Mic McPherson

Synopsis: While muzzleloader-hunting seasons offer increased solitude, and other advantages over regular seasons, they also have limitations. I have learned several of these lessons the hard way.

Many years ago Colorado, like several other States, adopted a Muzzleloader-Only Big-Game season. For the hunter, these earlier and longer seasons offer many advantages.

Those successful in drawing one of these limited licenses enjoy more solitude than the "come one, come all" regular seasons can offer. This is no small matter for many like myself, those for whom the solitude is just as important as the hunt.

Another advantage is that one can see an entire suite of flora, particularly various ferns, that are not seen after the fall freezes, which precede the regular seasons, or earlier in the year, when one might be more likely to be out fishing or hiking. I had not spent much time out in the Colorado mountains in September until my first muzzleloader season: I saw plants I never knew existed. Again, that sort of thing is important to me and I suspect many other work-a-day outdoorsmen enjoy such variety.

Often the weather will be letter perfect, cool but comfortable mornings and warm afternoons. One also may get to enjoy the beauty of changing fall colors. There may not even be any insect pests, as there often are during traditional picnic weather, earlier in the year.

Still other advantages exist. Not the least among those is the fact that game animals are usually less wary. One can often practically walk right alongside a herd of elk without spooking them – I have. Nevertheless, you will likely discover, as I did, that elk know the range limitations of a muzzleloader very well.

One also has an increased opportunity for drawing a cow or doe permit. To those for whom meat in the freezer is more important than a trophy rack, availability of a female tag can be a major consideration.

However, Disadvantages do exist. Some obvious, some not so obvious. Some are problems a hunter – well this hunter for one – can create for himself. Some are likely yet to be recognized, at least by me.

On each of my first two muzzleloader hunts I was given refreshers in one of the hardest lessons I have ever had to face as a hunter: If you go out in the hills equipped with a license for only one of the two species of deer hunted in that area, you are certain to see Boone and Crocket record-busting examples from the other species. Said critters, evidently knowing that you have no license for their ilk, will proceed to parade themselves in the most obscene ways until you are ready to kill, regardless of the consequences. Then, with a snicker, they will disappear into the safety of yonder trees.

My worst experiences with that phenomenon both occurred during muzzleloader seasons. Each time I had only an elk tag. My first muzzleloader hunt I had made my way into an isolated patch of National Forest off the South Fork of the Williams Fork River in Northern Colorado, just west of an area known as the Beaver Flat Tops. Hiking near 10,000 feet in shirtsleeves, I was truly in a hunter's paradise. Earlier that morning I had seen one small herd of elk – paced them in fact – as they moved from their morning feeding ground toward the private land they evidently preferred for bedding down.

I circled a small rise and was sneaking along an abandoned and overgrown road when up ahead, on the horizon, a good sized mule deer buck moseyed across the opening in the trees at about 250 yards. Now it was not the biggest buck I had ever seen but it was a good one and I always appreciate watching a big buck, so I froze and enjoyed the view.

No sooner had it cleared the road than a second, perhaps bigger racked, buck followed. Before I could fully appreciate that sight, a third similar buck appeared. Then, still another, good buck showed.

As the last of those was clearing the opening, the second biggest bodied and biggest racked buck I have ever seen alive stepped into the clearing. I was dumbfounded at the size of that animal. Although I knew better, my first thought was, "That has to be an elk!" because, in comparison, the others looked puny.

It stopped in the opening, broadside for a moment. Long enough for me to get the full impact of its massive rack silhouetted against the sky. It was obviously a non-typical rack and I could see perhaps a dozen individual points reaching thirty inches or more above the ears!

Eventually that buck moseyed on across the road and disappeared into the sparse trees. Had I been smart I would have fired a shot into the air tight then, just to insure I would not tempt myself in any way.

However, I was not so smart as that. Rather, I stealthed along the road until I approached where the five bucks had crossed. Sure enough, there they were, close by and rubbing their velveted antlers on Quacking Aspens. The closest – not fifty feet away – was the giant himself.

For an eternity, I stood there, fighting back an illegal urge. I managed to get the Hawken's hammer cocked without spooking the deer, then I took dead aim, knowing with certainty that only a few ounces of pressure separated me and the biggest rack I had ever seen, including those in the Boone and Crocket Record Book. I kept thinking of what else those few ounces might be separating me from, too. Finally, I screamed and deliberately shot well over that buck's back.

However, that one experience was insufficient to teach me the proper lesson. The next time I applied for a muzzleloader permit, I again applied only for elk. Guess what!

