes a perfect balance of size, weight, and blade profile, making it an ideal hunting knife. The blade profile makes precise work easier, especially when trying to avoid accidental hide punctures. I used it on a deer and then shortly after on a bear, and it made quick work of both without a single touch-up. Even after two full field dressings, it was still sharp enough to shave hair from my arm. ~ JA MontanaKnifeCompany.com

DAY SIX HD ARROWS

I’ve been shooting the heavy and very stiff HD 275 arrow from Day Six for the past six months and have been impressed with the out of the box consistency they arrived with.

They showed up fletched with vanes and an insert/outsert system already installed to my specifications. The durability of these arrows is great and the build of the EVO broadhead is impressive as well–definitely has meat and bone as a focus, not just foam. ~ KG DaySixGear.com

LEKI MAKALU FX CARBON AS

After a decade of use, I finally said sayonara to my old Leki Legacy’s and hello to these new Makalus. They’re a handful of ounces lighter because of the carbon and the lack of a second locking clamp, while also feeling more rigid. They break down into a smaller package and have a far more comfortable grip on them. I can already see these surpassing the scratch count that the old Legacy’s have. ~ BL LekiUSA.com

WILDERNESS ATHLETE RELENTLESS SERIES BUNDLE

The Leupold Relentless series by Wilderness Athlete packs all the staples I’ve relied on for years–now in bold new flavors that hit the spot. This season they’ve fueled my elk hunt prep and earned a permanent spot in my pantry. Sweet Salted Lime Hydrate & Recover is my non-negotiable for training in the heat, while Strawberry Lemonade Energy & Focus gives me the guts to train in that heat. On heavy strength days, Brute Force Blue Raspberry brings the pump and intensity, and The Good Stuff (Multi-Vitamins, Omega-3s, and Probiotics) keeps my foundation solid so I’m ready seven days a week. This stack was built for the relentless hunter–ready 365. ~ KG WildernessAthlete.com

ELK BOWHUNTING BOOK SERIES

Created by an avid DIY bowhunter, each book is more than just a collection of successful, 100% fair chase, elk hunts. They explore the vital role that hunters play as stewards of conservation and the many life lessons learned through hunting. These coffee table books are great for seasoned elk hunters and newcomers interested in learning more about bowhunting elk. As a bonus, 30% of all profits are donated to organizations proven to deliver quality elk management and habitat improvement. ~ RS ElkBowhunting.com

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DEUTER KID COMFORT CHILD CARRIER

From the moment I saw another dad walking around a crowded farmers’ market with his kid perched securely in a backpack, I needed to ditch the stroller and get one for my family. I chose Deuter because I’ve loved the day pack I’ve owned for years from their brand–and the features and materials on the Kid Comfort carrier were noticeably nicer than those of others I tried on. I’ve been on countless hikes and strolls through the farmers market with both kids enjoying the ride from this pack, and equally important, being comfortable myself too. ~ KG Deuter.com

OSPREY POCO LT

The Osprey Poco LT has been a total lifesaver for getting out and exploring with my one and three-year-olds. It’s light enough that I don’t feel like I’m carrying a small boulder, but sturdy enough to handle all the bumps and twists on the trail. The kids ride in comfort, and I stay comfortable, too. The whole thing folds down small enough to toss in the car for spontaneous adventures. Not to mention it has an awesome storage compartment for the most important gear you’ll take with you–the snacks. It’s made for parents who refuse to sit still, and can (almost) guarantee nap time success. ~ KO Osprey.com

BLIKA PORTABLE CAMPING TOILET

This foldable toilet seat is a total lifesaver for camping and road trips, especially if you’ve got kids! It’s super easy to set up, packs down small, and makes bathroom breaks way less stressful. It’s great for kids but sturdy enough for adults, too, which is awesome for those late-night campsite runs. Just make sure you get one without crossbars on the bottom (trust me, you’ll thank yourself) and if you can, grab one with a toilet paper holder– it’s such a nice bonus. Honestly, it’s one of those things you don’t realize you need until you have it, and now I never leave for a trip without it! ~ RB BlikaHome.com

SIRUI TRAVELER X TRIPOD KIT

I picked this tripod up for my boy when he tags along on hunts. The size, weight, and price caught my eye, and it hasn’t disappointed. It’s light enough for him to carry, and I don’t mind when it inevitably ends up in my pack because he’s got too many rocks in his.

It deploys fast, stays steady, and doesn’t get in the way. The stock head’s kind of meh, but slap an Outdoorsmans Pistol Grip on there and you’ve got yourself a fine glassing system. ~ JM Outdoorsmans.com

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// 2 0 2 5 G E A R G U I D E F O R K I D S

VORTEX BANTAM BINOCULARS

I know a fella who siphoned a hundred bucks from every paycheck for years to make sure his wife didn’t find out how much he spent on his binoculars, only to one day hand them to their kids, who inevitably destroyed them while trying to look at a cow elk in Yellowstone Park. Get these Bantam binoculars for your kids instead. Worst case scenario, you’re out an hour or two’s wages. ~ BL VortexOptics.com

KUIU YOUTH GILA & YOUTH ATTACK PANTS

I went against the grain and picked up some legit technical gear for the kid. Sure, he’ll outgrow it fast, but it’ll get passed down, and the real win is how much more comfortable (and excited) he is out there with me. Managing a 50-pound nine-year-old’s body temp is no joke. I’m sweating, he’s freezing. KUIU cuts the guesswork and a few layers out of the mix. Bonus: he’s stoked to look the part... though I’ll miss that Pikachu hoodie bouncing down the trail. ~ JM Kuiu.com

STUCK IN THE RUT: CHASING DREAMS

In an ever-evolving world of digital media consumption, screen time, and AI creation, as parents, we need to be extra mindful of what is presented to our children and what kind of real experiences we want them to learn from. There is no substitute for being outdoors and learning the skills that are needed to provide for your family. As a father of a three-year-old son, I am so excited to read this to him every night and emphasize the importance of fresh air, feet in the grass, and meat on our tables. Author Tana Grenda has perfectly captured this sentiment in her children’s book, Stuck In the Rut: Chasing Dreams.

This is a story of her own family’s passion and perseverance for hunting. Whether it’s through rushing streams or breathtaking landscapes, it encourages young hunters to follow their dreams and embrace the thrill of the hunt. If you’re a parent or know someone who is, I highly recommend getting this book as a gift this holiday season! ~ PP Amazon.com

THIS LIST WAS CURATED BY THE FOLLOWING WESTERN HUNTER STAFF: BB – Ben Britton BL – Brody Layher DM – Douglas Morales JA – Josh Adderson

JM – Joe Mannino KG – Kevin Guillen KO – Katelyn O'Brien LS – Levi Sopeland

PP – Pedram Parvin RB – Ryan Berg RS – Randy Stalcup TH – Tom Hinski

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Only at KUIU

LIFETIME WARRANTY ON ALL OUR GEAR

BASE LAYERS | INSULATION | OUTERWEAR | PACKS | SLEEP SYSTEMS | FOOTWEAR | ACCESSORIES

Los Gatos Frios

BY L E V I S O P EL A N D

Kevin and I were on call for a few weeks, waiting for the starting gun for the race up to the Fort Apache Reservation in the White Mountains.

There, we would meet up with Floyd Green and Larry Johnson. Floyd, the owner of Outdoorsmans, has a predator outfitting business on the Reservation via a concession with tribal Game and Fish. Larry is a USDA problem animal removal specialist and a classically trained houndsman in his own right, and together, these two have more hound hunting experience than just about any pair alive.

The plan was to chase some lion tracks and accomplish either of two goals: If we caught a young cat, we would tranquilize, collar, and release it, as the Apache tribe was interested in studying the population in this area for the first time. If we caught an old cat, Kevin would punch his ticket.

The call finally came, and at midnight on a Tuesday in January, we rolled out of Fountain Hills in Kevin’s perfectly souped-up Lexus GX470. Plenty of windshield time and caffeine had the anticipation building like stage one of a self-landing rocket launch.

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W

e arrived at our meeting point in Whiteriver a little after 3:00 At the base of that tree, Larry came to us with another problem. And a net.

AM and took off into the darkness on a dirt road with about six Larry is not the type of guy you argue with much, so when he told us that inches of snow cover. Floyd went in the other direction with his we would hold the net and catch the pissed-off lion when she jumped out wife, Julie. Larry jumped in with us, and we split up and cruised along with of the tree, we nodded silently and assumed the position.

After a few minor miscalculations with the air pressure in the dart pistol, flashlights out the open windows. I was mostly pretending to be looking for tracks, as I was too busy watching the 6'5" bear of a man work. I thought we had a mountain lion in a tree with a dart in her butt. She was clearly there was no real way we could find a track in the dark from a moving ve- affected, but by no means “sleepy.” Another few snowballs sent her down the tree and off across the hillside. The dogs and Floyd took off after her hicle, but to Larry, it was only a matter of time. while we gathered up all the gear. We Floyd ended up catching a track soon followed and were led to the cat up the mountain a few miles, so we “She snapped and swatted her by the baying of the loose dogs. fishtailed our way up a virgin snowunsheathed claws, but I was able We arrived at the scene to find covered two-track through the pines Floyd holding three spastic dogs by and around bends with biblical sunto dodge them. I find myself their collars, about 30 feet uphill of rise vistas. His dogs were sent to find what I can only describe as a drunk the target and get it bayed up. After almost wishing I had a scar to mountain lion. She was attempting about 45 minutes, all of the dog symremember her by.” to stand and was mostly unable. Albols on the Garmin were vertical, and though her swiping and biting musthe bay meter was off the charts.

We ran down into the canyon in the snow to find six dogs frantically cles were still relatively functional. The censored version of what I was jumping at a particularly large ponderosa, scratching the bark from the thinking is, “What on earth do we do now?”

Larry, a man of action, quickly came to us with a plan. I can’t recall his bottom of it with a wildness in their eyes that is unique to lion and bear hounds. After we had tied them off, called them good dogs 20 times each, exact words, but they were something to the effect of, “Levi, we need to get and become accustomed to the non-stop baying, Kevin and I took a look that cat up to this flat spot where we can work on her. Drag her up here.”

My only issue with his order was that, in my opinion, she did not appear to up at the first live, wild mountain lion either of us had seen.

We determined that she was a young-ish female and would be the perfect have been rendered safe.

Once again, Larry is not the type to argue with, so I made my way over subject to accomplish goal number one. So, without much fuss, Floyd sat down and started mixing up the tranquilizer cocktail and priming the dart to her, grabbed her behind the jowls (per Larry’s instructions), and dragged gun. It was as precise as snowy mountainside science gets. “Was it 100 ml her about 20 feet up the hill. I will never forget the feeling of the muscles of her neck and my awe at the power a 100-lb cat could generate, especially or 300?” We decided to err on the side of caution for the cat’s safety.

Meanwhile, Larry came to Kevin and me with a problem. The lion was considering her circumstances. She snapped and swatted her unsheathed over 40 feet high in the tree, and it seemed that she’d either fall too far once claws, but I was able to dodge them. I find myself almost wishing I had a darted or jump to another tree and bail. So, we had a snowball fight. We scar to remember her by.

When I got her up to the flat spot and onto a tarp, I stepped backward, gently coaxed her out of that tree, across a gap, and down another, and she and Larry spoke some of the most memorable words I had heard in my life. took off again to be treed again in a safer location.

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“I can’t believe you did that.” In hindsight, I think maybe he could believe it, but we laughed so hard that I almost defrosted my pants.

With a little more cowboy doctoring, we got her settled down and collared. We then built a barrier between her and the creek in case she awoke and took off running into it. The temperature was in the single digits, and the semi-frozen river might not have spat her back out if she did.

That night, we celebrated a hilariously fun day back at Floyd’s house and went to sleep, dreaming of another day like that.

Day Two

Again, we left around 2:30 AM and made our way out to another area of the Reservation. Same game plan, same teams. Larry, Kevin, and I had two of Larry’s dogs in the trunk, and Floyd’s team was a few miles down a different road. We were driving along with flashlights again for an hour or so, and I was getting dawn-sleepy when Larry firmly said something like, “KEVIN. STOP.” We got out and inspected the freshly-snowed road. Larry had spotted another track, and it was exactly what we were hoping for. A four-inchwide paw mark that plunged two feet into the snow. It had no claw marks, a rounded rear pad with three rounded lobes in the back, and the distinct rearward ankle drag mark of a cat. Not a small cat, like the day before. A big cat.

Radio and inReach messages both went out to Floyd, and he and Julie hauled back to where we were in his command center truck. Garmin screens, stainless dog boxes, and eight steamy noses poking out of holes in the latter.

We let the dogs out, and after a few minutes of sniffing and encouragement from us, they found the trail. They bombed to the bottom of a 1,000foot canyon and began their chase. We patiently watched on the handheld Garmin screen, walked up and down the road, and observed.

They had run far. Miles. They were still running. We needed to get closer for their safety and to be ready in case the perfect scenario unfolded.

Kevin, Larry, and I took off up the road, and Floyd and Julie wrapped back down the hill and around to the other side of the canyon.

We had a WMAT tribal biologist with us, so I jumped in with him. His rig was a late-’90s single-cab long-bed gas F350 with a five-speed manual box.

The only appropriate thought was, Oh boy.

The next few hours involved chains, winches, mud, deep snow, chains, snow, whining BFGs, more winching, more snow, more mud, and more winching. We worked our way up a road that would test a vehicle in the dry, but somehow we made progress. When we finally stopped making much, I got another order from Larry that I’ll never forget. It left no room for interpretation or interruption.

“Levi. You gotta go find them dogs.”

He handed me the Garmin, pointed into the woods, and said to, “Start walkin’ that way.” Once again, my instinct was to argue, but it was a matter of the dogs’ safety and the possibility of Kevin getting a shot at a lion.

I took off through the snow, following both the Garmin and the tracks of an epic chase. The Garmin showed the dogs about 4,000 yards away, so I was 38

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hustling. It was also about 9 degrees out, so I was motoring to stay warm.

Following the tracks was like living the ultimate CSI investigation. There were many places where the cat had climbed boulders and jumped 20-footwide creeks. The dogs’ tracks went through the water. The cat tracks did not.

After about an hour, I reached the bottom of the first canyon. I was greeted by a creek about 15 feet wide and 2-4 feet deep. I wandered up and down a bit, looking for a place to cross, but there was no good option. Hopping with my pack on across frozen boulders and the Garmin in my hand, I inevitably fell face-first into some water that might have been dangerous if I had stopped moving.

Reinvigorated, I scrambled out and trudged on down the creek, only to find that I had crossed a fork in the creek and I was now at the confluence.

The only option without hiking an extra hour or two around was to cross back where I was and then back again, and it was deeper and wider than before.

I crossed the first time with little issue. It was boulder-y, slick, and icy, but momentum carried me to the opposite bank. I wandered up and down for a long time looking for a crossable spot back to the side the dogs were on, and I found one. I had to climb and jump from a 10-foot-tall boulder to a five-foot-tall boulder in the middle, then across to a long, flat one that was just above the surface, and it was about 4-5 feet deep. Well, I jumped, landed on the rock, and... slipped into the void. I scrambled out again, holding the Garmin above my head.

Standing on the bank, I looked down at the Garmin and back up where it was showing the dogs. 2,000 yards away, straight uphill.

It was a monster mountain face. Going around to the canyon they were in looked to be about a three-mile trek, and I still would have had to climb, so I chose to go up and over. I swear it was a 70-degree face. It was so steep, most of the snow had slid off. I was holding onto trees and doing crampontype steps for well over an hour. Maybe the most difficult climb of my life.

It warmed me back up, though! When I got to the top, I had dried out and become soaked again with sweat.

My clothes were frozen on the outside and like a sauna on the inside. My beard was frozen, the Garmin soaked with sweat, and I had muttered so many curse words that my mom would have a heart attack if she knew. All the while, I had been following the distant sound of baying hounds and the unthinkably spaced cat tracks.

That sucker had been MOVING. Just over the crest, I was greeted by one of the older dogs who must have heard me swearing as I was falling up the hill. That was one of the most welcoming moments I’ve ever experienced. Just a tired old hound dog named Scout who rounded me up and showed me where to go.

I kept trudging through the snow between the pines for another 20 minutes or so. When I came to a big canyon where my ears were full of baying, I crested the edge and was staring right into the soul of a 180-lb lion about 40 yards away. His gaze was locked on me, and it gave me a big chill and a healthy dose of primal terror. These things mean business. They are designed to kill, eat, and repeat.

A little further down, I found none other than Floyd Green, sitting at the base of the tree the cat was in, calmly whispering sweet nothings to his dogs as they tore the trunk apart, trying to climb up and get the kitty.

I said something to the effect of, “WOW, FLOYD. HOW COOL!” He turned around and calmly said, “Shhhhh.

He’s reading our energy, and it will really help if we stay calm.”

So, we stayed calm. I sat down and took off my puffy jacket with steam pouring out of it. I got back to a comfortable temp and sat with Floyd for what felt like a week, just watching, listening, encouraging the dogs, and learning just how special his relationship with both the dogs and their quarry is.

In reality, it was probably just under two hours.

Kevin and Larry, meanwhile, had been stuck, unstuck, re-stuck, and unstuck again probably a dozen times. The Apache biologist who had been cruising with us had broken the four-wheel drive on his F350. They had come around from the bottom of the big canyon and finally met up with Julie, who was waiting at Floyd’s truck.

We watched/heard Kevin and Larry cruising down and across the canyon to us while we gathered up the dogs and tied them off. When they arrived, we did some game planning, and Kevin decided to take a shot with his bow.

It was about 9 yards, but at a 75-degree angle. Not an easy shot.

Kevin hit the most perfect dot-shot I’ve ever seen, and the cat tumbled.

He took out 6-inch branches on the way down before thumping into the snow and taking one final, fatal leap into a nearby gully. Wow! I will never forget this adventure. All of the running, effort, challenges, and what some might call “suffering” made it easily one of the most enjoyable days of my life. WH

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// You need to check your bubble level.

// Nothing ruins a hunt faster than bad boots.

Eight Rules for Hunters

// Stepping over something is always quieter than stepping on it.

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// Animals see movement.

// The more you slow down, the better you glass.

// Your luck can change in the blink of an eye.

// Gear can never replace knowledge.

// You will never be faster than an elk.

Front of Mind

KNIVES DESIGNED

BY HUNTERS FOR HUNTERS KNIFE MODEL: THE S TONEWALL SKINNER S TEEL: 52100 C ARBON S TEEL HANDLE: G-10

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WARNING: MKC knives are incredibly sharp out of the box and may cause lacerations of the skin if handled improperly.

// T H E S TA L K

The HUNT for a Public LandGiant A CO N S CI O U S D ECI S I O N S E A LS TH E D E A L B Y J A M E S YAT E S

ith only a couple of hours of daylight left on the final day of the season, I was within 100 yards once again of this nearly 240" monarch. The buck I named “KK” was trailing a hot doe, and she was on a game trail heading straight for me–100 yards, 80 yards, 60 yards... My heart was absolutely pounding. KK needed to come about 15 yards closer for me to have a perfect broadside shot. Then, the most unthinkable thing happened. A 170-class four-point came crashing down through the aspens, right for the hot doe. I watched in absolute disbelief as KK disappeared, chasing off the other buck. I literally started crying.

