--- title: "To Hunt Pronghorns in a Howling Blizzard, We Left the Jeep Behind and Saddled Up" description: "Two hunters ride into a howling Wyoming blizzard after pronghorn on horseback, ending with a missed buck and a long running shot nobody expected." date: "2026-10-16" modified: "2026-10-16" authors: - name: "Charles Elliott" job_title: "Contributor" link: "https://www.outdoorlife.com/authors/charles-elliott.md" url: "https://www.outdoorlife.com/hunting/horseback-pronghorn-hunt/" categories: - "Antelope Hunting" - "Big Game Hunting" - "Hunting" tags: - "Evergreen" - "News" --- # To Hunt Pronghorns in a Howling Blizzard, We Left the Jeep Behind and Saddled Up ![A hunter stands beside horses in the snow.]() *\OL Archive\* *This story, “Phantom Pronghorns,” appeared in the July 1961 issue of* Outdoor Life*.* “These are some mighty strange doings,” I declared fervently. Joe Reno and Don Bleak, our guide, regarded me quizzically. “This is the first time,” I explained, “that I ever started an antelope hunt over the carcass of a bull moose or attempted to hunt the pronghorn critters in a blizzard.” We were humped in our saddles on the ragged face of Spring Mountain. Icy clouds, thick as buttermilk, swept over us, around, and through us, plastering us with snow. I looked back at Joe Reno, riding close behind me. He laughed. “You might add,” he said, “that we also have a guide who thinks we’re after the Abominable Snowman.” Dr. Joe Reno is an orthopedic surgeon from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, and he and I had arrived in Dubois, Wyoming, in the same storm. With the winds howling and snow cascading across the heights and meadows, we’d shaken hands and solemnly agreed that Les Shoemaker wasn’t exaggerating when he’d promised us an antelope hunt we would remember. Les is a genial, soft-spoken Westerner who spent most of his professional life as a ranger with the U. S. Forest Service before he and Alice, his wife, bought the C M Ranch and settled down to dude ranching and outfitting for hunters and fishermen. Alice, who’s lived many years of her married life in a tent in the back country, can handle a pack string, gun, lash rope, and skillet with a proficiency which is a credit to her pioneering forebears. Even before I met Alice and Les, I had heard that they make one of the top teams in the business in their part of the country. ![Two hunters and their horses on a windswept, snow-covered mountainside with rugged peaks and a valley behind them in Wyoming's Wind River country.]() **OL Archiv** One of my reasons for being here were the antelope. Where Wyoming generally has a September season, the Wind River area around Dubois, east of the Continental Divide, provides for shooting during October. It is on a limited-permit basis, with the 50 permits equally divided between resident and nonresident hunters. The pronghorn license is $25 for a nonresident. But that first morning we didn’t go after the gray ghost of the plains. I’d ridden with my hunting partner to the high, timbered slopes at the head of Warm Springs Creek to help the doctor fill out his permit for a moose. We had toured the hills and canyons until after midmorning, and then Joe spotted a bull 250 yards away across the creek valley in the edge of the timber. A 200-grain Hornady slug from his .30/06 dropped the bull in its tracks. We spent the rest of the morning dressing out the moose and dragging it to where it could be trucked out. ![A packhorse stands beside a tall stone cairn while two outfitters sit glassing a high, snow-patched mesa with snowcapped mountains in the distance.]() **OL Archive** After lunch at the ranch, we turned our full attention to pronghorns. Les suggested our best hunting might be on the Amoretti Ranch, one of the famous old dude ranches in that area. Owned by George and Eloise Peck, it continues to provide for a few customers who are also old friends of the family. Most of the activity of the E A, brand name of the Amoretti, now revolves around horses and cattle. Located on Horse Creek and taking in a tremendous sweep of Spring Mountain that rises to 9,000 feet above the valley, the spread is located in top game country. It is not unusual to see moose, elk, and herds of mule deer parading through the front yard. Les told us that possibly a good percentage of the antelope herd in the Wind River area ranges the slopes of Spring Mountain and surrounding country. “Will a jeep or truck navigate those snowdrifts?” Joe asked. ![Two hunters in cowboy hats warm themselves at a small fire beneath a large pine tree, with a saddled horse behind them and snow on the ground.]