Once again, the winds of fate had blown me to a strange place, and I found myself in the heart of some of the most desolate country in North America. These lands were hideouts of outlaws, Apaches and lost legends. Aptly named Jornada del Muerto, The Journey of Death, by the Conquistadors who braved this vast unknown in searches for kingdoms and cities of gold in what is now today’s central New Mexico. But 400 years ago was just yesterday. About 270 million years before the Spaniards arrived with their history changing horses, this area was a prehistoric volcanic death zone, hissing with poison air and molten lava flows and fearsome creatures long extinct.
Things had settled down and brightened up a bit in the past few million years. The risk of getting snatched by a tetradactyl or T-Rex was slim, but it still was no Garden of Eden. It was bone dry area and we had backpacked far into its barren heart where we would make our last stand, or what we thought would be our last stand. Fate had something else in mind.
We were after oryx, or gemsbok, as the Africans still call them. About 50 years ago, then-Governor Boland, an avid international big game hunter, thought that oryx and Persian ibex might fit in nicely to some of the most barren parts of New Mexico and he was right. The oryx were tough hombres and had roots to the hardest and driest deserts in Africa. They were freed on the White Sands missile range, a land so vacant they knew before they touched off the first atomic bomb that no matter what happened, nobody was going to miss it.
The wild card was how the oryx might adjust to the sometime subfreezing weather. Against the odds, the oryx thrived to the point that their numbers needed to be brought down by way of two, three-day hunts a year on the highly secure and restricted missile range. Not only do oryx make a striking and handsome trophy, but they also have the most delicious meat of any game animal in North America. And those who might differ have just not had it yet.
Oryx are known to be ornery, hardheaded, tough and have minds of their own. No wonder they fit into the West so nicely. Some had wandered off the base onto the surrounding lands. Not wanting the oryx to spread any farther, the New Mexico game commission set up a year-round hunt for the “Off-Range” animals. You don’t have to have much of an imagination to know that the already spooky oryx, with razor sharp eyesight that stacks up to pronghorns and nervous natures, became very elusive quarry year after year. Somebody is always out to kill them, and they learned quickly or died even quicker. Add in the vast area they wander, ability to go days without water and sparse numbers and I knew it was going to be a tough hunt. All hunts done right in the West are physical and when 50 years of age is fading in the rear-view mirror, they get tougher.
Tough is just what JP, my hunting buddy, likes. A John Ford cowboy look alike he had tasted the glory and dirt of low budget rodeo arenas throughout New Mexico and Texas. He told me the wildest of the wild were the impromptu “Indian Rodeos” where wild mustangs were rounded up on the reservation for breaking. He said the word would get out and bronco breakers and daredevils would show up and “give her a go.” No bleachers, sponsors, silver tongued announcers or waiting ambulances there. Usually they were held in a holding pen, cattle corral or sometimes the open prairie. The waiting contestants and spectators stood in the backs of pickup trucks or draped over the fence edge drinking beer waiting a turn whooping on the action. Rodeo at its purest. At times there was betting from people who made hard livings and sometimes bad judging was settled with a fist fight. JP shook his head, “It was crazy shit.”
From what I knew, a single-minded focus to get it done is the main ingredient for standing any sort of a chance to bag an off-range oryx where success rates are low single digits. JP is not just tough, he is smart, and came up with a hunt plan that had me nodding as I heard it. Not only was it full of raw, tough adventure that would push us more than we could then imagine once the hunt unfolded, it made tactical sense as to where these off-range oryx just might be given their relentless pursuit. JP had hunted in one of the areas a decade earlier finding his own needle in a haystack by taking a beautiful bull.
Mike Tyson once said, “Everybody’s got a plan until they get punched in the face.” We were heading into our second week and my eyeballs and brain were numb from endless glassing. If one has the idea that this might be a hunt of soft morning blushes across saguaro cactus and pastels of desert wildflowers you would be sadly mistaken. It is an endless sea of wiry bushes, dried and dead mesquite thickets, dirt, sharp rocks, volcanic ash and some stubborn wisps of grass and scrub. It was some of the most barren and just downright ugly country I had ever seen.
But it was not without life. We were treated to occasional coveys of quail scurrying and fluttering here or there. Roadrunners—feathered velociraptors in contrast to cartoon images and some of the most relentless killers on search-and-destroy missions of their own. Horny toads bristling with bone spikes and armor as terrifying to their small prey as a T-Rex would be to me. Hand-sized tarantulas, bizarre multicolored thumb-sized grasshoppers and skinny coyotes scampering across the horizon. Life always seems to find a way to exist, but their sightings were rare across this blank, repetitive canvas.
