Rog's Rod & Nimrod

Yes, driving 416 miles to hunt a doe pronghorn antelope was a bit much, but I’ll look back on it as a fine adventure although it had nothing to do with the antelope. Betsy and I left Wagner on Monday morning, Sept. 30th, and headed for our Harding County ranch destination by way of Pierre, Faith, and Bison. Betsy was a wee bit apprehensive as winter storms loomed in nearby Montana, but once I fall under the spell of that butte country north of Faith, nothing else matters. We rolled into the ranch yard around 3:00 p.m. Mountain Time.

Our hostess wasn’t home, and her son suggested that we look for an antelope as inclement weather was forecasted. Ten minutes later we pulled onto a secondary trail that afforded a great panorama, but in two hours we saw one lone buck that sky-lighted himself a mile away. Years ago we would have seen multiple herds from our vantage point, and I quickly realized that I was in for a tough hunt.

Tuesday morning I went out by myself after a leisurely breakfast. Antelope were obviously scarce, and tagging a doe became increasingly unimportant. In light swirling snow, I left the pickup on the previous day’s vantage point and made a 3-4 mile loop on foot. In the past, that same route would have offered numerous shots, but on this day I saw nary an antelope or sage grouse. I thought about abandoning the hunt.

As the old Dodge approached the JB Road, a lone pronghorn doe appeared beneath the west horizon at 200 yards. I climbed out of the Dakota, rolled an old rug out over the hood, and looked her over through the Leupold scope on my pre-64 Model 70 Winchester. My .270 cal. rifle sent a 130 grain Nosler Partition bullet on its way, and she dropped in her tracks. As the grass was firm, I pulled off of the trail and approached the downed pronghorn with the truck. I then broke Hunting Rule #1. I left the rifle on the front seat and walked up to my antelope.

She jumped up and took off like she wasn’t even wounded! By the time I had my rifle cradled in the yoke of my tripod, she slowed to a walk at 175 yards and turned broadside. She was a wounded animal, and I had to put her down. In spite of my overactive tremor, I miraculously dropped her on my third shot. It was ugly. I hate relating these embarrassing details, but I take pride in my columns being truthful. Field-dressing, dragging her back to the pickup, and hoisting her onto the tailgate was all my aging body could handle. At Pierre we donated her to the SD Hunter-Hunger program as our freezer is currently full of elk meat.

Following lunch, we joined our hostess in her ATV and headed out onto the prairie to replenish the cattle with salt and mineral supplement. After opening and closing a gate, I had no idea that we would enter a world as it existed 200 years ago. Thousands of buffalo – cows, bulls, and calves, grazed and frolicked in the lush green grass as far as my eyes could see. Sharptail grouse flushed in front of us. I’ve mingled with elephant in Africa’s great national parks, but this stirred more emotion – probably because it was America as I had never seen her.

The family homesteaded this piece of ground in 1909, and the original log cabin still stands. In 1913, the very comfortable ranch house was assembled from a kit of pre-cut pieces. The original, incredibly beautiful interior woodwork, as well as the solid wall to wall maple flooring is intact, and I look for it to last another hundred years. I plan to search old mail-order catalogs for this floorplan as this ranch and the folks who live and once lived there are very important to me. Wednesday morning we headed home in wet, heavy snow that turned to rain.

I just recently received word that the wolf killed last winter in the Parkston area was of the Great Lakes sub species variety. Just how or what brought her to our area is unknown. See you next week.