With Age Comes New Bowhunting Priorities

For most of my bowhunting life, I’ve been fascinated with large antlers, and I’ve spent much of the past 40-plus years rambling all over the rugged, wilderness lands of the West in search of big bone. Nowadays, however, as I ease into the “golden years” of my bowhunting career, I’ve finally moved beyond my ego-driven quest to continually pile up more trophies. For some time now, my inner man has been dragging me down a new road; one of fun, relaxation and roads less traveled. Now, don’t get me wrong; abandoning my old ways hasn’t been easy — an antler fetish is hard to shake!

Over the past few years, my newfound bowhunting priorities have led me into some neat places, fun hunts and great memories. One prime is example is high-country pronghorns. After all, by the time August rolls around, this old bowhunter is chomping at the bit to hit the high country. Elk and mule deer were the objects of my affection for decades. Yet as I’ve rolled over toward easier hunts, pronghorns have become a much larger blip on my radar. And when I found a place to hunt them at upper elevations, far from the rattlesnakes, cacti and broiling temperatures of the desert flats, I latched onto the opportunity. Shortly, I found myself with a new favorite pursuit that has quickly become a much anticipated late-summer outing for the Claypool Clan.

Setting the Stage

I’d first discovered this Idaho pronghorn opportunity on one of my DIY elk bowhunts a half-dozen years earlier. High, rugged mountains shed long drainages cloaked in stringers of aspen and spruce. Huge sagebrush basins with springs and seeps offered a perfect environment for elk, deer and the occasional pronghorn. I’d been fortunate to harvest a couple good bull elk from the country, but the presence of those black-horned speedsters intrigued me. I knew that one day I was destined to pursue them.

Now, jump ahead a few years to a time when Idaho elk tags for my area became virtually inaccessible. It was time for Plan B. So, I bought a pronghorn tag and the wife, dog and I were soon loaded up and headed from our Oklahoma home to Idaho. I fully intended for us to be dining on antelope backstrap soon. Three weeks later, we headed home with nothing but tag soup in our bellies. The score was goats 1, Claypool 0.

Now, speed ahead another few years to August of 2023, and the Claypool Clan was once again speeding toward its old, familiar Idaho haunt. After getting skunked on that first effort, I’d vowed to master the pursuit. Even though the pronghorn resource had proven marginal, the magnificent country that surrounded the endeavor more than made up for slow bowhunting. I’d come to realize years earlier that this trip wasn’t about trophies, or even filled tags. It was about challenge, beating the heat, escaping the rat race of everyday life and enjoying some good times around the campfire. What more could an outdoorsman ask for?

So, as we pulled into our campsite 1,600 miles from our Oklahoma home, everyone felt at ease. Some good friends would be joining us soon, and familiarity with the surrounding area brought peace and excitement. As camp was quickly established, I found myself drifting back to the previous half-dozen times I’d made this outing. Memories of warm days, cool nights and campfire conversations made me smile. There’d been trout fishing, dog walking, hot dog roasting and sweet tea drinking. There’d been hiking, exploring, some hard work and a little bowhunting. A warm, fuzzy feeling permeated my soul as I put the finishing touches on base camp; a good dog lounging nearby and a great woman who was in full support of the endeavor made my spirit soar.

The following morning, after coffee, bacon and eggs, I grabbed a backpack loaded with gear and headed steeply uphill. From camp, it was a 1,500-foot climb to a remote spring I’d located a few years back. This spot had been a good one for me, producing three pronghorn bucks in four years of hunting. As I climbed toward a high sagebrush basin, our dog, Lucy, ran to-and-fro, chasing strange smells and flushing critters of numerous kinds, including some sage grouse. When we finally made it to the basin, I stopped for a quick look about. A small group of pronghorns could be seen far in the distance, and I surmised they might be regular visitors to the nearby water source. Soon arriving at the seep, I determined it was still viable. In fact, there were a good number of hoof prints, including some elk, in the soft earth surrounding it; this was going to be fun!