() **OL Archive** The outfitter chuckled. Over many years, antelope hunting has gradually evolved around the use of the four-wheel-drive. On open plains and mesas, the pronghorn’s only safety lies in its speed, and its small, hard hoofs must have solid ground. This is also the type of country where gasoline-powered vehicles can navigate. Les, however, wasn’t planning on wheels. “We’ll leave the jeep in its stall,” he said. “I think you’ll get a larger charge out of taking the saddle route. It’s more of a challenge to locate and stalk a pronghorn by horseback.” He wasn’t kidding about the difficulty. We hadn’t been on the mountain long, but already my face and gloved hands were nearly frozen, and in that flying scud we couldn’t have seen an elephant at 20 paces. We stopped to rest, and Don dug a wad of ice off his coat collar. “The way this storm’s moving,” he said, “I thought it might clear up by midafternoon. But if we were to bump noses with an antelope in this soup, he’d be out of sight in one jump.” We climbed for another hour, though we realized there was little chance of spotting an antelope. ![A smiling hunter in a hooded parka kneels on a grassy slope with his rifle slung over his shoulder, holding the head of a pronghorn buck.]() **OL Archive** That night the storm blew over, leaving the country white. We ate a 4 a.m. breakfast and were at E A corral by daylight. The stars indicated a clear sky, but the wind was like a knife. I was encased in more wool than a Siberian sheep, but the icy blast blew right through me. Pausing occasionally to let our horses blow, we rode across the 9,000-foot mountain. On the level the snow was more than six inches deep, but there were drifts up to three feet. Finally the sun came up, highlighting the distant mountains in a brilliant display. The light crept down the slope like the minute hand of a clock and finally reached us, but there was no warmth in it. I was so cold I’d have traded a 20-inch set of antelope horns for a campfire blaze of any height. The antelope trails through the white stuff on the high mesa were all pointed downhill. “Looks like those animals have more sense than folks,” Joe commented dryly. Our guide was not exactly in a sweat himself, and he got no argument from either of us when about midmorning he led us off the high bench and into a timbered canyon to build a fire. Before its blaze, we gradually thawed out our toes and fingers. Although my watch showed only 9 o’clock, we were ready to wolf down the sandwiches we’d brought for lunch. After the temporary relief of a fire, much more comfortable, and out on top again, we saw our first buck antelope. It was at least a mile away, so far that even through glasses we couldn’t judge the size of its horns. But we could see that the pronghorn was watching us. When we turned our horses toward it for a closer appraisal, it disappeared. When we saw him again, he was in a dead run going straightaway. ![Black-and-white photo of a hunter holding a rifle beside a downed bull moose in snowy timber.]() **OL Archive** We turned back up the ridge into the face of the wind. The dry snow, swirling off the ground, stung my face and blurred what little vision I had left. But on the break of each lofty mesa, we got off our horses just under the brow of the slope to glass the country ahead. Not until midafternoon did we see our second and third antelope. They were bedded down on the white hillside three quarters of a mile away. Even through my watering eyes, I could tell the buck wasn’t a large one. “But it’s a buck,” Don said wistfully, and I could sense that he was every bit as cold as Joe and I. More storm clouds were blowing out of the head of Horse Canyon, smothering the landscape in a mass of snow. The sight made our decision easy. “If we can get close enough, I’ll take him,” Joe said. We ducked off the ridge and spurred our mounts in a long detour which put us on another mesa within half a mile of the animals. When we topped the crest, we leaned forward on the backs of our horses to break our silhouettes against the skyline and rode directly toward the pronghorns. I was wondering how long I could hang on in this awkward position when Don called a halt. “We’re about 350 yards away,” he said quietly, “and they’re getting nervous.” Rifle in his hand, Joe slid out of the saddle. Keeping the horse directly behind him to break his outline, he half crawled to about a dozen yards in front of us. Then he sat down in the snow and looked at the buck through his scope. Joe told us later that, although the pronghorn wasn’t quite what he had in mind, he figured it might be his only chance for a kill since he was leaving for an elk hunt on East Fork within a couple of days and the storm seemed to be moving in again. He put his crosshairs on the buck’s shoulder and squeezed off a shot. The animals jumped and turned as though not quite sure where the shot had come from. “You’re low,” Don said quietly. The buck ran about 30 yards up the slope and stopped to look back. This time the doctor put his sights the full height of the antelope over its shoulder and the buck dropped. ![A hunter aims a scoped rifle across a snowy, windblown ridge while a second rider sits on one of two horses standing beside him.]