Idaho Desert Mule Deer Hunt with Longbows - 2026

 

A group of four traditional bowhunters failed to draw elk tags in Idaho this year, so we decided to utilize our required license purchases and bought over-the-counter mule deer tags.  I had enough South West points that my flight there would be free, and my recently retired brother offered to drive our gear out there with his truck.  This was a great help, and he made the arduous trip by himself while sleeping periodically in the bed of his truck.

Arriving a few day before the flyers, he scouted out some areas and saw a deer crossing the river.  He also found a decent campground along a lake where we could base our operations.  These two things foreshadowed some events to come.

 

Dave and I were on the same South West flight and we made it out right ahead of the remnants of hurricane Isaias.  However, we were headed into another storm stalled over Idaho because of that system.  My brother Chris had found us a decent Campground along a lake, and picked us up from the airport as our friend Chris B, who now lives in North Carolina after leaving Aberdeen after retirement, did some additional scouting.

The several-hour drive from the airport to the camp showed us some really nice scenery as we drove from mountains into the flat desert.  We ended up at campground after darkness as usual.

I set up my 8-man tipi with stove, and Dave had another seek outside sawtooth tent, but sans stove as the temps had been in the 70s previously…but that was about to change and everyone was glad I brought my stove.  Chris B was in a smaller 2-person tent, and my brother set his cot up in mine.  We hammered the last tent stakes in as the rain started to spit and the temperature plummeted.

 

The campground was off limits to hunt as it was in the “National Wildlife Refuge” that the lake was part of, but the BLM huntable land was just a few hundred yards around the campground.  Huddled in my tent with stove, we planned to start hunting the next morning from camp. We paid $5 for an armload of dry wood from the campground, the other boys went into their cold tents, and I fell sleep to the crackling of the woodstove as the rain pattered on the tents.  The hunt, and adventure, had begun!

During the night, the rain and wind slapped our tents around like they were trying to shake us out of them. When the alarm finally bleated, the steady downpour made it clear that only lunatics would attempt a morning walk. We settled for scouting by truck instead, which at least meant we stayed mostly dry.

We rolled into a little BLM tract we had marked and spotted a black Jeep with a tailgate rack and a camo‑clad couple. They gave us the kind of friendly wave you offer strangers right before hoping they keep driving. We explored an area down by the lake, trying to find both a decent hunting spot and a free place to camp. Unfortunately, the terrain looked like it had been designed by someone who hated cover and wanted deer to have nowhere to hide. Finding a good hunting area might be… problematic.

We pushed on to another BLM tract and, wouldn’t you know it, there was that same black Jeep parked at a closed gate. Dave volunteered to go talk to them as his bravado knows no bounds. This turned out to be the pivotal moment of our entire week.

The man and his wife turned out to be hardcore bowhunters dressed in the kind of high-end matching camo that probably cost more than my truck. They were friendly but had that vibe of people trying to determine if you’re competition or just lost. They showed us their recent kill photos, and when we told them we were stickbow hunters, the man’s entire demeanor shifted. Suddenly, we weren’t threats—we were adorable lunatics. He relaxed like we’d told him we only hunt imaginary deer. He told us we were about two weeks early for the trophy bucks anyway.

His name was Shane, and his wife Amy. They invited us back to their house, and he offered to drive us around and show us promising areas to get into deer. What luck!

Back at his multi‑million‑dollar estate (and that’s not an exaggeration), Shane explained he owned an industrial equipment dealership and had traveled the world bowhunting. Then he asked if we wanted to see some mounts. Hell yes, we did. The man had millions in taxidermy; walking into his trophy room house felt like entering the Smithsonian, if the Smithsonian had more bears. Over the railing above the great room, at least 20 bear hides draped over each other like a carpet warehouse.

