Handgun Hunting Afield

After failing to draw for mule deer in Colorado and antelope in Montana in the fall of 2022, I was left purchasing a couple of over-the-counter surplus mule deer tags in Montana river bluff country. Though dejected at not getting the draw tags, the opportunity for spot and stalk western hunting always gets me excited. I hail from the central Minnesota hardwoods where the underbrush is thick, and shots are limited generally to well under60 or 70 yards, the overall view isn’t much farther. We hunt from stands and shiver in the cold while wiggling our toes to ward off the frost, whiling away the hours. I’ll always appreciate this form of hunting but have admittedly become jaded to it through the intervening decades since I began hunting whitetails at around 12 in the more northern reaches of our State. These days, I’m content to sit with my daughters of 14 and 11 while they attempt to get in on the action. They aren’t yet as stubborn or hearty to the cold which makes for shorter sits, a trait my toes certainly don’t mind too much! But I digress.

With tags in hand, my brother and good friend set out for Montana during the first week of November. The weather looked typically cold and windy with a chance of rain coming later in the week. The impending precipitation always makes me nervous in this area as anyone who knows northern Montana back roads can attest that even slight precipitation makes for miserable or even non-existent mobility. We made the nearly 12-hour drive from home and set up camp on a lonely hill overlooking the drainage area we would be hunting. 

After a restless night in our tent, we woke before the sun and started to slowly move off from Camp. We were hunting a large tract of land managed by the Bureau of Land Management so you’re basically hunting every second you’re on the ground. Our stalk matched the contours of the barren land using the topography to obscure our movements from the prying eyes of our quarry. We stopped frequently, poking our heads above ridges and glassing as far off as we could see. My companions were carrying rifles, and I had made the trip carrying my Remington XP-100 in 7mm-08 topped with a Bushnell elite 3200 optic along with a Magnum Research BFR chambered in 475 Linebaugh but loaded with 480 Ruger handloads and topped with an Ultra Dot 30. For the morning, I kept the XP in my pack opting to let my friend have the first crack as it was his first western hunting trip. This was my first trip west using only handguns and the apprehension was running high.

It didn’t take long before we spotted a small group of does and fawns at the bottom of a drainage. We dropped our packs and worked along the back side of the slope that separated us to get within shooting range. After a bit of maneuvering, my friend was in the prone position with a nice mulie doe in the crosshairs. The Tikka T3x in 6.5 Creedmoor barked and the 143 gr Eld-X did its work plowing through the shoulders of the nice deer. As my buddy got ready to field dress his kill, I decided to breakaway from my rifle bound companions to try my luck with the XP.

Though I had spent a fair bit of time practicing in my back yard, I really wasn’t sure what employing my newly acquired single shot in the field would really look like. The gun is equipped with a Harris bi-pod, and I was carrying a cole-tac bitty bag for a rear rest but was unsure how quickly I would be able to employ this system on an animal if given the opportunity. With this in mind, I unpacked my XP and headed south as the rest of my group continued hunting the draws to the north.

I slowly crept along through the endless lumps, saddles, draws and washes which make up the glaciated plains of northern Montana and before long, as I inched my way through a small saddle into a large draw, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I immediately hit the dirt and tried to retreat into cover before I was spotted. I dropped my pack, readied my pistol, and hugged the ground as I moved back forward for a shot. I strained my eyes and ears for any sign of my quarry as the small valley slowly came back into view but it was too late as the animals had apparently busted and were gone. I shouldered my pack and moved along. 

Another couple hours passed before I stumbled upon another opportunity. As I came out of a draw up onto a large flat to have a look, a lone doe was standing at the mouth of a drainage whichslopped down and to my right about 200 yards out. She spotted me and began moving down into the draw. I moved quickly to close the distance keeping the rim of the draw between us knowing I should be able to get a shot as she came out the other end. I made it to the exit of the drainage without seeing her come out and prepared for a shot. I fumbled to deploy my bi-pod and figure out a comfortable expedient prone shot.  Seconds, seeming like minutes, ticked by as my abiding impatience got the best of me. I foolishly got back on foot, moving slowly to cut the distance between to ridge of the drainage to my left and the mouth of the drainage down slope and to my right. I peekedover the ridge and slowly moved forward wondering how she could have gotten away without me seeing her. Suddenly, she was there, moving up the far side of the drainage and quartering away. I dropped prone, deploying my bi-pod and fumbling with my ear plugs as I attempted to ready for what would be a less than 100-yard shot. As I attempted to get a sight picture, everything was bad, the ground was uneven, my rest unstable and my heart racing. I worked to improve my position, but she picked up pace and disappeared over the next hill not to be seen again. I walked back to my pack and sat in silence taking in some calories and the 10,000-mile view of the landscape, wondering if I could make this work.

I moved along throughout the early afternoon in much the same way as the morning. I had heard a shot to the north while taking a break and checked my phone to see if I could get any reception and make contact with my party. As the phone powered on, a couple of texts and a picture from my brother verified he had notched a tag as well and they were going to work their way back toward camp. On the move again after my short break I worked up the backside of an exceptionally tall ridge glassing as I went, hoping to have another opportunity. Just as I came to the crest, a pair of does came into view standing on a knob adjacentto and down slope from my position. I dropped my pack andretrieved my range finder which verified my thoughts that they were about 400 yads away and out of range for me. The long ridge however, sloped down while curling in their direction so I grabbed my gun and field bag and kept the ridge between us as I worked to close in. One-hundred yards down the slope, I re-checked the distance to the animals which hadn’t moved from their stoop. Three hundred yards, just a bit more, keep moving. Another hundred yards and the heel of my ridge was approaching I hoped beyond hope that the natural curl of the ridge had brought me close enough as I belly crawled to check the shot one more time. Closer, but not quite there, keep crawling, they haven’t spotted me yet. Re-check my range, 260, the wind is in my face, XP is zeroed 3” high at 100, that’ll work. I readied for my shot.

