The words “sanctity” and “sanctuary” both have Latin roots. Sanctity, from sanctus, defined as “sacred or holy,” and sanctuary from sanctuarium, “a sacred or private place.” These words both define in totality the experience at Pat Bollman’s and his family’s whitetail hunting estate, aptly named Sanctuary Ranch.
Residing just north of Grand Rapids, Michigan, for the past 30 years, I had driven past Sanctuary Ranch while pursuing nearby ruffed grouse and woodcock but never had the honor of entering the property until this past November. The ranch is located in mid-Michigan where the farmlands give way to the big woods. Mature hardwoods of oak, beech and maples inter-mix with conifers and white pine stands. Dark, dank cedar swamps add to this classic Midwestern whitetail habitat. The property’s rolling topography displays character and diversity and whetted my appetite to explore every acre throughout my hunt with professional guide, Trevor McClintic, known to many as “Koko.”
Leaving my home on a crisp Saturday morning with a pre-’64 Winchester Model 70 chambered in 270 Winchester and a box of 140-grain handloads, I was excited and remorseful. I’m primarily a bird hunter, and for the first time since September, my trio of spaniels were being left behind. Driving north, passing aspen stands and alder runs, the truck felt emptier than the crates in the bed, but my excitement grew as a small buck chased a doe across the expressway into the median strip. This omen flipped my mental switch from gamebirds to big game, from smoothbores to centerfires. I hoped the small buck’s urge of the rut wouldn’t take him across the southbound lanes. Arriving at the Sanctuary gate and reading the red scripted logo of their sign erased all thoughts other than the next three days ahead.
Promptly, Trevor met me, and I followed him to the rifle range; an elevated shooting shack that features 100-, 200- and 300-yard targets. Upon meeting Trevor, we quickly caught up, as I had known him for years, not as a whitetail guide but as a hard-charging fly angler who chased western Michigan’s chrome steelhead in the winters and big brown trout with streamers and hexes in the warmer months, and focusing on the Muskegon, Pere Marquette and Manistee rivers as well as on the South Island of New Zealand.
After I sent a couple of rounds downrange, we both felt comfortable with my rifle. More hunters were beginning to arrive and, as rifles were tested and introductions made, the family aspect of the Sanctuary came to light, it being led by Ryan Bollman, the organization’s general manager, and son of the Sanctuary’s founder, Pat Bollman. Ryan not only welcomed me but also all the other guests, both those new to the property and long-time returning hunters. Hugs and handshakes were genuine as were his sentiments that, for the duration of the stay, Sanctuary was ours to enjoy.
This family aspect continued, proved by the concept of seven degrees of separation. I met Wes, a hunter from Jamestown, Ohio. Jamestown is just down the road from my late grandfather’s farm, and we knew several of the same folks. Or by meeting Heister, an orthodontist from northcentral Pennsylvania who fly-fishes many of the same trout streams I do each spring and graciously extended an invitation to fish natives next season at this camp. Quickly, the Sanctuary assumed the personality of a long-standing deer camp, a camp of friends with the degrees of separation shrinking with each conversation.
While the Sanctuary was established in 1978, its impetus began in Pat’s boyhood hunting passion during an opportunity to hunt on a private island surrounded by the waters of Lake Michigan. On it, the owner had released whitetails, the population bloomed, Pat was fortunate to shoot a Michigan record book buck, and the concept of managing a herd for antler growth embedded in both his heart and mind. In 1977, he purchased the first tract that is now known in trophy whitetail circles worldwide. Since then, the Sanctuary has had many changes with the latest being the construction of a new 11,000-square-foot lodge, guest cabins and the acquisition of an additional 500 acres of land.
Through its decades of hosting hunters, the tenets of the Sanctuary have remained the same: the opportunity to hunt and see world-class whitetail bucks; to have the experience enhanced by courteous and professional guides; continuing to build the experience by providing a culinary experience beyond expectations and; finally, a sense of friendship and comradery that exudes throughout one’s hunt. These foundational concepts are apparent and the cornerstone of each hunt.