He mentioned that his wife bakes excellent sourdough bread and uses it to barter for hunting permission from landowners—apparently, carbs open more gates than charm ever could. He even pulled a loaf out of the freezer for us. Before we knew it, Dave had hopped in the Jeep with him, and we followed behind on speakerphone as he toured us around for an hour pointing out hotspots: the quarry patches, the cornfield edge, the “titty shaker road” (named by Amy for reasons instantly obvious once we drove it), and a few islands on the river. He even offered us his ice‑fishing sled and a kayak paddle if we wanted to float out to hunt the islands. The man’s generosity was unreal.

Chris vowed to try for the island once the weather cleared. Chris B and I had deep doubts about the seaworthiness of the “sled”—it looked like something a child would use to slide down a hill, not float across a major waterway in current—but Dave was crazy enough to join him. Wednesday was the target for that operation once the weather cleared up. At least now we had options.

Back at the tent, I fired the stove up again while rain continued to hammer the fabric. My brother sliced the sourdough with my K‑bar, balanced on his knee like he was auditioning for the Jackass show, and we ate in high spirits. Eventually we decided to head into Walmart for actual groceries, since I’d promised to cook real meals for the week. For now, the campground would have to do. 

After our supply run, we got our first outdoor fire going while Dave dug a hole for the Dutch oven. The drizzle was letting up between rounds, but the weather remained raw and blustery. A little Kingsford helped things along, and soon we had a fire in the hole and a respectable bed of coals in the campfire.

sourdough cutting - don't try this at home!

I’d bought a nicely marbled beef roast and browned it in the Dutch oven over the fire grate. Then I pulled the meat out and sautéed chopped onions, celery, baby carrots, and garlic in olive oil. A little flour made a roux, followed by the roast, a small carton of chardonnay, a beef ramen seasoning packet, salt, pepper, dried spices, and a couple cups of water.

Once it was boiling, I put the lid on, lowered the oven into the hole, piled on coals from the campfire, and buried the whole works.

Dinner was handled. All we had to do was dig it up later.

That evening we spread out to hunt the BLM ground around camp. The intermittent rain and near-freezing temperatures continued to make a convincing argument for staying in the tipi. The others took a truck south; I decided to slip north on foot.

I had an old bread bag over the fletching in my back quiver and carried one arrow at the ready. Across the BLM boundary, I eased onto a small hill to glass. Sign was scarce, and the sage was so short and thin that it was hard to imagine a deer hiding anywhere in it.

The wind had no trouble finding me.

Before long, I was shivering, the rain had picked up, and I was soaked. Between wiping my glasses and trying to glass through the drizzle, I wasn’t seeing much of anything. Time to head back.

Once I was out of the legal hunting area, I unstrung my bow to spare myself a campground lecture from some Karen in the RV area.

Naturally, two does were bedded at the edge of the campground.

They knew exactly where they were safe. They let me stroll within twenty yards and take pictures, apparently satisfied that I’d come properly equipped for wildlife photography.

Maddening.

Back at the tipi, I stoked the stove and hung my soaked gear around the stovepipe until the place looked like some kind of a Gypsy camp. The others came in after dark with equally impressive accounts of not seeing anything.

By headlamp, I exhumed the Dutch oven from its dirt grave, brushed it clean, and hauled it into the tipi.

Oh, man. The roast fell apart under a fork, and the whole thing was swimming in rich and thick gravy. With leftover sourdough to mop it up, we were eating awfully well for a bunch of wet bowhunters.

Fed and thawed, we planned the morning’s operations. Dave and I would attack the cornfield strip, while the two others headed farther up off Titty Shaker Road.

After a couple snorts of Wild Turkey—“The Dirty Bird,” as Chris calls it—we retired to our sleeping bags. I fed a thick, damp log into the little titanium stove and damper-ed it down.

We drifted off to geese honking on the lake and the ever-present yotes tuning up in the distance. At least somebody out there sounded confident about finding dinner.

Morning came breezy and frosty again. Dave would get our most promising opportunity of the trip so far.

