My dear friend now, merely an internet acquaintance at the time he invited me to hunt pheasants with him, surely regretted agreeing to help me try to take a pronghorn. I had seen them in Wyoming on the drive to Montana, and thought that it would be a worthy pursuit. It would be the third year, last try, third time's a charm, three strikes and you're out. Lousy shots, scope problems- you name it- I was a disaster. My other good friend and mentor from Nebraska was along for longtails, and my last try at Montana pronghorns. We had put on somewhere between 700 and a thousand miles of dirt and gravel roads, but could only get within a couple miles of the only "goats" we saw all week. Finally,
we got ahead of the only group we'd seen for a week, and my friends stayed in the truck after instructing me on the stalk. The last 150 yards or so were on my belly, trying to keep snow and mud out of the muzzle of the 25.06. When I crawled over the edge of the hill where they shoulda been, there was nuthin'.
I was beyond dejection, and just before reaching the truck I sent up one of the most desperate prayers of my life, asking God to "grant this desire of my heart."
I got into the truck, and the silence was as painful as it was long. After some time my host asked what happened. I said when I got there there were no goats there. Both of them then proceeded to roundly chew me out for not following directions and blowing the last and best chance at taking a pronghorn. I sat in the back in silence, the black cloud that seemed to so often follow me weighing thick and heavy.
Headed home, we all saw him within microseconds of each other. A nice 15" buck was in a field at about our 2 o'clock, quartering
toward us. Bob tried to say "BBBBBBUCK!!!", but was unable to articulate the word until all the chexmix had spewed out of his mouth. He then started yelling at Steve to stop the truck (which he was already doing) and me to get ready to jump out and load the gun for a shot (to which I replied with less than my usual grace that I was inclined to get out as soon as the dang truck actually stopped). I chambered a round, and panicked when it took a second or two to find the goat in the scope. Having acquired him at the breast, I slowly moved back and squeezed when the crosshairs touched the sweet spot at the shoulder. At 162 yards, the 100 grain Nosler slammed the buck to the ground where he stood. My Montana host uttered two words: Thank God. I agreed. The buck was on the ground less than five minutes after that prayer.
Oh- the gravel road we were heading home on was marked: "Last Chance Road." We took the pronghorn back to the sign for a photo.
