Mule Deer, Tall Tales, and Lessons on the Mountain: A Hunting Memory

I’m not going in any particular order here — just peeling back the layers of my childhood and teen years growing up in New Mexico, one dusty memory at a time. Still figuring out this whole blog thing. But stories like this one beg to be told.

One of my earliest hunting trips was with Grandpa William “Bill” Beach and Uncle John, chasing mule deer in and around Cook’s Peak. We camped out for nearly a week, horses in tow, packed with food, gear… and snoring that could wake the dead.

I was about 8 years old, curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor of a cramped camper trailer wedged between the only two beds — Grandpa and Uncle John had claimed those. Late that night, I was jolted awake by what I was sure were grizzly bears roaming outside. I hadn’t seen a bear in real life, but my imagination had—loud, growling, and far too close. Turns out, it was just my Grandpa and Uncle in full-volume sleep mode. That would be a theme for the trip: misinterpretations, wild guesses, and some priceless life lessons.

🥓 Cowboy Cooking and a Dutch Oven Truth

The next morning kicked off with a breakfast that could make a hardened cowboy cry tears of joy. Grandpa and Uncle John cooked eggs, potatoes, and biscuits with gravy over an open fire. That was the first time I saw Grandpa cook like he did in his cowboy days — using a Dutch oven nestled in the campfire like it was second nature. Say what you want about my family, but nobody goes hungry around the Beach or Ramsey clan. We eat like kings, even when chasing deer through unforgiving terrain.

🔫 One Bullet Wisdom and a Pocketful of Irony

As we saddled up, Grandpa walked out of the trailer with his trusty .30-30 lever action rifle, calmly loading a single round.

“Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go,” he said.

Being the curious kid I was, I asked, “Grandpa, why only one bullet? Uncle John has a whole stash.”

He paused, looked at me, and said with a sly grin:

“Travis, here’s a lesson for you. You only need one. If you can’t kill a deer with one shot, you don’t have any business hunting — let alone pulling a trigger.”

I nodded, trying to absorb the wisdom… until minutes later I heard the jingling of metal in his coat pocket.

“Grandpa, what’s in your pocket?”

“Extra ammo,” he said, chuckling with Uncle John.

“Never know when I’ll spot more than one buck.”

👀 Buck Fever and Lessons in Patience

This was my first hunting trip, and the laws had just changed — now kids had to pass a Hunter Safety course to get a permit. So while I couldn’t carry a rifle yet, I was eager to assist. Problem was, my vision far outpaced my experience. I swore I spotted deer at every turn — lying under trees, grazing mountainsides, lurking in shadows hundreds of yards away.

Were they bucks? Probably not. But I didn’t know better.

Instead of getting frustrated with me, my Grandpa and Uncle turned it into a comedy routine. Mimicking my “superhuman” buck-spotting abilities became entertainment.

Lesson learned: patience over pride. And don’t take yourself too seriously when you’re probably wrong.

🏔️ The Real Buck and the Call of the Wild

The next year, things got more real.

We were hiking a ridge, letting the horses rest, when I heard rocks shuffle above us. I looked up — and froze. There it was. A mule deer buck with at least 12 points, thick and massive — no white-tailed Bambi nonsense. This beast pushed 500 pounds.

It staggered, startled just like me, and for a moment, it felt like it was coming at me. I stammered, then shouted:

“Bu-Bu-BU… BUCK! BUCK!”

Both Grandpa and Uncle John heard it, spun around, and caught just a glimpse as it dashed up and over the ridge.

“Now that’s a buck!” Grandpa said, breathless.

Uncle John echoed him and tried for a shot. But no dice — too fast, too big, and too wild.

“I’m glad we didn’t shoot it,” Grandpa said, shaking his head.

“We’d still be dragging that thing off the mountain.”

Uncle John laughed:

“It would’ve taken us two days just to pack it out.”

🌧️ Buck Fever and Saddle Soreness

We got our deer later that week — a modest four-pointer. But before that, there was a moment I’ll never forget.

I was out of commission for a day, nursing saddle chafe and soreness like a wounded cowboy. Grandpa and I were sitting in camp under a darkening sky when we heard what sounded like WWIII in the distance — 12 or 13 shots fired in rapid succession.

“Uncle John?” I asked.

“Most likely,” Grandpa replied. “Either he’s having a field day or he’s got Buck fever.”

“What’s Buck fever?”

Grandpa looked at me and said,

“It’s when you’re so excited you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

Sure enough, Uncle John rolled back into camp soaked from head to toe, even under his raincoat and cowboy hat. No deer. Just an explanation:

“Buck fever. That thing was massive. I’d shoot high, it’d go low. I’d shoot low, it’d go high. Rinse and repeat.”

🤠 Final Takeaway: Failing Forward and Cowboy Cred

That day, I learned something else: failure doesn’t ruin the story — sometimes, it makes it legendary.

Control what you can. Laugh when you can’t. And don’t let frustration steal the magic of the moment.

I also learned a mantra from those two men — one I still carry today:

“Real Cowboys come from New Mexico.”

They coined the phrase years before The Cowboy Way made the phrase famous. Woody Harrelson and Kiefer Sutherland just gave it an echo.