El Burro

Sonoran Senderos Finally Yield Big Mule Deer Buck 

By Angelo Baio

Originally published in the September/October 2024 Issue of Safari Magazine.

After a long day hunting for my first desert bighorn on a concession that Jack O’Connor himself once trekked, I noticed a huge mule deer mount in camp with a rack as wide as Texas. 

This animal was enormous. David Artee, my outfitter, wouldn’t let me leave Sonora without getting me signed up for a mule deer hunt. So, I immediately turned my attention to Sonora’s gray ghost, El Burro.

I planned my hunt with David. But his entire camp staff was infected with COVID, so the hunt was passed off to his cousin Javier Artee, son of the famous Javier Artee Sr., a worldwide bighorn outfitter and conservationist. 

Javier picked us up at the airport, and we drove 50 miles north of Hermosillo to a 10,000-acre low-fence cattle ranch. Driving down the dirt track, we passed pasture after endless pasture with natural, unmanicured brush. 

Miles off the main road, we pulled up to a quaint old Mexico ranch named Santa Lucia. It had been exclusively leased to Javier Sr. more than 30 years ago to hunt mule deer. We stayed in a quintessential hand-built Mexican ranch house. 

The nightly January desert air would dip to the low 40s and violently swing 30 degrees each noon. However, that night, the front porch window invited us in to relax by a roaring fireplace as we enjoyed the sweet smell of an ironwood fire.

It’s no secret that Mexico’s deserts are hot and arid regions with significant temperature extremes and drought. Although mule deer can survive a few days without drinking water, I was told that cattle watering stations are a bonus for the deer on the ranch. The deer in this area are well nourished naturally but also benefit from alfalfa bales, calcium feed pellets and minerals at cattle feeding stations, which aid in trophy quality.

On the first day of the hunt, the plan was to slowly cruise dirt roads, looking for deer in the openings as they moved between bedding, food and water. To my surprise, the brush was over 15 feet high, but the ingenious Mexicans use high-rack trucks, a tradition and staple for hunting the Mexican flats. Our pick-up was full. Javier, my buddy Ty, and ranch guide Martín were on the rack while Miguel, the ranch hand, was behind the wheel.

As we cruised, Martín communicated with the driver by tugging on a piece of twine draped down to the driver’s hand when he wanted him to stop — it was crude but effective. Before the day’s heat rose in the first couple of hours, we saw at least a half-dozen does and one nice young buck cruising the watering tanks. It was encouraging enough to keep us excited about what we would see the next day.

The next morning, Javier lit a fire in the fireplace before dawn. The camp came alive with the sounds the cook preparing a hearty, full-spread Mexican breakfast and ranch hands preparing the truck. Although I didn’t sleep well with visions of 30-inch bucks in my head, I kept a calm demeanor to hide the boyish excitement inside.

At first light, our truck crept along the senderos. It was cold on that rack, but no one was distracted from the mission. The buffalo grass imported to Mexico originally for cattle graze was great for cattle but a nightmare for deer hunters. We rode for hours on this vast concession, never crossing a road twice, trying to catch deer moving to water before bedding down when the sun heated the day. We saw nothing but a doe or two.

As a consolation, the desert did give up the fresh scent of mesquite and the beautiful orange glow of the warm Mexican sun rising above the horizon. With no good deer sighted, we headed back to camp for lunch and a new plan. 

Lunch stories were always about the one we saw yesterday, but they were still enjoyable. The cat-and-mouse game was again on the agenda for the evening, which brought much of the same.

Day 2 began with excitement. Miguel got out of the truck to open a gate and spotted a couple of does 30 yards ahead that jumped the path. At that same instance, a huge, ridiculously wide and heavy-horned buck materialized right on their heels. 

“Shooter,” said Javier. 

The buck stopped behind thick brush just 30 yards away.   

I shouldered the rifle, but the buck was hard to see. Waiting what seemed like hours, we didn’t move an inch, hoping the buck would ease one way or the other for a clear shot, but instead, he slowly walked off out of sight. 

We chased that buck for the next two hours for a mile or so, getting a glimpse here and there, but each time, he dug himself further into the brush until we lost him completely and gave up at lunchtime. 

The evening hunt took us to the opposite side of the ranch to a hill barely 200 feet in elevation. I felt we were too exposed, and I honestly didn’t like the location. As soon as our binos went up, we all saw multiple deer in seconds and everyone erupted in a chorus of, “I got one here.” 

Everyone was occupied with a small buck lying down 100 yards in front of us. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a buck 100 yards to my right. It took my breath away. 

