An early season high desert mule deer archery hunt is no joke. The relentless heat, long days, and vast landscape are just a couple of the challenges that define this hunt. Still, who could pass up another chance to chase critters around with a bow in hand?
Heading into this hunt—and the 2026 season overall—my mindset was simple: trust the process, embrace the lows, and remember that, after enough setbacks, the highs are even sweeter.
I just didn’t expect to get humbled so quickly. On the very first night of scouting, five days before the opener, I managed to get blisters on the backs of both heels—even though I was wearing boots I’d trusted for years. Was it the socks? Did they need to be broken in again after a season off? Or maybe it was the fact that I’d been living in flip flops all summer, only lacing up running shoes for workouts. Whatever the reason, it was rough.
But it didn’t stop there. On my way down from the glassing knob that night, after spotting a handful of small bucks and does, I tweaked my ankle in the dark. Not the end of the world, but just another reminder of who’s in charge out here.
Back at the truck, morale was low, but it was only the first night. I figured maybe I was just jumping straight into the lows, priming myself for that eventual high.
Day two brought more of the same: small bucks, does, and a ton of antelope. So, I made a big loop to the top of a different range that looked promising. Guarded by private land, it took way longer than expected to get in—what could’ve been a couple of hours turned into four and a half after multiple turnarounds and a detour onto a less-than-ideal road. Eventually, I made it.
Again, it felt like unseen forces were working to slow me down. But this new glassing knob—once I finally got there—turned out to be something special. Maybe the best camp spot I’ve ever had. Standing out there, knowing there wasn’t another soul for miles, is an experience everyone should have at least once. It’s the kind of solitude that gives you perspective: hunting isn’t just about putting an animal down, it’s about the entire experience. Things were looking up.
That evening, I only had about fifteen minutes of light left to glass before the sun dipped. No surprise, I didn’t see much in those low-light conditions, but the morning held promise.
I hit the glassing knob again, optimistic I’d finally turn up a good buck. The view from that spot was incredible, and the country it overlooked was full of potential. Still, no luck—just a handful of does. Onward and upward. At least I was crossing off areas where bucks weren’t.
From there, I tried a more direct route to my next spot—20.3 miles of the roughest road yet. No tire tracks, a few hairy creek crossings, and the kind of drive that wears you down as much as the hiking. But I got through, finally landing in the next zone.
Driving up a creek-bottom road, I jumped a couple of does and, for the first time, a buck bigger than a small forked horn. This zone felt different—more gamey. When I reached the top of the mesa, I spotted the first solid bachelor group of the trip. Among them, a wide 3x3—a buck I’d be proud to put an arrow through.
That evening, I found a new glassing knob with a great vantage of the north slope where the bucks had moved. Just before last light, they fed out into the open, and I confirmed—this was a buck I’d be more than happy to shoot.
Over the next few days, I kept tabs on this bachelor group while scouting other areas. My hope was to pattern them and make a solid move early in the season, but I also wanted a backup buck in case things fell through.
Mornings were spent glassing and putting the group to bed, then I’d move on to new areas in the evenings. It seemed like an efficient plan, but in the coming days, I only turned up one other bachelor group—unfortunately, they were in a giant, flat sage top with almost no elevation to glass from. Finding them consistently would be tough, and stalking them, even tougher.
On the last day before the season, I decided to focus on my main buck and his group, morning and evening. By now, I’d identified multiple bedding areas they preferred and had mapped out several possible approaches depending on where they settled. In the days I watched, the bucks never strayed from a six-hundred-yard stretch—a perfect setup with great feed, water, and bedding, plus plenty of escape routes.
By opening day, I had several possible ambush spots, but one stood out: a beautiful stretch of rimrock, about a hundred yards long and twenty-five to thirty feet tall, running north to south and casting a deep shadow through the mid-morning. When the bucks fed west of this band, they’d inevitably bed in its shade until around eleven. By then, as the shadow faded, they’d move up and over into a sea of buck brush on the eastern half of the slope.
The ideal play was clear: catch the buck in his first bed along the rimrock, hidden from the sun. If they didn’t bed there, I might have a shot in the buck brush, but the stalk would be much tougher. All this was theory, but I’d be ready when opening morning arrived.