I worked my way back across the canyon to the glassing spot to try for one last Hail Mary before dark. Ty, my partner, was voraciously glassing the pine line, trying to turn the buck back up himself. Then, at about 4:30 PM, Ty caught a glimpse of a heavy antler through the pines. We made a quick plan, and I set off on the stalk of my life. Sundown was 5:01 PM, which meant the legal close of the season was 5:31 PM. I had zero time to waste.

W

I ran as fast as I could in the deep snow and closed the distance in about 20 minutes. The deer were coming out of the pines up onto the steep, aspencovered hillside. As I was approaching the herd, I pulled up my binos every few yards to try and identify KK with no luck. The evening thermals were coming down the slope very consistently, and time was running out, so I decided to press forward, making sure I stayed below the deer.

Finally, after inching forward another 50 yards, I saw KK materialize from behind some tall brush, about 100 yards away. He was following a doe on a game trail that cut perpendicularly across the steep slope. I crept up to the edge of the pines, making sure to remain under the cover of the pine boughs.

Light was fading fast, and it was already especially dark in the timber, so I used this to my advantage. As KK moved along the game trail, I paralleled below him, staying hidden by the darkness of the timber and the crust-free powder below the pines (the snow was crunchy everywhere else).

I paralleled KK for about 40 yards like this, just hoping that he’d stop long enough in an opening for a shot. When he finally stopped in a small opening, I ranged him at 65 yards and drew. Just as I was settling my pin, KK started walking again. I quietly let down and continued to parallel below him in the pines. Within 15 yards, KK stopped again, I ranged and drew, and he started walking again.

This time I didn’t let my draw down. I consciously made the decision that I didn’t need to re-range him because as I paralleled him, I remained about the same distance away from him. Also, my arrow had a very flat trajectory, so even if the range was off a few yards, I knew my arrow would still land in the kill zone.

After a few more steps, KK stopped again. I immediately dropped to my back knee to clear the pine boughs in front of me, and I executed my shot sequence. I remember seeing a flash of my orange vanes burying into KK’s armpit, followed by the distinct “thunk!” of a body cavity hit. What I had visualized every day for the last four months of hunting this buck had finally taken place. KK took one big leap behind some tall brush, and that was it. He just collapsed, dead. WH TURNING POINT: After ranging the buck, drawing his bow and settling his pin, the author had to let down as the buck started walking again.

When the same scenario happened again, he consciously made the decision not to let down and re-range the buck because as he paralleled him, he remained about the same distance away.

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Twice in a Lifetime

BY JA RYD B ER N ST EI N

A marine veteran capitalizes on two incredible opportunities 46

WESTERN HUNTER

I

n 2010, I deployed with VMFA-312 as part of the strike unit tasked with providing close air support to coalition forces on the ground for OEF (Operation Enduring Freedom). On this deployment, I unfortunately won myself a spine injury, which leads us into how I was able to hunt two incredible tags in 2024.

In the early days of summer 2024, I received a call about a Unit 10 Arizona archery bull tag, as I am on the list of VA-approved, service-connected disabled veterans who can accept turned-in tags from the state of Arizona.

I was well aware of the magnitude of this opportunity and jumped right on the phone to the team at Drop Tyne Outfitters (DTO) to see if they had someone available to help and call for me. I had hunted with DTO in the past, and once again, they stepped up and instantly jumped on board– moving folks around and doing everything they could to help me with this unique opportunity.

Hot and Unbothered

and we kept moving. We made it to within 300 or so yards of the elk, and the sun was setting, but our approach, based on the wind, put us directly in the sun. We had to move slowly through a large open area, only moving as the sun set. We stayed in the shade so as not to be highlighted for the elk to pick us up.

The final gap we had to close was very open. We were within 180 yards of the elk, but our next tree was 105 yards away. We started crawling, on our faces, in the grass and dirt, with our allergy issues still present. It was honestly disgusting–noses flowing, holding in sneezes, and dragging our faces in the dirt. It took us nearly an hour of crawling to make it the 100-ish yards to the final tree between us and the elk. We still had not seen the target bull since leaving the glassing point, but we were confident that he was around the cows that we could see.

Surrounded

When we got to the last tree, we tried to recover from our crawl and allergy The hunt started slow. We had 90-degree temps, a not-so-ideal moon, and, party while we worked on locating the bull. We had nowhere else to go– in turn, minimal rut activity leading up to the start of the hunt. It’s easy to there were 15 or so cows within 100 yards of us, one small bull at about 65 get somewhat discouraged with those factors and this massive tag in your yards, and a handful of cows in a small group of bushes within 50 yards of pocket, but we didn’t. We just kept doing what we had to do to find the bulls us. We had to hope the big bull would start to cooperate, or else we were and give ourselves a chance. going to have ourselves a nice sunset walk back to gather all the gear we left On the evening of the third day, we spotted a few bulls and cows about on the hill.

1.5 miles away from the knob we were glassing from. With the minimal After a little less than 10 minutes, the big bull finally stepped out. Grady activity, we knew we needed to get up high, be patient behind the glass, and I both looked at each other in near disbelief. I already had an arrow and hunt with our eyes for a while. When you ready, and Grady was instantly on his rangefindlook at a big bull, a really big bull, you know er. We waited for the bull to stop–he was at 79 what you are looking at. We knew, even at over a yards. Grady was giving me updated ranges by “I was in my own mile out, this bull was exactly what we needed to the second as I slipped out of the tree we were go after. The mood on the hill changed instantly. using as cover. My only shot was from my knees, head, essentially We didn’t have the time that afternoon to close based on the tree branches that were in the way adding no value the gap. We could have literally run over there, from the standing position and the exposure I to the situation but we all knew that was the wrong call, as there would have if I took one step further. Seventywere other elk in between us. So, we watched nine yards, from my knees. and wondering if I let the arrow go. The bull was standing still, until dark and then spent all evening making a I should hang perfectly broadside, feeding. We both heard what plan. Who would be on the hill glassing, which my bow up direction we would hike in from if the wind did sounded like the arrow hitting branches. The bull didn’t move. I was convinced I’d missed, and even “X,” and which direction we would hike in from for good.” got a bit vocal with Grady about how I felt I had if the wind did “Y.” We had plans on plans, and as you can imagjust blown the greatest opportunity I’d ever had. ine, the elk did not cooperate the next morning.

Grady stayed calm and confident. He told me to We hiked in, never found the bull, and neither did our spotter on the hill. get another arrow ready, and as I was quietly doing so, the bull turned and The rollercoaster we all love called elk hunting had once again given us a dip, gave us another shot, opposite the first shot, perfectly broadside again. but we knew the bull was here, and we knew we had to get back up high and I have never been so nervous taking a shot. As I was trying to settle my locate him. We sat on the hill all day–hours of exposed sun, burning through pin, Grady had eyes on the first arrow. It was perfect. Sticking out of the bull, water and food to keep us behind the glass. Nothing out of the ordinary for good blood, a great first shot. I couldn’t see that arrow in all my emotion as I let the second arrow fly. The second arrow connected. It was a bit further anyone who shares our hunting addiction. back than we wanted, but the bull instantly showed signs of being hit and ran off into the trees just out of our sight. Grady had seen the first arrow, we Challenging Approach At around 1530 (3:30 PM for those of you without a DD214 and anger is- both knew the second one hit, and we both knew the right call was to give sues), we turned the bull up. He was easy to identify with the inline on his the bull some time.

Anyone who has been in the position to “give the animal some time” right side and giant thirds. We had minimal time to close the nearly one mile between us, but with minimal animals in between us and having knows how we were feeling. We sat, and I questioned everything. Grady watched another elk get killed that morning near his location, we knew we remained positive and productive, updating our friends in the area, getting a route planned, etc. I was in my own head, essentially adding no value to needed to move.

We ran off the hill–literally. We left our packs, water, tripods, everything. the situation and wondering if I should hang my bow up for good. I had We knew we had to go light and fast. To add to the fun, the allergy levels never been under 100 yards from a 390"+ bull, and from my seat, I had just were high for this year. As Grady (DTO guide) and I made our way quickly screwed it all up.

I couldn’t believe what Grady was telling me about the first arrow since toward the elk, we both suddenly went into allergy attacks. At one point, Grady sneezed at least 15 times in a row, which is about as not ideal as pos- the bull did not move at all, but Grady was right. The first arrow was perfect, and after giving him about an hour to settle, we walked up on the bull sible as you are moving in on elk.

I had one allergy pill in my bino harness, so we split that, chewed on it not 35 yards from where he was when we shot him. A 392" Arizona giant for a faster effect (I’m not sure if that works, but it made sense at the time), with a bow–a memory and a pile of lessons I will never forget.

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Doubling Up

The craziness of my 2024 hunting season did not stop there. I headed to New Mexico to help with another elk tag that a buddy of mine from Virginia had. While on this NM hunt, I got a call about a Kaibab rifle deer tag. Those of you who know what that means know that I may have been the luckiest hunter in the world for the entire year of 2024. I told my buddies about the call, and they essentially asked me why I wasn’t packing already.

The call came on a Monday, and the hunt started on Friday. I had to get back to AZ and turn my gear around from helping with a NM elk hunt to hunting for myself with a rifle north of the Grand Canyon. Talk about a welcome logistical challenge. I once again worked with Drop Tyne Outfitters to secure some help and made it to the Kaibab Thursday night, just as the folks in their deer camp were sitting down for dinner.

The DTO crew is known for their success on the Kaibab, and they have earned that recognition. Three big bucks got killed over the next three days.

I was not the shooter–the other clients in camp were. One buck scored just under 200", one just under 190", and a slammer of a buck, killed by a 16-year-old on his first deer hunt with his dad and the DTO crew, hit the ground at 206". I got to help glass as those guys were successful on that giant, and it may be one of the neatest things I have done in the woods. Sharing in the excitement of that kid having such a great hunt was something I did not know I would benefit from at such a high level.

After that, I was the only tag in camp. The entire DTO crew jumped in to help glass, but they/we had knocked down some giants, so my expectation of finding another “once-in-a-lifetime” buck was minimal. I think I was trying to be “realistic,” which turned out to be thankfully out of my control.

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We glassed a lot, and we did our due diligence, picking apart the country we knew the big bucks were in this time of year. When we didn’t turn anything up, we decided to move areas.

Final Revelation

On our move, in the middle of the day, Mikey from DTO spotted a buck bedded. We could only see a partial side of one antler, and we got into a bit of an argument about how big the buck was. One guy could see nearly nothing, another guy could see a decent view, and I could see the entire side of the buck. We laughed about not being able to tell what he was, but then he stood up and turned. This is where the panic happened.

We panicked because he was huge. Not 45 seconds later, I had my rifle, Mikey was giving me a range, and I fired my only shot of the trip. The buck ran over a small rise and we lost sight, but knew he was hit good. He made it about 40 yards and died on his feet, running. He flipped over and got wrapped up in a tree. Done. When we got to the buck, I couldn’t believe it.

We had just knocked down an AZ giant, only a few weeks after what will probably be the biggest bull I ever hunt. The buck ended up scoring 202", but what makes him a bit more special to me is his mass. He is the heaviest mule deer I have ever put my scope on.

I am thankful to the State of AZ for their program that allows non-profit organizations like Changed By Nature Outdoors (CBNO) to get disabled veterans into the woods. I won’t detail what the woods do for me mentally, but I can tell you it’s life-changing and necessary. 2024 will forever be the season to remember, and I will never be able to thank the DTO crew or CBNO enough for the impact they have had on me. WH

// G E A R R E V I E W

anging around the Outdoorsmans headquarters for the last seven years, I’ve had my fair share of time behind some truly exceptional glass. Over those years, it’s quite obvious that there are 4-5 major players when it comes to top-tier glass, so anytime we catch wind of someone creeping their way into the majors, all ears perk up.

Element Optics’ rifle scopes have my attention. Their design team is composed of a handful of top competition shooters, hunters, and Swedish military veterans, providing Element Optics with decades of in-field experience in a number of different shooting disciplines. Their singular purpose in coming together was to create a better option for consumers based on their needs.

Recently, I put over 250 rounds out within a span of two days at varying distances, from 150 yards to roughly 800 yards, at a recent NRL Hunter match in Clovis, NM. It was the perfect chance to get familiar with the Nexus Gen II 4-25x50 and gather up some first impressions.

H

Packaging & First Impressions I’m not one to hold too much stock in how the product is delivered–my opinion has grown to it being a waste of money and resources to deliver an unboxing “experience.” That being said, the Nexus Gen II comes in a suitable box with custom-cut foam holding it in place. The rifle scope includes a throw lever, a neoprene cover, a sunshade, an aperture ring, a lens cloth, and a thread protector. That’s a pretty sweet deal compared to some brands that toss an optic in a cardboard box and call it a day.

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The scope itself feels really solid in hand. It’s a 30 mm tube with a 50 mm objective and a hard-anodized finish. It has a clean profile, easy-to-read indicators, and highly textured adjustment rings that feel impossible to slip up on.

Design Features Zero-Stop Turret: One of my favorite design features of this rifle scope is the turret. It’s responsive, it’s “clicky,” it’s accurate, the adjustment lines actually line up to the indicator (one of my biggest frustrations with many rifle scopes), and it’s almost too easy to zero. I say almost too easy because, while it did have me stumped for a solid 10 minutes (failed to read the user’s manual and I thought I’d seen it all), once I figured it out (read a book), it was done in roughly 2.3 seconds and felt like I was missing something. But I wasn’t. It was zeroed–no tiny screws, no tools, no Rubik’s cubes–just dial, pick up the cap, and place it back down on the zero. Done.

Once zeroed, the turret continues to shine. Like I mentioned earlier, the physical, audible, and visual feedback from adjustments is excellent. The turret features a zero-stop that goes 5 “clicks” past zero. Some shooters prefer this flexibility–for me, it was something to get used to. Something I found extremely useful was the revolution indicator. A humble little lever that flips between a ‘1’ and ‘2’ depending on whether you’ve made a full revolution or not is a massive help when making numerous adjustments between shots.

Illumination: The Nexus Gen II comes stock with a 10-step illuminated reticle easily controlled with a soft-touch rubber button located on the windage turret–useful for those early mornings or dawn shots. One thing to note: on some occasions, the required CR2032 battery will not work due to the bitter coating. You can remove the coating by licking it off, and if that doesn’t work, use rubbing alcohol. Or, be a smarter man than me and buy the non-coated version.

Eye Relief and Eye Box: Two minutes to take four shots in different positions and targets quickly makes you realize how important it is to have comfortable eye relief and a large eye box. During the match, I did not struggle to get right into the perfect eye position between shots, even while wearing bulky ear and eye protection. Admittedly, I do not wear either during hunts, which I can only imagine will make getting into the sweet spot that much more of a breeze. When looking for a rifle scope, the eye box is important to me, and this rifle scope passes with flying colors.

Glass and Magnification: I found that the 4-25x range is the goldilocks zone between mid-range and long-range shooting. Never did I feel a target was out of reach, and even more importantly, I never felt completely “boxed in” at the nearer ~150 yard targets. The roughly 6x variability made for incredibly quick target acquisition after taking a shot during the match.

The ability to throw the magnification down to 4x, find the target, and just right back into a comfortable 12x using the throw lever was invaluable during the match. I don’t think I need to spell out why that’s valuable for hunting scenarios.

My early impressions of the glass itself suggest that it’s clean, it’s bright, and it’s accurate. At higher magnification levels, I didn’t lose too much brightness, nor did I notice any color fringing or excessive blurriness. The glass is very solid for the price.

Conclusion All in all, the Element Optics Nexus Gen II feels like a well-designed rifle scope; whether you’re looking for an NRL hunter-style competition, strictly hunting, or long-distance rifle scope, or you’re like me and need one rifle scope to be capable of all things, I wouldn’t hesitate to call the Nexus Gen II a smart purchase.

It’s waterproof, fogproof, shockproof, and comes with a “Platinum Lifetime Warranty” that covers any rifle scopes damaged through normal use and requires no registration, proof of purchase, or transfer. Basically, if you have a problem, Element will fix it. I haven’t tested the warranty, but it’s worth noting. The accessories included in the box are also a point to the good–it’s the small things that add up to a good experience, and the Nexus has them covered. WH TECHNICAL SPECS: Magnification: 4-25x Objective Lens Diameter: 50mm Elevation Adj: 100 MOA Windage Adj: 40 MOA Weight: 30.7 oz Cost: $2,199 Contact: Element-Optics.com WESTERN HUNTER

51

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Of Bou & Bow

Chasing Mountain Caribou in the North West Territories

BY R EM I WA R R EN

I

couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen to my bow as I loaded it into the case. I hate those thoughts, but the bow for this trip was integral in my mind. I just needed it to show up–unlike other trips where I could make do. This hunt was to take place in the most remote reaches of North America, and it was a trip I had been dreaming about for a long time. After four days of travel, my boots would hit the dirt in the northernmost portion of the famed McKenzie Mountains in the NWT. I was headed to chase mountain caribou. These caribou, true to their name, inhabit the high ridges and slopes of the range during the summer months, before moving down into their winter range. This hunt was high on my list for many reasons. The first of these was wanting to experience a hunt in the McKenzie Mountains. Having heard stories of this vast and seemingly untouched place, I was immediately intrigued. Second was the animal itself. Caribou have always fascinated me. It is one of the few animals of which no two are quite the same. They live in the most remote reaches of the north, and unfortunately, hunting opportunities for caribou as a whole are decreasing.

About eight years ago, a good friend of mine mentioned something to me that I really took to heart. He said, “If you want to caribou hunt, do it now.”

That statement really set the wheels in motion. I really wanted to chase all the species of caribou with my bow. His words, “do it now,” became even more meaningful as before I was able to embark on my first caribou hunt, a DIY hunt in Alaska, the Quebec-Labrador herd was shut down to hunting.

Here I was, over eight years later, about to chase the last species of caribou on that list, the mountain caribou–one of the most desirable among the lot.

Their massive antlers and large bodies make them a standout subspecies.

I had the tag, the flights, a guide–everything was in place. I just needed to grab my bow, get on the mountain, and find one that would lend itself to getting within bow range.

As I waited in baggage claim in Yellowknife for an overnight before flying to Norman Wells the next morning, then into base camp the day after that, I felt a pit in my stomach. The bow never showed up at the luggage pickup.

For some reason, the bow never transferred at my last stop. At this point, I was not too worried. I had two more days, and there were over four flights that it could get on to make it. The next day, I got on my next flight. The bow did not show. I was banking on the hope that someone put it on a plane, and it would eventually turn up. To make a long story short, the next day, if not for an acquaintance who knew someone who went to the airport and practically stole the bow and put it on a flight, I would have left for the hunt bowless. It arrived five minutes before we were going to take off on the charter flight into the mountains. My anxiety about something happening to my bow subsided, and I knew I was about to hunt a mountain caribou.

As we flew into the mountains, the scale of where I was headed began to grow. Valleys and rivers started stacking up. Ridges and slopes seemed to expand into an infinite range of mountains, as if I were looking at them through two opposing mirrors. The vastness of the McKenzies seemed endless.

From the float plane, we were dropped over 150 miles from where we took off, at a small lake where a cabin sat tucked into a patch of willows.

The cabin, decorated with scars from bears trying to break in, is where we met Colin, our guide for the week. Unless they’re a resident of NWT, every hunter is legally required to hunt with a guide. The plan for the week was to scout out the mountains behind the cabin the first day, then head up and backpack into the head basins and valleys across the way.

