The sweat trickled down the sides of my face and I could also feel a bead of sweat slowly creeping down my back, leaving a moist trail down my spine. It was HOT today. It was the General Quail opener and it was probably hovering right below 100 degrees in sunny Southern California!

Almighty! I bitched a little about the heat under my breath and tried to get my bearings. These two quail in my vest were going to cook before I even got to my truck! I wiped my brow with the back of my arm. I was in a canyon and I was trying to figure out where the heck I was. I was beginning to get frustrated standing there, with the sun’s heat blasting on my shoulders and neck. Something about this scenario was oddly familiar.

I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath through my nose, trying to compose myself. Memories swirled in my head and I was transported to a different time and a different place…

____

Just after 3am on the deer season opener…

I was sitting in the back of the truck, crammed against blankets and gear. My dad was driving and my uncle was up front in the passenger seat. I just received a severe tongue lashing from the old man and he flipped a U-turn, cussing in Spanish.

I pictured, in my head, exactly where I left the box of ammo. The box of NORMA branded 7.62x54R bullets was sitting on the kitchen table. Surely I could not bag my D11-zone buck without any bullets, and my pops was sure to remind me of that in the most colorfully and creative words he could spout. The bullets were for my second deer-rifle, a Russian-surplus Mosin Nagant topped off with a 3.5x PU scope. I was about 15.

Luckily, we were only a few blocks away when I realized my blunder and blurted out to my dad that I had forgotten the box of ammo. I had almost contemplated not saying anything, but that would have been worse!

My dad was silent as we drove back home and I dared not say a word, knowing very well I would stoke those flames if I did. We pulled into the driveway a few minutes later and started pushing off bags and blankets before the truck even came to a stop. “Stay here”, the Ol’ Man said in stern Spanish. He jumped out and walked inside and came out a minute later with the box of ammo in his hand. He climbed in and I could see that most of the anger had melted from his face. “Here. Don’t lose these”, he said in Spanish.

Back on the road, we headed down the 15 South and jumped on to the 138 to Highway 2, through Wrightwood. The Angeles National Forest. Where the deer are scarce and the vegetation is thick and the terrain is not for the faint of heart. This is where we had planned to bag a deer or two. We knew something that most people didn’t know around these parts… if you actually hiked into the rugged wilderness, you would find the deer!

It was still dark as we drove into zone-D11. A few miles down an unpaved forest trail, we finally rolled off the road onto a spot that was clear and open enough for a few more vehicles to park. This was it. This was camp. My dad shut the truck off. Silence. It was almost deafening out here. I closed my eyes, figuring I would get a few winks in…

The silence breaks with my dad clearning his nose in a tissue, with a trumpet-like honk! It startled me a little, but I quickly close my eyes again, clutching the box of ammo in my hand.  I nod off again…

Then my uncle blurts out a series of back-to-back questions to my dad like he has been holding it all in the entire ride and couldn’t wait any longer. As they discuss details of who is going where and the particulars of this and that and the theoreticals of bagging a deer and what to do, I close my eyes again. As they talk I can smell their coffee breath. It’s cold and I throw my arms across my chest. I slip into sleep…

The crunch of gravel pulls me back. We all pop our heads up and see headlights in the distance. Other hunters? We wait for what seems like an eternity. Two trucks appear in tandem on the road. Both look familiar. My uncle and cousin are in the lead truck and my grandpa is just right behind them. They pull up on either side of us. No time for sleep now.

Outside of the truck finally, I stretch my legs and start getting my stuff together. Everyone else is huddled in a circle ironing out the details of today’s hunt. I listen in as I pull out my bag, a Vietnam or Korean War-era gas-mask bag that I converted to my carry all bag. In it, I carried what I deemed as essentials; beef-jerky, water, first aid kit, deer-grunt call, a compass, a small flashlight, and some matches. I still have that bag and carry it with me on most hunts.

A few days prior, my dad and I had discussed that I would be hunting on my own on this opener. This was not the first time I hunted apart from my dad, but it was the first time we didn’t hunt side by side on the opener. In order to maximize our odds of success, we thought it best that we hunted in strategically assigned areas, and that is what my dad was discussing with the rest of our hunting party. I checked my compass. North-West. I already knew what to do and where to go.

When everyone else finally had their rifles slung, it hit me. Standing at the edge of the dark forest, this feeling that is both exhilarating and frightening hits me. It was excitement and fear rolled into one. Part of me wants to stay at the truck and the other part wants to run ahead and scream and yell. I close my eyes and settle right between those two feelings, composed. I can’t explain what that feeling is, but it happens on every opener. To this day.

