Pronghorn

Mr. Gose’s bunkhouse was small but contained two plywood bunks with mattresses, a wood-burning fireplace, a propane stove on which to cook, a small table with chairs and a dusty couch where a third person could sleep – and running water for the sink. It was a modern-day line shack, no doubt used every time the cattle needed to be worked. In all directions, the Wyoming prairie stretched as far as the eye could see.

- Lee J. Hoots

Rob Shelley was maybe twice my age, and Mr. Gose had those lines on his sunburned face – like so many other working ranchers – that indicated years of hard effort in an arid land, which now and then paid off, and accumulated knowledge gained during a lifetime in the saddle. I knew Rob only a little and had just met the rancher… who seemed nice enough though not overly talkative. This was not surprising; both of them knew that I had just buried my father only a few days before touching down in a commercial flight at the Gillette airport. It took a few years to realize that the seemingly awkwardness of the situation was not awkward at all; the men were trying not to interrupt my thoughts.

The hunt took place about midseason, so the pronghorn had been pushed around some. That first day we drove around a bit in an old pickup, surveying the ranch – which had a crystal clear creek running through it – and looking for any good bucks. There was no intention of shooting on the day of arrival, and we didn’t see any better-than-average bucks anyhow. In fact, there appeared to be few bucks on the ranch; this sometimes happens after the first week or so of the season opening. Old bucks get old because they’re smart, yet they’re unlikely to be too far away from their preferred home turf.