With the sun never really setting, that night just bled into the next day.

In light rain, we loaded up the packs and made a climb to the top of the mountain behind us. As we crested over, I caught the tips of a bull about 250 yards below us. It was a nice bull, but not a first-day shooter. We worked around to see if he had any friends. Being extremely cautious, we backed out, went around the mountain, and popped out on the other side with a good view and farther away so as not to spook the bull, just in case.

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“The scale of where I was headed began to grow. Valleys and rivers started stacking up. Ridges and slopes seemed to expand into an infinite range of mountains, as if I were looking at them through two opposing mirrors. The vastness of the McKenzies seemed endless.”

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Well... that did not work! The bull blew out, running. Why? I may never know. Was it us? I am not sure. It did open my eyes to the idea that these caribou may not be that easy to get within bow range of. Either it caught another predator’s wind, or we were chasing the most keyed-in Caribou on the planet. That bull just took off, and honestly, it may still be running.

We continued to glass the valleys on the other side, and every time we thought we had seen it all, another bull or group of animals would appear.

The mountains had so many folds that it was easy to conceal the caribou, especially since their deep brown coats this time of year really blended into the wet dirt and mountain. We looked over a decent number of animals but didn’t find any of the big bulls that the area is known to hold, so we made our way back to the cabin that night to pack into new country the next day.

The next day, we loaded up and worked around the lake, planning to get back into a new drainage that would be a good starting point for moving into multiple other drainages. About a mile into the hike, I stopped to get water out of the lake in case that was the last water we hit for the day. Just as I finished filling up, a black wolf popped over the ridge four or five hundred yards in front of us.

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I crawled to my bow as the wolf worked the caribou trail towards us. As it hit about 250 yards, it picked us up. A female. Her bright yellow eyes fixed on us as we lay motionless in the open. Her head dropped low as she tried to figure out if we were something she might be able to eat.

Curiosity got the best of her as she moved closer. She hit the hill near us at 67 yards. I gave a squeak like you would for a coyote, and she stopped. I was at full draw, and the arrow left my bow shortly after. The hit was good, and she disappeared over the hill. The three of us looked at each other in disbelief. I had just taken a wolf with my bow!

We tagged and skinned the wolf while making a plan to hike back to the cabin to salt the hide before hiking back into where we wanted to hunt. No sense in carrying it around all week. While we were finishing prepping the hide to pack out, Zach, the other guy with me, spotted a good bull skylined on a steep, shale-covered knife ridge. We had a wolf down and now had a destination for spike camp. We needed a better look at this bull.

After the detour of packing the wolf back and salting the hide, we were back on our way to get a better look at the bull, miles away on the skyline ridge. After about three or so miles, we had an option to drop down to the river and try getting across or stay on the side the bull was on, drop camp, and work up for a closer look.

Across seemed like a great spot to base out of, so we moved to the edge to find a way down to the river. As we popped over, 80 yards below us, a sow and cub grizzly exploded in the water, splashing through and wrestling each other. Unaware of us, they were ready to move and took a path that was leading right to us. We made haste to create space for the pair, as we were not looking for a negative confrontation. We moved off, and the bears parked it where we wanted to go, so we changed plans and headed to set up camp on the same side as the bull.

We dropped camp and worked up to the ridge bull. It was a great bull, but this early in the hunt, it was not one I wanted to make a play on. He was bigger than any bull I had taken, but I needed to see what else was around.

We dropped back down and planned a big hike for the next day that would lead us over through new drainages and into more country.

The next morning was heavy with fog, but it burned off quickly, so the plan was a go. We hiked and glassed all day, covering a lot of miles and just as much in elevation gain, to no avail. Just a couple of pockets of cows and lots of good-looking country. After making it to where we wanted, we decided to hike back. About halfway back, as we popped over the ridge, two bulls were feeding below us.

We circled around out of sight, got the wind, and moved in for a good look.

As we got closer, I could tell that one of the bulls was what I was looking for.

With the rain coming down, we moved around, hoping the bull would work the caribou trail in a direction that allowed us to make a play. Instead, they bedded. The big bull bedded in a great spot for a stalk, but the small bull was bedded in the open, looking over the approach.

We waited, but shortly after, the small bull put his head down and fell asleep. This was the chance. A risky stalk, but if we could move 40 yards, we would be out of sight of both caribou and able to close the gap for the shot.

We scooted down the slope. With only one more slide, we would be out of sight and able to move in. Then, either a wind swirl or a noise out of place caused the smaller bull to bolt from sleep to a dead run, taking the big bull with him. They stopped downwind before getting a good whiff and running as far as we could see. The stalk was blown, and it felt like a good opportunity was messed up by a hasty stalk.

The next day, we explored some new country, hiking up different valleys before planning to head to the saddle where the bull we called “Ridge Runner” was a few days before. After a big climb in the afternoon, we had only seen small bulls and cows. I was glassing about five miles off in the distance and spotted what looked like a great caribou.

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There were two together, and the small one had a really white neck. In the rain and at that distance, it was impossible to tell, but I had a sneaking suspicion I may have turned up the bull I stalked. Right about then, the ridge bull appeared below us out of seemingly nowhere with a group of cows.

They scaled the steep face and bedded on the top. Unapproachable for a stalk, especially with so many.

I now had a choice to make: hunt this ridge bull or head out and try to get a closer look at the bulls far across the valley. I opted to make a play and investigate the other bulls, knowing full well that the bull we were walking away from may or may not turn back up.

Once back at our spike camp, I could tell that the two bulls were the ones we had stalked. So, the next morning, we loaded up camp to push across and try to make a play. They disappeared out of sight for us, but I was confident they would be near there, as the bottom of where they were was sheer cliffs.

I felt like if we got over there, I would at least be able to assess and maybe make a stalk.

At the base of the mountain, we dropped our gear and made the climb.

As we worked toward their last known location, I caught the tips of the antlers of the two bulls. We dropped our packs and worked in just in time to watch them bed in the open.

This time we had time, and the plan was now to wait them out, figure out a good route, and be patient until they put themselves in a stalkable position.

To get an idea of where I might be able to go, I crawled in to about 160 yards before losing the cover of the hill. I noticed that the route behind me to the right offered a little more topography and a place where I could move quickly if they moved, so we backed out and planned to re-stalk in from that side to wait.

As I moved back around, I was putting my arrow back into the quiver.

The arrow slipped, bumped the quiver, and struck my Yolk cable, slicing through half the stings on the cable. My heart sank as the strings started to unravel. I quickly borrowed someone’s Chapstick and worked it into the string, twisting it to keep it from unraveling and getting into the working parts of the bow.

My fear was realized. If only the delayed bow had been the worst of it. I was mid-stalk on a caribou I had been dreaming about chasing for a long time, we had no backup bow or rifle, and I was not sure what would happen at the shot.

Would the bow explode on the draw? Would the tune be off enough to affect the arrow flight? Or, would it all work fine and not be an issue?

We sat there 140 yards away from the two bedded bulls for over an hour, all this playing through my head as we waited. I decided that I was going to try. I felt like the string would hold at least for the first shot. There really was no other option, and I was just thankful I didn’t cut through more.

After a long wait, the bulls started to get restless and popped up to feed.

They started to work into the wind and dipped below a small bench on the mountain. It was action time. We quickly moved while they were out of sight, hit the bench, and crawled in. I could see the bull’s antlers about 60 yards away and feeding closer. I scooted into position and waited. He kept feeding to 47 yards, and I readied for the shot. He turned broadside, and I drew the bow.

Well, it didn’t explode, so that was good. I steadied for the shot and released.

The left and right were perfect, but the shot looked low. From my view, I could not see where or if I hit, but the bull ran out and started shaking his head strangely. I quickly shot again at a longer distance. Miss. The bow, I was now confident, was shooting off, and I suspected that it was about five yards of adjustment low.

This was not good, as the bull started to move off and up the mountain.

I circled for another shot, but he caught me and bombed off the mountain out of sight. I knew that the bow was holding together, but I needed to verify where it was shooting. I picked a clump and shot an arrow. My sight was indeed about five yards off. I gathered arrows and prayed we would be able to turn him up again.

We moved to where he disappeared and found good blood, but I was not confident at all. The hit did not look good to me, so we moved slowly. The mountain was steep enough that I could only see about 20 yards below. As we neared the bottom, I caught the bull in the flats, 100 yards out.

We sat and watched. He stood for a while before taking off on a trail towards the lake below. Once he hit the lake, he did what nature had taught him to do to avoid wolves. He got in the water and swam. Thankfully, he made a quick U-turn, got out, and bedded, watching his backtrail. It was really hard to tell how badly he was hit, so we watched.

The plan was to sneak in and shoot another arrow. We could see him put his head down to sleep. I stalked into the bull, treating it as though he was alert and ready to run out of the country. We crawled in until I lost cover and had one more opportunity for a shot. I was hoping the five-yards-off estimate was accurate. The shot was 73 yards, so I set it for 78, held steady, and released. The arrow stuck perfectly, and the bull rolled over and expired.

In retrospect, the bull was probably on his way out, but the extra shot sped up the recovery.

I could not believe it worked. I was millimeters away from completely sabotaging the hunt, and that rollercoaster of the unknown involved some of the highest highs and lowest lows I have experienced while hunting.

As I walked up on the bull, we all looked at each other in near disbelief that all the circumstances worked out so well. I bent down and put my hands on the large bull. It was everything I would have wanted from the hunt: an incredible adventure, stunning country, and a giant velvet-clad bull taken with my bow.

Things could have gone a lot worse, and I was thankful that it had all worked out. I said a prayer of thanks for the day and the life of the bull. A rainbow appeared over the lake behind us as we broke the bull down. The setting could not have been more perfect, nor the ending more poignant to the hunt of a lifetime for me. WH

WESTERN HUNTER

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Basic Tips for Backcountry Hunting As the title implies, these are quick and simple tips for backpack hunting. They’re not meant to be gospel, but they are things that have worked for me over the last 10 years.

Every little thing you can do to create confidence or be more efficient in the woods will not only lead to more success, but also to having a better time.

B Y B R O D Y L AY H E R

Keep your isobutane canisters warm.

How well an isobutane canister works is completely dependent on its temperature. If it’s warm, the gas sprays out with no issue, and your stove works perfectly. If it’s cold, you may start to hear it spit and sputter and never sound like it’s running at full clip. The way to combat that is by keeping the canister somewhere in a well-insulated part of your pack when you’re not using it and keeping it up off the cold ground when you are using it. It can also help to wrap your hands around the can while it is in use.

Carry a pee bottle.

Gross, right? No. Extremely practical. The most annoying thing in the world is having to fumble around your tent looking for some kind of footwear, while also losing all the precious body heat you worked so hard for. Take the crunched-up water bottle from the back seat of your vehicle and stick it somewhere near your sleeping bag. You’ll save yourself a few hours of sleep over the next couple of years. Make sure you give it a couple of practice runs first. Good aim is key.

Sleep with your clothes on.

It might seem weird not to take off the clothes you’ve been wearing all day, especially if you’ve been wet and sweating all day. However, if you’re in the backcountry, you’re not trying to impress anyone with your scent, and it doesn’t really matter how dirty you are. If you keep all your clothes on, you’ll cook your whole system dry while you’re sleeping and be able to get in an extra cup of coffee while you wait for your buddy to uncomfortably put on all his freezing cold clothes.

Starting to sweat?

Take a layer off. Everyone who hunts in the West has found themselves in a situation where they’re starting to sweat, but it feels like it’ll be a pain in the ass to take a layer off. Almost always, the best course of action is to shed the layer. It usually only takes about 45 seconds from unclipping one side of your bino harness to clipping your hip belt back up. You never want to get in a situation where you’re caught waiting for an animal to stand up on a windswept ridge with a soaking wet mid-layer.

Carry a spare headlamp.

This won’t be used by you very much, but it feels like every other time I am in the woods, someone either forgets their headlamp or theirs is completely dead. It’s best to keep something like a Petzl E+Lite in a bino harness pocket.

No one is above leaving a headlamp hanging from a tree branch while quickly packing up camp to chase the morning’s first bugle; it’s best to pack a backup.

Find a routine and stay organized.

If every time you wake up and go to bed, it’s chaos, you’re probably losing valuable sleep or spending energy that you don’t need to. Using the vestibules of your tent or having designated areas where you put certain pieces of gear can make you much more efficient at night and in the mornings.

Getting into a routine while on the mountain keeps you focused on the task at hand. If you’re constantly changing things up, it leads to less time figuring out the critters, and it can even make you a poor hunting partner. WH

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WESTERN HUNTER

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Full Circle The Hound Dog Giveaway

BY K YL E G R EEN E

I

saw my first mountain lion in the spring of 1996. My dad was friends with some outfitters who hired out mountain lion hunts during the winter. That spring, we visited them at their home, and they showed us a VHS film of the hunts from the previous winter. I was sitting on their couch, petting their German Shorthair, when I saw my first mountain lion.

He was magnificent, perched high in a fir tree, looking down at the hounds.

At the base of the tree were two of the finest-looking treeing walkers I had ever seen. They barked methodically, holding the big cat on his perch.

I was absolutely mesmerized by the big cat and couldn’t believe two dogs could contain such an animal. At that very moment, a flame was lit inside me–one that will likely not go out until I die. I knew I wanted my own pack of hounds, I knew I wanted to tree mountain lions, and I knew that someday, I would be a houndsman.

The Gift

Fifteen years later, I met Cody Sewell. He was a big, strong, and jolly fellow who treed mountain lions. I’m sure I pestered the heck out of him, trying to get him to talk about his hounds and hunting lions, but he must have liked me because later on that winter, he invited me to come out and hunt with him.

In March of 2011, just before I left for spring training, Cody took me lion hunting. He had been after a nice tom lion all season and was willing to try and tree it for me. The first day of our hunt, we treed a beautiful female lion but let her go. I only had one more day before I left for Phoenix, and wouldn’t you know it? We caught that big tom.

Cody’s three hounds treed that tom up a big leaning fir tree, and I shot it with my bow. It was one of the most memorable hunting experiences I have ever had. On March 4th, 2011, that flame inside me turned into an inferno.

I didn’t care if I ever killed another mountain lion, but I wanted to do it for the rest of my life.

I left to play baseball, but lion hunting was always in the back of my mind.

Later that year, I spoke with Cody. He told me he was going to have a litter of puppies, and that I could have one if I wanted. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was giving me a gift that would change my life forever.

Ben

Ben came to me at a transition point in my life. I had just walked away from my career in baseball, and for the first time in 26 years, I felt like I had no purpose. I walked off the plane feeling empty, and my mother set him in my arms. From that point on, we were inseparable, and he brought purpose back into my life.

I spent every day with Ben and took him everywhere I went. He rode in the front seat of my pickup, went into every store, and slept on my bed every night. Some people may not condone that, but I have never in my life seen a more loyal dog. He followed me everywhere I went. As Ben grew, he went camping with me and we took him to the river multiple times a week to do his favorite thing–swim. Once he started hunting, he literally ran his feet off to please me.

Ben treed his first lion at seven months old and his first bobcat that same winter. He was a natural, all-around good hound who was completely devout to me. As time went on, he kept getting better, but for three years, I never personally shot anything over him.

Ironically, on March 4, 2015, I cut the biggest mountain lion track I have ever seen. Ben trailed it down into the bottom of the canyon, where he jumped and treed the only other lion I have ever killed. That lion hangs above my fireplace and will be with me until the day I die.

As the years went by, I would frequently send messages and pictures to Cody, telling him thank you for giving me Ben. He was my best friend, and our bond was unbreakable. I will forever be grateful that he was a part of my life.

Kelly

My hound career continued to flourish. Cody gave me more pups, and Ben trained them one by one.

Eventually, I had the pack I had always dreamed about. I tried to breed Ben on two separate occasions, but the female failed to take each time.

Eventually, Cody decided to get out of hounds and sold Ben’s mother to another hunter that I knew. I reached out to him in hopes of getting one more pup from the same bloodlines. Thankfully, he decided to breed her and was kind enough to give me one of her pups, Kelly.

Kelly was just as natural as Ben, and it didn’t take long to figure out she was the best dog I had ever hunted. I decided to have her bred and called up Cody to see if he wanted one of the puppies.

He declined the offer, but we both liked the idea of giving a pup to a young, driven hunter. I wanted to change someone’s life like Cody had done for me.

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The Giveaway

Finding the right person wasn’t going to be easy, so I reached out to Chris Denham with my idea about the Hound Dog Giveaway. Everyone at Western Hunter was on board, and we set up a 30-day submission period that timed out when the puppies were ready to go to their new homes.

Once the puppies were born, I made a video, and Western Hunter created a submission form for applications. The submissions started coming in, and it was very exciting to see the interest of the young hunters. As the deadline got closer, I started to get a little worried. I couldn’t choose. I was looking for someone who wanted it as bad as I did, someone who was driven the way I was.

Then it came...

When I read Jade’s submission, a huge smile spread across my face. How many 10-year-old girls hunt lions, shoot bows, and have a hound dog savings account to buy their own dog! I had to meet her. On July 1, I called Jade and her dad, Eric, to let them know she was the winner. We set up a time for them to come pick up “Crawford,” and I couldn’t wait to meet her.

On July 24, Jade and her parents made the trip to Idaho. Seeing how happy she was to have that pup felt amazing, and I am so glad I found her.

She’s a hunting, fishing, horse-riding hound girl.

I know that Crawford is going to a great home

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and that he will make a great companion for her.

The giveaway was a success, and I could not be happier with how it ended.

Carry On

When Kelly had her litter of puppies, our pack went from four to fourteen dogs. I was so distracted with the pups and the giveaway that I did not notice the hard lumps growing in Ben’s throat.

On July 1, I called Jade to tell her I was making her dream come true, and on July 2, the vet confirmed my greatest fear: I was going to lose Ben to cancer.

Life is funny. As soon as I promised the giveaway pup to Jade, I found out the dog who inspired the giveaway was going to be taken from me, and it hurts. To be honest, it hurts more than anything else I’ve ever experienced. I’m a grown man, but I’m not afraid to admit that in the last month, I have done a lot of crying.

As I write this article, he lies next to me, loyally. Just like he always does. Tonight, he will sleep next to me, loyally. Just like he always does. One day, I’m going to wake up and he won’t be there.

By the time you read this article, I will be entering my 16th lion season. When I go on that first hunt, it will be the first time in 13 years that Ben won’t be with me. I won’t see him bursting from my dog box, eager to hunt. I won’t hear the sound of my bugle-mouthed walker echoing through the canyon, and there will be a hole in my heart that can never be completely filled.

I like to think at that very moment, somewhere in Utah, there will be a little girl listening to her dog take a track for the very first time. I hope there is a smile on her face and happiness in her heart. I hope that Crawford gives her everything Ben gave me, and that makes that hole feel a little bit smaller. WH

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MODFRAME™ is the next evolution. Built from the DNA of the Mainframe but forged through years of real-world experience, it’s a lighter, stronger, and more adaptable foundation engineered for any environment. Whether you’re deep in the wilderness, navigating rugged terrain, or preparing for the unknown, the Modframe is designed to adapt and endure. This isn’t just another pack—it’s the result of decades of innovation, miles under load, and a mindset that refuses to quit.

