120 PETERSENÕSBOWHUNTING 09 • 20 19
BY EDDIE CLAYPOOL
D
rivingtowardsoutheasternWyominginmid-Novemberof’94, I was
ona high.Thepastmonthhadprovidedmewithsomegoodbucks
in twostates,butI wasona binge;couldI makeit three?Winterhad
arrivedearlythatyear,andasthesnowblewacrossthehighway, I wondered
whatI wasgettingmyselfinto.I’dneverbowhuntedsoutheasternWyoming;
neverhuntedwhitetailsin Wyoming.CouldI findgroundtohunton?Would
I findwhitetails topursue?WouldI enduproamingthewindsweptplains
in search ofa muledeer?CouldI endure thesub-zero tempsthatwere on
thescene?MaybeI’denduponmywayhomeina fewdayswithmytail
betweenmylegs.Allthesequestionsweresoontobeanswered.
Arriving in Torrington, Wyo., a
few days before Thanksgiving, I soon
found a small spit of public land and
parked to camp. Climbing into the
bed of my truck-topper, then into
my heavy-duty goose-down sleep-
ing bag, I knew a difficult morning
was in store, as the forecast called for
an overnight low of -10 degrees.
When the alarm went off the next
morning, I knew I had a problem.
Powdery snow had drifted through
the crack of my camper and now lay
on my bed. It was so cold that it was
all I could do to make myself arise,
jump into the truck and drive — I
had to have some heat fast! By the
time the truck’s heater was in full
force, I was near town, so I wheeled
into a café to test the water. Soon,
I’d struck up a conversation with
a couple of locals who pointed me
The Coal Train Buck
toward a small motel where I ac-
quired a room for a week for $100.
Now, that was much better.
My first few days in-country, I
scouted the possibilities. With very
little public land to work with,
I soon found myself knocking on
some doors. A local feedlot was gra-
cious enough to allow me onto their
property bordering the Platte River
— now, I was in business!
Scouting my newfound hunting
access, I soon realized that I was
dealing with a very fickle resource.
The scarcity of deer and marginal
amount of suitable whitetail habi-
tat had me realizing I was going to
have my work cut out on this one.
Furthermore, the arctic weather was
still in full force. Daytime highs were
in the single digits, and wind-chills
were 20-30 degrees below zero —
dangerous. Nevertheless, as I hung
a few treestands, I was determined
to try to make something out of very
little. It wouldn’t be the first time.
As a few days passed, miracu-
lously, I had a close encounter with a
really nice whitetail buck. The great
8-pointer was patrolling the riverside
cove in search of does, and as I zeroed
in on his travel route, I began to feel
better about my chances at getting a
crack at this beauty. Moving a stand
during a midday period, I looked at
his tracks in the snow, going both
ways regularly on a well-defined
trail. The problem was, the wind
had died, and with the crusted snow,
I knew I wouldn’t be able to walk to
my stand without alerting every deer
in the area. What was I to do?
Darkness of the following morn-
ing found me sitting in my truck,
parked about a quarter-mile from
my riverside treestand. Dead calm
and 10 degrees was not a good setup
for a stealthy approach. As I won-
dered what to do, the distant wail
of an approaching train reached my
ears. Bingo, here came my chance!
The railroad tracks paralleling
my hunting area were only a few
hundred yards distant. Planning on
using train noise to cover my noisy
journey to my treestand, I grabbed
my gear and headed out. My pace
increased as the train approached,
the latter part of the trip consist-
ing of a fast jog through knee-deep
snow. As I reached the stand, the
roar of the train was fading into the
distance. Fairly certain I had just
accomplished a very good thing, I
was stoked.
As shooting light arrived, lo and
behold, my large-antlered quarry
approached. I hadn’t been on-stand
more than 15 minutes; this was too
good to be true!
As I gripped antlers and admired
the rack well before the sun tipped
the eastern horizon, missing Thanks-
giving with my family and enduring
brutal conditions suddenly didn’t
seem so bad. Adrenaline surged
through my veins; I was young,
bowhunting and dangerous. Life
couldn’t get any better.
THE DIY GUY