We were hunting a strip of trees along a fencerow, with standing corn and a grass field on one side and a two-lane blacktop running along a canal above it. During our road scouting, we’d seen deer slipping from the trees into the corn, plus four does out in the grass.

One of those does had us scratching our heads: mule deer head, whitetail tail.

Shane had told us the whitetails were spreading into the area and crossing with the mulies. He said a fellow had killed a buck a year or so earlier with a mule deer rack on one side and typical whitetail antlers on the other.

The deer around here seemed mixed up more than we were. Maybe this is our place?

Across from the corn, the rolling sage offered plenty of places to hide. The wind was right, so we dropped Dave near the middle to loop around toward the corn edge. Chris dropped me at the far end, where I’d still-hunt toward Dave, then headed out himself.

The weather was finally breaking, and the sunlight felt awfully good as I eased along a deer trail through the sage. The country looked promising, but fresh sign was scarce. There were well-worn trails, though the petrified cow patties suggested some of the traffic hadn’t required a hunting license.

My biggest find was an old dump that looked to date from the 1920s. I love old bottles, but somebody had already used most of these for target practice. I did uncover a green glass telegraph insulator with only a few chips missing.

No deer, but I had more junk for my den.

Dave, meanwhile, had actually been in the game. He’d worked within bow range of a doe before a shifting wind betrayed him and sent her into the corn.

Our first real opportunity. We’d confirmed the spot held huntable deer, and Dave was fired up.

On the way back toward camp, all four of us now in one truck, we spotted seven sets of mule ears sticking above the sage along Titty Shaker Road. The deer were only thirty yards from the truck, and glassing revealed a spike in the crew.

We watched for several minutes before they grew nervous and drifted deeper into the sage, which stood four or five feet tall there. We drove another seventy yards around a bend and piled out to try getting around them.

Two of the guys went ahead along the herd’s line of travel. My brother and I circled behind, and we all began still-hunting. Beyond the tall sage, the cover became short and sparse. We figured we’d see them if they slipped out.

We figured wrong.

Somehow, seven deer evaporated out of a patch of brush we thought we had covered. We regrouped at the truck and resumed our road education.

Eventually, we looped onto a road along a power line, roughly two miles from the first road. We topped a rise, stopped to glass, and there they were: deer milling around about a mile out.

Same bunch? Different bunch? At that distance, nobody had a clue, but they seemed nervous about something.

We watched until they began to bed. By then, we were tired and having trouble generating enthusiasm for a mile-long stalk across country that looked about as concealing as a pool table. We could see them from there. Surely, they could return the favor.

My brother Chris, gung ho as usual, decided the fact that deer were present was reason enough to go after them. He headed down the road and told us to let him know if they moved.

I was still enjoying the truck until I spotted a yote circling the deer, closer to us.

What was I sitting there for?

If Chris bumped them—which seemed the likely outcome—maybe I could get around the other side and have them come past me.

Before leaving, I pulled up onX and tried to drop a pin on the herd. A mile of mostly featureless sage made that an exercise in wishful thinking. I’d have to rely on the guys in the truck to watch my progress and steer me in.

I grabbed my bow, dropped behind the little rise, and started a wide circle, keeping the low hills and taller sage between me and where I figured the deer were.

They were farther away than I thought.

When I finally felt I ought to be getting close, I eased up until I could see the truck and asked the guys for a position check.

Halfway.

Wonderful. I’d apparently been stalking the foreground.

I dropped back down and kept going while Chris worked in from the opposite direction. On the second attempt, we both overcorrected and wound up beyond the deer.

Now the wind was blowing from us toward the truck, with the deer somewhere in between. We needed to get crosswind before our scent did us in.

I angled back toward the truck, covering another sixty yards or so with brush between me and the herd’s supposed location. Then I slowed down, got on my knees, and began working forward, trying to get even with them.