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Bear Hunter |

A SHORT STORY

BY A NT H O NY D O R S EY

I

’ve pursued spring black bears three out of the last four years, but I wouldn’t call myself a bear hunter–not yet, anyway.

Many serious bear hunters use bait, especially if looking for a trophy boar. I prefer spot-and-stalk, which only makes the task that much harder.

That’s not to say baiting doesn’t have its own challenges. Baiting requires time and dedication to consistently monitor and restock bait sites–buckets of grease and piles of stale doughnuts. This equates to not only time spent in the field, but also money spent in preparation for spring bear season.

Like most, I’m limited on both time and money. In this regard, spot-andstalk has an advantage.

I’m a Utah resident. But with a smaller black bear population and slightly more complicated hunting opportunities, it’s easier for me to head north to Idaho in pursuit of bear. I’ve been packing my horses into Idaho’s Sawtooth Mountains. Getting as remote as I can, leaving people and civilization far behind. It’s a good feeling, signing the wilderness ledger, letting the world know you’re headed off-grid.

I still consider myself a novice bear hunter, even though at this point in my bear hunting career, I’ve successfully harvested one black bear with an over-the-counter tag. For me, it’s a mixture of guesswork, research, and intuition. Half-blindly stumbling through country that doesn’t forgive the green or the cocky. I’m learning it slowly, methodically. One ridge at a time, one creek at a time, and one avalanche chute at a time.

I often hunt solo, even when heading to remote wilderness locations.

High and wild places tug at my soul. I welcome the solitude. That is, until the lights go out, and I realize while lying snuggled inside my sleeping bag, that I’m in the middle of bear country, alone... Even the bravest of men start to second-guess their decision-making. The lonesome solitude strips your ego and leaves you with the wind, the rocks, and the chance at something real.

The first year I hunted black bears, I did not see a single bear. Not one.

I walked and rode miles of Idaho backcountry, boots chewing through mud, snow, and scree. I glassed ‘til my eyes burned, but the hills stayed empty. Then, late one evening, a wolf emerged from the shadows like a ghost, curious and quiet, before disappearing over a log as if carried away by the wind.

Year two, I took a blonde bear. “Color-phase,” they call it. The coat was bright and golden like the color of wheat on a sunny day. “Aim small, miss small,” I told myself before squeezing off a shot with my “three-hundred-win-mag.”

A short while later, I was running my hands through the golden fur, like touching a piece of the mountain’s soul.

This year’s different. Three days in, camped high where the snow still clings to the peaks, it’s been lean. Mornings, I hike ’til my legs turn to lead, I glass, and then I glass some more. Hours bleeding into each other, the binoculars a second set of eyes. Yesterday, I spotted a cinnamon bear too far to shoot. This morning, I watched a blonde cub, black-muzzled and small, bounce around the rocks and pick at the berry patches until it eventually climbed some rocks, out of sight. Too small to shoot. There have been two sightings this trip, no shots. But there’s still tonight.

The sun’s slowly setting beyond jagged peaks. The air turns sharp, knifing through my layers of wool and windproof shell. My hands stiffen as I stow my “knockers.” The horses are down the draw–I hear them shuffling around, tied briefly to some trees while I hunt this evening. Snorts and whinnies fill the air. I’ll saddle up soon, pack the gear, ride out under a sky gone black.

It will be a long haul back to camp, the trail twisting through pine stands and creek beds, the world shrunk to a headlamp’s glow and the steady clop of hooves.

I take a final sweep of the basin. Shadows pool thick in the hollows, and somewhere out there, bears are stirring–black, cinnamon, maybe another blonde. They’re night creatures now, padding through the timber, living their secret lives. My boots crunch shale as I start down, rifle slung easy on my shoulder. The stillness hums, alive with what might’ve been.

I reach the horses and get to work–cinches pulled tight, packs squared away. Trigger, old reliable, he’s a 21-year-old Tennessee Walking Horse. His two companions are Rip, a Rocky Mountain Horse, and Lightning, a Missouri Fox Trotter. All three are known as “gaited” horse breeds because of the special walk, or gait, that they each have. Gaited horses walk faster than your average Quarter Horse, and they are a lot smoother, too.

Instead of bouncing up and down during a trot, you can glide down the trail while Trigger performs the run-walk that the Tennessee Walking Horse is known for. Another benefit of gaited horses is the fact that, in addition to covering a lot of country in a hurry, my gear doesn’t bounce all over the place like it might if I were trotting down the trail on a Quarter Horse.

As I ride back to camp, the high country falls away, and the tug of the flatland world below brings my thoughts back to reality. The trail drops sharply into a creek bottom, the light from my headlamp reflects off my tent, and I spot my campsite. I’m hungry and looking forward to dinner. But before I can eat, I have to unload the horses, hobble them so they can graze freely, and put away all the tack. After taking care of them, I fire up my stove to heat some water and make my own dinner.

My mind wanders, and I start to think of the reality of my daily life and all that comes with it.

Emails and phone calls, corporate responsibilities, the drone of cars on asphalt. But it’s not all bad. It also means I’m headed home to my family, home to the ones I love, my wife and three children.

It’s a very good life. Even if I’m not quite yet... a bear hunter. WH WESTERN HUNTER

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// M A D E I N A M E R I C A

EXO MTN GEAR

R EAL GEAR, R EAL PEOPLE, R EAL P U R P OSE

BY K E V I N G U I L L EN

Some brand names are cooked up in a fancy boardroom. Others come straight from a moment of raw conversation, beers in hand, between a group of friends. Exo Mtn Gear’s name was born in an offhand remark by founder Steve Speck while explaining his early pack frame–a central spine with structural supports branching off. “It looks like an exoskeleton,” he said, casually. The name stuck, encapsulating not just the innovative concept but the gritty and functional simplicity that Exo now represents. In 2013, Steve began testing hand-sewn prototypes in the backcountry, and by 2014, Exo Mtn Gear went to market, manufacturing packs right here in America, beginning its momentum with an authentic and humble formula: “What you need and nothing more.”

I’ve spent enough time around the Exo team to tell you straight– there’s nothing flashy or pretentious here. Walk through their doors or visit with them at a trade show, and you’re quickly met by a down-to-earth crew with genuine passion for testing and making gear the right way. Another way to put it is a principle I live by and a core value of ours at Western Hunter, Wilderness Athlete, and Outdoorsmans: Do business with people that you’d like to have a beer with. Everyone at Exo passes that bar, and there are plenty of empties to prove it.

The Men of Exo Mtn Gear So who exactly is Exo Mtn Gear? The secret sauce to their success isn’t just what they make–it’s who they are, and maybe more importantly, who they aren’t. With a lean crew of just seven at Exo HQ, the culture runs deep.

Everyone owns their role, takes pride in what they do, and keeps an eye on the bigger picture. That might sound simple on paper, but in practice, building that kind of team chemistry is anything but easy.

What makes the Exo team just as impressive is who they aren’t. They aren’t chasing explosive growth or looking to dominate shelf space in every big-box retailer. They don’t measure success in social media followers and have no interest in being industry influencers or playing corporate games.

You won’t find them wrapped up in hunting industry gossip or trying to outshine anyone else. Their compass points inward, toward making the best gear they can, standing behind it, and spending their time where it matters most: in the field, with their gear on their backs, doing the kind of hunting that forged the company in the first place.

They’re not built on ego. You won’t catch Steve or Mark trying to be the loudest guy in the room–they’d rather be the most useful. They don’t chase trends or cater to algorithms. There’s no corporate org chart politics or boardroom flexing here. Growth for growth’s sake isn’t their play. They’re not here to impress stockholders–they’re here to build bombproof packs, test them until they bleed, and serve a community of hunters who care more about getting it done than getting attention.

I know Exo to be comprised of hard-nosed, intelligent, well-balanced adventure seekers who are true to the gritty lifestyle they build their packs for. Whether it’s dropping into the Grand Canyon to hike Rim-2-Rim-2-Rim two times, or setting off deep into remote and unforgiving country, this team stays grateful, humble, and dedicated.

The Packs Steve Speck and the entire Exo team would be the first to tell you that none of the great culture, strong team, films, or podcasts would matter if the packs didn’t perform, and perform they do. To date, my K4 Exo pack has hauled three deer and a javelina, been loaded down with an elk through deep snow and steep canyons, and carried a day’s worth of food nearly 50 miles through the Grand Canyon. I’ve also competed in two NRL Hunter matches with this pack–a unique but perfectly capable adaptation for the demands of a precision rifle match.

Through all of that, the words that best describe the K4 system come from Leonardo da Vinci: “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.”

Simplicity in both pack and frame is core to Exo’s design, building systems that are capable and intuitive in any backcountry situation a hunter might face. I appreciate this more each time I use my K4, whether it’s the thoughtful pocket configuration, its comfort regardless of carrying 10 lb or 100 lb, or the way meat securely straps to the frame. A common misconception is that a simple, no-frills pack must be easier to design or less innovative. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth.The K4 system alone went through three and a half years of obsessive testing–proof of just how much effort it takes to make something simpler, more functional, and innovative in an industry with many great packs.

The Future The biggest news changing workflow and horizons for Exo Mtn Gear is its recently acquired sewing facility, which has dramatically increased efficiency and given Steve’s team more control over production. When discussing the recent acquisition with Steve, I assumed, like many businesses that take over their own manufacturing, that improving margins was a primary motivator in the deal. For Steve, increasing profit wasn’t nearly as motivating as improving control over their business, forecasting inventory, and shortening development lead times. With a lean and high-caliber team that stays hyper-focused on efficiency, controlling manufacturing is a huge leg up–ultimately keeping the right frames, bags, and accessories available when customers need them most.

There’s no shortage of excitement coming out of this Meridian, Idahobased team. I may or may not have some intel on the next generation of Exo packs that’s been in R&D for a long time, coming down the pipe soon (keep your eyes open for a review in Western Hunter Magazine soon). Innovation, incredible packs, and great people aside, what I find most inspiring and refreshing about Exo Mtn Gear is the mindset, ethos, and grounded approach that has made it successful. In a world of competitive egos and bottom-line business models, the team at Exo is running their own race– maintaining balance with work and family, staying motivated by their core values, putting their customers first, and defining what success looks like to them.

If you ask me, that’s what being Made in America is all about. WH WESTERN HUNTER

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2024 Bear Hunt, Arizona On a hunt with Floyd Green and Outdoorsmans Outfitters, this

beautiful color phased black bear won a ride back to camp after

Gear Pictured

Icon lift 3 inch

the hounds and Ben Britton did their job. A perk of working at

Exo Mtn Gear K4 2200

Prinsu Roof Rack

occasional team hunt. An even bigger perk is getting to hunt on

Leupold Go Gear Duffle

Yeti Loadout GoBox 15

Outdoorsmans, Wilderness Athlete, and Western Hunter is the

the cherished White Mountain Apache Reservation.

FHF Gear Tac Mtn Rifle Case Lexus GX 470 2008

Reno Rifle Bi-Fold Glassing Pad

Yeti Loadout GoBox 30

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Brown Ducks in Pothole Country The best bachelor party in history

B Y B R O D Y L AY H E R

W

hen you think about North Dakota, what’s the first thing that pops into your mind? If you’re from the coasts, it might be nothing or possibly a “flyover state.” If you’re a big traveler, maybe you think about Mount Rushmore, but if you’re a hunter, you’re thinking about ducks.

Over half the state is covered in what’s called the “Prairie Pothole Region.”

This is where nearly 70% of all ducks in North America come to breed every spring and summer. Almost every duck that navigates the central flyway will pass through this region on their journey south. It’s a fairly desolate land to most, but for some, it’s a haven of opportunity.

Unconventional

A lot of dudes that I encounter have their bachelor party over an extended weekend in some overcrowded city doing various debaucherous activities.

That’s all fine and dandy, and I’ve done that before and will do it again, but for my bachelor party, I figured I could use it as a good excuse to invite three of my closest friends for a 10-day trip into Idaho’s backcountry for a spring bear hunt. We had one hell of a trip despite the fact that none of us pulled the trigger on a bear.

One of the guys I had out for this trip was my best man, Justin, a guy with whom I have hunted hundreds of days and will hunt hundreds more with in the future. Since we were in college, he’s become an extremely dedicated duck hunter, and with his wedding only a few months after mine, he decided the ’ol “bachelor party hunting trip” was a move he thought he could pull off, as well.

The previous year, Justin and a buddy of his went out to North Dakota in late September to see if they could kill some early-season ducks. It turned out they could. Like–they killed limits so fast that they got bored. So, Justin figured that would be a good time and place to have a “bachelor party.”

I jumped on a plane and headed up. Justin and a couple of his other buddies picked me up from the airport, and we headed to our Airbnb. Now, I had a feeling it was gonna be flat, but damn, there wasn’t even a bump in the hourlong drive from the airport. There was a lot of “Damn! Look how big that combine is!” talk on that drive and throughout the entire trip.

Deluxe Accommodations

When we arrived at the Airbnb, I was slightly taken aback by the fact that we were going to be sleeping in a grain bin. It had been many a year since this grain bin had actually held any grain, but there was no mistaking what it was originally put up to do. It consisted of zero rooms. There was a downstairs with an area for eating, an area for cooking, and a couple of couches, and upstairs were five beds and one futon. It felt kind of like a form of cosleeping.

There was a bathroom downstairs that had some pretty handy plumbing work that could be seen when you first walked into it. The door was one of those new-fangled barn-style doors, but instead of smooth rolling wheels, there were cast aluminum wheel-like devices along a piece of conduit. This worked fine, but it made a fairly serious screeching sound and was the cause of some lost sleep among the grain bin. It was kind of the perfect place for seven dudes to hang out and hunt for the week.

Shortly after we threw our stuff down in the grain bin, we headed back out to see if we could find some ducks to hunt the next morning. This is the only way to scout in this country. Scouting for me normally means burning up boot leather or sitting behind an expensive piece of glass for hours, but this is very different. Scouting here means driving down old tractor-crushed roads for hours with your eyes peeled and aimed at the sky, fields, and potholes around you. A set of Crocs, a pair of cheap binos, and a beverage of choice are about all you need, aside from copious amounts of gas for your truck.

After 50 or so miles, each truck had found a pretty good group of ducks in potholes. We decided to go with the one that was a little closer to the house to make sure we had all the kinks worked out with gear. The guys in that truck said they had seen 70 or so ducks of various breeds, so everyone was quite excited for the morning.

Divide and Conquer

Instead of all waking up at the same time, we went off in two separate groups: the early risers and the breakfast makers. I headed out to the pothole with a couple of other guys to start dropping off decoys and brushing-in our hide, while the remaining gentlemen made a hefty batch of breakfast burritos for all of us to consume while we waited for the first ducks.

We joined back up and made all of our last-minute decisions on how many inches left or right each decoy should sit while we enjoyed a semi-hot burrito. With grey light fading and the first resemblances of a sunrise in the distance, we started to hear the whistle of wings. In typical fashion, groups of teal whizzed through the decoys and set within a few paces of us. Then, some mallards and gadwalls did the same, but with more elegance and less speed. When the clock struck shooting light, we decided one good water swat of a mid-range teal would be a good way to start the trip.

That shot rang out from Justin’s brother, and for the next two hours, we had a ball. Flock after flock of various ducks from your typical puddlers like widgeon and pintails to divers like canvasbacks and hooded mergansers. I shot four ducks and figured I had better pick up a camera, especially since those four came at the expense of twenty-plus shells. I got what I could, but nothing can truly capture the joy of six guys standing in hip-deep water, trying their best not to knock down the cattail reeds in front of them while a half dozen birds of varying plumages plunge into the decoys.

We finished out our limit and started the long process of moving gear back to the truck. When we got back to the grain bin, we all found our knives and went to work processing the pick-up load of birds. This was always more enjoyable with a Busch Light, but it made a midday nap hard to resist.

Ducked-Out

After a glorious bin-side nap, it was nearly time to hit the road in search of the next morning’s hole. We split up in groups again, a couple of guys in each truck and a couple of guys preparing dinner. Our nightly meal always had one common thread: duck. We had to eat an incredible amount in order to stay under our possession limits for the trip. We knew we would most likely kill another limit the next day, so we needed to eat, at a minimum, a third of the ducks from each day to ensure we never went over our limit. This added a whole new element to the trip that I had not thought of before. By the last night, we were choking down duck like we were on Fear Factor.

The next few days were near replicas of the aforementioned. Early mornings setting decoys and brushing hides, hunts that could have been filmed and made out to be some famous duck lease in Arkansas, afternoons of cutting and feathers, and nights of dusty roads, spotting scopes, and cooked duck.

I’ve become more of a mountain hunter in the past few years–a lot of times a solo hunter, too. I enjoy being alone in extremely remote places, seeing stuff that not many have, but this trip brought me back to my roots, back to times when I hunted with big groups of friends who felt like family. This trip made me realize that maybe I need to reevaluate the way I go about my hunting endeavors. Maybe I need to buy a bird dog and see where that takes me. WH WESTERN HUNTER

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Heart of Endurance This excerpt is parts three and four of a multi-part story.

BY R A N DY U L M E R

I L L U S T R AT I O N S B Y R A N D Y S TA LC U P

“One of the chief privileges of man is to speak up for the universe.” ~ Norman MacLean

Part 3

He wakes and lies motionless, gazing into the night sky. He doesn’t need a clock. Orion’s position, well up in the southeastern sky, tells him he must rise.

“Orion the Hunter,” a timeless wonder. How many eons have hunters looked up and seen what he sees now? How many others have utilized heavenly bodies to tell both time and direction? He feels a deep and abiding solidarity with those ancient, kindred spirits.

As he stirs, he contemplates why he is here–what he is here to do. Today, he will hunt.

His mind wanders and wonders. “Why,” he asks, “has much of humanity chosen to condemn this primal pursuit he is now engaged in?”

Human beings have hunted and eaten their prey for the entirety of their existence. The instinct to hunt is built into their DNA. Now, to many, it is wrong to do so. Under this new, enlightened value system, it’s morally reprehensible for him to follow the primordial force that is part of his nature.

Our society has been euphemizing or destroying anything that could be considered offensive. Perhaps, soon, they will decree that Orion must no longer be called “The Hunter.”

He has always believed he understood the relationship between man and animals. As a youth, he remembers sleeping on a worn-out sofa, foot-to-foot with his brother, his sisters sleeping three to a bed. He grew up milking cows and goats, gathering eggs, churning butter, running dogs, and riding horses.

His family raised and butchered their own beef, pork, goats, and chickens.

They supplemented these stores, when possible, with meat from hunting.

The protein their animals provided was a necessity, not a luxury.

He truly enjoyed animals and worked tirelessly to put himself through veterinary school, so he could devote his life to these creatures.

Relatively recently, more progressive and enlightened minds have unilaterally overruled, overridden, and cancelled these social mores he and his kin were taught as youths. His family’s essential way of life is now demonized.

He first noticed the changing views on hunting and eating meat while attending university in the left-leaning state of Oregon. Were his liberal college professors just plain smarter than him? Did they know things he had not yet learned and grasp concepts his feeble mind just could not comprehend? Did these tweeded pillars of academia see things he could not see?

It was not until later in life that he realized his life experiences were more authentic than theirs. Their narrative on the morality of hunting and eating meat was informed only by Disney movies and PETA commercials. His values were based on verifiable, factual evidence over the whole of human history–ancient and extant. It was based on science and reality.

