Hunting
One-Shot Goat Challenge
“One shot, Nicky. That’s what it’s all about.”
That classic DeNiro line from The Deer Hunter echoed in my head like a mantra as I drew a bead on the pronghorn buck 100 yards away.
“One shot.”
It should be the goal of every hunter, but it’s no easy feat when the adrenaline’s surging through your body, your chest is heaving with excitement and the crosshairs leap with every beat of your heart. It becomes even more challenging when you only have one bullet, because those are the rules of the game.
The game, in this case, was the second annual Yamaha One Shot Challenge. Ostensibly, it’s a friendly competition among outdoor writers and industry folks to see who can kill the biggest pronghorn with only one shot. Actually, it is a gathering of gun-toting, gear-jamming outdoorsmen turned loose in a target-rich environment in West Texas, and I was lucky enough to be among the invitees.
Oh! What A Feeling
Our hosts—guys from Yamaha, Toyota, Ruger, SureFire, Hornady and Nikon—greeted us writers at the Midland/Odessa airport. Having spent much of the day in airplanes, I wasn’t looking forward to the roughly two-hour drive to camp…until they handed each of us the keys to a brand new Toyota Tundra SR5 (yes, we had to give them back).
The drive wasn’t as bad as I thought. Long, flat straightaways gave me a chance to evaluate some of the Tundra’s features, like acceleration, horsepower and speed. And the route took us through some spectacular scenery. I didn’t know Texas had mountains. Come to think of it, I didn’t know it had pronghorns, either.
It was well after dark when we finally pulled off the blacktop and onto a dirt two-track ranch road. That trail eventually wound its way to camp—an open-air, chuckwagon scene replete with picnic tables and chairs, grilles and smokers and several well-stocked 100-quart coolers all spaciously arranged under the canopy of a gigantic live oak. That, and a motel in nearby Fort Davis, would serve as our base of operations for the next three days.
Choose Your Weapon
After supper by the open fire we met our outfitter, Hunter Ross of Desert Safaris, who went over the rules: one shot, one pronghorn. In keeping with the hunt theme, each of us was issued a single-shot Ruger Commemorative Edition No. 1 in .30-06 Springfield. I freely admit to being a less than spectacular rifle shot, so I was already a little apprehensive about the whole one-shot deal. And now a single-shot rifle? Makes sense, I guess, but what a sweet gun with its high-grade walnut stock and gold-inlay engraved receiver. A real looker. A box of Hornady ammo, a couple of SureFire flashlights and Nikon binoculars and a rangefinder completed the package. Sated and tired, we jumped in our trucks and headed to town.
Gentlemen, Start Your Engines
We beat the sun back to camp the next morning, wolfed down a hearty, cholesterol-rich breakfast, then were paired up and assigned guides. I drew Steve Nessl, marketing director for Yamaha Motor Corporation’s ATV & SxS Department, and Martin Ross, Hunter’s father. Steve saddled up a Grizzly 700 while I passengered up in a Rhino with Martin. The sun was still out of sight, though making its arrival known as we pulled out of camp and headed off to where the deer and the antelope (hopefully) played.
The song was right. Before long we were finding game, mostly scattered bands of rutting speed goats—bucks and their harems. If fact, the place was ate up with them. “Man, this is gonna be fun,” I thought. “Like a shooting gallery.” I was about to learn that seeing them and laying them down are two different propositions (see sidebar online). Or, as turkey hunters like to say, “Roosted ain’t roasted.”
First Blood
Steve had hunted here the previous year and advised being patient. The place had some real bangers. He also only had one day to hunt, so I graciously offered him first shot.
OK, I figured he’d tag out early, allowing time for me to be selective. It was mid-morning when we spotted a pair of bucks that included a potential shooter. We rode within glassing distance, whereupon Steve and Martin agreed it was a good goat.
Game on!
Nessl and I bailed, using the concealment offered by a narrow ravine to cover our stalk. Once in range, Steve crawled up, out and into a sitting position. The bucks fed slowly toward us, oblivious to Nessl’s motionless form. When he felt they were close enough, he dumped one, on the spot.
