By Stephen Galan

His name is the pronghorn antelope. There is no other animal like him. He runs at speeds up to 65 mph and can turn at speeds that would bewilder a cutting horse. He grows horns, but sheds them yearly. He can survive in the desert heat above 110 degrees and live through the harsh wind-swept plains during subzero winters. He has the eyes of an eagle, the speed of a cheetah and the endurance of a quarter horse. Yes, this is one unique critter and he is why I set off for Nebraska early this October.

I had always wanted to hunt antelope. I began to look for an acceptable outfitter and chose Craig Kjerstad’s operation, Git R Done Outfitters in Northwestern Nebraska. I was sitting in the alfalfa with him during my first morning when I saw my first antelope buck. Actually, I should say bucks, as there were hundreds of them in this one area of Craig’s property. He manages over 25,000 acres of prime real estate and this was one of his “Honey Holes”. Looking at bucks was great, but as I was soon to find out, getting into bow range was altogether another experience.

Round 1:

One buck in particular caught my attention. He was bedded on the eastern hill and as the sun came up we could see his beautiful silhouette against the blue and pink sky. What a sight! He was the largest buck on the field and impressive indeed. I thought to myself, “Oh I wish he would come this way.” He stayed bedded down in that exact spot for the next two and a half hours. Eventually, he stood up and made his way very slowly towards the southern side of the crop field. He came just within one hundred yards, but no closer. While he milled around we were able to get a very close look at him through the binoculars. Craig and I both noted his mature frame and stiff slow walk. It was as if he had arthritis. Also, despite being superior in size, he was not showing any sign of breeding and allowed lesser bucks to chase does right around him. All of this led us to believe he was very old. Craig, being the expert, informed me he believed the buck would not survive the coming winter. I immediately decided this would be the buck at which I would target my energy. I named him “Gramps”. He chose to bed down right in front of us. Most of the other antelope had moved away and he was not facing us. The wind was good for a stalk and just strong enough to cover some noise. Away I went, slowly creeping along like a cat on my belly. Pushing my bow in front of me, I moved at a rate that made a glacier look like a stock car.

After 30 minutes I had covered about 30 yards, however some does had circled in behind me. They caught some of my movement and sounded the alarm. All I could do was press my body into the Nebraska dirt and hope for the best. The six inch tall grass and alfalfa provided just enough cover to fool the old boy as he stood and searched for the danger the does had been shouting about. He did not pick me out, but decided to trust the ladies and started walking. I could do nothing but watch through the grass as he slowly walked right past me into and then out of bow range again. I sat up and smiled as I wondered how many times before he had eluded danger in his long life. Gramps had won another round and honestly, I was a little happy for him. The fight was not over however, only round one.

Round 2:

After lunch we headed back out to the same hiding spot. I wondered if Gramps would show up again. The first few hours past and we did not see him. Then, seemingly from out of nowhere, he showed up on a small rise around 350 yards away. The land here gently undulates and will conceal animals just over small hills that, deceptively, look pancake flat from a distance. This time he was with a smaller buck and they bedded down together just over the small rise, again looking away from our location. I could just see their head and horns through the grass. The game was afoot once more. I carefully but quickly stalked through the alfalfa for the first couple hundred yards then slowed down my pace. Every yard closer was hard won over dry grass and rough stubble that was seemingly designed to barely camouflage a jack rabbit! This slow belly-crawl/push method can be maddening and it’s important to remember your goal when tempted to rush. Eventually, I had closed the distance to one hundred yards. The younger buck stood up, but was not alarmed. I froze as he slowly walked perpendicular to my course. After he was comfortably distanced I resumed my quest for Gramps. I managed to slide my way twenty more yards when he stood up as well and began to move in a similar course to my left. I happened to be in a small clump of two feet tall grass. Would it be enough to hide me? I slowly sat up and nocked an arrow. He showed no reaction. I then raised the range finder and looked through its optics. Perhaps it was my form in the grass or the glint of the optics glass in the sun, but he froze and looked right through me. He was right at 80 yards and at this distance he was still perfectly safe from my arrow. I silently considered his fate of starvation over winter or being eaten alive by coyotes. I knew my arrow would be much quicker and comparatively humane. I had come so far now and after almost two hours of stalking, I wanted him very badly. There I sat sweating and tired, cactus thorns in my hands. I silently prayed, “Lord I have done all I can do now. If it is this grand old goat’s time and I am the lucky hunter to take him, you will have to bring him to me.” I immediately felt better and knew whatever the outcome I would be happy. Truth be told, I already was. I just sat there looking through the rangefinder at this wonderful sight with him looking right back through it to me. Then it happened! 79…78…77…closer and closer he came. Still not close enough; I needed 60 yards maximum. He turned to leave, walked a few steps and miraculously, he turned around once more! 76…75…74…he was coming again! I was emboldened. I knew I could hit this animal well. It now seemed as if it were meant to be and I could not fail. At 61 yards he stopped coming closer and was now walking parallel. He would come no closer. I drew the bow and anchored my sight pin. At the shot, I watched the arrow gracefully sail in its high arc and back down again perfectly behind his shoulder and thud to a stop low in his chest. The shot felt good but it was a bit low. Would it be enough? He slowly turned and walked away, showing no reaction whatsoever. I watched as he hurriedly lay down and his head slumped to the ground. Was it over? I tried to advance but he managed to stand again and make it a few yards before repeating the process. I gave him a few minutes and he did not move. Through the binoculars I could not see any movement from his chest either. His head was down in the grass again on its side. This time I was pretty sure it was over. I quickly, but quietly approached stealthily and made sure with a finishing salvo from 30 yards.

As I approached the old man I marveled at the accomplishment. I had stalked and killed an experienced antelope buck on open ground with a bow and arrow on the very first day of my very first antelope hunt. I knew I had been given a heavenly hand in this hunt. I picked up his weathered old head and humbly gave thanks. The first shot barely nicked the bottom of the vitals. It had been enough however. The coup de grace had not been necessary, but probably sped up the process. I was honored and overwhelmed. Gramps was a beautiful old goat and qualified for the P&Y record book. Craig remarked that to his knowledge, it was the oldest goat to ever come out of his area. His rack had no doubt withered from age and I would love to have seen him in his prime.

As I held him in my hands I think I would have wanted it no other way. I thought of all the sunrises and sunsets he must’ve seen in this striking country. How many of his offspring still roam these hills? I wondered how many hunters, both four legged and two, had he outwitted over his years. Had he died at the hands of cruel Mother Nature, he would’ve vanished into history. Now, he will live on forever, etched in my mind and heart. His proud crown of horns will grace my hearth for decades to come and my grandchildren will hear of his tale. I think Gramps would’ve liked that. We later saw bigger horned goats but none as old as grand old Gramps…I did not regret my choice. I still do not.