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Since then, America had experienced an insidious and piecemeal crucifixion of its values–a chaotic, entropic descent into nihilism. He worries the psychologically malleable children of today will be easy prey for these social provocateurs–the Howard Stern-types, who most likely have never set foot onto a farm, nor into a forest.

How can these sanctimonious, woke, know-nothings determine what is best for the rest of us? How can these pseudo-intellectual elitists, their arrogance almost palpable, be so certain about everything? Who empowered them to decide it is acceptable behavior to kill an unborn human baby, but it is not acceptable behavior for him to kill a deer?

It seems his country is no longer a meritocracy ruled by Socratic thinking.

It is now ruled by individuals willing to subordinate and surrender their intellectual individualism as well as their moral values to groupthink. They are led astray by the pied pipers of the American masses: celebrities, whose only skills in life are playing make-believe or playing with a ball, or those types willing to sell their dignity for 15 minutes of fame.

He prays his country’s values will someday return from sabbatical.

A small part of him is grateful he will soon be gone and won’t need to adapt to a capricious world that has seemingly lost the core values he so desperately tried to instill in his sons, as well as into the Boy Scouts he mentored–values he considers timeless and sacrosanct.

Common sense, it seems, has been sacrificed at the altar of political correctness. Those of us who do have a modicum of common sense remaining must realize that we are each a sandbag in the dike holding back this flood of insanity.

Things have regressed to the point that, although he truly loves and respects animals, being a hunter, he is anathema to the rest of the animalloving community. Their contempt for his kind is unmistakable. This deeply troubles and saddens him.

He decides he must leave this incredibly paradoxical dilemma for others to solve. He is tired. He has done what he could–when he could do it. He did his best with the limited time, energy, and resources he was given. He no longer has the strength to be a standard-bearer.

As is often the case when he is deeply immersed in nature and contemplation, he has forgotten his illness. However, when he attempts to rise, his pain and weakness snap him back to reality–to his new normal–and remind him of his cancer and age-related frailties. He slowly crawls out of his sleeping bag, unsteadily rises, and readies himself for the hunt.

Part 4

He tucks himself and his pack under the lee side of a thick patch of gnarled evergreens clinging to the crest of a ridge. His tiny headlamp illuminates the cloistered space before him as he spreads his gear and then sits amongst it.

As he sorts through his well-worn equipment, he goes over his mental checklist. He reminisces over this same chore performed hundreds of times on different mountains on myriad hunts. He ponders, with a measure of awe, his good fortune to have experienced all of these adventures in a single lifetime. He treasures each and every hunt–the successful as well as the miserable. He has lived a very blessed life indeed.

Completing the task, he pulls the tent from its nylon case and spreads it before him. He stuffs the sleeping bag into its sack and lays it, along with all remaining gear, onto the tent. He rolls the whole pile into a tightly compressed package and ties it with a cord. He squeezes the parcel into a black garbage bag and ties the top. As he works, the sky turns from indigo to azure–the first hint at the boldness of the coming dawn–and with it, all the possibilities of a new day.

He stows the bundle under a twisted alpine evergreen whose preposterous position on a small cliff face defies both logic and physics. Lifting the lowermost branches to place his parcel, he exposes a mangled gnarl of roots clutching desperately yet firmly to the upthrust granite. The tree’s mere act of being belies its seemingly untenable existence.

He takes up his bow, nocks an arrow, draws the string, and looks through the peep. Finding everything in order, he replaces the arrow in its quiver, dons his pack, and trudges upward. He climbs out of the saddle and onto a large pinnacle of rock. As he rises above the crest and to the edge, the entire world opens beneath him in a vertigo-inducing panorama.

He surveys the vast horizon, deeply punctuated in all directions by jagged peaks. Beyond these spires are yet more mountains–range after range, fading purple into the distance–a visage of infinity’s earthly mirage.

The knob he stands upon seems like the top of the world, but it is just a nubbin on this mammoth, hog-backed ridge that constitutes this reach of the Continental Divide.

A fine mist is gently falling. Tiny droplets of rain drifting to his right will drain into Bird Creek, then Bear Creek, then on to the Broken River. From there, it will flow to the Platte, the Missouri, the Mississippi, and ultimately, the Atlantic Ocean. Some of those droplets, tickled by the smallest of breezes, will fall to the left and trickle into Rock Creek, then Elk Creek, and on to the Palisade River. From there, they will flow into the Colorado River and eventually on to the Pacific Ocean.

His life has been replete with similar minute and capricious gusts of wind, he muses. And much like these droplets of rain, he has been whimsically nudged ever so slightly in this direction or that, to ultimately disparate destinations. Most of these breezes have been favorable and fortuitous winds, granting him safe passage to good things and to good people. He has been very blessed in life, as very few of these prods have been from hostile winds.

However, the most recent wind has morphed into a malevolent gale and blown him away. This deadly vortex has forced him drastically off his bearings and on toward a nightmarish precipice. One impetuous puff of wind, one malicious mutation, one diabolical strand of DNA, one sinister, malignant cell, and his life’s course has been altered dramatically–becoming more ominous and horrific with each passing day.

All of this wondering, pondering, and just plain not understanding has brought him to yet another sad realization: At this very late juncture in his life, the only thing he knows with any certainty is that he does not know anything for certain.

He decides to just let the mystery be.

He smiles resignedly and mumbles to himself, “There is one thing you do know for certain, you precious little snowflake: You’re not being blown into Bird Creek, nor into Rock Creek. This fickle wind has blown you into, and then up, Shit Creek... and you, my delicate friend, have no paddle.”

To be continued... WH

“Like droplets of rain in the wind, one’s life can be blown in any direction.”

WESTERN HUNTER

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This Life Chose Me Early on, it was mountain biking that scratched the itch. We’d chase down half-baked trail names and sketchy napkin maps handed over at gas stations like we were getting directions to buried treasure.

Most of the time, we had no idea where we were going, and we didn’t care. We rode until our legs were smoked, covered in mud–half-lost and loving it. It wasn’t about the destination. It was about getting banged up, figuring it out, and feeling like we were getting away with something.

That mindset stuck with me.

I moved back to BC in 2018 and somehow landed in the orbit of Adam Janke from the Journal of Mountain Hunting. If you dig up the first few episodes of Beyond the Kill, the ones where I’m hauling a bow through the steep stuff in the West Koots, you will catch a moment where director Dan Minsky asked me something like, “Think you’re going to like this?” and “What happens if you fail?”

I told him straight: “If I sink my teeth into something and it clicks, I’m all in. No half-measures. If I’m doing it, I’m doing it.”

The next year, I was in front of the camera again, this time chasing mule deer with my now best friend and boss, Ben Stourac of Arcadia and Iron North Outfitters. I remember saying something dumb like, “Man, being a hunting guide would be a hell of a job. Maybe I’ll look into it.” Well, I did more than look into it.

Looking back, it’s wild how one decision led to another.

Moving off the Island. Leaving a steady firefighting gig to chase a career in sports chiro. Ending up in Kelowna.

Meeting Adam. That first hunt. The next thing I know, I’m guiding in the Yukon and BC for Ben, the same guy who ended up officiating my wedding at Arctic Red. Then we turned around and went on a 14-day backpack hunt for a couple of mountain caribou.

It’s hard to explain how one elk hunt in the Kootenays kicked off everything that matters most in my life now. It lit the fuse. These days, I get to call this passion my profession. I guide. I write. I work alongside some of the best people I’ve ever met. And somehow, I’ve even got my name on the pages of Western Hunter.

Humbled doesn’t even begin to cover it. I just try to keep my boots on the ground, remember where I came from, and stay grateful for every wild mile. WH 84

WESTERN HUNTER

B Y M AT T W A R D

// S H O O T I N G

The Workin'Man's Custom Rifle B U ILD ING M Y D R EAM R IFLE ON A B U D GET

BY L E V I S O P EL A N D

Lately, it seems that there is more and more chatter on forums, social media sites, and in popular hunting publications about the types of firearms that are “acceptable” for modern-day hunters to take into the field. As someone whose life essentially revolves around hunting in one way or another–not to mention working for a high-end optics retailer–I have noticed a trend in an upward direction related to the quality and cost of firearms that seemingly “regular” folks are buying.

It’s now common to bump into somebody at the trailhead who is strapping an $8,000 rifle to their pack on the tailgate of a $7,500 truck. I’ll admit, seeing such things, I have thought to myself, Am I going in undergunned?

I’m fairly certain the simple answer is no. But what’s the deal? Having shot rifles from Gunwerks, Best of the West, Seekins, and dozens of other top-tier custom jobs, I have seen the light. Of course, an ultralight rifle with a buttery bolt cycle is the new American dream, but what about the little guy–the average guy of regular means who can shell out maybe a paycheck or two worth of cash for their whole rig?

It occurred to me that I am that guy. Thus began the project that we’re affectionately calling “The Workin’ Man’s Custom Rifle.” Can we take an off-the-shelf rifle and create something that offers a similar experience to that of a fully custom gun? The main comparison would be Brody’s 60% carbon fiber MDT masterpiece from the last issue.

Some Parameters: The base platform would be something that could be paid for by going out to dinner less often. After a close battle between sub-$600 rifles on my laptop screen, the winner was the Ruger American Gen 2.

While many of us have been clambering upward in rifle value, the “AG2” has been dominating, and I mean dominating in sales across the nation. Like the Gen 1 before it, the AG2 is the most popular boltaction rifle currently on sale. More on that later.

The Project The idea was to take one of the most accessible rifle platforms available and test how it performed with no modifications. Then, we’d take that same rifle, apply equal parts frugal upgrades and elbow grease, and compare it to the original and our custom example. The budget is around $2,500-$3,000, including an optic.

That struck me as a little high at first, but, assuming the optic would be no less than $1,000 and the rifle retails for $599, it’s not much of a reach to spend an extra $1,000 over time to achieve a pretty sweetshooting deer gun. There are a few ways to do this on the ultra-cheap, but the idea here was to make a very good hunting rig. We’re still coming out around half the cost of the cheapest “custom” rifle, so I think we’re in the sweet spot.

The scope chosen for the build was the new Leupold VX-5HD Gen 2 3-15x44. You may notice, dear reader, that there is a second-generation pattern here. This particular model of VX-5HD Gen 2 is the perfect size, weight, and magnification for this rifle. Lightweight, mountain-proof, and functional. The Gen 2 costs a few hundred dollars more than the Gen 1–$1,399 compared to $999. If it weren’t for the opportunity to use a pre-production Gen 2, I would have opted for the Gen 1 without hesitation. This one is mounted in Leupold Mountain Hunter rings.

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Mass-Produced Ruger has moved an ungodly number of these rifles between Gen 1 and Gen 2. We can’t give an exact figure, but if every gun store in America (of which the ATF claims there are around 55,000) had sold 10, that would be 550,000. Most Bass Pro Shops locations have likely sold thousands. That’s exponentially more than even the largest custom gun builder. Every single one of these rifles has an owner, and most of those have a YouTube channel.

So, if there are issues, they are quickly resolved. This massive production volume is also what allows the Ruger American rifles to be procured for around $600.

You can buy this rifle off the shelf at any dealer in your town or the next one over, no matter where you live. That is an important fact to consider when we imagine what a “cheap” gun really is. If Ruger made 5,000 of these, they might cost two or three times more to make. That’s getting into highend, wait-list, backorder territory.

At the Range With some help from Hornady, we were able to devote an entire day and a fair amount of ammunition to learning the capabilities of the Ruger. The rifle was brand new, off the line, and unmolested, save for a few drops of Rem-oil on the bolt. We were shooting the soon-to-be-legendary 108-grain ELD-M, and the results almost brought this project to a halt.

We shot three rounds to hit a Shoot ’n C at 50 yards, then backed it up to 100. I am what Chris would call a “minute shooter.” Maybe a minute and a half. I have shot a lot and had some training, but I have not yet found a rifle I can outshoot. Most of us probably haven’t.

Our first impressions were miles above expectations. Brody and I each shot groups of 3, 5, and 10 rounds, and the impacts were so neatly cloverleafed that we nearly called off the whole project. Our testing was not extremely scientific, but I can say it was the most accurate I’ve ever been at the range.

The Ruger has astonished us. It is not without faults, but when it came to hitting targets, it punched like a 250-pounder. It’s light, smooth, and consistent. “Barrel break-in” is a somewhat ambiguous concept to me, but for this review, we conducted ourselves like any other guy who purchases a rifle like this. We took it out, shot it, and didn’t think too hard about it.

A big factor in the enjoyment of the day was the new Leupold VX-5HD Gen 2. It’s as though it was made for this rifle. We were zeroed in about 15 minutes and didn’t have to waste any ammo or time. It’s also super convenient not to need any tools. It seems like a tiny Allen wrench is no big deal to keep on you–until you forget it. The new SpeedSet system is a simple, elegant solution to an old problem that I’m thrilled to never have again.

WESTERN HUNTER

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The Real Magic The rifle was a joy to shoot, and the scope was lovely, but the true secret sauce was the cartridge choice. After a healthy office debate on the subject, I went for the 20-inch AG2 in 6mm Creedmoor. Someone floated the idea of 6 ARC, but at the time, it wasn’t yet very popular, and I wanted to stick to something more familiar. 6.5 Grendel and even 22-250 were considered but didn’t make the cut.

There are wildly varying opinions about what is required or preferred for shots on game of all sizes, but folks like Tyler Freel of Outdoor Life and the boys from Exo Mtn Gear have been casually dispelling most preconceived notions about bullet size vs damage output. I can’t personally endorse the 6 Creedmoor as a moose or a brown bear cartridge, but the evidence I’ve seen has led me to be very confident that this rifle will knock over a Coues deer without question. That’s what I will be using it for, and I believe I’ve hit the jackpot.

Although ballistics and terminal performance are paramount in a hunting rifle, the most important thing that Brody and I discovered while wringing the neck of this Ruger is the pure enjoyment that radiates off of it.

Shooting a small, low-recoiling cartridge is not a novel concept in general, but it is to me. I was able to squeeze the trigger, not flinch, and watch nearly every impact that day–and this gun is LIGHT. Scope-on, it weighs 7 lb, 9 oz.

Luckily, we didn’t bring all of the ammo we had. Otherwise, we might have shot 500 rounds that day.

To me, that forgiveness opened up a whole new dimension of shooting (and shooting accurately). For a target like a deer, it’s seemingly a nobrainer for me now. I’ve decided that complete comfort and confidence in a rifle are my top priorities. The more I like to shoot a rifle, the more I’ll shoot it, and that will only improve that confidence. As Caylen Wojcik of Modern Day Sniper recently stated in a video, “No amount of gear is a substitute [for] you being intimately familiar with your rifle.” That’s my favorite thing about this little grey Ruger. It makes me yearn to shoot it.

That may not be the case for you, but the combination of the gun and the cartridge feels like a cheat code to me.

So far, this rifle has far exceeded my expectations, and I’m thrilled with the decision. It feels too good to be true. If you’ve made it this far, you may be wondering, What’s the catch?

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Good Question The catch is the catch-22 of the mass production I mentioned earlier. At this scale, a company like Ruger makes small adjustments that add up to ungodly financial repercussions. So, there are places where quality has been very carefully shaved away from the AG2. The first and most noticeable is the magazine. It’s a poly AI (Accuracy International)-style unit that, fairly surprisingly, does not quite fit into the magazine well on the stock. It takes some effort and angling to get it to enter the well and some force to get it to seat. That said, it seems to feed reliably when it is in place.

The next few opportunities for improvement are the usual suspects. The trigger could be described as “fine.” It features a blade safety mechanism that I cannot wait to discard, but when you squeeze it (pretty hard), it does fire the rifle. The stock is actually better and stiffer than I expected, but it’s still fairly low-grade in a world of carbon fiber art pieces.

Although it’s not perfect, it’s not bad enough to require a change, by any means. Again, it doesn’t seem to detract from the performance of the rifle, and it looks good enough that most people around our office have commented on it. The spiral-fluted barrel, Cerakote finish, and funky cheek piece add to its intrigue.

We’ve Planned for That The great news is that we have already sourced some very exciting upgrades that will eradicate any of those small knocks on the AG2. The next time you see this Ruger, it will look very different. We’re not expecting it to get much more mechanically accurate, but it will be even more of a pleasure both to operate and to carry. Making a rifle more comfortable to shoot generally helps with the accuracy of the shooter, too.

The Upgrade Package One of the coolest things about the American line is that there is a healthy amount of aftermarket support for these rifles, and I plan to take advantage of that. The upgrade components I have on hand currently add up to about $800-$1,000. I’ll list them here and share my experience with them in the next issue once I’ve had a good amount of time to evaluate the results.

• Sharps Bros Heatseeker Chassis • Timney Ruger American Trigger • Outdoorsmans/Salmon River Solutions Muzzle Brake • MDT Carbine Composite Stock • MDT Carbon Fiber Pistol Grip • Matador Arms Sidewinder Stock Folder WH

No Regrets Surviving On Alone: The Beast B Y L I N D S AY P E R S I C O

Long before I was asked to be on the spin-off series of the History Channel’s Alone survival show called Alone: The Beast, my mentor as a youth told me, “You have to do the things in life you could regret not doing.” This wise advice has stuck with me over the years and impacted many important decisions in my life. This decision was a prime example, and little did I know that this decision would change the course of my life.

I

was a small-town girl who grew up hunting with my dad in rural northern Idaho. He had taught me a lot about the outdoors and lit a fire in me for all things wild and untamed. This fire had pushed me to pursue my own adventures once I was grown, and I had quite a bit of hunting and outdoor experience under my belt. I would not have classified myself as a “survivalist” or someone who had any desire or ambition to be on TV or in the spotlight.

The idea of Alone: The Beast is a minimalistic version of Alone, with very little assistance or gear. I would be left in a remote area with two other people, and we would be given a freshly killed moose to survive on. On Alone, the goal is simply to survive the longest. On The Beast, it is simply a matter of surviving for 30 days with nothing but the clothes on your back.

No knife, no weapons, nothing.

No Reservations

When the casting director reached out and asked me if I would be on the show, my mind screamed, “No!” I knew what 30 days in the wilderness with nothing but the clothes on my back and a dead moose meant. I had spent enough time out there to know it would just be a grind, a test of will and one’s ability to endure discomfort, cold, isolation, and hunger. However, in the back of my mind and in my gut, the words of my mentor whispered to me. I knew deep down that I had to go. If I didn’t, I would always regret not having stepped outside of my comfort zone and lived that experience, as uncomfortable as it would be. With my family’s blessing, I said, “Yes.” As the airplane tires left the small runway in Missoula, my eyes filled with tears as I watched the land that held the people that I loved the most, slowly shrink away. I knew that it would be over 30 days until I would see or even speak to them again. I wouldn’t know how my children were doing or if they needed me. I dried my tears, stared into the endless clouds 30,000 feet above the world, and I replaced my sadness with the stoic acceptance of the job that lay before me.

I had one job, and though it looked different than some of the survival situations I had faced before, I knew that there was only one way through it. I would embrace it for what it was, put my head down, and work until the job was done. That evening, I reached Yellowknife, in the far northern reaches of the Northwest Territories. I would wait over a week in a base camp on the shores of Great Slave Lake. The local tribe would take a moose, and my two companions and I would be dropped into the wilderness to make it home for the next month.