Next!
By the time we were done with the obligatory high-fives, hero shots and field-dressing, it was hot enough to boil a monkey’s bum. We decided to get Steve’s goat back to camp where it could be quartered and put on ice. Halfway back, however, I spotted some grayish shapes darting behind a distant rise. “What was that?” I asked Martin over the Rhino’s drone. No sooner had the words left my lips when I knew. Javelina!
We slammed to a halt and Steve and I bailed again, loading our guns as we raced up the hill. I took a guess, based on the piggies’ speed and direction, and cut hard left. It worked. We popped over the rise ahead of them, and with just enough time to scramble into some cedars and set up for the shot.
In they came. “Ready?” I whispered. “Yup,” came Steve’s hushed reply. “On the count of three?” Again he responded affirmatively. “Okay,” I continued, knowing it would torque him off, “is that one, two, three, shoot or one, two, bang?” I asked. “Just count, Humphrey,” he fired back. I counted, but waited for Steve’s shot before pulling the trigger myself, and we pegged a pair of peccaries.
After a leisurely lunch under the shade of ye olde massive live oak tree, we mounted up again and set out in search of more goats. Though we saw a pile, none were up to my standards (bigger than Steve’s).
My Turn
The next day C.J. Davis of Chevalier Advertising (Nikon) took Nessl’s place. I was “up,” making him a passenger and observer until I tagged out. Needless to say he was eager for that to happen. I still wanted to be selective, but as the day wore on I sensed my guide might also be growing a little impatient. “When I hear you say, ‘That’s the biggest goat on the ranch,’ that’s when I’ll shoot,” I told Martin. Wouldn’t you know, the very next buck we spotted was “as big a buck as you’re likely to see on the ranch,” according to Martin.
We made several attempts to drive within shooting distance, but by the time I piled off the ATV, loaded up and got steadied, the buck and his harem had moved off. Eventually, we abandoned the vehicles, using terrain and tall grass to execute a long foot stalk and a flanking maneuver that put us parallel with the buck. That’s when the one-shot mantra popped into my head. C.J. was close over my shoulder, videoing the scene as I settled the crosshairs as best I could and slowly applied pressure to the trigger. Boom!
Absolutely nothing happened. Neither the buck nor any of his does even turned my way. The hawk on a nearby mesquite bush stared off into the distance, and the meadowlarks continued singing. I sheepishly turned to C.J. as he rolled his eyes with disgust. “I think I’m the only living thing in Texas that flinched on that shot,” I said, fumbling to extract another round from my pocket. “It just became the two-shot challenge.” Fortunately, the second round was a solid heart punch.
Run Rabbit Run
C.J. connected that afternoon, leaving us with another whole day and not much to do. Idle hands, they say, are the devil’s tools. Jackrabbits can run almost as fast as pronghorns, I think. I was pondering this, and how it’s hard to compare because pronghorns are more like dragsters. “The rabbit,” I thought, “is more like a dune buggy…or an ATV.” Just then the corners of my mouth curled up in a sinister smile, like that of the Grinch just before he stole Christmas. “I wonder… just how well they would match up against a Yamaha Grizzly?”
I’d need an accomplice for this, and C.J. was the obvious stoolie.
Due to the propriety nature of our experiments, I am not at liberty to divulge the methodology we employed. I can, however, reveal that on flat, level, relatively clear ground, both models scored well. In terms of maneuverability, however, the jackrabbit far exceeded the Grizzly. The jacks were capable of making nearly 90-degree turns at speeds in the neighborhood of 35 to 40 mph, while no attempt was made to execute such acrobatics with the Grizzly. Even more impressive, from a flat-out 30 mph run, the jacks were able to dive into a burrow.
On the plus side, the Grizzly’s capacity was far greater than the jackrabbit’s, being capable of carrying an adult human…and a pretty nice pronghorn buck.