SOLO
- Zach Rhodes
- Jan 9, 2020
- 10 min read
Solo. Adjective. For or done by one person alone; unaccompanied.
There wasn’t much sleep for me the night before my first solo hunt. So many thoughts raced through my head. Excitement, fear, and anxiousness. This wasn’t fear of being alone, but more of a fear of the unknown and what ifs. Of course, these are completely normal when your hunting alone on one of Nevada’s most expansive, beautiful, and relatively high mountain ranges in the middle of nowhere, hours from the nearest hospital.
As I packed for the long day and strenuous hike ahead of me, I whispered a little prayer to ease my angst. I made my way up the trail into the thick quakies and the darkness, and trusted all would be well ending with a successful hunt. Hunting alone presented a whole new challenge to me. No one to talk to, no one to bounce ideas off of, no second pair of eyes, no help packing the buck out, and no help should the unthinkable happen.
Half way up the mountain I felt a sense of calm, all my fears and anxieties disappeared. There’s something special about these mountains, with its vast expansive canyons, gushing with water, and the beautiful fall colors of the thick groves of quaking aspens. The silence is utterly deafening, my ears ring searching for even the slightest bit of noise. But all I hear is the crackle of the dry quakey leaves beneath my feet, the babbling of the creek, and my breath. No sign of man or machine, just me and the wind.
I believe that’s why my heart feels so content in the mountains. Land created by God, left untouched by man the way it was meant to be. I cant help but feel sorry for the people locked in cubicles, stuck living in concrete jungles. I wasted no time making my way to the first meadow, where I eventually ran into a group of three hunters. It was a father and his two sons and it was their first time hunting Arc Dome, it was also his sons very first deer tag. I couldn’t help but reminisce back to my first hunt with my grandpa. A memory I will forever cherish. I never pulled the trigger on that buck, and it haunts me to this day. Even more so now that my grandpa is unable to go hunting.
I couldn’t help but be slightly jealous of the two boys and the fact that they had a father who took the time to truly be a father. Hunting is one of those time honored traditions passed down from father or grandfather along with their hunting secrets, tall tales of elusive monster bucks, and all the do’s and don’ts. I am forever grateful to have had this tradition passed down to me from my grandfather. He is and always will be a hunting legend in my eyes. No one knows how to hunt Nevada muley’s like my grandpa. In a way I’ve strived to be just like him when hunting. All the way down to appearance. Denim jeans, a good ol’ long sleeve pearl snap wrangler shirt, and a good pair of warm hiking boots is all I need. No fancy camouflage or winterized pants and shirt.
I eventually parted ways with the father and his two boys and directed them to a promising canyon my brother and I had hunted the year before, wished them luck and sent them on their way. I made my way down to the canyon I had scoped out the night before on my Garmin app. The original plan was to hike to the top of the canyon and work my way down the canyon from the top, but as usual that nasty bitter cold wind had other plans. Wind is quite possibly a hunters worst nightmare, carrying your scent for miles. So I chose to cut across the canyon half way up and travel down the ridge to an outcropping of rim rock where I could blend in with my surroundings and have a good vantage point for any deer moving up the canyon. This ridge also proved to be an excellent spot to put a stalk on a buck should I be lucky enough to see one.
It felt like time stood still, what seemed like an eternity, as I waited for 2 hours shivering uncontrollably from the wind, which seemed to cut through my warm clothes like a hot knife through butter. Finally two doe and one buck emerged from the bottom of the canyon and into view just as the sunlight started to kiss the tops of the mountains. You know, time is a funny thing. In our busy day to day lives we cant ever seem to get enough of it. But out here its as if it stands still, it literally comes to a halt. There were so many times in that eternal two hour period, where I wanted to get up and move to a new location. However, Grandpa’s voice seemed to echo in my head, and the lessons he taught began to become my voice of reason. I’ve come to learn especially in Arc Dome, that the early bird gets the worm, patience is a virtue, and binoculars and spotting scopes are your most valuable weapon.
My excitement level began to soar and even at 30 years old, yes, I still get “buck fever”. The onset of “buck fever” is possible at any age! Once again the little voice of reason in the back of my head grew louder, telling me to be patient and not too hasty. I needed to plan a stalk, and take a good shot. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always lacked a little self confidence, I feel more so when it comes to making big decisions. I think much of it is due to the number of critical people I’ve had in my life and my insatiable desire to be a perfectionist. Yes, even for myself, nothing has ever been good enough.
Hunting solo I was presented with a whole new challenge. After initially spotting the buck, there was no one to talk it over with or decide if he was worth taking on opening day. I simply had to react with my gut feeling. Not so easy, when you already lack a bit of self confidence. So without any further delay I sprang from my position and acted upon those gut feelings. Now let me tell you, tracking a buck and stalking it at the same time is quite possibly more difficult than rubbing your belly and patting your head at the same time! With no second pair of eyes to watch while I ultimately tried to pack all my gear across the side of a steep ravine through rocks and brush was proving to be quite the challenge. Once again, my instincts took over and I slowly maneuvered around the canyon wall through thick sagebrush and the occasional mahogany or juniper tree. The buck continued to feed up the canyon towards a patch of pinyon pine, my plan, and my stalk was working out perfectly.