Reality Sets In

As the sound of the boat slowly disappeared into the vast wilderness of the Northwest Territories, I looked around at what would be my home for the next 30 days. An amusing mix of tundra, rocky cliffs, alpine timber, birch trees, and the cold, clear water of Great Slave Lake welcomed me. My two companions took in the surroundings with me for a moment, and then the realization of the task before us came flooding back like a bolt of lightning.

We had nothing but the clothes on our backs–no shelter from the elements, no knives, no fire starter, no pot or cup to drink with, nothing. The only other thing we had was a dead moose lying on the tundra. It would be our sole source of food for the next 30 days, and it needed processing. We only had a few hours of daylight left and no source of light once the sun disappeared. We got to work.

Joe started building us a shelter, and Zane and I got to work on the moose.

I had hoped that we would have some kind of stone around that would work well, once broken, as a blade, but that was not the case. We found the sharpest shale we could, but it was still vastly inadequate for the task at hand.

We worked hard until dark, just managing to get the moose gutted and propped open for the night so that it would cool. Once our light was lost, we curled up around the trunk of a large tree, under which Joe had managed to erect a shelter of boughs, and waited out the night in the blackness.

The next couple of days were filled with me working to get the moose skinned and quartered and Zane trying to get a fire started with a strip of moose hide and a wooden drill he made. Joe became ill and was doing his best to lend a hand between coughing fits and lying down in the shelter. My hands were so fatigued from the strain of pulling and slicing at the moose hide that they were not working properly anymore.

Steady Decline

We managed to accomplish what we needed to do each day and dropped onto the bough beds at night, exhausted from the work. We slept well, even though we still did not have fire and had not eaten since being dropped off.

The morning of the third day started a shift in the atmosphere of the group.

Joe was still sick and not improving. His morale was low, and it was easy to see that he was not convinced he could stay.

We did our best to support and comfort him, but he decided to tap out.

By the evening of the third day, it was just Zane and me. The fourth day turned out to be one of the best days because, after hours of horrendously hard work, Zane got a fire. This changed everything. We now had a way to stay warm, to cook the moose meat, and to dry out our clothes when they got wet. There is nothing better than fire to boost morale, and we quickly cooked up strips of moose meat and devoured them.

As darkness enveloped us once again, we knew that we could not risk losing our fire, as it had been so hard to create. I took the first watch as Zane went to bed, and I told him I would wake him up once I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. The hours ticked by. I watched the moon as it leapt from the horizon and slowly started its journey across the sky.

I had no way of telling time, so I decided that once the moon hit a specific tree, I would wake Zane up and get some sleep. Once the moon touched the tree, though, I felt as if not enough time had passed, and I picked a new landmark. This went on, time and time again, until I found myself struggling to stay awake, and I finally woke Zane to take his turn.

Alone

The next few days fell into a routine: Gathering firewood, drinking water, smoking moose meat, and drying out our gear filled the daylight hours quickly. Snow came on day seven and never left. Zane and I filled some of the darkness of night with conversations about our families and life back home. I respect him a lot, and through those conversations I realized that he had a lot at home pulling on his mind.

When the sun rose on day eight, I knew that the possibility of Zane tapping out rose with it. As the day wore on, I could see his attitude had shifted, and I was not surprised when he decided he had to go. The boat hull ground onto the beach near our camp, and I watched him climb into it, shove off, and slowly disappear into the deep recesses of the wilderness.

I felt an odd satisfaction that I was finally alone. I had greatly enjoyed Zane’s company, and he had done so much work with me to set us up for success, but there was some part of me that always knew I was going to end up alone. Call it intuition or just a theme that had resonated strongly throughout my life, but it felt like it was meant to be. It felt like everything had just been leading up to this point, and now my adventure was truly beginning. I turned away from the lake, and my eyes fell on my wild little home. Here I would stay until the remaining 22 days came and went. I knew in my heart that I would finish this alone, and I set my mind to the task.

The Beast

Little did I know that I would not be alone for long. A resident black bear had been casing the area after smelling the delicious moose and decided that he would risk encounters with me if it meant he could get his fill of moose meat. My first encounter with him happened when I was going down to the shore to drink some water. It was a task that had to be done multiple times a day, as I had no way to carry water with me to my camp.

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As I was climbing the hill from the shore toward my camp, I looked over to where the moose carcass was and saw a black, furry creature on top of it.

I realized it was a bear and quickly moved to get a clump of trees between me and him. He had seen me, but he seemed quite preoccupied with his meal, so I just watched him for a while.

Eventually, I continued up to my camp and worked on gathering firewood and keeping my moose meat drying on the smoker that Zane and I had built out of stone, saplings, and moose hide. All the while, I knew the bear was just down the hill, enjoying what was left of the carcass. I wasn’t concerned about him at this point, as I knew he was content there and had no interest in me.

Over the next few days, I started to see his tracks in the snow, coming closer and closer to my camp during the night. I had cached the moose quarters in trees out of reach, and he was going to each tree, trying to figure out how to reach them. This finally came to a head one night when I woke up due to getting cold and needing to stoke my fire.

As I sat up in my shelter to reach for the wood I had set nearby for this purpose, I looked out over my fire and saw a round, black shadow just across the fire from me. Instinctively, I shifted my body back into the shelter behind the wall of boughs, and at the same time, I heard him startle and run off. It turned out that he had found the pile of fat I had gathered off the moose meat and was rendering during the day over the fire. He was lying there, gorging himself on it until I startled him.

Relocation

After this encounter, I ended up having to move my camp. I gathered up the moose meat that I had managed to smoke and dry, wrapped it in the moose hide, and made a makeshift pack that I could carry it in. I also took a large ember from my fire and placed it into a hole in a damp birch log so that I could use it to get my fire going in my new location. I hiked two miles until I found a nice spot near the water that was protected and perfect for building a new shelter.

That night, I slept under the moose hide after getting a new fire going.

The following day, I set about the task of building a shelter and making my new location home. One of the pros of moving my camp was that firewood was now much easier to find. I had stripped all the dead wood anywhere near my first camp area after only 15 days of living there. I now had fresh, untouched resources at my disposal. After moving, I never saw the bear again, and I’m sure he was fat, happy, and enjoying the spoils from my camp.

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The remaining 15 days dragged on. I weathered storms in my shelter, listening to the wind howl and the trees groan under the strain. I hoped that none of them would snap or uproot near me. I stuck my head out of my shelter many nights and watched the northern lights dance among the stars until my eyelids closed. I ran off martens that tried to steal my smoked moose meat, and I killed a grouse with the shoulder blade of the moose.

Forever Changed

My mind had shifted to a place where I believe it should have always been– a simple place of only worrying about the mundane. I got firewood, I drank water, I ate meat, I dried out my clothes if they got wet, I slept, and I woke up to do it all over again. It was the simplest life. Nothing going on in the world mattered. Wars, drama, traffic, bills–none of that mattered here, and none of that had any impact whatsoever on this place. It just consisted of sunrises and sunsets.

Finally, I only had a couple of days left. I hadn’t seen a mirror in over a month, but I knew that I had lost a lot of weight. My clothing that once clung tight to my curves hung off of me awkwardly as if they were sizes too big. My hands were black from a combination of soot, pitch, fat, meat, and blood. I could feel the toll that the lack of nutrition was taking on my body.

Things that used to be easy for me were now exhausting, and I would get lightheaded when I overexerted myself.

My mind started to wander to what it would be like when this was over and I was back in the world as most people know it. I didn’t feel like that world was really the real world, though. This one felt more authentic to me.

I would be going back into the fake world where we thought things mattered that didn’t, and where we created things to worry about because we didn’t have anything to worry about at all.

As I watched the skyline in the darkness on my last night out there, it was oddly bittersweet. I was so excited to go home and see my family. I was so proud of myself for what I had accomplished. I was also wary of leaving behind this way of life and the peace it provided. How could I take this with me somehow and not allow myself to fall victim to the lies of society and all that it tries to distract us with?

Slowly, the sky began to lighten, and streaks of grey, yellow, and blue began to appear. I had done it. I had survived 30 days in the wildest of places with nothing but the clothes on my back. In an odd tribute to the task I had accomplished, I doused my fire with snow and watched as weeks of coals that I had nurtured and literally breathed life into, fizzled out. It felt like the perfect ending and a new beginning. WH

‘26 JAN. 22-24 RENO, NV

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‘26 JAN. 22-24 RENO, NV

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Jesse Rogers’ Boone & Crockett Pacific Walrus

More Than Number Four B Y G E O R G E B E T TA S I L L U S T R AT I O N B Y R A N D Y S TA LC U P

J

esse Rogers is a native of a Yupik community in Southwestern Alaska who, after graduating from Saint John’s University, returned home to both study and pursue his people’s subsistence traditions. In 2023, after working as a guide, Jesse successfully hunted a Pacific walrus that was recorded as the largest ever taken by a hunter in accordance with Boone and Crockett Club standards and the Marine Mammals Protection Act. The walrus ranks #4 in the all-time record book for the species. After a chance meeting at the B&C Awards in 2023, George Bettas had the opportunity to both interview Jesse and procure the story of this truly remarkable beast.

More Than Number Four

Jesse’s 2023 Pacific walrus entry is notable for many reasons in addition to the fact that it is the largest hunter-harvested Pacific walrus to date. Jesse and his twin brother are graduates of Saint John’s University. Instead of pursuing their professional careers in the Lower 48 or elsewhere, they chose to return to their native villages and do their best to continue the native cultural-traditional rituals, practices, and values while pursuing their respective professional careers. Their mother is a Yupik native, and their father, from Indiana, had a career with the USFWS. As a result, Jesse and his brother didn’t grow up with a dad who took them out hunting marine mammals as Jesse does now.

When Jesse returned home from St. John’s, he needed a mentor to share with him what he needed to know for hunting marine mammals. A special skill set is required for hunting and butchering marine mammals, and Jesse was fortunate to find great teachers in his native friend and his father, two of the best hunters in the area, who shared what he needed to know for hunting marine mammals. Another significant reason why Jesse and his brother participate in the subsistence hunts is that in the younger generation, there aren’t many who hunt marine mammals.

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In his area, there are not enough hunters for the subsistence demand, as there are only about three or four natives who do subsistence hunting for eight communities. It takes time to acquire the special skills required for handling skiffs in the open sea and the knowledge of where and how to hunt the marine mammals. It also takes dedicated time off from work for the hunts, and there are significant costs for fuel (gasoline is $8 in his area) and supplies, which present major obstacles to individuals participating in these and other marine mammal hunts. As a result of his efforts to become proficient at marine mammal hunting, he has recently become a “walrus hunting captain,” providing his 24' aluminum skiff, supplies, and fuel for hunts with his native friends.

Conservation of marine mammal resources was another important reason for Jesse’s choice to return to his native village. He works with village tribal councils and groups such as the Bristol Bay Native Association and the Marine Mammal Co-Management group, and provides data for US Fish and Wildlife Service professionals so they understand how important subsistence hunting is for his native culture.

Challenges of the Hunt

Walruses are large marine predators that must rest out of water on sea ice or on the coast between feedings along the shallow arctic sea floor. Areas where they rest on the coast are usually specific locations, termed “haulouts,” and are used by the male walruses year after year. Haulouts of adult female and young walruses have primarily occurred in other areas in the Bering Strait region. Nothing is a guarantee on a subsistence hunt along beaches in the Bering Sea. Haulouts are difficult to get to, even when the seas are calm, because of strong riptides around the points and capes.

Photo: Richard Bettas

Hunting walrus on ice floes in the open sea near Savoonga, Alaska, in 1970.

The walrus is the only truly marine mammal that is considered “big game.”

Back in 1979 and earlier, when it was lawful to hunt Pacific walrus in the Bering Sea, hunts were conducted from native villages in the spring when the large herds of male walrus migrated northward, following the sea ice.

Females and young walrus precede the males to the Chukchi Sea area. Hunts were led by skilled native hunters who guided their clients to ice floes where walrus were resting. The selected walrus was stalked as close as possible because a brain shot was required to prevent the walrus from flopping off the ice into the water and sinking to the bottom.

Walrus hunting requires two people in a skiff to harvest a single walrus.

At least three skilled people are required for harvesting two walruses. In Alaska’s native villages, it is increasingly difficult to recruit locals to participate in hunts. Nothing is a guarantee on a subsistence hunt since your primary purpose is to harvest food instead of trophies. On a scale of hunt difficulty, walrus would be a 10, whereas moose would be two or three.

Jesse and his hunting partners have done open water hunting with a harpoon and buoy, but it requires wrestling a 4,000-pound animal in the open sea. They try to do it on the beach where swells or breakers are minimal and the weather is good. It’s always a weather-dependent hunting trip, and the most difficult part is getting to the haulout locations. Fall winds are harder to deal with than springtime, as the weather is less stable, requiring a NOAA forecast.

Jesse’s #4 Pacific Walrus

It was on the 23rd of October, 2023, when my friend, his father, and I set out in my friend’s 24-foot aluminum skiff on our subsistence hunt for Pacific walrus from Goodnews Bay. The weather was 48 degrees, and the seas seemed fairly calm where we launched the skiff. We needed to travel about 38 miles in a Northeast direction across the Bering Sea to reach Cape Newenham, which is known for having rough seas. It is very beautiful country in the Togiak National Wildlife Refuge.

Beaches in the Cape Newenham area where walrus haul out on the beach are difficult to get to, even when the seas are calm, because of the terrain and strong riptides. We had experience hunting this location, as it is known as a place where large male walrus feed and haul out on the beach to rest.

We hunt this area because the numbers of walrus at the haulouts that are males, as haulouts of adult female and young walruses primarily occur in other areas in the region.

When approaching walruses at a haulout, at low tide, the wind and sounds of an outboard motor must be in your favor. If the walruses get your scent or hear you, they will immediately go into the ocean. In larger groups, they will stampede toward the water, which could cause some of them to be injured.

Therefore, we select small groups and approach from the land side of the haulout, into the wind on the lee side.

When we arrived at the Cape Newnham haulout location, we found chest-shoulder-high waves caused by the rip tide along the shore. The NW wind was at our backs, which was wrong for our approach, as the land the walruses were on was facing south. Even though our skiff had a deep V bottom, my friend’s father was barely able to maneuver the skiff to a point where my friend and I could be dropped off before the walruses began moving toward the water. We had less than 15 seconds for us to pick out a walrus on the land side of the haulout group–just enough time for each of us to fire a single shot from our .308-caliber rifles. We each killed a bull walrus, which I attribute to good fortune and luck. After four hours of butchering, we had the meat, flippers, heads, and tusks loaded in the skiff for the trip back to Goodnews Bay. A special skill set is required for hunting and butchering marine mammals, and I had some of the best teachers to develop my skills. My friend and his father were some of the most experienced walrus hunters in the area, which added significant value to our hunting party. We had killed two big male walruses, but it wasn’t until we checked them in with the biologist, who had 26 years of experience with measuring walrus, that I realized how big my walrus really was! He told me it was the largest Pacific walrus he had seen in 26 years as a biologist. After the required Boone and Crockett Club drying period, it scored 145 points and currently ranks #4 in the Boone and Crockett Club’s All-Time Records of North American Big Game.

The wind and weather are very unpredictable and often require you to turn back with your skiff. You may have to wait for weeks for the weather to be good enough to hunt walrus. On one hunt, I waited 23 days for the weather to clear. People who do not live here don’t understand why we hunt them, and most importantly, they do not understand the subsistence values. Feeding a lot of people is the primary reason I hunt walrus. I spend a lot of time talking with the elders of the various villages in our area, learning everything that I can from them. Elders like to eat the flippers, kidney, liver, and heart, as well as the walrus meat.

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Alaskan natives with a large male walrus near Savoonga, Alaska, in 1970.

Subsistence Hunting

Pacific walrus may not be hunted by non-native people and may only be possessed in compliance with the 1972 Marine Mammals Protection Act. The act states that, “Alaska Native peoples who reside in Alaska and dwell on the coast may harvest Pacific walruses for subsistence and handicraft purposes.” Because the harvest must be accomplished in a non-wasteful manner, taking walrus only for their ivory is not allowed. The information collected helps ensure the long-term survival of these species by monitoring the harvest and controlling the illegal take, trade, and transport of marine mammal parts.1 Beach combing by bush pilots is the primary means of obtaining a walrus (tusks) and registering it with the USFWS.

Boone and Crockett Club’s Records Program

The Boone and Crockett Club’s records program for Pacific walrus emphasizes the collection of data that contributes to the understanding of walrus populations and contributes to their scientific management. Individual trophy entries are accepted, scored, and recorded in the Records Program based upon tusk measurements. However, the program’s primary goal is to monitor the health and distribution of walrus populations rather than to track yearly hunting achievements.

“The Boone and Crockett Club’s scoring system for walrus tusks focuses on dimensions that reflect the animal’s size and the overall health of the population. The primary measurement is the overall length of each tusk, from the point in line with the longest projecting edge of the root to the tip.

In order to account for mass and thickness, circumference measurements are taken at four points along the length of each tusk: at the base and then at the first, second, and third quarters of the tusk’s length. The gross score for walrus tusks is derived from the sum of the measurements of both 96

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tusks, without any deductions for lack of symmetry. This means that the total length of both tusks plus the four circumference measurements for each tusk contribute to the final score.”

The World Record Pacific Walrus in the Club’s all-time records was discovered by Ralph Young in 1997 through beachcombing in Bristol Bay, Alaska. This “pick-up” trophy scored 147 4/8", and its story highlights how non-harvested specimens can also contribute to the understanding of big game populations. WH 1 https://www.doi.gov/subsistence/federal-subsistence-regulations-published-federal-register

// H I S T O R I C A L H I G H L I G H T

Alaska’s Haul Road The James W. Dalton Highway, AKA the “Haul Road,” is a highway

Once the road was opened to all folks, it gave the public relatively

road was created as a supply road for the Trans-Alaska Pipeline in

Now, instead of having to go through a transporter to embark on a

that extends from Fairbanks north 414 miles to Dead Horse. The

the mid-1970s. It is mostly made of gravel, but some sections have been paved in recent years. This road was strictly designated for

commercial use until 1981 when it was opened up to recreationalists to mile marker 211, Disaster Creek. Then, in 1994, the entire length of the road was opened to all traffic.

easy access to thousands of caribou, especially by Alaska standards.

DIY hunt, the average guy could take off driving in their own vehicle without the pressures and costs of transporter services.

Critically, the section of land within five miles on either side of the road is designated as archery-only, creating a unique opportunity

for bowhunters to test their skills in a true wilderness setting. With careful planning and respect for the harsh environment, the Haul Road offers one of the last great opportunities in North America for truly self-reliant, backcountry hunting.

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TrailDuster

A lifetime of lessons learned in a truck called One Pump Sally B Y C O DY B A R N E S — P H OT O S B Y N I C K H I G M A N

H

er name was One Pump Sally. She had a cream-colored topper and a faded metallic rust body. Fabric-torn bucket seats and dents across the hood told you she had seen a thing or two. But for the $850 it cost my father to make her ours–and the minimal attention she required–there couldn’t have been a finer rig.

He hauled her out to Colorado, where she patiently awaited our annual return each fall. Sharp winds, blustery winters, and repeated exposure to summer heat waves shaped her worn physique. Despite nature’s attempt to sully her internal beauty, a flush of the gas filter, a twist of the key, and a single pump of the pedal were all it took to get her started. TrailDuster was stamped on her side, and no other word could have described her with more clarity.