We hadn’t seen a single oryx.
The initial hunt buzz was long gone and I was truly thinking this was hopeless.
Our “Hail Mary” was going to be in the del Muerto I had spoken of earlier. The area is completely dry most of the time except for a few flash downpours a year. We couldn’t risk not finding water and would have to carry it in.
It’s a wilderness area that only allows footprints or hoof prints and according to JP we wouldn’t see a soul. I chuckled to myself thinking of the three other people we had seen in the past two weeks and thought so now it gets lonely. JP grinned adding, “Anyone alive anyways.”
The area is filled with legend of ghosts, lost patrols, Apache attacks and hidden caches. I found that in the region there is legend of a cave with a lost calvary patrol; now sitting skeletons in dusty and tattered uniforms that was once found and lost by a miner trying to find shelter in a fire and brimstone thunderstorm. The miner swore to his dying breath what he had seen, and that they were out there and never found again—after all, it is called the Journey of Death. The land is steeped with legend and death and had all the time in the world.
After putting several miles under our boots and ankle rolls on the baseball-size lava rocks weaving our way through massive, buckled sheets of lava, we were coming close to where JP thought we might camp. The area was remote, a natural five-mile-wide corridor where the oryx might stay away from the road hunters. If desolation was the goal, we struck it rich. But as far as oryx go, we did three days in there and saw nary a track.
Pulling the cord was pretty much long overdue as we approached the end of week two. JP was relentless and had one more last-ditch effort in mind. “They’re here. I just know it,” he said. Hell, JP didn’t even have a tag, he just wanted to be there for the hunt.
We decided on one more backpack over-nighter as the last full measure. We loaded our packs; the loads cutting into pains of previous hikes of the past weeks, and went several miles looking about for a suitable spot to camp. Our heads snapped up in unison when we shockingly jumped a herd of six bulls at about 80 yards. I wouldn’t have been more surprised to see Bigfoot riding a unicorn and yodeling. They ran to the ridge about 200 yards away, apparently as surprised as we were that someone was in this God-forsaken place. They made a quick look back and, with a swish of their tails, were off. We tried to run across the broken lava ground with our big, top-heavy packs on, but only caught a few quick glimpses of them as they fled. We had to drop the heavy packs quickly to have any chance to get a look at them again before we lost sight of them in the choppy hills and lava gorges.
We lost them. We thought they would want to get in the wide open while still rattled by the close encounter and head out to the flats thousands of yards from cover. Our only chance was if they stopped out there secure in the wide open space. But they could trot for 20 miles and disappear into nothingness.
It was 9:00 a.m. and the chilly morning had given way to what was going to be a hot day. Already thirsty from the exertion and the adrenaline dump, we realized we had about eight ounces of a cold coffee drink and an apple between us. It was too far to turn back for our big packs and provisions and the temperature was rising.
Across the flat a mile away JP spotted the bulls in the watery haze of heat waves standing hard alert 1,000 yards from anything that looked like cover. We had picked up a couple of spectators as three turkey vultures circled hundreds of yards above us. I couldn’t help but think it was an omen, but was afraid to wonder too much on just what kind.
The bull’s hilly hideaway had been found and now they were in the open. It was a lose-lose for both of us. We could see them and, if we showed even the smallest bit of ourselves, they would see us and it would be game up. It was the classic game-on, chess match between man and prey. We were able to work our way within 600 yards of them and saw two standout bulls with long, black, knobby-handled spears, heavy chests and thick necks. Oryx are tough as railroad spikes. About the size of an elk, it takes perfect shots to put them down. The heat waves were distorting their images in a watery wall making it difficult to make any kind of precise shot and I knew I needed to get at least 300 yards closer to overcome the mirage.
It was flat with almost zero cover, but I know from a lifetime of crawling after game in the West that there is always more play in the land if you are willing to hit the dirt and find some folds to sneak through. I have crawled through lots of the West after game, coming back with cactus and abrasions, a screaming back, a cranked neck—just a little wear and tear and small badges of courage as reminders a week after the hunt is over.
The ground looked like a giant sheet of course sandpaper, but the sand was jagged rocks the size of almonds and axe sharp. Both of us were shaking our heads about leaving our knee pads and leather crawling gloves back in the truck. Trying to keep our gear minimal with the extra load of water, we would now pay a painful price.