Although Pat’s two sons and daughter are currently more involved in the day-to-day management, he and his wife, Nancy, are omnipresent. Pat’s boyish grin and impish stories provide as much warmth as the lodge’s fireplaces, while Nancy looks over the guide and support staff in a motherly fashion. Chatting with her, she bustles with pride as she tells of watching “her boys and girls grow up, get married and have families of their own.” The family sentiment is pronounced, but at its core, Pat’s love of whitetails is the basis for all they have created together.
“The common denominator of big game hunting is whitetail deer. Goats, sheep, moose, elk all come after,” Pat passionately states.
He went on to tell me that on November 15th, the traditional Michigan deer opener, he would be in a blind all day with two of his granddaughters, one in the morning and the other in the afternoon, on a piece of ground that is not part of the Sanctuary property. He continued, “If a basket 8-point comes in, my heart will be throbbing with excitement,” adding animation to his dialogue with his trembling hands pushing his chest.
Heart-throbbing with excitement is the best way to describe my hunt. After an exquisite lunch of venison loin with a Tex-Mex rice and a chipotle cremá created by Chef Jim Wood, and within 20 minutes of first sitting in the blind alongside Trevor in the “Big Field,” a tall racked, double white chest patched two-year-old buck began sauntering from the woods beyond. As we glassed the field, more deer strolled out. Bigger bucks, smaller bucks, mature and youngster does and fawns all meandered from the hardwoods.
Trevor was diligent with his optics, glassing each animal that entered the field, explaining that we were looking for a specific age and class of buck. As the evening’s light diminished, the buck we were looking for didn’t arrive, but it was the best evening of deer hunting in my life. I saw not only deer, but a variety of deer I had never experienced such as mature bucks with antlers broken from fighting and young, wide bucks with spreads that needed more time to develop.
The evening reminded me of the fact that you can land a small trout almost every time you step in the stream, but we were looking for the right one to play to—only that one never showed. Throughout the evening, bucks stood their ground, chased does and one even caught his mate within a strong double haul from our hide. While voyeuristic, it was truly an amazing sight, as was the night.
The Sanctuary’s mode of operation is to have an early, light morning breakfast buffet of muffins, hot and cold cereal, yogurt, fruit and juice. Its time depends on the hunt’s first light. During the November hunt, we gathered at 6:00 a.m. and headed out quickly after that. An overnight rain continued into first light.
Trevor made the call that we would explore the property and search for a buck that we could make a play toward. While the morning didn’t provide an opportunity, excitement ensued when Trevor rattled in three young bucks along a meandering brook. His clattering brought the bucks with swollen necks and youthful masculinity from the darkness of a cedar swamp. I watched as the future of the ranch’s genetics stood broadside, imagining what they would be as three-year-olds.
A made-to-order breakfast is served beginning at 10:00 a.m., so after the rut-induced show, we headed back toward the lodge. After breakfast and another divine early afternoon lunch, the drizzle continued, and Trevor finalized our afternoon hunt plans. We would sit in a new stand overlooking another field. The field was the size of a football field, only the sidelines and far end zone were timbered. Westward winds were picking up, and the sky’s clouds were low, spitting a cold rain, but the blind, as are all the 19 towers on the ranch, was comfortable.
Promptly, a few does began filtering into the field. A big gal stood broadside, and I guessed she was 115 yards away. Trevor’s rangefinder read that she was 114, providing me a level of comfort. Suddenly a gold class buck, one that had not only tall, but massive beams, appeared at the field’s edge. He was cautious and remained in the woods until another buck appeared from the southern tree line following a doe. Abruptly, he entered the field and stood front and center as the rain continued.