The radio didn’t work, but it didn’t matter. Laughter, silence, and retelling of the previous years’ memories filled the cab where the music couldn’t. A set of chains got us up the sloppiest of slopes, and the heater only worked when it wanted. The deep, rhythmic sound of her engine created an ambiance– one of generations before mine–a sound of grit and perseverance. She resembled a steady hand–one that could guide you into the dark. That slow and steadfast pace–Sally’s pace–is what allowed us to see the land and learn it in our own time.

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Each fall, Sally effortlessly guided us through a maze of oil roads cut into Colorado’s patchwork of public and private lands. By virtue of returning to the same locations year after year, patterns began to emerge. We formed a subconscious map–a growing ability to read vegetation, colors, and terrain both from afar and up close. The outline of mahogany on a ridgeline at first light; the texture that bitterbrush brings to a slope covered in sage. Through Sally’s windshield, I viewed the land as the living organism it was, and not just a place to drive through.

Back then, I couldn’t have named half the plants we passed–but we knew them in ways that mattered: where they grew and what they attracted.

Knowing what to call “it” wouldn’t have changed the outcome of success, anyway. What counted was knowing where pockets of quakies cast shadows over golden beds that held wary elk, or where mule deer melted into oak brush thickets with the warmth of morning sun.

That instinctive knowledge helped us make good use of our time and effort. Most years didn’t produce wall-hangers, but they always brought opportunity. Years flew by, and the end of trespass-fee agreements closed old doors and opened others. Sally’s four-wheel grit was replaced by aerial imagery and GPS coordinates. At first, thousand-foot aerial views felt a bit like cheating. But even the sharpest of satellite imagery can’t tell you everything rooted on the ground. That’s still earned with sweat equity. With curiosity.

With a rig like Sally.

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In a sea of sage, the contour lines of oak brush stood out. A handful of discarded mahogany leaves and the bareness of branches amongst evergreen were subtle changes that pointed toward where to look, linger, or move on.

They helped define shape, texture, and color through the lens of our spotter.

Long-range glass became an extension of what we already knew up close.

Scrolling through timelines of satellite imagery felt like viewing history in real time. Though the names weren’t pasted across the screen, careful examination of slight color differences, terrain features, and plant density left clues for further study. Spring and fall imagery captured a unique chance to view large swaths of blooming or pre-dormant landscape–snapshots of change in motion.

As I look to Sally’s rearview mirror, I see the path of learning she carved.

Looking ahead, through her front windshield, I see layers of detail in the landscape. Features identified up close, captured through a glass, and traversed from aerial imagery have created a picture that is less abstract and more complete.

Learning the names and traits of plants I once overlooked hasn’t always led to success in the field, but it has created a stronger sense of connection to my hunts. I’ve become more observant. I see the land not just as a place to pass through, but as something living and worth knowing. Those feelings have left me grateful for spending time outdoors. Maybe it’s just part of getting older. Maybe it’s the healing properties of the dents across my own hood. Or maybe it’s that one pump Sally still rides with me–in memory, in instinct, and every unfamiliar stem, leaf, or branch I stumble upon. WH

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Winter’s Décor

A wintry stroll for quail, through the woods trimmed for the holidays

BY ED G A R C A STI L LO

It usually doesn’t snow when I want it to, but Ol’ Man Winter must’ve been listening, as he had granted me a late December day. An overnight snow had fallen silently, lightly blanketing the northeastern Kansas landscape as white mixed with the drab tans and browns. A colorless canvas interspersed with dark, squiggly brown lines in the form of desolate, leafless trees. Thick bushes that appeared to have been painted with heavy brushstrokes dotted the scene.

It was enough of a prelude to Christmas that, with cold temps set for the remainder of the week, the white accent would be a welcome addition to the holiday spirit that poured from the decorative neighborhoods, the hustle and bustle of shopping centers, and lively storefronts. I would soon learn that nature had its own way of preparing for the season.

The sound of breaking an infinite number of ice grains beneath my boots with each step created that familiar crunching noise. I could hear the others tromping through the crystallized ground. Sweep, crunch, swoosh, scrape... the clamoring broke the morning silence. A quartet of dogs drifted in and out. Each searched for their own scent trail. One stood out amongst the group with a constant clanging bell. Its unrhythmic banging created a merry sound across the land.

The dogs created their own paths as lanes of travel opened up in, around, and through thickets. I trudged along a backdrop of frozen moisture and sparkly snow crystals that resembled shimmering white holiday lights strewn about. The day was grey, but hints of yellow sunrays bounced off the glistening snow. The landscape sparkled.

On occasion, a few snowflakes were seen drifting effortlessly. Several landed on the glossy barrels of my over-under shotgun. With my naked eye, I could make out delicate sixfold symmetrical shapes on the blued surface.

The frigid air was crisp and fresh and damp. I took in the chilly air, which stung my lungs. It was instantly mixed with the warm moisture of my breath, which created a misty cloud. The fragile formations disappeared instantly.

They were immediately replaced with other falling icy geometric shapes.

As I walked, my attention was taken away by the many brilliant, crimsonstained birds twittering about. They replaced others that have gone away for the season–you know, the ones from the holiday tune, the bluebirds.

They fluttered swiftly about like strings of red ribbons being woven into the bushes. Their mohawk cut hairdos twitched as a few laid down two-parted whistles, speeding up and ending in a slow trill melody. The syllables made the bird sound similar to singing... cheer, cheer, cheer. They were self-appointed carolers. A pair of pale brown females with warm reddish-tinged wings and crests stood poised, watching the commotion. A patriotic eagle soared overhead.

I suddenly realized the clamoring of the brass bell affixed to the tri-color French breton had gone silent. Its radically changing festive tune only strengthened the holiday spirit that was upon us. Poking around thickets, I found the medium-sized dog in a twisted bramble. Its partial dark shadow stood statuesque beneath a rather tall, loden-colored cedar, resembling a bare Christmas tree. A large bough extended out, masking the dog’s entire rigid form. Each loud step taken had the potential to cause what I presumed was a covey of quail to violently flush from somewhere underneath.

A trampled highway of three-toed tracks led straight to the robust cedar. Its soft and camphoraceous smell was cooling and overpowering as I moved in closer. With slow, deliberate movements, I inched even closer. Without hesitation, a rush of wings burst forth. Over a baker’s dozen rocketed out in every direction. The shotgun was instantly brought up and tracked a darting bird from right to left. As the end of the barrel passed the fleeting form, the trigger was pulled.

A shot rang out. In an instant, the bird crumpled and fell. Without a pause in the fluid motion of the fowling piece, a secondary burst was fired.

Its lead payload found its mark just as quickly as it caught a few birds involved in the late flushing escape. Pale feathers billowed along the slight breeze as they slowly descended onto the ground. Others were carried away to be lost for eternity in the wintry landscape.

Without hesitation, the dog bounded over to the first plump, rotund, lifeless body and brought it to my gloved hand. The mottled brown, buff, white, black, and gray ball with a white throat patch resembled a round, feathery ornament–similar to the round ones sold at Christmas time, chock full of glued-on feathers. It was gently placed in the rear of my vest. I started walking towards the second downed bird, but before I could, my Franco companion emerged from the snow-covered foliage with the second quail.

This specimen sported a buffy-yellowish throat instead. A female. She was placed alongside her mate.

Pale feathers billowed along the slight breeze as they slowly descended onto the ground. Others were carried away to be lost for eternity in the wintry landscape.

I pushed the lever to one side of the shotgun, which released the lock and allowed the break-action to open. With simultaneous thumps, two red hulls with shiny gold caps ejected out. They landed without hardly any sound, in a patch of snow. Their holiday color scheme was striking against the bleached earth. They were collected and tossed in my game bag.

I hardly noticed other shots ringing about. My cohorts had seen where the majority of the covey had landed and were engaged in working up singles with the other dogs. Flashes of bright ochre-colored bird vests could be seen as figures walked through brambles a good distance away.

I hurriedly made my way to their location. I approached from the far side, where a large plot of deciduous holly brush, a favorite food for bobwhite, dotted the area. The scarlet berries added to the already festive feel of the day’s surroundings. A smattering of other ruby haws, such as honeysuckle, hung like yuletide bulbs.

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Quick pops with screams of “Quail!” pierced the air. Blurred objects whizzed nearby. I hastily shouldered my shotgun, firing a pair of rapid, successive shots. I stepped out to where I had seen the bird go end over end. As I moved through a mix of crusty and soft snow, more telltale signs of quail movement traipsing through were observed–possibly a second covey, as I was over a hundred yards away. Lying peacefully still below an Osage tree was the shot quail.

Scattered around were scores of yellow-green hedge apples. Visions of nature’s take on ornaments danced in my head. The ground lay ridden with whole and partially eaten fruit. A large shadow caught my attention, moving through the brush. It was a deer. A doe, in fact. She turned her head and stared at me. Her soft gaze met mine. Our eyes locked momentarily. Without any noise, the large-bodied female silently trotted away. Her grey-brown coat disappeared into the brushy backdrop.

A sudden “whoosh!” startled me as the wind stirred from the gobs of quail that flushed from their hidden sanctuary. The shotgun was haphazardly brought up; however, neither blast produced anything. I scooped up the stout female bobwhite. Her coloration was much more pronounced and vibrant than the previous hen I had shot. She was exquisitely beautiful.

Gathering myself, I quickly reloaded on the move as two more shells were dropped into the barrels. With a slightly forceful “thwack,” the Ruger Red Label was closed.

As I moved through the frozen brush, sounds of sporadic gunfire punched across the land. Slight mutterings of wings followed–no doubt pressured singles from pointing dogs that couldn’t bear sitting still any longer. The lingering smell of spent gunpowder wafted in the air like burnt incense.

I found myself in a partly cut cornfield. Two of my orange-clad cohorts waved me over as they vanished into the tall stalks. It appeared that we were rendezvousing on the nearby dirt road that crisscrossed the section of public land we were hunting. Shuffling my boots carefully over broken and bent remnants of hollowed-out corn tubes, I noticed a blemished, pointy “stick” of sorts protruding from the ground. Lucky–as a fall would’ve occurred had I not been looking at the ground.

Quick work revealed one-half of a buck’s discarded antler. The pale, bonycolored six-point shed was from a young, maturing deer. Had my daughters been there with me when they were little, I would have carried over the yuletide theme of the land with an explanation that one of St. Nick’s “reindeers” had lost one of its antlers. The discarded horn was placed in the back of the bird vest, giving company to the trio of bobs that rode at the bottom.

There was an air of holiday gaiety that was overcoming the winter doldrums. All of my five senses had been touched by the jubilant mood and the natural adornments of the land that I passed through and experienced that morning. Decorative trim came in the form of festal colors–splashed in various amounts of details in the most subtle of garnishments–and radiant scenery, trinkets of fruit, feathers, and bone, and ended with the sounds that ignited amazement and cheer.

Twinkling lights manifested from the bouncing sunrays that hit the ice as we moved through shimmery grass only added to the atmosphere.

Overhead, six geese flew over to emphasize the day’s subtle reminder of the popular Christmas song.

The joyous cheers of success rallied others to gather around to admire the beautiful birds that fell to connecting shots. The entire atmosphere was ambivalent to the upcoming holiday. There had been sights, sounds, and smells that a hunt brings. As I walked along the glazed dirt surface, I heard a lone whistling chorus of “Bob, bob, bobwhite!” It was a fitting garnish for a day’s Winter’s Decor. WH WESTERN HUNTER 107

Passage in the Backcountry TH E E FFECTI V E N E S S O F E LECTR I C M OTO R CYCLE S B Y J A M E S YAT E S

ast fall, I went on a DIY backcountry rifle hunt for mule deer in a very mountainous unit with steep ridges and deep canyons. It’s the type of country that requires a full day of hiking to get into and out of your spot. I had about five days to dedicate to this hunt last year, and I knew that if it took me a full day to pack in and a full day to pack out that I’d only have a few days to actually hunt. Also, this country was much too big to think that I was going to find and kill a big, mature buck in three days of hunting.

Right, smack in the middle of the unit, there is a big area with several single-track trails that are open to motorcycle use during the hunt. Given my time constraints on this hunt, I needed to really consider using a dirt bike to hunt this area. I’ve done some out-and-back hunting on gas dirt bikes in my twenties, but it wasn’t the same thing as this was going to be.

For this, I was going to need to have camp on my back, and once I departed from the trailhead, I wasn’t going to be back for five days.

My options for motorcycles were to borrow my dad’s older Honda 250 that I used to ride in my twenties or look into a new bike. I wasn’t thrilled at the idea of buying a new gas dirt bike, especially because I don’t use them that often, and I didn’t want to add another thing to my to-do list that needed to be maintained throughout the year. My other concern with a gas bike was reliability. That Honda 250 I used to ride occasionally gave me fits trying to start it, probably because I wasn’t great at keeping up on the maintenance and riding it often. So, I started to look into electric options. I quickly found out that there were a million options to go through and analyze.

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Picking Out an E-Motorcycle with Charged Cycle Works During my research, I discovered that one of the premier electric motorcycle dealers in the West happened to be right in my hometown of Salt Lake City.

The company is called Charged Cycle Works, and I decided one afternoon to go and give them a visit.

To summarize the visit, electric dirt bikes are available in three major size/weight/power categories. Basically, there are light-duty e-dirtbikes, medium-duty bikes, and full-size bikes. Considering that I was in the market for an e-dirtbike strictly for transportation for hunting, I was mostly interested in the light-duty and medium-duty options, simply because I didn’t need a big, powerful bike to rip down trails at 50 MPH for hunting.

The thing that first stood out to me while test-driving was the ease of riding these e-dirtbikes. There is no clutch or gear shifting. There’s just a throttle and a brake. There is practically no learning curve with riding these bikes; it’s stupid simple.

During my test drives, I was able to experience firsthand the different frame sizes and power categories. I’m not a big guy at 5'9" and 190 lb. I’ve got a pretty short inseam of 30", so one thing that I paid attention to was the stand-over height of the various bikes. I fell in love with the smaller-frame, light-duty bikes because the stand-over height was ideal for me. I was able to stand over the light-duty bikes with both feet flat on the ground, feeling very stable. From a trail riding perspective, with a heavy pack on, this was going to be a big deal to stay safe and avoid tipping over while creeping along in technical terrain.

The other major advantage of the lighter class of e-dirtbikes is the weight and length. They are smaller bikes in every way, and that makes them much easier to maneuver as you need to (like turning the bike around in the trail).

Even picking the bike up isn’t a problem. My experience with the Honda 250 was completely the opposite. It was much harder to maneuver, the standover height was awkwardly tall while trying to keep feet on the ground, turning around on the trail was difficult, and there was no way of easily picking the bike up. Loading and unloading this e-dirtbike in the back of a truck (without a ramp) was night and day easier than my dad’s Honda 250, which I generally had to load with a ramp.

It didn’t take but a few test rides to quickly determine that I was all-in on a light-duty e-dirtbike. It was stupid simple to ride, extremely easy to maneuver on and off the bike, and was completely reliable with very little maintenance.

I ended up going with a 2024 E Ride Pro SS 2.0, based on recommendations from Charged Cycle Works. This bike is a 72-volt system with 40 amp-hour capacity. I decided to get an upgraded 16/19” wheel set and new gummy Tusk Recon tires to improve traction, especially for the slower speeds at which I intended to use the bike. Lastly, I got an upgraded seat cover with better grip, so I wouldn’t slide around on the seat as much.

Go Time!

The day to leave for the hunt came, and of course, I left a half day later than I had anticipated, which meant I’d be riding up the mountain in the dark. I was a little concerned about doing technical riding in the dark with a heavy pack, but I decided to go for it anyway. On this particular hunt, I was meeting up with my buddy Bodie. He was planning to meet me at the trailhead and ride a gas dirtbike up the mountain.

Bodie got to the trailhead before me, and wouldn’t you know it, had significant problems with his bike. At first, it didn’t want to start, and then, once it started, it was leaking gas significantly. He had ridden it a month prior and had no problems. Bodie decided to ditch the bike at the trailhead and start the long 7.5-mile hike and 4000 feet of elevation gain to camp.

I arrived at the trailhead a couple of hours behind Bodie, quickly got my bike unloaded, and set off up the trail. I had zero issues unloading or starting the bike. I was grateful to have the highly maneuverable lightweight bike for riding up in the dark. I was grateful it had a fantastic stock headlight, as well. There were several very rocky technical sections where I just got off the bike and feathered the throttle while I walked alongside it. There was even a big river crossing with some good-sized rocks that was a breeze to walk and throttle through.

Several times, in technical sections (like rock slides), I was able to put both feet on the ground, seated on the bike seat, and feather the throttle, stepping my feet forward as I crept along. The fact that there are no gears on these e-dirtbikes makes them stupid easy to ride, especially with your feet down, creeping along.

I caught up to Bodie before he had even made it halfway on foot with a few hours’ head start. I went up ahead of Bodie to find a campsite. At about the six-mile mark, with nearly all of the 4,000 feet of elevation gain complete, I took a photo, and the bike battery meter was at 79%. I was crazy impressed that the bike had only dropped 21% in all that way, and I was riding with five days’ worth of camping gear.

I ditched the bike about a mile before camp, once I needed to go off-trail.

I had my camp set up and was asleep for almost two hours before Bodie rolled into camp, and he is no slouch hiker, either. If we had both been hiking, he would have given me a run for my money. It was incredible how much faster it was to ride in versus hike. Not to mention, I was still incredibly fresh, while Bodie was completely tuckered out even before the hunt actually started.

Big Bucks Down Opening morning was pretty uneventful for both of us. At midday, I hiked off the peak we were camped on down to the bike and rode down the trail to get a bunch of water for both of us. Dropping 600 feet and then gaining it again with a lot of water weight was no big deal. The bike was incredibly handy for water runs.

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On day two of our hunt, I sent Bodie to check a basin where the previous year I had seen a heavy four-point with great eye guards. Fifteen minutes after first light, I heard a shot. Bodie had ended up finding that same buck.

He killed him in almost the same part of the basin where I had seen him.

The buck is a stud and goes well over 180 with golden brown antlers and world-class eye guards. We spent the rest of the hunt looking for a big nontypical that I had seen the previous year but couldn’t get killed. At about 10:00 AM on our last day to hunt, I came around the corner of a steep, north-facing ridge and saw a big-framed, mature buck feeding through intermittent burned timber. I thought he looked like a big, wide fourpoint–well past his ears with 18-inch G2s.

With no time left to continue looking for the non-typical from the previous year, I immediately told myself, “That’s a shooter!” I raised the rifle and let him have it from 200 yards, offhand. When I walked up to him and realized the big swooping front tines were main beams (I thought they were big G4s), I was pretty stoked. He was a mondo three-point with lots of character, including those big, curvy beams!

Riding out with my harvest was great. I stiffened up the suspension with the turn of a couple of knobs, and the bike handled the weight with no problem. I was really grateful for the upgraded grippy seat cover on the way down the steep trail because it really helped to keep me from sliding forward. Riding down with a lot of weight, I took my time, and any time I hit a technical section, I simply put my feet down and stepped through it while feathering the throttle. Other places, I simply got off the bike and used the throttle to gently creep the bike along as I walked next to it.