This time I was hunting along the headwaters of Fortification Creek, North of Craig, Colorado. I was within a mile of where, back in 1965, my brother, Stan, had taken the biggest mule deer I have ever heard of. That buck also featured the second or third largest rack I have seen up close. Obviously, I should have known better than to be in that area with only an elk license.

Dad and I were walking up opposite sides of an open park and I fell a bit behind. As Dad passed the other side of a small grove of willows and scrub oak, perhaps 150 yards in front of me, I heard something stirring. Finding myself out in the open, I froze.

It happened again! A buck that I at first believed had to be an elk, only because of its ridiculous size, came trotting out of that little grove, heading almost straight toward me. I already had the hammer back and the sights on its chest as it cleared the thicket. I then followed it with the sights as it trotted past me, approaching within twenty yards!

That buck was simply massive. An entirely different breed than the typical "four-point" most of us think of when we talk about mule deer. I was strongly reminded of the buck Stan had killed in '65; no doubt, this one shared many of the same genes.

Although I was almost mesmerized by this buck's massive muscular body (looked like Arnold Swartzenager on four legs and plenty of steroids), his rack did not escape me. As near as I could tell, he sported a perfectly symmetrical, albeit unusual, six-by-six rack with good brow tines (at least six inches), the spread had to have been well in excess of thirty-eight inches, perhaps even forty and the shortest main point was well in excess of 12 inches in length. Those are not "mind-expansion" figures. I am trained by profession to judge distances and that was my best professional estimate then, as it is now. (Perhaps in a few more years that rack will grow in my mind's eye, but it has not yet – it does not need to!)

Well, there I stood. Again, only a few ounces of pressure away from a certain Record Book trophy and again equally close to something else. In all honesty, I have no idea what kept me from pulling the trigger. As had happened the other time, I found myself literally shaking after that buck disappeared. Only this time was worse because I did not have the release of screaming and firing a shot. I swore immediately: "Never again. Never will I hunt only one species." I aim to abide by that because I am afraid of what might happen if I do not.

I was not through learning valuable lessons on that hunt. The others involved equipment and explaining those requires a bit of background information. What had happened was that I had finally scraped together enough money to buy a muzzleloader just that fall. I had previously used my wife's Hawken and I wanted to use my own gun. In those days, there were not many choices in muzzle-loading rifles, so I ordered a 54-caliber Hawken from Thompson Center (hereafter TC). I had less expensive options but TC was advertised and lauded by many gun writers as the best available.

Like my wife's Spanish-made Hawken, that TC was made for a right-handed shooter and both the wife and I are left-handed but back then no one made affordable left-hand models. Of course, soon after I got mine, TC and several other manufacturers came out with left-hand versions – and at only a modest penalty in price.

Of course, my new Hawken was delayed in shipment. It finally arrived the day before season started! Not to worry, I had bullets, powder and caps. We would be traveling toward Craig that afternoon and I knew a place where we could stop so I could fire the gun and zero the sights.

We arrived at the shooting range, south of Meeker, just before sundown. The gate was open and we went in, finding the place deserted. I set up a target and proceeded to clear the nipple of excess oil. I dropped the hammer on several caps, surprised to note all disintegrated as if fired over a normal load. Usually caps fired just to clean the nipple and barrel-vent require a knife for removal but not this time. What was left of the shattered cups fell cleanly off the nipple as I recocked the hammer.

Through the foam earplugs, I also sensed something amiss with the report of those caps but I had other concerns. It was already late in the day and would soon be getting dark and I wanted to be sure to get the rifle properly sighted in that evening. After all, season started the following morning.

I hurriedly loaded 90 grains of powder behind a 430 gr. Maxi-ball, pressed a cap home and took aim. I carefully pulled myself up for the recoil – remembering the concussion I had given myself the first time I fired my wife's 58-caliber Hawken with a full charge behind a 570-grain Mini-ball. The cheekpiece is rather sharp on the off side of a Hawken stock and I was not properly tied into the gun, but that is another story and another lesson.

I set the trigger, then touched it. I was happy to note not one iota of flinch. I was not so happy to note that I could tell that so easily because the gun had failed to fire. Again, I found the cap shattered. I tried three more caps before looking for something to pick the nipple vent.

To make a long story short, I eventually discovered that the nipple was not really a nipple after all. It was, rather, what I call a pseudo-nipple, sort of a falsie. IT HAD NO HOLE!

That explained the unusual report of the caps and the fact that these ruptured on firing, there was nowhere for the force of the explosion to go.