As if someone flipped a switch, we were covered by deer. The Jerry Rafferty song “Stuck in the Middle with You” popped into my mind, only the clowns and jokers in the lyrics had been replaced by bucks and does to the left of me and more to the right. We were stuck in the middle alright, but again the buck we were looking for never showed. We spent the remaining shooting light watching receptive does and listening as the rain played a calypso beat on the shooting shack’s tin roof. We remained in the stand until darkness allowed us to depart.
Back at the lodge, the camp’s atmosphere was abuzz with successful shots and the mature bucks that were harvested. A jovial spirit resonated among the guests as the evening’s heavy hor d’oeuvres were served. Still full from the lunch of beef tenderloin and lobster mashed potatoes, I spoke to both guides and guests about their day, and all were ecstatic. The tales of their hunts matched mine, we all were stuck in the middle of a very special place.
Retreating to the comfort of my room, I slept hard and dreamt of the past two days afield, my mind revisiting the depth of my experience thus far—not only the whitetails, but the attention to detail, the smiles, laughs, stories and conversations of a true deer camp.
The alarm brought me into the morning and, with confidence that with the rain behind us, I knew this day would be the best yet, except it was not because of my miss. As they say, the second-best shot is a clean miss, and that is what I did. Mid-morning, Trevor spotted a shootable buck sliding through the hardwoods. He seemed to be walking away from the trail we were on, and our game of cat and mouse was just beginning. A three-year old with a tall rack and long tines, he seemed nervous, at least cautious, as he continued moving up a ridgeline angling deeper into the hardwoods. We were both watching him, and I began feeling as if my chance was slipping away when he stopped at an angle on top of a knoll. Trevor said, “Get ready,” and I found the buck in my scope. Slipping the safety off and taking a deep breath, the buck moved and the game continued. After a few yards, he stopped again standing at an angle. Trevor told me to hold slightly back from his shoulder and take the shot when I was ready, which I did, only I must have pulled the shot as the buck stood unphased before hightailing away into the woods. You could call it “buck fever,” but it was 100-percent my error—a clean miss.
Trevor scoured the knoll for any blood, hair or sign of impact, only to find I had centered a tree just in front and below where the buck had stood. While I felt relieved that my shot was a true miss and not a poor placement, both my psyche and gut were distraught. We continued the morning’s hunt, searching for the buck I missed, to double check his safety and confirm it was the tree I killed. It was to no avail. Back at the lodge for lunch, more of the camp had found success and, as the stories were shared, I simply reported my miss.
Our afternoon hunt took us back to the area of my miss. As we scoured the area for another glimpse of him and a second opportunity, it was for naught. It was dusk when we spotted him in a field milling around with other whitetails. As in the morning, he was cautious and constantly on the move, but healthy—the best confirmation of all of my miss. We set up for another shot, but the fading light and earlier error caused me to pass on the opportunity. Tomorrow was another day, albeit my last.
The morning was brisk but calm and, as was the standard of every hunt at Sanctuary Ranch, we soon were seeing deer. Glassing the field where we had last seen the buck I missed, we saw many bucks with palmated racks, drop tines and the kind of G-3s and 4s that make Sanctuary Ranch renowned in the trophy whitetail world, but not the buck we were looking for. As the time ticked off the clock and my hunt neared its end, I was happy just gawking, realizing that it is not about the harvest, it is about the experience, and this experience was beyond my expectations—not just in the comforts of Sanctuary’s lodge and menu, nor the many whitetails I was able to watch, but mostly in the conversations with guides and guests. I enjoyed listening to Steve Guiliani, a Sanctuary employee, speak about hunting squirrels with a brace of terriers, or Trevor speaking of hunting the upcoming Michigan deer season opening day with his son, or another guide, Greg Hensley, speak of his furniture making in the “off season.” Then there was Steve, a wealth of knowledge on Napa wines, or the good doctor speaking of Sulphurs and Green Drake flies, but most of all listening to the Sanctuary’s guiding force, Pat Bollman. He told me “The Sanctuary is not the real world, but it is a true hunting experience.”
Believe me, it is. I took my shot and, although I missed, I wouldn’t trade it for a second.