When opening morning came, I found the group—but they hadn’t read my script. They were already feeding dead center in the buck brush, a hundred to a hundred and fifty yards from any edge. So, I watched. Within a couple of hours, they’d worked almost two-thirds of the way upslope—a spot they hadn’t touched during my scouting. Suddenly, I saw them make for a small patch of aspens below a giant twenty-foot boulder to bed. Instinct told me this was their spot. So, I moved.
I dropped off the glassing knob, circled two miles around the mountain, then climbed to the top. When I got there, I realized the wind wasn’t perfect. A strong 10–15 knot wind out of the southwest, and I was coming from above on the north slope. With perfect thermals it could have worked, but the crosswind made it dicey.
I started the stalk down, hoping the wind would carry my scent up and away from the bucks. As I made the final moves onto the rock ledge, the first buck blew out. Ten seconds later, all of them were gone, jogging away. One buck caught my scent but never pinned down where I was. They stood, searching for nearly ten minutes, then went back to feeding. The stalk was blown, but the hunt wasn’t over. I slipped out undetected and regrouped.
The stalk was blown, but the hunt wasn’t over.
I still felt confident the bucks would return to their normal north slope routine—maybe not the next day, but soon. That night, I left the area alone to let things settle and drove the roads on top at dusk, hoping to turn up another buck. In miles of driving, I only found two small bucks and a couple does, so I returned to camp late.
Day two of the season started slow—lots of does, but the bucks had vanished. Still hopeful, I kept glassing. About ninety minutes in, just over the next knob, I found my buck—my target—feeding on the west side of the rimrock. As soon as I saw him, I knew their first beds would be in the kill zone that day.
I wasted no time. I dropped off the glassing knob, swung wide to the east to avoid being seen or smelled, and paid close attention to the wind. The southwest wind had kicked up, but in the bottoms it was coming out of the east—not ideal. As I closed in on the back of the rimrock, my wind was still out of the east and slightly uphill from thermals. It could be a problem, but I was betting that up top, I’d get that steady southwest wind in my face.
Sure enough, as I gained the last five feet to the crest, I felt it—a steady 5–10 knot wind in my face.
Peeking over the rimrock, I spotted one of the bucks, 103 yards away and forty-five degrees down to my right. I had two options: stay put and hope they’d work up to me, or move down the rim forty or fifty yards and re-approach. I chose the latter, quietly slipping back and moving up again. Immediately, I spotted the same buck as before, and seconds later, there he was—my target—bedded with his back to me at fifty-four yards. No shot while he lay there, but with the wind in my favor, I knew I’d have a chance when he stood up.
There was about ten yards of shadow left beyond his bed, and the sun was quickly overtaking it. Twenty minutes in, the line of shade reached his antlers, and he started to get restless. I knew he’d be up and moving soon.
Suddenly, the buck stood and began feeding just a yard from his bed, broadside. I’d already drawn my bow as he rose, so I settled my pin and made a clean release. After twenty minutes of watching, my nerves had settled, and my pin was rock solid. Pull, pull, pull—then, whack. The buck never knew I was there, but the sound of my bow made him duck. Still, he wasn’t quick enough, and the arrow hit him in the spine just above the pocket, dropping him instantly. Not wanting him to suffer, I quickly put two more arrows through his vitals. He managed to pull himself into a patch of buck brush and took his last breaths there. I’d done it. My target buck was down.
After a few quick photos and a tidy processing job, I made my way off the mountain. But the feeling that followed was different this time. Taking a life is never easy, and the weight of it has never been lost on me. But this time, that heaviness seemed deeper. Was it because I’d watched this buck for days and felt a stronger connection? Or was it the satisfaction of a plan coming together, just as I’d envisioned?
I’ve always been grateful for every animal I’ve taken, but this buck took me back to the feeling I had after arrowing my first bull. That overwhelming, unnamable emotion—pouring out of me, or maybe into me. This is why we do it. This is what makes bowhunting what it is. In all my years of surfing world-class waves and shooting big fish with a speargun, I’ve never experienced anything quite like this. Only a bowhunter knows the feeling—and, in my experience, that’s the truth.
