There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.

They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.

From “The Men That Don’t Fit In” by Robert Service

    I am a lucky guy and have a lot to be thankful for. To be able to get paid to go hunting is something I dreamt about for more than 30 years before I was able to pull it off. On the other hand, I rarely have an opportunity to hunt with one of my oldest and dearest friends anymore. Donny means a lot to me because it was he who saw the spark of hunting in me so many years ago and fanned it into a lifelong burning passion. He even admits he had no idea what he was wreaking on the world when we started hunting together and he began showing me the basics.
     Last year Donny retired from a southern California police department where he served with considerable distinction for some 27 years—including two medals of valor. Years of chasing crooks, along with the years he spent pushing his body as a teenage boxer began to extract payback, and he asked me to help him find an “old man’s mule deer hunt,” one that didn’t require the lung-searing climbs to lofty Rocky Mountain peaks in order to take a mature buck. He had done it, as I have, many times. But the body has a very humiliating way of letting one know it doesn’t want to do that anymore.

     So, last year I found such a hunt on the South Dakota prairie. Randy Routier operates an outfitting business on his family’s ranch near Buffalo. He has access to some 50,000 acres of prime mule deer and whitetail habitat, and best of all the season includes some peak rut periods for both species. On the second day of the 2004 hunt Donny was standing watch over a pasture when he saw the antlers of a whitetail doing its radar sweep above the grass. When the buck spotted Donny, it wasted no time deciding to vacate the area. “When it got up and started running, I just thought, ‘What a pretty deer.’ It took me a second to realize I’d better shoot it,” he recounted later. By the time he got off the shot with his 1957-vintage Model 70 in .270 Winchester the buck was about 150 yards away running at full tilt, but the old skills were still there and the deer tumbled into the grass. Had it not broke its right G2 tine at some time, this buck would have grossed about 150 inches.
     At virtually the same moment I was looking over some badland country with Randy’s stepfather, Terry. We had just settled down to await the sunset when a pair of large bucks stood up from behind a small butte within the rugged drainage. As the bucks nervously looked at us, about eight does stood up and began milling about. One buck was narrow and very tall; the other was much wider but not quite as tall. But the wide one was symmetrical and just had a real handsome look. I settled into my pack with my Model 70 Featherweight in the same caliber and waited for it to turn for a shot. The 130-grain Power-Point bullet dropped the 26-inch 4x4 in its tracks at what later lased at 277 yards.
     But there is more to hunting than filling a tag—or at least there should be. Guns and hunting are my business, and I’m often pressed for time as I go from place to place. This hunt was personal, and I wanted to slow it down and savor the companionship of an old friend, along with some new friends.

As important as the hunting is the environment one hunts. This fireplace was built in the late teens of the 20th century and features a piece of petrified wood for the mantle as well as several fossil accents. It has been the centerpiece for many good times for family and friends.