For the next hour, I prepared my hide while Lucy ran amok, digging holes and chasing birds. Our location was surrounded by high, rugged peaks, long, winding valleys and cool temperatures, making the work pleasant. A final survey of my preparations found the job satisfactory. So, I stuffed my gear back into my pack and made a beeline for lunch back at camp.

The Good Life

A little while later, while Peg and I chatted over sandwiches and cold pop, a couple dear friends from Idaho rolled onto the scene; hugs, smiles and excitement were in order. Soon having their camping trailer set near ours, we all sat down to visit. With a small stream singing nearby, blue skies overhead and a vast vista all around us, everyone spoke excitedly of times gone by and better ones to come. Their dog romped and rolled with Lucy, and it seemed that life couldn’t get any better. Yet it could, as another friend soon rolled up! As laughter, smiles, lies and truisms rolled, everyone knew we were blessed. And as I meditated upon the fact that this type of social interaction was far from the solo bowhunting lifestyle I’d led for decades, I realized what I’d been missing. For countless years, I’d sacrificed fun for trophies, help for hard-headedness and sharing for selfishness. But I now knew those days were over. A new era had dawned, and it was time to have fun and give something back.

For the next few days, camaraderie was shared openly. More ground blinds were prepared, long ATV rides were shared and pranks were played. As opening day neared, everyone was ready for their roles. Soon, days would be spent in hiding, while stories of the day’s hunts would be told around evening campfires. I found myself already dreading the day when this gathering would end. Forcing that reality out of my head, I smiled and moved forward, eagerly anticipating the hunt.

Into The Field

As I rose in the dark of the season’s opening morning, the cold mountain air jolted me to my senses. Realizing where I was and what I was doing, I also realized the lifelong excitement of opening day was now tempered. It wasn’t that I was bored with bowhunting; it was just that the desire to fill tags and acquire trophies was no longer my driving force. I found myself looking forward to simply challenging my antiquated body with “the morning climb.” I also looked forward to the peace and quiet of a long day in wait. Even more, I looked forward to the morning sun splashing onto the alpine peaks above my hide and the sight of a distant pronghorn, deer or elk. And to top it all off, nothing could beat returning to camp in the evening to pat Lucy’s head, hug Peg and see the smiles of our friends.

So, as I pointed my scrawny butt up the steep incline that led to another day of bowhunting, I allowed my mind to drift through times past. Before I knew it, my destination was at hand. With a damp back, I unshouldered my pack, slipped into my blind and settled into my low-rider chair just as the sun slipped above the eastern peaks. Peering out the small windows, I wondered, What will today bring? Smiling contentedly, I was simply happy to be firmly entrenched in the last, best stage of my bowhunting life. I had finally reached complete maturity.

A couple hours later, a glance to my left produced a beautiful sight: a lone pronghorn buck making his way toward my hide. That old, familiar excitement flooded my system, yet I also realized I was about to take a life. Bittersweet about the that part of the equation, I nevertheless realized I was, after all, still a hunter. Thus, I would gather red meat. Grabbing my bow, I prepared for the shot. As the buck strode up to my hide, I slowly drew my bow. Then, all of a sudden, WHAM! In a split-second, all was quiet, the antelope buck long gone. All I could do was laugh; I’d triggered my release before I’d even reached full draw and shot a hole right through the front of my blind! Settling back into my chair and shaking my head, I knew that I’d just taken stupid to a new level.

Still Blessed

As the next few hours elapsed, I munched lunch and smiled at the many splendored facets of bowhunting. It could be easy, and it could be hard. It could go well, and it could go poorly. But no matter what, it was always an exhilarating challenge — especially if you throw in a “senior moment!”

Toward evening, another lone pronghorn buck appeared on the skyline. Instantly excited again, I determined to represent a real bowhunter this time. As the buck made his way toward my hide, bittersweet emotions once again flooded my soul. Was I about to harvest my quarry? After my last escapade, who knew?

A few short minutes later, as I exited my hide, the low-riding evening sun spilled soft light over the landscape. A short distance away lay a very dead pronghorn; not a trophy by “book” standards, but a trophy to me. As I knelt over my reward, deep emotions flooded my soul. My days at this were winding down. I’d been blessed for a long time; I was still blessed. Only an outdoorsman would understand.

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