I’ll put this out there and just say it. What makes me polite in society makes me terrible at hunting with a partner.

Let me elaborate. I see time as the most precious commodity we have, so I go out of my way not to carelessly waste other peoples. Borrowed items are easily returnable, but not time.

Time, that thing we never get back. Money, happiness and even health we can work to recover, but time…

My personal faults are endless so I try not to cast stones, but we all have pet peeves, and I’m neurotic about this one.

But as with everything there is a ying and a yang. You need balance in life or your inflexibilities can end up working against you.

I value a person’s time to an extent that it can backfire on me when it comes to hunting with a partner. I worry that a stalk may not pan out and therefore will be wasting my partner’s time, so I rush in. I force stalks that would be better played cool, slow and methodical.

Essentially, I suck at hunting with other people. The chances of me succeeding on a plus one hunt is about as minuscule as an ant's private parts.

Leave me out there on my own, and my chances increase. Solo, I know that my only schedule is to get it done by the predetermined day I am to walk out. Time becomes irrelevant, and I don’t know where else in my life I could say the same thing.

A claim like this needs backing up, so let's go with my most recent hunt.

The hunting season was getting more and more complex as opening day was approaching. By complex I mean time constraints were going to be a major issue. My family and I deciding to sell our house in September and plan for a five month road trip is daunting under normal circumstances, throwing vehicle troubles for both me and the guy I was supposed to hunt with and the hunt was looking bleak. (A suicidal deer decided to attack my truck while driving back from a scouting trip… trust me the irony is not lost on me on this one, his downfall was when he decided owning a Ford was a good idea).

It was getting complex and at the last minute I decided I needed some peace in my life. I had four and a half days of hunting before I had to head out for my son’s birthday (did I mention we decided to have a kid right during the pinnacle of hunting season a few years back? You see where this self-inflicted complexity complaint is going, right?). My time constraints weren't fair to my hunting partner and to be honest I didn’t want the pressure.

So I packed up my backcountry gear, grabbed my bow and headed into a basin I saw during scouting season that looked like it had potential. But to be honest I wasn't sure what I was getting myself into, I just knew there was peace and quiet up there and that was my number one target.

The mountains evaluate the commitment of its trespassers and the day before the opener was no different. The tumultuous sky opened itself up, testing my rain gear the moment I left the truck.

Starting a hunt in rain and the guaranteed damp clothes for the foreseeable future can crush the spirits if you let it. Months of preparation and waiting for this day had my mind in the right place however and I took the conditions in stride. A week of it and I’m sure I’d be singing another tune.

Opening morning I was awoken by a potent mixture of excitement and the sounds of rain trying to poke holes through my tent. I begrudgingly slid into the wet rain gear from the previous day and tried to warm up with a few pints of mouth searing coffee.

The deer were about as excited as I was to get out of bed. The morning was slow going as I raced to peek through the openings in low hanging clouds. As clouds dissipated in random spots I would whip my glass into them, never giving me proper time to glass the area.

The rest of the day was spent running through fog thick enough to cut like a cake. There wasn’t much point moving around, but just the potential of running into a deer had my legs pumping me up untold vert.

The day ended in dark and having to use my GPS to find my way back to shelter. Sleep comes easy to the exhausted.

The next morning I woke with nature at full tilt. Apparently all other living creatures had their espresso already, cutting lines across the mountains like jets across a busy airport. There were multitudes of bull elk with hopes of participating in the upcoming orgy and more bucks than a fella deserved to lay eyes on.

There were forkys, spikes and an array of up and comers that grossed in the double digits, but nothing that my back could justify hauling off the mountain.

There’s a direct correlation between the distance I have to haul the animal out and the size of its head gear. We all have our self-imposed rules, for me, spikes just don’t get shot four miles in.

I watched a group of eight tempt me at stones throw distances, knowing they were there to test my size/distance maxim.

A day like this comes by few and far between and is not to be wasted waiting for a big one to fall in your lap. I grabbed enough gear for the day and headed for the next basin.

The air was thin but I kept my pace steady. I looked down at my map and noticed I had knocked out a thirteener inadvertently on the approach to my glassing spot. High country mule deer hunting can quickly turn into peak bagging with little effort.

As the basin approached, I went to the ground on all fours, avoiding the cardinal sin of skylining. A bright neon sign being carried by a marching band would have little more effect of advertising oneself than exposing your outline to the onlookers of the basin.

I found an area with scree and use that as my backdrop to break up my outline. No sooner did my butt hit the ground and the glass come my eyes did I see velvet peeking out of a patch of willows. Eight furry missiles pointed towards the sky, ready to take flight at my first mistake.

I settled in to watch.

There’s no schedule, no meetings to make, no timeline to adhere to. My calendar was cleared for the next three and a half days.

“You’ve got all day, just sit and observe,” I told myself.

I assessed the situation. There’s no reason for him to move at this point, he has shade.

Now look at his immediate surroundings and see if there’s any other bucks that could interfere with your stalk.

Nothing.