It was getting to be late afternoon—the apple spilt, core eaten, coffee drink long gone and thirst was really sinking its talons into us. Both of us were lightheaded with thirst and had stopped sweating. Suffering was just part of the equation on this hunt, and there was no thought about cutting it off until we saw how it played out. The journey had been too long and hard to flinch now.
It was going to be dark in an hour and we were a couple of miles from our packs. Neither of us had a headlamp. Traversing this country in the dark would be impossible. If darkness overcame us, the only choice would be to hunker down in the pitch back and wait for what was a rare anticipated supermoon to light our way back to our packs. We had binos, a GPS (thank God JP had thought to grab it and mark our packs), a gun, a knife and an unfilled tag.
We were pinned down until the bulls drifted over a slight ridge. Slowed by the nasty ground, I was eventually able to work my way to within 345 yards of the bulls. They were just across a small rise of mesquite, but I could see only bits and pieces of them in the brush and wasn’t sure where the two big bulls were.
One the small bulls stood to his feet and stared hard back at me. A week ago I would have been thrilled to shoot any oryx, but the sight of those big bulls had put the hook in me. I know that nervous stare of game, and it wasn’t good. What had gotten his attention only God knows. The wind was right, we were camouflaged by heat waves and just showing the top half of our heads, but no doubt he was eyeballing us hard. I could sense he was ready to bolt.
Not sure if the other bulls caught his stare or felt his vibe, but soon they all were up and nervously milling about looking back. I didn’t have a shot, and soon all I saw were the tips of their horns as they drifted over the ridge and out of sight.
I was up and in a desperate all-out run toward where I last saw them. Two weeks of this and they were not getting away. By the time I reached the ridge, I was winded lightheaded with hunger, thirst and exertion. Slowing coming to the top I spied a spot of white. It was them. They had gone about 250 yards to a small rise and were looking back.
I dropped down to shoot, but they saw the movement, spun and ran kicking up a rust-colored veil of dust in the setting sun. They ran about 50 yards, spun again stopping to look back. I knew I had seconds to shoot. They were in the haze of the sun and the first oryx that presented a good target was going to be it. Big bull or not, one was broadside. The crosshairs bounced across his shoulder in time with my pounding heart and I touched the trigger. The recoil and muzzle break blast of the 300 Win. Mag. rocked my world and I lost sight of the bull. I cranked another cartridge in and saw only bits of hard-running oryx and their cloud of dust as they disappeared into the sunset. JP was soon next to me and said he thought he saw only five oryx run away, but maybe not. Neither one of us had seen anything go down.
It all seemed surreal. The desert was feeling more barren than ever as we made our way to where, if the bull had gone down, he would be, and then we went past there. Nothing. We both stopped. Certainly, we had gone far enough and scanned the surrounding area. It couldn’t end like this. I felt like somebody stole my soul.
Then I spied a spot of white. There! One’s down! I got one!
I mule kicked with excitement, thrilled to have taken any oryx as we ran over. I was blown away by the stud bull that had dropped in his tracks from a high shoulder shot. We both roared like madmen. From zeroes to heroes! He was one of the big two and couldn’t be more perfect. Thick knobby horns: shiny, enamel, black rapiers that later stretched the tape more than 37 inches. He was as big as the six-point bull elk I had downed a month earlier. His crisp, sharp markings of gunboat grey, ivory white and ink black made for one of the most striking and handsome animals that ever walked the earth. And he had come the hard way.
We marked his location and, with just a little daylight left and in afterglow of the waning day, made our way back to our packs riding the adrenaline high through all the aches and pains and crippling thirst. Our water was hot from the day but went down like ice cold raindrops from heaven. And this time we not soothing our sorrows; we had success and that is the elixir that heals all hunting woes and wounds.
It was soon pitch black and our head lamps shone an eerie path across the prehistoric landscape. Our packs were heavy with meat, hide, horn and the smell of blood and musk as we made our way back to camp. The promised supermoon, a true lunar goliath, rose and made for an other-worldly setting. Its luminescence let us click off our headlamps. You could feel a strange power, a cosmic energy coming from the night heavens.
We had stopped talking and the only sound in the still night was our footfalls and steady breath. Was this unexpected moon a beacon of goodness and hope or of doom and terror to those of the past? Would a baby born under it be worshiped as a king or god or banished as a demon? It was easy to let your mind wander not only to the hunters who shared this land at a different time, but hunters through millennium across the world and the primal need to hunt. Why would we be so eager to put ourselves through such an ordeal? For us, this moon had brought the best of luck, and a little luck and superstition are hard to ignore in such a mysterious place when the hopeless becomes true and the moon burns bright.