Well there I was, the evening before season opened with no nipple and all the stores in Northwest Colorado already closed. However, it was not all that bad because my brother and several cousins in Craig owned TC Hawken rifles and I figured I could find a spare nipple that night, somewhere. I would just have to trust the factory sight setting.

Oh but there was that other little problem. See, the ramrod had broken cleanly, where the grain turned around a big knot, as I had tried to ram that first bullet past a really rough spot in that rifle's barrel. The halves had stayed aligned and I was able to get the bullet seated on the powder properly but I would not be able to load the rifle again so easily.

However, I probably could find another ramrod too – you would think one of my cousins either would have an extra or would not be hinting that season. After all, why should I doubt the factory sight setting on my fancy new, expensive and, "Best in the World," Thompson Center Arms Hawken? Why indeed!

I suspect you can see that several lessons were learned that evening! Others came later; not the least of which had to do with the difference in factory service, warrantee and repair policies among various gun manufacturers.

Through the years, I have had dealings with several other gun makers, all of which have treated me most fairly – showing evident concern for product quality and performance, and customer satisfaction. Not TC. To get a replacement ramrod I had to send in a section of the broken original, at my expense.

When the replacement ramrod finally arrived it came naked; in spite of my carefully written letter explaining all the hardships TC's poor quality-control measures had caused me, and explaining that the rifle had what I believed to be a seriously faulty barrel and that I would certainly expect TC to pursue verifying that fact and seeing to it that I got a replacement barrel, as soon as possible.

Not one word of apology. No invitation to send the gun back for barrel replacement. No payment for damages. No telephone call expressing concern. Nothing.

Before selling that rifle, I fixed the rough spot by long and arduous lapping of the bore. Before ever again buying anything that Thompson Center makes, I will do a lot more suffering. (I must note that the new owner of that gun returned it to the factory for repair of a faulty lock; while the gun was there, TC replaced the entire lock and barrel assembly – perhaps they had learned a lesson about customer service.)

Well anyway, I did find a nipple and a ramrod that evening and I did go out hunting opening day. Not long after my experience with the aforementioned big buck, I jumped a very nice five-point bull at what was long but manageable Hawken range. Since he was moving away at a trot, I instantly started bringing the rifle to my shoulder and trying to cock the hammer – something I had successfully practiced hundreds of times.

Not this time! I fanned my thumb over that miserable, wrong side of the stock hammer five times without ever getting it cocked. Finally, I pulled the gun down in front of me and carefully cocked it. By then, it was too late to try. I carefully lowered the hammer and began the chase. I tracked that bull until I was certain he had no intentions of slowing down that autumn.

Later that afternoon, I rejoined my father to discover he had learned his own muzzleloader lesson! A lesson learned because of another of my mistakes.

He was hunting with my wife's Hawken. I had set him up with Pyrodex and some old, cheap, and evidently weak, foreign caps. Those had always worked with Pyrodex before but not on this cool, damp day – dad will never let me live that one down.

Dad had found a herd of elk and had been within fifty yards of a broadside, feeding, five-point bull long enough to pop five caps. Of course, the powder charge never went off!

We pulled the nipple, dumped a bit of Pyrodex out of the port and added a bit of FFF-g. Reinstalled the nipple and capped it with a hot CCI cap. Too late though.

Certain his rifle would fire if again called upon, we proceeded to track that herd down. Sure enough, we found them. While hunting along in fairly open timber, we spooked them but they did not go far and as I sneaked along to the top of a small ravine a big bull busted loose, running straight away from me.

I would have only a second to get the sights on target before that bull disappeared into the timber but it was dead-sure range. However, of course, nothing is dead sure, don't you know.

As I raised the rifle toward my shoulder, I carefully fanned at the hammer, making solid contact and getting it almost all the way to full-cock. I say that because I do not know how else it could have happened! I did not have my finger in the trigger guard so how do you explain the fact that the rifle fired itself?

Without delay, I filled out my muzzleloading elk tag and attached it to the tree out of which I had shot the top – presumably, a clean kill. I also made one more solemn vow: "Never again will I ever hunt with a right-handed rifle."

As noted, it will not be too hard to keep that vow because before that season had ended, several manufacturers had announced left-hand Hawken rifles. Cabela's now offers one in 58 caliber – it is foreign made and I would prefer to buy U.S. made. However, I will bet Cabela's offering comes with a hole through the nipple, a one-piece ramrod, a barrel that is rifled from end to end and a lock that does!

As I write this, I find myself considering again applying for muzzleloader season permits. I wonder what new lessons I would learn?