Ah, the hell with it, here it is... :wink:
The upcoming weeks were rife with weird weather. Monsoonal moisture came about every 5 days, but that gave me enough time inbetween to get a few more days in the blind.
When we hit the dirt roads I knew we were back in business. Their oasis had vanished and mine had returned.
A little toke on the peace pipe before hand helped us get further into the mood. Tobacco only of course…
And then back to the blind, this time overlooking a different water source.
And Mr. Pronghorns' view.
Its been said by a few that archery hunting Pronghorn is a waiting game, and that patience is a virtue…well I must not have got the memo. After a few puffs on the 'ol peace pipe and a cup of Joe I could hard hold still…let alone sit in a blind for 12 hours.
But alas, I learned to pass the time. A classic.
And I'd get up to stretch my legs when the coast was clear. Walk around the desert with your eyes set on "small" and you'd be surprised what you'll find.
To the victor go the spoils. A Black Widow spider devours an unlikely adversary. I would have loved to see the battle.
Sometimes when you look small you can find something big. This black hornet was about the size of my pinky finger
I was able to take my head out of the clouds long enough to remember I was hunting Pronghorn. But then I decided the clouds were better.
Apparently this spot was unlucky for another archer. I hope they eventually made the shot.
Bucks like these came and went, but I held out for something bigger. In a few years this little speed demon will likely posses quite the head dress. Patience indeed.
Here a small herd of bachelor's do what they were born to do. Run.
Back in the blind your mind starts to wander. Or wonder. Hu?
Then the damned'est thing happened. I peered out of my blind when lo-and-behold a buck Pronghorn approached. The moment had come.
In characteristic fashion, time seemed to stop. The buck quickly approached, parched from tending does and weathering the rut; he started to drink. He was quartering towards me, not an ideal shot. I'd have to put the broad head a little into the front shoulder muscle to hit his vitals.
I took my time, concentrated on my breathing (couldn't do anything about the furious thumping of my heart though) and let the custom arrow fly.
And it flew true.
The arrow angled as it should and pierced the right lung. He ended his journey, as did I, a mere fifty-three yards from the blind.
Archery truly is an amazing activity. Here a custom arrow, crafted with the help of good friends, lies atop the pelage of an American Pronghorn. Its job completed, its life also ended.
And the fixed blade broadhead met its match at the wits of a Pronghorns chest. Bloodied and torn, waxed and broken, a fitting and beautiful ending to such a fine tool.
With the hunt now over and the trials and tribulations now just memories, it gives me time to reflect. The journey is over, and for that I am both gratified and poignant. But when I reminisce of the time well spent in nature's warm and violent care, of the time with friends and family, and of the beautiful creature itself, the American Pronghorn, I can't help but smile. I hope you agree.
Here is to many more happy hunts for you and yours, I hope you'all enjoyed the trip.