I called him out, but only Ty got a glimpse. Then the buck slowly walked off. Javier had never seen him, but I swore to myself I would take a crack at him if I found that buck again. 

The next morning, with hardly any sleep from all the action the previous day, we headed out to the grass flats to cruise the watering holes, hoping to get another chance at the buck we saw the day before. The plan was sound, but the flats didn’t produce, so back to camp we went for lunch. 

Javier wanted to check out the buck Ty and I had seen the night before, so we went back to the vantage point on the hill. While on the hill, it was not a replay from the day before. Frankly, the hunt’s ups and downs were really working my nerves. We probably had about an hour or so of light left, and Javier said we should amble back down the hill towards camp to see what materialized.  

That road down the hill twisted like a pretzel, and the thick brush on both sides made it difficult to see anything. As we made a tight turn, a small buck busted from the brush in front of us, only feet away from the bumper. My heart jumped into my throat, but it was a false alarm. 

A second later, Javier jumped to attention when he saw something else. 

“He’s much bigger and a shooter,” he said.  

I shouldered my rifle, frantically looking for the deer in my scope. The magnification was set at 6X, so I turned it down to 4 and there he was, a huge body with a tall rack high above the brush.  

“I can’t see his full head, but that rack is tall,” I said. “The body is huge and the shoulder is clear!” 

The buck parted the brush like a knife, and I could now see the whole head. This was hands down the biggest deer I had ever seen, and he was at an easy 50 yards standing broadside. 

“Yes, that’s him, take him!” said Javier in a whisper near my shoulder.

I flipped the safety off and squeezed the trigger. The rifle jumped, and instantly, the buck slammed to the ground head-first like he was hit by lightning. The buck was on his side, and his rear legs were kicking wildly and then stopped. 

“Good hit,” said Javier. 

High fives and congratulations flew. 

Suddenly, in the corner of my eye, I saw a deer running off into the brush, right where my buck had just gone down. I told Javier what I had seen, and he calmly told me that he thought it was a good hit and that the buck was dead. The five of us piled into the brush in a race to find the buck with light fading. 

As we made our way into the thick brush, we found blood in a pile right where the buck went down, but there was no buck. It was like we were in a movie, and we all looked at each other in amazement. 

Everyone kicked into hunter mode like a bunch of hounds and started looking for the blood trail. We weaved back and forth, but the blood stopped 40 yards into the thickest brush I’ve ever seen. The light was almost gone, and the inevitable sank in. We would need to regroup at camp and return at first light. 

I felt sick to my stomach and didn’t get much sleep that night as I kept replaying the shot a thousand times in my head. 

In the morning, everyone was still mumbling that they couldn’t believe what had happened the day before. We returned to where I had taken the shot and methodically searched for a blood trail. 

Javier had a secret weapon — a vaquero named Chicharron who lived on the ranch and knew the land like the back of his hand. He was on horseback and had two dogs with him. He was slight in frame, weather-worn and tough as nails. I could only make out hand signals as he spoke with Miguel, but Javier interpreted that he got a glimpse of a wounded deer he swore was my buck.

Our group spent countless hours searching for this buck. As the day heated up, exhaustion was on everyone’s faces, and Javier motioned us back to the truck. I didn’t want to walk back. Yet I was exhausted, but I resolved that if I was in Mexico and had light left, I would continue to look for this deer even if I had to do it myself.

I got to the truck, grabbed a water and avoided standing next to Javier before he could deliver more bad news. Suddenly, Chicharron appeared out of the brush and claimed he had seen the buck and had pushed the wounded deer towards the hill.

We piled into the truck and raced to where he had seen the buck. The truck slammed to a halt as Martín and the vaquero were 100 yards up the hill. Martín frantically pointed toward our direction, indicating the buck was lying down almost on top of us at just 60 yards, but we still couldn’t see him. 

Miguel, Javier and I forced our way into the thick brush, trying to pick apart every leaf in front of us. My heart raced as we slinked in 50 yards, but still no buck. Martín gave frantic hand signals from the hill above that we had veered off track and to move more to our right. 

I moved forward slowly, and in mid-stride, the buck exploded from the brush 10 feet away. I could tell that he was wounded by the way he was moving. The deer bound to my right. Knowing this was my last chance at him, I shouldered my rifle and pulled the trigger. The buck folded at the report and fell 15 feet from where I stood. 

I couldn’t hear anyone around me over the loud thumping of heartbeat in my ears, but my prayers of thanks rang out over the clatter. 

I felt tremendous relief and knew I could now sleep soundly, knowing that the buck we had spent countless hours searching for was dead and down. 

Angelo Baio is an SCI member who lives in North Carolina.