() **OL Archive** While Don and I rode over to dress the kill, our partner paced off the distance and came up with 375 yards. I would have bet the distance was at least 25 or 30 yards more. We hunted out the rest of the day but found only a few does and small bucks which we passed up. When the doctor and Don rode off to the elk camp, I continued my antelope hunt with Les and Alice Shoemaker, who took time out to help me fill my license. The sun had melted much of the snow off the high slopes of Spring Mountain, but the wind had not lost one degree of its sharpness. With its sting in our faces, we rode around the top crest, pausing to glass the open slopes on all sides. “Reckon it’s still a mite cold for them to be so high,” Les commented. “We’re more likely to find the bucks on some of those sheltered hillsides facing south.” Alternately riding and walking — our feet felt like frozen lumps of mud — we zigzagged across the mountain, searching out the most likely flats. A mile from the mountaintop, on a sunny slope, the outfitter’s sharp eyes located a group of about two dozen grazing antelope. We rode slowly toward them for a better look until the herd began to shift restlessly. We could see only one small buck. “Don’t reckon he’s hardly worth maneuvering for,” the rancher decided. We turned back into the sagebrush mesas and rode for another hour. Les was a few yards ahead of his wife and me when he suddenly spilled out of the saddle. At the same instant, I saw the backs of several antelope just beyond the brow of the hill. They weren’t more than 50 yards away. I got only one quick glance. I fell out of my own saddle, pulling my rifle as I went, and the antelope disappeared. The little draw into which they’d ducked on a dead run flattened out about a quarter of a mile below us, and when they reached it we could see that the herd numbered about 75. There were several good bucks, and when they stopped to look back we had a chance to study the heads. We counted five good racks, but only one seemed outstanding. [![A big bass jumping on the cover of Outdoor Life.]()]() *The cover of the July 1961 issue, which contained this story. Want more vintage OL? [Browse our cover shop.]()* Les showed his experience with pronghorns when he turned at right angles to the direction the herd had taken. “They’ll try to get around and swing up the hill behind us,” he said. That’s exactly what they did, staying in sight to watch us. It gave us a chance to use our glasses again and verify that the bucks had remained with the herd. When they crossed a low ridge in front of us, the rancher pulled his horse into a shallow canyon. We dropped our reins to let the horses graze and gathered dead sagebrush for a fire. “We’ll give them a chance to settle down while we warm up and have lunch,” said Les. “Then we’ll see what kind of a hunter you are.” The sun was warm in the coulee out of the wind, and the fire Alice built added to the comfort. After lunch, we sprawled out and napped for almost an hour. The spot was so cozy I was reluctant to leave it even for a buck antelope, but both the rancher and his wife insisted that we had a job to do. While we covered our sagebrush coals with dirt, Alice wrangled the horses to launch us on our stalk. The last time we had seen the antelope they were walking, but we had no idea how far they might have traveled before stopping to graze or lie down. This necessitated a cautious approach to each ridgetop. While Alice held the horses just under the contour of the hill, Les and I would walk the last few yards, pausing after each step to examine carefully the terrain ahead. We covered half a dozen ridges this way before the rancher finally spotted our herd. The animals had lain down on a sunny slope and were at least a mile away. With his glasses, Les studied the best approach. The wind was so strong that standing on our feet was difficult, and even after midday it was sharp enough to bring water to my eyes. I was glad when we began our stalk in the partial shelter of the draws. > One cautious inch at a time, I raised myself on my knees. The topmost animals turned to look in my direction. Within one ridge of where we expected to look down on our sunning antelope, Les observed animals moving on the next high mesa, at least three quarters of a mile away. “We’ve spooked them, sure as sin,” he said. The pronghorns weren’t traveling fast, and Les thought we might be able to catch up with them for at least a long