Evaluate the terrain between you and him. What’s the most likely path to take that will keep you concealed and upwind of him. Where will you stop to shoot from that will be in reasonable range?

On and on the questions stacked up and they all needed answers before I was willing to budge an inch. I methodically went through the list of questions, coming up with the answers that would best lead to success.

Most of all I was giving myself time to get my nerves in check. I was 380 yards away from the goal I worked 364 days to obtain. It’s a fine line of applying enough pressure to oneself in order to enforce a well thought out plan and applying too much pressure that inevitably will frazzle the nervous and cause silly mistakes.

I spent the next hour observing him. He didn’t budge an inch, telling me he was quite comfortable where he was. His head periscoped from side to side, but most importantly, never towards me.

Thermals were following the laws of thermals this day and blowing straight uphill at a consistent but manageable speed.

The ground was still wet from the previous day’s storm, leaving it as quiet as carpet for a stalk.

The willows created a perfect maze of protective walls that would allow me to crawl in undetected. I could see a clump slightly elevated on a hill that would allow me the advantage of higher ground, a perfect sniper’s nest.

I ranged the anticipated point of attack, 317 yards. If my C+ in third grade math serves me correctly, that makes it a 63 yard shot.

Knowing how looking from a 2D vantage point turns quickly into a 3D landscape when stalking, I made contingency plans for different routes.

Lastly I marked his position, using a particularly white rock close to his vicinity. Unless that thing grows legs, I should have his location pinned down.

The plan was made, the only thing left to do was execute.

I rolled into my backpack and grabbed my bow. I once again reminded myself to shift gears from everyday life speed to you-wanna-kil-this-buck-so-put-her-in-low speed.

A crawled down the loose scree depending on the wind and distance to cover any dislodged rocks that may spook him.

Three spider-steps forward and glass to see his reaction. If all is well, repeat.

I go went this process for the next hour, testing every last bit of patience I had in the tank. From a world where you’re expected to task, multi-task and multi the multi-task, it can be hard, nay almost impossible to take the foot off the gas and let yourself coast to the finish line.

I meandered through the willows like my kids through a Halloween corn maze. Hit a dead end, work my way back, try again. All the while trying to keep my eyes on the velvet tips that appear closer and closer.

I saw my sniper's nest and made for it, crawling through seeps and wet grass to get there. By the time I got to my destination I looked like a toddler with a relieved bladder.

I aligned myself for the optimal shooting position and nocked an arrow, laid my release next to the D-loop and meticulously arranged my instruments of death.

The dump of adrenaline washed down my body like an acid bath, starting from the tip of my head and settling in the soles of my feet. When occupied with other tasks, it’s easy to forget everything but the next step. When your next step is to accomplish the goal all the aforementioned steps add up to, that’s when the deep bite of panic can set in.

I peeked over the willow, squinting through the pinky-nail sized leaves in order to catch a glimpse of velvet.

He was still there. I eased up a little higher and got a range. Sixty-three yards, nuts on.

I dialed in my site with the required yardage and attempted to keep busy, numbing my mind off of the inevitable task at hand.

“Stay patient, let him make the next mistake. Patients kills,” became my mantra.

I saw another willow about twenty yards ahead that might allow me to get a shot at him in his bed. It took every fiber in my body to fight the urge to risk a crawl forward.

“The wind is perfect, he has absolutely no idea that death is lurking a football’s throw away from him. Let him make the last mistake,” I said.

My lips were now sounding out the words. I looked the part of a penitent man clutching his rosary and mouthing the words of his prayer.

Time passed on, made obvious by the shadows shifting in the willows. I watched the makeshift sundial and him out of the corner of my eye. Over and over again I picture drawing back, and slowly increasing the pressure on my hinge release.

Concentrate on the complexity of the perfect shot and there’s no room in there to allow thought of what may or may not be. Discipline equals freedom and in no way is that more applicable than shot execution.

I cluttered my mind with these thoughts to paralyze my brain from over-analysis.

Then, movement in the peripheral of my eye

He was up.

The perfect array of equipment in front of me is ready for action. In one smooth motion the bow came up and I was at full draw. He stood broadside and was looking away from me, I had all the time in the world.

The muscles tighten in my back. The pin settles and a second later I hear the click of my hinge.

The tension cut loose as the arrow screamed its way through the thin mountain air.

I saw him spin, startled by the impact of some unforeseen snakebite. He ran downhill a short distance, confused as to what just happened.

As I pulled my binoculars up to my eyes to get a closer look, I saw that he was staggering, unsure of his feet. Blood poured down from his armpit, collecting in bright crimson pools below him.

I watched him lay down, sucking in the last few breaths his lungs would ever hold.

Sitting back, I let out a huge sigh of relief. For the weight off my shoulders, for the love of what I choose to do with my life and for the utter and deafening silence.

Most of all, I’m thankful for my time out here. Time that is only measured by the rotation of the earth and not by the money it can make you or the goals you can accomplish within it. To live and breathe in the present moment, not to scour over the past and predict what will happen in the future.

Time for being a human.

// Fred Bohm