If you’ve spent enough time in the outdoors, there’s probably a place that means more than the rest.
It might be the place where you had your first experience. Or a place that you spent time with the people who mean the most.
Often, it’s not even the place that produced the most epic day. It’s usually the place you keep coming back to, time after time, no matter the conditions, the forecast, or the result. There’s something about that place that matches how you want a trip to feel.
For me, it’s the High Cascade early season deer hunt in September.
There’s something about roaming the wilderness that makes me feel like I could be hunting 100 years ago.
No motorized vehicles.
No bikes.
No game carts.
Just my own two feet roaming the alpine meadows with the shadow of Three Fingered Jack constantly looming over my shoulder.
It all started in the 1960s, when my grandpa and teenage dad first explored what was then called the Skyline Trail. With nothing more than a rifle and some peanuts and powdered Tang, a tradition was born.
Giant bucks bouncing out of reach through the high alpine bowls kept them coming back.
I was first introduced to the experience when I was twelve years old, in 1988. I remember the wonderment as we hiked up through varied alpine terrain. Patches of thick timber were mottled with chains of small meadows. Large boulders framed small bowls that occasionally opened up to volcanic sandy moonscapes. All the landscapes looked like something out of a magazine, and I could picture the buck of my dreams lurking around every corner.
After a long hike with a heavy pack on my shoulders, we were greeted by a small, emerald lake, sitting in a depression at the base of a bluff that seemed to appear out of nowhere. High mountain trout sipped dead bugs off the surface. Our camp sat on a hill overlooking the lake.
The anticipation of opening morning never fades and is as strong now as it was back then. We didn’t have phones or alarm clocks to wake us up before dawn. All we needed was the excitement of what was to come to draw us out of our tents in the cold, dark, mountain air.
This is not a place where hunting is easy. Occasionally, an afternoon thunderstorm hits the slopes. We’ve set out from camp under sunny skies only to find ourselves hunkering under a tree as thunder and lightning strike violently overhead and rain pours down on us.
Years ago, as a teenager, my dad and I hiked in with little more than jeans and a sweatshirt. We were met by a powerful, cold storm that soaked us to the bone. A cold, miserable night in a tent was followed by a short morning hunt that ended with a hike back to the trailhead. I’ve never been unprepared since, and always find myself over-packing for any circumstance.
The conditions are always working against the hunter. Deer migrate to these high elevations during the summer from both the east and west sides of the Cascade Mountains, and the deer population is modest at best. It’s buck country, and wilderness bucks don’t go wandering out in the open during the day. There’s a mix of blacktail and mule deer with an occasional cross-breed called a “Bench Leg.” They are wild, cagey, and mostly nocturnal, preferring to spend daylight hours in places that make them almost impossible to hunt. The terrain and timber make it difficult for glassing, which means hunter skill and stealth are at a premium.
The weather is usually warm, sunny, and the ground is dry. Every step creates a crunch that sounds an intruder alarm to any animal nearby. There are times when the landscape seems to be void of any creatures. If it weren’t for the big buck tracks left overnight, you would think the forest is roamed by ghosts.
Occasionally, the weather aligns perfectly with our trip and a storm rolls through just before the season starts. Under the cover of a rain-soaked ground, we are able to silently chase our prey, who are a little more eager to rise from their beds during daylight hours.
It was during one of these weather events in 2012 that my dream of seeing a giant buck in the place I always imagined came to life. It was a classic evening hunt, the strategy developed over years of trial and error. We slowly worked our way up from the base of a butte through a chain of narrow meadows and small open pockets. I watched a few does make their way out of the thick timber, which was a good sign that deer were starting to move.
After hunting up the slope for an hour, we traversed along the hillside and then carefully picked our way down through a dark stand of old-growth timber that terminated at a big meadow at the bottom of the hill. Although the trees were large, they were not dense. Combined with a lack of underbrush, the visibility was excellent.
Near the bottom of the hill, the terrain flattened into a narrow bench before making its final gentle descent into the open meadow. The trees in this transition area were smaller and clumped together in patches.
As I worked across the bench, I couldn’t see anything beyond or downhill of me. It wasn’t until I finally reached the end of the bench that I saw the buck. He was an incredibly tall and heavy 4-point, and for a brief moment, I wondered if what I was seeing was real. There’s something special about the moment you finally see a big buck during a hunt, and this was no different. It’s a combination of awe and utter surprise.
He didn’t know I was there but was still moving quickly from tree to tree, never stopping in the open. It’s no wonder those smart old bucks are hard to find. I could see he was moments away from entering a thick patch of timber, at which point I would never see him again. I raised my rifle, trusted my instincts, and fired.
My shot abruptly broke the silence that surrounded the meadow. My dad, who was nearby, rushed over to where I stood. I’d experienced plenty of moments growing up where I was the one hearing a shot my dad took. There’s an almost equal feeling of excitement and wonder when a rifle from your group goes off during a hunt. Now it was my turn, and we stood over the deer, sharing that moment together.
We’ve watched the landscape change over the years. Fires burned through for a few years and then the land sprung new life. New browse appeared that drew in more animals and fewer trees made visibility better. Our success rate jumped for a few years, although the big bucks were still hard to find. Now, in the burn areas, thick reproduction of pine trees has taken over where the old alpine fir and spruce forests used to be, and hunting is difficult in those areas. The meadows are still alive and I choose to spend most of my time there anyway.
The group looks different too. My grandpa is gone and my dad just turned 75, although he’s doing great. My two brothers-in-law have joined the party and we let horses carry our gear to and from camp, although we still have to pack the deer back to camp from wherever it was taken.
Some of our kids are starting to hike in when school and sports schedules allow, to keep the tradition alive. The things worth knowing will get passed on again, the same way they were to me.
I write this as we’ve just returned from camp. Schedules were tight this year but we managed a quick weekend trip. The constant rain this year made camping a bit uncomfortable, but I was prepared this time. We managed one small buck, which we packed with ease. Camp is more comfortable now but some of our best memories are still grueling pack-outs of large deer over rough terrain.
As I drove home thinking about the hunt, it was perfectly clear that in some places, the experience is more important than the result.
— Jason