The larger of the two animals was facing me directly with its head turned looking off almost behind it. I steadied myself and prepared for a shot as I waited for it to turn broadside. Seconds, seaming like minutes ground by as my abiding impatience was again tested. My rest was perfect, prone, rock solid, heart rate slowed from the crawl. Screw it, frontal chest shots work too! I pressed the trigger and sent the 140 gr Nosler ballistic tip right into the center of the chest. Upon recovering from the shot, I was astonished to see the deer running hard from left to right. Did I miss? As quickly as the thought entered my head, the deer slowed and began to wobble, down she went, though with herhead still up. A second, broadside, shot through the lungs sealed the deal and I proceeded to quarter the animal and make the trudge back to camp under a heavy pack. 

I reconvened with my party at our Camp with an hour or so before the sun was on the horizon. Foot sore and tired we sat down wind from the truck to block the howling gale while indulging in a celebratory beer and a few belts of bourbon before cooking fresh tenderloin and potatoes on the griddle. We planned our attack for the morning to be the same as the day before and checked the weather which called for dense fog with an impending weather front late the next day bringing dreaded rain along with bitter cold and wind. We turned in for the night with wind doing its best to tear my Seek Outside Redcliff from its moorings.

The weather forecast at dawn was spot on and the cold front brought with it pea soup fog and zero visibility. We knew the animals were there, we just needed to see them first, so we shot an azimuth from Camp and headed out through the murky dawn.I had my BFR slung to the left side of my chest in a GalcoKodiak Hunter chest rig to avoid my bino harness and range finder. Though the rig isn’t made for this gun and the fit isn’t quite right, it gets the job done. We angled to the northwest from camp heading toward a known water hole in the hope of ambushing one as it drank from the muddy pool. The water hole hung about halfway up a steep valley with a large berm adorned by a scraggly old tree at its foot holding the water back. We crept to the mouth of the valley where a small rise slightly concealed the entrance. I dropped low and made my way to the top, peaking over to see a pair of white hind ends. I dropped to the ground and signaled that I had seen them. My partners held tight as I dropped my pack and readied myself. 

I moved back forward, and to my surprise, the deer were gone. I continued over the small rise slowly, thinking they must have headed to the water. My low, slow, stalk through the murk continued for several minutes up the steep draw which slowly curved to the right. Right as the pool came into view, so to didthe forms of the two deer. They stood on the berm, unaware of my presence. They were beyond 100 yards (my range limit) at this point, so I dropped to my belly and began to low crawl keeping a clump of scrub between us. I made it to the scrub and ranged them at 96 yards, but they were looking my way. I set up for the shot with my bitty bag under the butt of the BFR. I had made this shot hundreds of times at home and was confident I could make it; however, I was on a severe side slope and the position was not as comfortable as usual. I steadied the green 2 MOA dot of my Ultradot Gen 2 on the bigger deer’s shoulder and squeezed the trigger sending the 375-grain gas checked cast bullet down range. The shot thundered through the small valley but without the effect I was expecting. The two deer took off on a dead run with my intended target showing no signs of a hit.My companions and I moved forward to where the deer had stood and after thorough inspection, confirmed I had missed. As we repacked, I told my friend he was up next.

The going was slow all the rest of the morning and anyprotentional stalks ended in disappointment. Each time we would make out a deer through the haze it was already too late,and they were off. We had basically reached the northern end of our plot of public land, so we ate some lunch on a high knob and hoped for the fog to lift. After a long break, the visibility was improving with ever increasing wind, decreasing temperature,and ominous clouds building to the southwest. As we moved off,defeat and the impending storm broke my will and I told my friend that if we spotted a group close that he should take the first shot and if possible, I would follow up with the second using the rifle. I have spent my entire life with a rifle in my hands and this was my comfort zone.

This opportunity presented itself a few hours later while weedged our way length wise across a long snaking ridgeline which afforded us a lot of potential for ambush sites due to themultitude of draws running up from the floor of the valley. Moving along, halfway between the valley floor and the ridge,we approached the edge of one of these draws and spotted two does not more than 70 yards out. My friend, a crack shot, took a quick knee and connected with a fatal broadside shot. As he broke the shot, I got prone, and he handed me the gun as we watched the deer retreat a surprisingly short distance before taking a look back. I sent a round her direction with the same results as my last!! Wow, I’m batting a thousand today, I grumbled as I bolted another cartridge into the chamber and grabbed a pack to put under the gun. She stopped again shy of the next turn in the valley. About 300 yards I thought and held high on the shoulder before touching the trigger, putting an end to our day and hunt. 

We made the couple mile trek back to camp under heavy packsand at the suggestion of my brother, quickly broke it down in order to beat the storm. We put a couple hundred miles behind us before piling into a seedy, though warm, motel for a hot shower and exceptionally tasty pizza while making plans for the 2023 season.

About the author:

I’m a lifetime hunter and outdoorsman born and raised in northern MN. I make my living as the Natural Resource Manager for Camp Ripley in Central MN. I’m a long time shooter and handloader who’s dabbled with handgun hunting for nearly 20 years but only in the last 5 has it become a serious obsession.