We all shake hands. “Good luck. Happy Hunting. Be safe”. And we head out in different directions into the forest. At first, everyone’s flashlights appear bright and orange, but they soon fade away dimly in the thick pines. I grip the wood stock of my WWII-era Russian-made rifle. It’s heavy and clunky. But I love it. It was an early birthday present from my dad.

About an hour or so in, I reach the ridge where I am supposed to be. I slip over, trying my best not to make too much noise or silhouette myself on the horizon. I find an optimal spot on the face of the ridge, overlooking a wide canyon. This is where I will take my shot if a buck slips through our gauntlet of strategically placed hunters.

Hours pass by, and I never hear a shot nor do I see any deer. It’s nearly 10am and I can feel myself starting to get hungry. I grab the piece of jerky wrapped in paper towel and eat all of it.

Picking bits of peppercorn from my teeth, I start to wonder if I should head back to the truck. We typically headed back to the truck for lunch by noon, so I figure — THEN I SEE IT! Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of movement and turn to see the back end of a deer. I never saw antlers, so I couldn’t be too sure if this was a shooter or not. I raise the vintage rifle and look through the antiquated 3.5x PU scope. Nothing. The deer looks like it went right down the canyon behind some trees. My guess is that it came out behind me and shot over to the left of me when it sniffed me.

With my scope trained on the trees, I waited. It was probably about a 100 yard or so shot from where I sat. No movement. Damn! As any determined 15 year old would do, I figured I was not going to wait there. I got up and headed in that general direction along the ridge, hoping to catch a glimpse of this ghost. Eventually, I ended up heading straight for the trees where I saw the deer last. I saw a few tracks and it seemed to be a medium sized deer. I followed.

In the canyon, I tried my best to track the deer, but ended up losing sign of it in the thick vegetation. I am not sure why I thought I could track this deer, but I never saw it again. Inexperience did not allow me to realize that the deer was likely miles away I was never going to Daniel Boone-it in this terrain. But nevertheless, I wasted about two hours trying. This is where my troubles started.

Climbing out of the canyon, I figured I should head back. I figured I could walk the ridge back and drop off into a valley and head back through the forest. In the dark, it was hard to make out any landmarks, so I was going off of my instinct the best I could. When I reached the pine forest, I figured I was close to the truck. I stopped for a short break and drank from my canteen. And there it was! The road! In all it’s unpaved goodness! Good thing because I was hungry! And it was already after 1pm!

From the side of the hill, I figured I would reach the road in less than 30 minutes and walk the road back to the truck. Climbing down, proved to be a lot harder than I thought though! It was steep. By my calculation, I must have been miles from where I climbed earlier that morning. I lucked out not having to climb this beast that early in the morning. I carefully slid down the mountain… further and further. Whoa! Until I thought, “I am going pretty far down!” I reached a ravine thick with brush and manzanita and had to climb back up about another 200 yards of the thick stuff before reaching the road. Holy moly! I am glad I did not have contend with that earlier in the dark.

I headed left on the road and walked a few miles. And I’ll tell you what. I never reached the truck. Hmm.

Panic started to rear its head a little. Well. If I have not reached the truck by now, surely I must have come up too far. I head back the other direction on the road. I eventually pass the spot on the road where I came out of the ravine. Passing my bootprints, I figure I must be heading in the right direction. A few miles in I get the sense that the forest is getting a little thicker and darker and beginning to snake up a path I clearly do not recognize.

Shit.

I head back the other direction. I am starting to understand. When I reach the spot where I originally hopped on to the road I look back at the MOUNTAIN that I slid my way down off of. I pull out my compass and verify that the road I am standing on is mostly going North/South. If my bearing was correct, I believe I went too far South-West and must have hit some unknown road. Following those deer tracks got me all turned around! I was not sure where I was at (this was before cell phones and GPS), but I was sure I needed to head back up this mountain and backtrack North-East. I’m not lost. Technically.

That mountain was hell. I spent an hour trying to find the easiest route up it and it was one of the most frustrating ordeals ever. For every 2 feet I climbed, I slid down five. I contemplated throwing the 9 lbs of Russian wood and steel down the slopes at various times. Frustration and fatigue was settling in and I had no food and little water left! Am I really going to have to spend the night on this shit mountain? Then the pucker factor hit… I mean, it really hit. DAMN! Now I had to take a poop? I could barely balance myself standing here… trying to squat one out was sure to send me head over hills and bare-assed.