shot. Fortunately, Les didn’t lose one iota of his caution. At the next promontory we left Alice to hold the horses and stalked afoot to the crest. I was behind Les when suddenly he dropped as though bludgeoned. I didn’t have to ask why. I ducked fast and crawled to where he’d gone down. The antelope which had originated the stalk hadn’t moved. They were spread out in the sunshine on the hillside not much more than 100 yards away. We learned later that the large band had split, and Les had seen the other part of the herd moving in the distance. “I didn’t see any bucks,” he whispered. “The does are lying higher on the hillside, and the bucks must be below them.” One cautious inch at a time, I raised myself on my knees. The topmost animals turned to look in my direction, but since the telescopic sight of my rifle covered part of my face, they evidently weren’t able to identify me as a human. The buck we’d considered had a better-than-average head and lay on the slope below the does. Still on my knees, I tried to hold my crosshairs on his shoulder, but the wind was so strong it blew me off balance. Inch by inch I got back to my belly and wriggled the last few yards to a prone position on the brow of the hill. As I came in sight of the does, they began to get to their feet. Two thirds out of breath at that high altitude, and fighting the wind, I held the crosshairs just below the buck’s spine, clicked off the safety, and softly squeezed the trigger. Neither Les nor I had any way of knowing whether the buck jumped to its feet a split second before or after the rifle went off. We both did agree that I had missed — completely. The herd didn’t have any doubt about our location. They proved it by taking off in a wild flight which put them 50 yards away before I could snap another shell into the chamber. They were smart enough to take the canyon route instead of the open slope where each animal might be an open target. Though they were still within range, the largest buck was running in a bunch of does. I held my fire, and when the buck was in the clear again he was too far away for anything but a wild shot. I had that low feeling that comes over a guy when something appears so easy and he goofs. Les must have had it too, but he chuckled. “Well, you can’t win ’em all,” he said. “Maybe if we’re lucky we’ll get another chance.” It came much faster than we expected. In that strange process by which the mind of an antelope must work, the running lead animals cut across the canyon into which they’d gone, and in full flight they turned uphill across the skyline about three ridges behind us. Frantically I looked through my scope for the largest buck. He’d been running more or less behind when the herd left their interrupted noonday siesta. Now I couldn’t locate him. “Where is he?” I yelled at Les, though the rancher stood only a few feet away. “I think he’s keeping the contour of the hill between him and us,” the outfitter replied calmly. Then, out of the wad of running does, a buck appeared. Through the scope I could see he had heavy beams and curved tips and was almost as large as the one I’d missed. He was clear of the herd and there was little chance of hitting another animal if I missed him. It was such a long range and such a small running target that I hesitated. Les read my thoughts. “Try him,” he suggested. I put my crosshairs at least three quarters of the buck’s length ahead of him and more than a length high and pulled the trigger, thinking rather foolishly that such a lead was like shooting mallards in an Arkansas swamp. I have no idea whether the buck, Les, or I, was more amazed when the animal folded as if it had run headlong into a stone fence. The rancher sucked in his breath. “Well I’ll be damned!” he said. The pronghorn flopped a couple of times, then lay still. Alice brought our horses up the hill. She was laughing. “Even old Topper here shook his head as if he didn’t quite believe it,” she said, indicating my horse. My antelope, which was a good average buck, had been shot through the back just in front of the hindquarters. The 180 grain chunk of Nosler out of my .300 Kennon had killed him almost instantly. **Read Next:** [A Sneeze Turned into the Best Pronghorn Tactic I Ever Tried]() My most amazing discovery of the moment was that day was almost gone. From first daylight at 6 o’clock to the time of the kill seemed like minutes instead of hours. The wind continued to blow with its fierce gusto, but the Western sky was beginning to take on its sunset colors. And at least one cold but satisfied hunter rode across the high mesas toward the E A Ranch. The antelope was slung across the packhorse we had been leading all day. Somehow it was gratifying to know that Les and Alice Shoemaker had been that sure I’d make a kill.