Conclusion Having finished this hunt with the light-duty e-dirtbike, I want to conclude this article by summarizing the benefits of this guy over a conventional gas motorcycle. Compared to my old Honda 250, this E Ride Pro is substantially more reliable with less maintenance. It just starts and goes every time.

It has zero odor (no gasoline nor combustion exhaust) and is night-and-day quieter–not disturbing an area is paramount for hunting.

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I can ride this e-dirtbike right to my glassing point. With the gas motorcycle, I needed to stop a half mile before, so as not to disturb the area. With no clutch or gearing, it’s simpler to ride even for beginners in technical terrain.

Also, being able to creep along, feathering the throttle, and keeping both feet on the ground for stability is a giant advantage to these bikes. Even using the throttle to move the bike forward as you walk adjacent to it is a big advantage. It’s way easier to maneuver the e-dirtbike when turning the thing around on the trail, which at times, in steep country, feels impossible with a bike like a Honda 250.

The only real advantages of the gas motorcycle are more mileage range, and it is easier to fill it up with gasoline than it is to charge a battery. That being said, the single battery for the E Ride Pro had about 60% capacity remaining after the five-day hunt. Two batteries (yes, the batteries are easily swappable) would last 10 days or more.

If you are looking for a new adventure on your next hunt, I highly recommend hunting from an e-dirtbike. It was a blast and opened up some big country to me on a relatively short hunt. There is no way I could have hunted this area, with the five days I had, without a bike. If you are in the market for an e-motorcycle, I highly suggest checking out Charged Cycle Works in Salt Lake City. They truly are experts in all things e-motorcycles, have a ton of inventory, do custom work, and were great to work with.

One last thing to mention: This last summer, I had the opportunity to demo the new Bakcou Puma X22 e-motorcycle. It is a bigger bike than the E Ride Pro–kind of in that midweight category, but it was a real joy to ride, as well. Even though the bigger bike has substantially more power, it handled very well and was noticeably less jerky/touchy. It’s definitely worth a look as well if you are in the market. That bike is also available through Charged Cycle Works and will have a lot of customization, specifically for hunters. WH

K 9 At h l e t e ®

BECAUSE ‘GOOD ENOUGH’ ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH —for Them or You.

WILDERNESSATHLE TE.COM

99 Problems A mission to bag a pheasant in each of Iowa’s counties B Y H E AT H S E I N E R

I’ve worn out a couple of pairs of boots, shared countless bird camp laughs with a rotating cast of characters, and laid a damn good bird dog to rest since I made the acquaintance of Nick Martin. In a world seemingly driven by clicks, views, and shock value, Nick’s authentic and humble demeanor was a breath of fresh air. As I got to know the man behind the “Iowa Birdchaser” social media handle, it became clear we were kindred spirits–upland-obsessed, dog-loving, and inspired by the wild landscapes we’re lucky to roam each season.

We both carry a deep respect for the remarkable birds we pursue.

What sets Nick apart in the upland community is his mission: to harvest a wild pheasant on public land in each of Iowa’s 99 counties. What began as a personal challenge has evolved into something more–an opportunity to share his love for the Hawkeye State, advocate for ringneck habitat conservation, and champion public land access for all. To bookend the mission, Nick targeted completion of the goal in 10 years, hoping his wirehaired pointing griffon, Sophie, would be able to see the objective from start to finish.

Number 10

But, as the saying goes, “The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry,” and chasing cagey late-season roosters across 99 counties is no exception.

As the season neared its end, Nick sent out a call for reinforcements: “Hey crew, I’m out of runway this season. I need some fresh dog power to put a check mark next to my 10th county. Anyone up for a road trip to Iowa for a late-season Hail Mary?”

Bird dogs were kenneled, shotguns sleeved, road trip snacks packed, and soon, a convoy was rolling toward Mahaska County. To make things a bit more interesting, a crust of icy snow and bitter cold blanketed the Iowa countryside. But bird dogs thrive in the harshness of late-season hunts, and so do the uplanders who follow them.

We met in a motel parking lot the next morning, greeted by a stiff north wind and steaming tumblers of coffee. After scrolling through OnX, we set our sights on a large public tract. Diverse terrain, good cover, water sources, and nearby crop fields–it was the perfect recipe full of key ingredients to hold a wary late-season rooster.

Tailgates dropped, and the air filled with the clicking of paws and the restless whines of dogs ready to run. The jingle of e-collar hardware gave way to an explosion of canine energy charging into the dense cover. We worked into the wind, while our bird dogs systematically combed the cover in search of birds. As hours passed and the miles stacked up, it became clear the hens were thriving, but roosters? Hard to say if there were any left to carry the torch into spring.

Last Ditch

The twilight of the season was upon us. Spirits were high, but doubt crept in. Would we help Nick notch his 10th county, after all? Then, deep into the afternoon, a single gunshot broke the stillness and echoed across the rolling hills. We crested a rise to see Nick, silhouetted against the dull gray sky, arm raised, clutching a public land Mahaska County rooster. Objective complete.

We converged on a local Mexican joint. Bottomless chips, salsa, and drinks littered the table. As I sat there, surrounded by guys who had driven hours to help a buddy reach a goal, I couldn’t help but reflect on the value of a solid crew.

Upland hunters might be solitary by nature, following their dogs across lonely horizons, but when the right crew comes together, the memories made are just as rewarding as that lone bird resting in Nick’s game bag. WH

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// T H E L I B R A R Y

Books and Podcasts Worth Your Time The Hunt Backcountry Podcast #477 How to Thrive on Difficult Hunts (with Ben Reynolds)

Coyote America by Dan Flores

has solidified himself as one of the best out there. This podcast dives

biggest cities. He discusses how coyotes have adapted and expanded

When it comes to killing mature walk-in area Dall sheep, Ben Reynolds deep into Ben’s philosophy on difficult hunts and what tactics allow him to thrive even when all the chips are stacked against him.

Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind

by Yuval Noah Harari

Sapiens follows the history of humankind from the emergence

Dan Flores details the history of the coyote, from its sacred role

in Native American tribes to its survival in nearly all of America’s

their range across North America, even when up against pressure

from Government trapping efforts. Flores argues that the coyote’s

resilience, intelligence, and adaptability make it a powerful symbol of wildness and a reminder of nature’s ability to thrive despite people’s best efforts.

of Homo sapiens to the modern age, focusing on how cognitive,

Yellowstone Migrations by Joe Riis

argues that shared myths such as religion, money, and nations

Joe Riis uses camera traps to capture raw, intimate moments

agricultural, and scientific revolutions shaped societies. Harari are what allow large groups of humans to cooperate and build civilizations. The book challenges readers to rethink progress,

questioning whether technological and social advances have truly made humans happier or more fulfilled.

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Yellowstone Migrations is a killer mix of photography and story. that most folks will never get to see in the wild. The essays bring

in the science and urgency behind these migrations without ever feeling heavy-handed. It’s one of those rare books that hits you

with beauty and meaning at the same time. If you’re drawn to how animals move through wild places, this one belongs on your shelf.

// F E AT U R E D A R T I S T

JOSH SMITHOf MONTANA KNIFE COMPANY

WHM: Please give a bit of info about you–where you grew up, where you live

now, how you got started with your work.

JOSH: I grew up in Lincoln, Montana, a small town on the edge of the Bob

Marshall Wilderness. As a fifth-generation Montanan, I spent my childhood hunting, fishing, playing sports, and living in a log house my parents built themselves. I began making knives at the age of 11, when my Little League coach, Rick Dunkerley, introduced me to bladesmithing, sparking a passion that would define my life.

I started working in his shop, learning to craft knives, and by age 12, I had my own setup in my dad’s equipment shop, even joining the American Bladesmith Society. I became the youngest Journeyman Smith at 15 and the youngest Master Bladesmith at age 19. Today, I live in Frenchtown, Montana, on 21 acres near the Clark Fork River with my wife, Jessica, and our four kids, where we raise cattle and stay active in sports.

WHM: How has hunting influenced your work?

JOSH: Hunting has really defined the path to where we are today. I started

hunting with my uncle at a young age. Over the years, the focus has shifted from hunting for myself to hunting with my children and finding more excitement with their success than my own. Through those experiences, I developed a real sense for what the hunter needed in a knife and the importance of passing that knife down. We pass down fewer and fewer things these days, as so many items are made to be thrown away. A knife and a gun, historically, have never been throwaway items.

WHM: What makes your knives unique?

JOSH: The knives I personally make are unique in that they are completely

handmade and come from my soul. I forge the blades, hand-file, hand-sand, and carve these knives into a work of art, and no two are ever the same.

Our MKC knives are unique in that they are designed by me with the end user in mind. They come from a place of experience and passion for the outdoors. No other major knife companies are run by active knife makers who also hunt and use the knives as intended. The combination of that and my experience of being a Master Bladesmith truly sets us apart.

WHM: What is your favorite hunting memory?

JOSH: All of my favorite memories involve my kids. Last year, I had an

incredible hunt with my son, Hank, where we spent 10 days in northern British Columbia on horseback, far off the grid. My son ended up making an incredible shot on a huge bull moose. The time spent over 10 days in a tent with him will be some of my most cherished memories.

WHM: What is your personal favorite piece you’ve done?

JOSH: There are a number of pieces I’ve made that are favorites. It’s hard to

choose. I’ve built some incredible daggers, bowies, and folders. One of my favorites would be a 10-foot-long spear with a triple head on it. Another would be a push dagger with a fossilized mammoth ivory handle and 18k gold pins. Another is a bowie with tons of engraved 18k gold and a beautiful Damascus blade.

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WHM: Why is American manufacturing important to you?

JOSH: At this exact moment, I can hear the voices of my employees showing

up downstairs. It’s 6:41 in the morning, and I can hear the excitement in their voices about our drop last night. I know that I am helping these people achieve their dreams. They are building careers, buying homes, having babies, and building their lives. THAT is what American manufacturing is all about. It’s providing opportunities through jobs and experiences that allow the citizens of our community and our country to build and achieve their dreams.

WHM: What’s next for Montana Knife Company?

JOSH: Starting in January, the next phase of MKC takes off. We are moving

into our new production facility, where we are installing an amazing amount of new equipment. This is going to allow us to finish developing our new folding knife, as well as become innovative in ways we haven’t been able to before. We will own every process of making a knife in-house, which we find very exciting. I hope one day people look to our company as the model of what is possible in American manufacturing and it proves that the American dream is alive and real. WH

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Sous Vide Anyone who’s cooked wild game knows the margin for error is razor thin. It’s lean, muscular, and unforgiving if you overcook it by even a few degrees. One minute it’s tender, the next it’s dry and chewy. Whether it’s elk backstrap, mule deer roast, or duck breasts, wild game requires more finesse than your average beef steak.

What is Sous Vide?

Sous vide (pronounced soo-veed) might sound like something you’d hear at a fancy French bistro. And yes, it is French, but don’t hold that against it. This is a high-precision method for cooking meat low and slow in a water bath.

You seal your meat in a plastic bag, drop it in warm water held at a precise temperature, and let it cook evenly from edge to edge. No guesswork, no overcooking–just perfectly cooked wild game, every time.

How to Do It

Season the meat, bag it up with some aromatics (garlic, herbs, butter), and drop it in the water. Set your sous vide to your target temp (130°F is great for medium-rare), and walk away. After a couple hours, pull it out, pat it dry, and sear it in a ripping hot pan for a nice crust.

Sous Vide Gear

There are plenty of gadgets out there, but you don’t need anything crazy. A simple immersion circulator like the Anova or Joule clamps onto any pot or cooler and gets the job done. Most Instant Pots also come with a Sous Vide setting (you just didn’t know what that did until now). Personally we use the Instant Pot Sous Vide, it’s a separate immersion circulator and works great.

Try It For Yourself

Here’s a quick and simple “recipe” for your first Sous Vide steak. Don’t take our advice too seriously, try anything you’d like! This is the steak we made for the photos in this article and it came out amazing.

Ingredients

Steak – Can be anything, we used elk round steak for these photos.

Salt and Pepper Minced Garlic Cloves 3 Sprigs Rosemary 2-3 tbsp Worcestershire Sauce 2 tbsp Butter (More or less is fine. I suggest more... always more.)

Steps

1. Season meat and place in a vacuum or freezer zip bag with garlic, herbs, and butter.

2. Cook sous vide at 130°F for 2–3 hours.

3. Remove, dry it off, and sear hard in a cast iron pan for 1 minute per side.

4. Rest, slice, and serve.

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// A L L TA G G E D O U T

We receive many incredible stories and, unfortunately, aren’t able to publish every one. All Tagged Out is our way of celebrating more of our readers’ hunts and sharing them with the community.

Want to be featured? Send your successful hunt photos with your name, state, and a few other details via our submission form.

Jesse Madden | Elk | Colorado

Karsten Hauf | Elk | Wyoming

Joshua Faughn | Mule Deer | Idaho

Michael Carr | Elk | Idaho

After 25 years of applying and dreaming, 2024 brought the elk hunt of a lifetime–one that ended with a stunning 351" bull on opening day. Years of experience, persistence, and family support came together in Oregon’s rugged backcountry, where a missed first shot was redeemed with a perfect follow-up. The brutal pack-out through snow and steep terrain only made the moment more meaningful, marking the end of a decades-long pursuit with the bull of a lifetime.

In a state known for excellent opportunities for flexible, hunters, Joshua Faughn was able to take this great buck. While some worry that those opportunities are fading, Joshua is proof that there are still great hunts to be had for adventurous, persistent individuals.

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Welcoming their first child in November 2023 changed everything for this young Wyoming family, shifting their priorities from hunting and ranching to bonding with their newborn son. Despite limited time and tough conditions, the couple leaned on their support system and hunted hard throughout a brutal winter in pursuit of Stormy’s first bull elk. After months of effort, persistence, and help from family, Stormy sealed the deal with a perfect shot on a hard-earned, late-season bull.

Balancing parenting and hunting, this young family proved that with determination– and a well-packed baby bag–anything is possible. On a chilly Idaho morning, with their 10-month-old daughter bundled beside them, they pulled off a perfectly executed rifle hunt and harvested a bull just below their glassing knob. It was a moment of pride, not just for the elk, but for the memories made as a family in the outdoors.

PODCAST HOSTED BY CHRIS DENHAM

Sit down and listen to field editors of the Western Hunter Magazine talk shop, gear, guns, and hunting of course!

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// D I A L I N G I T B A C K

The Campfire

BY C H R I S D EN H A M

Have you ever noticed how easy it is these days to go a whole day without really talking to anyone? Convenience has won the day, but it’s worth asking what we’ve lost in the process. The world runs faster now, but in trading conversation for convenience, have we silenced the little human moments that give life its warmth?

Online banking means you don’t need to interact with a bank teller.

Amazon and same-day delivery mean we don’t need to go to a store, and if you do, self-checkout allows you to pay without talking to a person.

You can “call” Uber and select “silent,” so the driver won’t talk to you.

With DoorDash, Uber Eats, and Grubhub, you can have food delivered to your door, so you don’t have to talk to a waiter or the driver.

You have maps on your phone, so you never have to ask someone for directions.

You can get a college degree and never talk to another student or instructor.

Online dating apps will tell you if you are a match without ever speaking to a person.

You can stream movies, so you don’t need to even make eye contact with anyone you don’t know.

You don’t need a personal trainer–just subscribe to an app and get a smart watch.

You can have thousands of “friends” on social media to communicate with without ever having to actually see them.

Obviously, each one of these is not a bad thing–some have probably helped change the course of your life or someone you know. But when used in excess, the loss of human connection can be very dangerous both to your health and to society.

I read a fascinating book a few years ago titled The Good Life. It is a summation of the longest-running study on human happiness and health in history. In 1938, Dr. Arlie Bock, a physician at Harvard University, decided to track the health and development of 268 Harvard sophomores during the Great Depression.

A short time later, Harvard criminologist Sheldon Gluek launched a study of 246 boys from inner city Boston to better understand how some boys stayed out of trouble while others became delinquent (fun fact, this study included future president John F. Kennedy). In the 1970s, the two projects were merged to become the Harvard Study of Adult Behavior.

Each participant had regular interviews, medical exams, brain scans, lifestyle tracking, and completed extensive surveys over their entire lives.

The study grew to include siblings and offspring over the 80-year period.

The survey covered their entire lifestyle from sleep habits to relationships, job satisfaction, emotional health, and overall life satisfaction.

Researchers have gleaned countless results from the study, but the overall consensus is that the single best predictor of health, happiness, and longevity isn’t wealth, fame, or even genetics, but the quality of our relationships.

People who feel connected to others live longer, stay mentally sharper, and report greater life satisfaction, while loneliness and high-conflict relationships literally break down both mind and body. In short, strong, supportive connections act like a shield against stress and aging, proving that it’s not what you own or achieve that matters most, but who you walk through life with.

Over the last two decades, I have read over 1,000 stories submitted by successful hunters. We don’t select stories based solely on how big the animal was (though we love looking at the pictures); the quality of the story is a larger component. Almost without exception, the best stories involve friends and/or family contributing to the author’s success.

I am not talking about “gang hunts” where 15 guys team up to kill one animal, but maybe how a neighbor mentored a young hunter, a wife made special cookies for each hunt, or a group of buddies who drove through the night to help pack out. Lord knows, I wish I had kept a list of cool things I have read in these stories!

While there is no such thing as a “hunting gene,” some of us were just born to hunt. There is some code in us that has been passed down from a time not long ago, when the ability to kill an animal was the core of survival. To those ancestors, hunting was a social event, ultimately involving the entire tribe. This is one of the reasons I have grown to dislike the term “DIY.” Every one of us has a long list of people who have contributed directly or indirectly to a successful hunt, even if it was a solo DIY excursion.

Lord only knows how many people I have shared a campfire with. All of the laughs, stupid jokes, pranks, tears, and hardships have shaped me and added to the meaning of the hunt. If we were sitting around a fire right now, I would bet you’d be nodding in agreement with that statement.

Unlike our ancestors, we will not die if we don’t kill an animal. So, at the end of the day, or the end of a life, it just might be that the campfire is more important than the kill. WH

// Looking Ahead As a subscriber of Western Hunter Magazine, we know you’d rather be in the woods somewhere enjoying the fresh air, sights, and sounds of your favorite hunting grounds than inside reading a magazine. We can relate. That is why we build every issue with the type of storytelling, photography, and thought-provoking content that makes this magazine a close second to being in wild places with a tag in your pocket. If there’s anything we can do to pull you past the pages and into the hunt, we want to hear from you. Email us at info@westernhunter.net.

Our team, along with the Wilderness Athlete crew, is working hard at building an exciting and motivating first issue of 2026. Issue 1 is built around the notion of keeping up; with your fitness, with your skillset, with your kids, with the bugling elk that are always one step ahead. “Keep Up” is the battle cry to Wilderness Athlete customers. It’s a task, a standard, an expectation by time itself that you either Keep Up or get left behind. In this issue, you’ll read about Jesse Paulsen killing an elk and needing to get rescued, Dr. Carla Denham explaining the science of mental toughness, and Edgar Castillo on a hunt that defines “embracing the suck.” That’s just a taste. We’re fired up to share the rest and grateful to have you in the Western Hunter camp. WH Have a story you want published?

Send us your stories and photos and you could see them published in a future issue!

Submit at WesternHunter.net

128 WESTERN HUNTER

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