Remembering some very long shots

Granted, we are already in the archery deer season, not the firearm season, but one recurring thought today kept running through my head like a needle stuck in the groove of an old 45 rpm record.

I got to thinking of several of my long shots. Long shots made with a rifle on caribou, mule deer and whitetails. The ones that tell you that you've practiced long-range shots, know how the rifle shoots, and are capable of taking and making such shots.

A long shot means different things to different hunters. There is a television show that specializes in one-shot long-range kills. I've watched it several times in the past, and they've stretched things out a bit farther that I have but not by much.

Long shots requires lots of practice and a flat-shooting rifle.

I own a Winchester pre-1964 Model 70 in .264 Winchester Magnum, and my first scope was a 1.5X8-power Weaver with fine crosshairs. It hit the market, if memory serves me right in 1961 and I bought the rifle and scope  in 1962 and 48 years later it still shoots better than I can hold it.

Back in those days I did all my own reloading of ammunition for that cartridge, and I played with loads ranging from a 77-grain Norma to a 165-grain Hornaday. Each bullet weight would shoot to the same point of impact, and my vision was keen back then, and I could shoot.

One year, while hunting the Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore sand dunes, I had my son David with me. I told him where to lay on the ice-cold dunes, and where to watch, and that if a buck came out on a deer drive, it would almost run over top of him.

I saw the buck come out, and just as straight as a string, it ran at my son. No shots, and it went past him on a dead run, only to stop between 325 and 350 yards away on another dune. I took a quick sitting position, locked in on that buck and sent a 140-grain airmail package at him. He dropped, and that was it.

Another year, while hunting near the Platte River, I spotted one of the biggest does I'd ever seen walking on the far bank of the river. It was an honest 300 yards away, and when the rifle cracked, the deer fell to a well-placed shot.

A few years ago, while hunting the Kaibab along the north rim of the Grand Canyon, a good mule deer jumped up at 200 yards, went bounding off in that bouncing pace of theirs. Contrary to popular belief, mule deer bucks don't always stop to look back. This one never stopped.

He ran down a valley that led down into a side canyon. My guide and I ran just below the rim on one side, and we could see the buck and a doe running across the opposite side of the canyon. The buck and doe finally stopped when they felt it was safe, and started browsing.

We worked as close as possible, and this was the last day of my hunt, and the guide said: "That buck is 400 yards away. Can you hit and kill him at that distance? We can't get any closer."

Could I hit that muley buck that far away?

I found a scrub tree nearby, scraped some pointed rocks away so I could sit down to hold the rifle steady. I cranked up that Swarovski  scope to 12 power, studied the buck with a firm rest. I settled the crosshair at the top of his back (my rifle was sighted in to be three inches high at 100 yards), took a deep breath and shot downhill at the buck. A second passed before I heard the bullet hit that mulie buck, and down he went. It was a clean one-shot kill.

The longest shot I ever made was in Canada's Northwest Territories a dozen years ago. I was hunting Central Canada Barren Ground caribou, and the guide and I found a huge herd of 3,000 to 4,000 animals down in a big mountainous bowl. There was no cover for a stalk.

My guide held my ankles as I leaned over a steep cliff, and I shot free-hand at the largest bull that was bedded down directly below us. I had no support, and it was a dumb thing to do but I hit that huge bull.

The caribou -- every last one of them -- left that bowl, climbed a ridge across from us, and finally my bull stopped. We went down into the bowl, made our way across it, and eventuall we ran out of cover, and the bull was staring at us.

"I say 500 yards," was my guess while the guide thought it was farther. I took a firm rest after laying my backpack on the last big boulder of the right height, and I studied that great stag. I'd be shooting into a stiff cross-wind at a wounded animal at least 500 yards away.

I know my rifle, know what it can do, and in my early 20s when the rifle was purchased, I shot crows at 300-350 yards in an open field. I felt this shot was possible, and with great patience, I leaned into the stock, settled the crosshairs for where I thought I should hold, and squeezed.

Two second later came the sound of the bullet hitting that bull and down he went. I paced off the distance, and I was doing my best to take 36-inch steps, and 535 steps later, I walked up to that great bull.

It was the longest shot of my life at a wounded animal.

That animal was big, but I had no clue just how big he was until we later put a tape measure to him. He wound up the first year in the No. 9 position in Boone & Crockett. The last I looked he was down to about 100, and I could care less. Whenever I look at him, and the great long rear points, I relive the long-range shot of my lifetime.

Long-range shooting isn't something I encourage. There is too much risk of missing, but if a hunter shoots often and knows his rifle and where it will hit at 250 yards, making a 350-400-yard shot is fairly simple. Luck was riding on my shoulder on the 535-yard shot even though I was confident I could make it.

In the end, people don't ask "Can you?" Instead, they ask "Did you?" And I did.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors