When I decided to hunt on the San Carlos Indian Reservation, I knew it would be a stretch. With the Australian dollar fighting a losing battle against its American counterpart, the trip was already shaping up to be an exercise in frugality. Four days with a guide set me back $4,000 AUD, and the additional nine nights of accommodation added another $2,700 AUD to the tally. The math wasn’t in my favor, but the dream of pursuing elk and Coues deer in this legendary hunting ground was enough to make me dig deep into my pockets.
Conditions on the ground were as tough as my financial calculations had warned they might be. The reservation was teeming with activity—vehicles zigzagged across the terrain, hunters were out in force, and the deer seemed to have vanished into thin air. Whether we were glassing from ridgelines or trudging to likely spots, finding a location to hunt undisturbed felt like an impossible puzzle.
Despite the odds, I gave it everything I had. Each day began at 4 a.m., with a bleary-eyed drive to pick up my guide. From there, it was 75 miles into the hunt area, hours of scouring the rugged landscape for any sign of movement, and then 75 miles back to town. By the time I dropped off my guide each evening, the clock was ticking past 8 p.m. Exhaustion became my constant companion, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at myself—69 years old, and feeling every single mile in my bones. Too young to feel this old, I thought, as I collapsed into bed each night.
Adding insult to injury, my vehicle began acting up during the last two days. A finicky fuel line seemed to be the culprit, causing the engine to sputter and stall at the most inconvenient times. After much head-scratching, I discovered a loose clip that was letting air into the system, but not before it derailed my plans. If that wasn’t enough, a bout of gastro had me making frequent restroom stops along the trail. Between the unreliable car and my own stomach’s rebellion, the discomfort of those final days turned what was already a grueling hunt into something of a survival challenge.
By the last morning, the writing was on the wall. I reluctantly called it quits, knowing the conditions—both in the field and with my car—had bested me. The elusive Coues deer remained just that—elusive.
Still, I returned home without regret. The memories of those four grueling days toting my Browning X Bolt Pro
6.5 PRC around are etched into my mind: the predawn chill, the vast, rugged beauty of the reservation, and the camaraderie shared with my guide as we tackled each challenge together.
Hunting isn’t always about the harvest; sometimes, it’s about the journey. And while this particular chapter didn’t end with success in the field, it added another layer to my story as a hunter—a tale of perseverance, adventure, and the unyielding pull of the wild.
Comments