But if I just got rid of this bowel movement, maybe I could think straighter and not be so frustrated. I compromised and told myself if I could reach that tree about 10 feet away, I could lay some cable. As much as I could. And that I did Let me tell you. It’s not fun nor is it easy to drop a deuce on the side of a steep mountain face while hanging onto branches. Thank goodness I brought TP.

After I composed myself, I leaned against the tree and figured I was about halfway up the mountain. My watch read 5:45pm. I had officially been out in the wilderness for about 12 hours. Alone. Hungry and tired. And long overdue. My dad was going to be pissed at me!

And just like that… on the road, I see my dads green Dodge Ram Sport cruise by. Heading North up the trail. For a second I think, well maybe that was the right road! But then logic sinks in and I realize that he is probably cruising around looking for me! Damn! I start to head down the mountain as carefully as I can without slipping to my death. Minutes pass by and I see him cruise back down South. Shit!! I let off two rounds aimed at the ravine below, but he never stops. The canyons echo my shots away and I am too far for him to see me on this damn mountain.

I settle in my mind what must be done and I head back down the mountain one last time. The direction he came from likely is leading towards the main highway and it can’t be more than a few miles away. I reach the dirt road. Tired, but hopeful I head South.

So, I bet you are wondering why this is titled as an “Upland Hunting Story”? And this may be a stretch, but…

As I headed down the road, I cursed this heavy-ass rifle, deer in general and hunting altogether. This is straight BS. I am never doing this again, I told myself. In that instance, from the side of the road, one of the biggest coveys of quail flushed and nearly gave me a heart attack! I had seen quail before, but not like this and certainly never flushing 40-50 birds strong at once. I jumped and raised my rifle… and wished I had a shotgun at that moment.

A few yards down the road I heard a vehicle revving in low gear. I must be close to the highway! Once I reach the highway I can figure out exactly where I am and I can head back to camp! The motor growled. Seemingly closer. Louder. Until around the corner, an early model Jeep jostled towards me. The gentleman in the Jeep pulled up next to me and shut his engine off.

“Are you Jorge”? I smiled… that’s me.

“They got everyone looking for you! They are about to send the helicopter out looking for you! Get in. I’ll take you to your dad”.

I don’t recall the gentleman’s name, but he was a Godsent Samaratin who heard I was lost in the forest. He used his radio and told someone he found me and we were inbound.

I tried my best to explain what had happened to me and that I was not lost, just turned around a bit. He wrinkled his nose, “It sounds like you were lost. But I am glad you are okay”! He told me that the Rangers and a Search and Rescue Team were already mobilizing to go and look for me and they had basecamp being set up nearby. This sounded farfetched, and I took it for exaggeration designed to teach me to take better care.

As we drove to a nearby campground, I realized just how far off I had gotten turned around in the forest. I was at least 6 to 8 miles from camp, if not more. We pulled up to the front…. and there it was. A legitimate Search and Rescue FOB in the making… and my dad standing there by his truck. I never felt so small or embarrassed in my life. I explained what happened as they called off the helicopter and looked at me with a little bit of annoyance. “Sounds like you got lost, kid”. No… I knew where I was, or more like where I wasn’t and I was trying to get back to where I had to be…

Driving back with my dad… his face was furrowed, but not in anger. It was a face of concern and worry and probably a little bit of guilt. And I felt disappointed in myself for making him worry and wasting the time of those Rangers and Search and Rescue guys. That night I had blisters the size of apples on my feet and a bruised ego. Back at camp, I got ribbed and teased. No deer hung in the camp that night.

To this day… the ‘I wasn’t lost’ story comes up and we chuckle about it now. I look back at it as a life lesson. I learned a lot about responsibility, ego, preparation, limitations, and what I was made of and what needed to improve upon as an outdoorsman on that day.

I was also grateful. Some people are not as lucky as I was in similar scenarios.

This is where the urge to hunt upland game grew as well. That covey is one of the most memorable encounters and I never even took a shot at them. That day made me better. Made me realize it is not always about the kill. I am a better hunter today because of that day. I believe as I got lost in those woods, I found myself.

____

I opened my eyes. Here I am. Back in the hottest day in October on the Quail Opener. I was chasing after some singles in this canyon and got a little carried away. It is just too dang hot out here and I need to head back. But where am I? I pull out the old compass that I have been carrying since I started hunting. Ah. Okay… I pull out my phone and pull up the GPS map. Okay! Here I am… and here’s my truck! Up and over and here we go. I heard some quail calling just a few yards away. I contemplated chasing after them. But I ended up shouldering my shotgun and heading back to my truck instead.

I found myself. I am not lost.

 

God Bless & Happy Hunting,

– J.R.

 

 

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