Finally after an hour of painstakingly tip toeing through brush and rocks the buck bedded down in the patch of pinyon pine he was feeding in. I found a tree to hide behind, where I could take off my pack, and extra clothing so I could set up for a clean shot with just my shooting stick and binoculars. Not feeling super confident with the shot distance from the tree, I spotted a rock 25 yards or so down the canyon that would make for a good place to brace against and take a steady shot while camouflaged against the rocks and brush. Rifle and shooting stick in hand I crawled on my hands and knees for what seemed like an eternity. Every snap of every twig, or the ruffle of brush against my pants was deafening to me but yet the buck still laid there lying still, not even twitching an ear.
Now that I was in position to take the shot it was finally time to take aim and pull the trigger. You know, that’s the part of hunting you rarely hear anyone talk about. I don’t take squeezing the trigger lightly when it comes to taking an animals life. I’ve had to shoot several steers, calves, and wounded, sick, or dying horses. There’s just something about it, as I stare into their eyes, watching them take their last breath on earth, that just tears at my soul. Any man that tells you they don’t feel some sort of empty feeling when they squeeze the trigger whether for hunting or to put an animal out of its misery, is a liar. It’s a job for a man with a big heart, and a noble job at that. Don’t get me wrong I’m all for hunting, and its one of the most honest and clean ways to provide food for me and my family. God has entrusted us as caretakers of all that he has created and it is our job to do so properly through conservation.
As I do before I shoot any animal, I said a little prayer that my aim was true and that I kill the buck with one shot. Between adrenaline and being cold I took what felt like 100 imaginary shots. Unable to steady my aim, deep breaths and trying to relax seemed to provide no relief for the uncontrollable body tremors. Thoughts began to race through my head of prior hunts and shots I didn’t take, and opportunities missed in life due to my inability to shut out the little voice in my head that said I wasn’t good enough. Especially my very first hunt with my grandpa when he set me up to shoot the buck of a lifetime and I chose not to shoot so we could get closer, for fear of missing. I waited too long and the buck nonchalantly walked away. A moment in time I will forever regret as it was one of the only times I ever got to go hunt with my grandpa. That moment wouldn’t be the first time either, where I would ultimately not take the shot due to uncertainty. “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take”.
I’ve felt that type of regret many times throughout my life. Whether it was missed opportunities to win in the rodeo arena, or not kissing the girl. But today was different, there was no time to dwell on the past, no one to rely on for a second opinion or to make a decision for me. Just me and my instincts. The buck all of sudden shifted his attention toward me, I knew this was it, it was time, now or never. One last deep breath and a squeeze of the trigger, the recoil of my rifle made me lose sight of the buck at first but I quickly regained sight and saw that I had hit him, one shot and he was down.
I did it! I hiked into the mountains by myself, and successfully harvested a buck all on my own. I was filled with an immense sense of joy and pride at what I had accomplished. Once again years of regret were lifted off my shoulders. I shut out the voice of doubt and went with my instincts and believing in myself paid off. Now the real work begins! It wasn’t until I had stopped to take in the view that I finally realized what a pickle I had just gotten myself in. Steep canyon walls, high brush, and a long hike out from the middle of the canyon to the top and back to camp proved to be a daunting task. Just like most men, my stubbornness came out in glimmering fashion when I decided to pack 100 plus pounds of meat and gear out in one trip. No different than attempting to pack all the groceries from the car to the house in one trip!
As I began the long 3.5 mile hike back to camp, I began to once again question my reasoning but forged ahead anyway. Half up my 1000’ elevation climb and an hour into my pack out, I was filled with all kinds of emotions as the climb grew more difficult and I had no one to rely on to help split the load. From anger to sadness, I felt them all. I was angry my brother couldn’t come and join me on this trip cause he made other plans, angry at the fact that my father has been virtually absent since I was 6 months old coming and going as he pleases, and saddened that I quite possibly would never be able to share a moment like this with my grandpa. I did it, I was successful, and accomplished a major feat and there was no one there to share the glory with me. My eyes began to well up with tears, but I couldn’t help it. I was filled with a sense of emptiness, as if I had been robbed of what the two boys from earlier were getting to experience with their father on their first hunt. It was at this point I almost lost balance due to the weight in my pack, which would’ve ultimately sent me tumbling to the bottom of the draw and an S.O.S. call from my Garmin in-reach. I told myself to snap out of it, and I looked up to the most beautiful view. It was at this point I was filled gratitude.
I was grateful for the hunt of a lifetime, the lessons learned, a safe hunt, and ultimately the meat that deer just provided for me and my family. As I sat there taking in the breathtaking view, I thought to myself what a great way to pay homage to such a beautiful buck. He lived his life free from any restraints, right down to the very last breath he took. It was now my turn to pack him one last time up the mountain. I fought through the cramping of my legs, and the searing pain in my feet, it felt as if I was walking on a hot bed of coals. I finally made it to the top, and thanked God, and the buck for feeding me and my family. Funny how life comes back around full circle. I exerted so much energy to get that buck packed off the mountain, the same mountain he spent his entire life on, and it would be the meat from his body that nourished mine back to health.
I got back to camp and reflected back on the day and decided to journal the day. I’m thankful I had, because it helped me realize the big picture here. This solo hunt wasn't the result of my brother being unable to go or an absent father. This solo hunt was God’s plan all along. Through the process I learned I am more than capable of making decisions on my own, and that I never really lacked self-confidence at all, it was always within waiting for me to tap into it. I also learned to take the shot, even if it means missing. Because if we never take the shot, we miss out on all the beautiful things life may hold for us. Would you rather miss the shot or miss out on a lifetime of opportunities only to look back in regret? I may have had an absent father, but God put in place many other father figures who have made me the man I am today, and I’m damn proud of that man and all he has become.