     Instead of a fancy lodge we stayed in the original ranch house built by Randy’s grandfather near the turn of the last century. Terry constructed a larger and more modern house on a nearby hill about ten years ago. The old ranch house could be described by some as funky, but more accurately it is casual and comfortable. A rock fireplace, handmade by Randy’s grandfather about the time of World War I, is crowned with a solid piece of petrified wood for a mantle. Smoke stains on the stones that make up the façade highlight some of the fossils that accent the stonework. It serves as a near-perfect setting for the conversation of men who are scarred from life and need just a little respite from its day-to-day battles, sans the pomp and circumstance of the civilization that scarred them in the first place.
     This hunt occurs during the week of Thanksgiving, a time when most are with their families. My family is dead, and Donny’s is dysfunctional; yet each of us craves the comfort and warmth of loved ones during the holiday. Randy’s family readily accepted us into its own, retelling tales and allowing us our own. My favorite is the one they tell of Uncle Joe robbing the liquor store in Buffalo in 1975 and making a clean getaway—on horseback.
     Perhaps it is this family setting that is the core of this hunt. The exchange of stories—both happy, as well as sad ones—among people with a common bond allows each of us to come away with a fresh perspective and a renewed enthusiasm to tackle life’s challenges. Randy’s father died at an early age, and his mother, Laurie, was faced with raising three boys and running a ranch on a remote prairie. That family has forged a character of independence, practicality and pride that is held together in a matrix of love and respect. Theirs is not the easy, idyllic agrarian life many of us dream about. It is a melding of hardships foisted upon them by weather, remoteness and an occasional dose of bad luck, along with a bucolic richness granted only occasionally by nature.
     Nonetheless, Donny and I are outsiders, and as such we retire to the old house a bit earlier than might otherwise be expected. Such a retreat is volitional, not imposed. Donny and I need to talk.
     We start talking of recent annoyances, but the bourbon’s anesthesia of conscience and lubricity of the tongue soon get to the heart of the matter. The stories are always the same, perhaps described in a slightly different light as the years provide perspective. Like some old veterans displaying their scars and telling of their wartime wounds for the umpteenth time, we recount our worst pains and fears—women we loved (and still do) who betrayed us; friends who have died and the feeling of emptiness it leaves; how close each of us came to ending our respective lives prematurely because of those women; and the dogs whose unalterable love and loyalty helped get us through those times and how sorely they are missed. The stories are not all that unique, nor are they wholly sad. Many have gone through far worse. But they are our stories, and because of our friendship, we must recount them from time to time.
     These old wounds are cleaned and sewn up for another year or so, and the dialogue turns toward a happier subject—deer hunting. We agree from the start to return to this ranch next Thanksgiving. The hunting is good, and the ambiance and hospitality replenishes our need for a family setting over the holiday.
     Northwestern South Dakota did not benefit from the wet winter and spring of 2004-05. It remained thoroughly entrenched in a drought that has cost ranchers in terms of beef production as well as the game that share the habitat. There are still plenty of deer and pronghorn, but the quality of the heads has suffered some. Often we saw herds of does run by two- and three-point bucks, and only occasionally a smaller four-pointer. Make no mistake, there are still big bucks here, but they are more remote and tougher to get, despite the rut. In a better year, those bucks would all be at least four-pointers—perhaps not big four-pointers. Their bodies give them away. All are big boned but lean, without any fat reserves. Bucks get that way during the rut, but there are always a few who keep a bit of a reserve on them. We didn’t see any; even the does looked a bit skinny going into winter.
     With these conditions, we quickly realized there was a small chance of duplicating or exceeding the bucks we shot last year. This hunt isn’t about shooting book bucks, anyway. It’s about friends hunting together for mature bucks. Donny tells Ryan, Randy’s brother who serves as a guide during his holiday break from college, he’ll settle for any four-pointer wider than its ears. Late afternoon of the second day the young calf roper/guide spots such a buck atop a hill some 420 yards away. Donny’s first shot hits the buck hard and spins it around, heading downhill—game on! Three more shots come from Donny’s .270, but the light is fading fast. More than two hours later they return to the ranch empty but sure the buck is down. Ryan heard at least two of the bullets hit. They simply ran out of light.
     The following morning—Thanksgiving—Terry and I venture out into a wispy fog, while Donny and Ryan sleep in a bit and wait for enough light to search for the buck. We post ourselves near the edge of the badlands, hoping a buck will show itself after feeding all night on the prairie. It’s a tough wait—cold, windy and without the ability to see long distances one normally can—and we are a bit early. Finally the morning light turns the white fog grey, and we get tired of waiting. We check out a couple of places Terry has seen deer a couple of miles away and then head back toward a different access point to the badlands.

Hunting is more than simply collecting record book animals. Sometimes it’s the only chance two close friends can get together and enjoy one another’s company.

     Through the fog some 300 yards distant I spot the silhouettes of a couple of deer. They are difficult to make out, but it’s clear they’re headed toward the rough country. The buck lifts its head from the doe’s tushy long enough for me to see its antlers are substantially wider than its ears and fairly tall. Then they disappear over the rise. “Let’s go; that’s a good buck!” I say to Terry.
     We hustle to the edge of the badlands and peek over the rim just in time to see the deer picking their way across a butte in the bottom of one of the finger gullies. In a moment they’ll be in the main part of this rough-and-tumble drainage, and we’ll lose them. The buck stops and looks back for a moment, and I quickly settle the crosshair of my Model 70 Featherweight .30-06 onto its ribcage just behind the shoulder. “Wow!” exclaims Terry. “It looked like you took a rope and jerked all four of his feet out from underneath him all at once!” Before we head down to check out and gut the buck, I hit it with the rangefinder—182 yards.
     The buck isn’t a monster but a respectable 3x3 that’s 25-plus inches wide. Interestingly, the antler forks are opposite of each other—the right rear and left front—and there are no eye guards. But it’s a mature buck, and I am grateful to get it.

2005 SD buck: On a foggy Thanksgiving morning the author caught this buck traveling with a doe near some badlands on the South Dakota prairie. One shot with a 150-grain Fail Safe from his pre-’64 Model 70 in .30-06 at 182 yards put it down. It may not be a monster, but it will carry the memories of a fine hunt with friends.

     Ryan quickly found Donny’s buck. In fact, they had been within 15 feet of it the evening before, but because it had taken the unusual route of up a small hummock within the gully it had run into and they had no flashlights, they had missed it.
     By the time we returned to the ranch machine shed and skinmed the bucks; then get cleaned up and drive over to Laurie’s childhood ranch—the one Uncle Joe of liquor store and horseback fame now owns and operates—we’re late for Thanksgiving dinner. No matter. In ranch country chores always come before celebration. We’re welcomed warmly, and enjoy the camaraderie and love of family, even this distant and extemporaneous one.
     Hunting for a trophy wall hanger is a great challenge; one I look forward to every year and relish. But a trophy doesn’t always have to have a prominent place on the wall. Sometimes it can beam brightest in one’s memory and the friends he keeps. Like I said, I’m a lucky guy, and I treasure those friends.