The guys texted that the deer were just to my right, maybe seventy-five yards away. Or fifty. From their distant vantage point, judging the gap wasn’t easy.

I figured I’d come far enough back toward the truck and started working right.

That was when I found the cactus.

With my right knee.

I even stopped to take a picture before extracting my knee and subsequently the spines. Apparently, documenting poor decisions takes priority over ending them.

Dang, that hurts.

I resumed shuffling on my knees between the sagebrush. While crossing a small opening, I caught movement at the edge of my vision.

A doe stood sixty yards to my left, staring straight at me.

Of course she was to my left.

I pivoted toward her and froze. The old girl knew something wasn’t right, but she hadn’t quite settled on what. She started edging closer, nervous and head-on. Between the distance and the angle, there was no shot to consider.

The other does stood and began milling around.

All I could do was hold still and hope Chris was closing from the other side. With every eye fixed on the suspicious lump in the sage, he might get an opening.

No such luck. As it turned out, Chris had circled behind me.

The herd started away, then came back briefly for another look. Apparently, I was peculiar enough to deserve a second inspection. Finally, they’d seen enough and moved off for good.

What a rush.

I was glad I’d left the truck. I’d worked within sixty yards of all those eyes, come close to an opportunity, and completely forgotten about being cold.

I counted it as a minor success.

By the time we returned to camp, the sky had cleared considerably and the sun felt downright warm.

Eight or nine does were bedded in front of the park office to welcome us back.

We’d spent the morning glassing, circling, crawling, and pulling cactus spines, and here sat the welcoming committee, chewing their cud.

Some frustrations are hard to put into words. The picture says it better.

Back at the tipi, I fired up the woodstove, and we fried onions for cheesesteaks on hard rolls.

 

That evening, we decided to try the quarry pits.

The area consisted of two adjoining sunken pits, each surrounded by a raised roadway, with open dirt mounds and hills beyond. Both held wetlands, but the east pit was mostly water and cattails, with two strips of dry ground cutting through the interior near a smaller pond.

The west pit was drier and more open, except for a large patch of cattails along its north side. A well-used deer trail entered from the west between two big dirt mounds. South of both pits, across the two-lane, lay a narrow strip of woods and then the big river with its islands.

Plenty of cover, plenty of escape routes, and, as we were about to discover, plenty of deer.

The plan was to make a couple of small drives, starting in the east pit. My brother would work around the big pond from the north while Dave and I posted at opposite corners, one north and one south.

Dave peeled off toward his spot, and I slipped over the edge of the road. Coming around a cluster of trees, I caught two does making those stiff-legged pogo jumps mulies do.

A few bounds, then a stop.

I didn’t know it yet, but Dave had bumped them from above me.

Halfway down the embankment, I froze. The does watched nervously, then began working back the way they’d come. They were about thirty-five yards out, but tall shrubs hid everything except their heads.

They disappeared down the trail, and I texted the guys an update. Then I eased the last few yards onto flat ground and waited.

As Chris approached, all heck broke loose.

At least a dozen deer came boiling out of the cover. Some crossed in front of me toward the west pit. Others headed straight over the embankment and across the blacktop toward the river.

I kept trying to pick one that might stop, but every time I settled on a deer, it was replaced by another moving just as fast.

Finally, a big doe slowed to a trot and hesitated as she topped the embankment, broadside to me.

Now or never.

I drew, forgot to pick a spot, and sent my arrow low into the bank.

Damn.

Thirty-seven steps when I paced it off—a stretch for me, and I’d made it worse by getting caught up in the commotion. A dozen deer running around, and I’d forgotten the cardinal rule – PICK A SPOT!

We tried to catch up with them in the west pit, but they’d already cleared out of there, too.

Back at camp, it was dark and cold, and the charcoal had apparently decided it was done cooperating. I had marinated salmon steaks ready for the grill, but getting the coals lit was turning into the evening’s next struggle.

My brother, naturally, had an accelerant idea.

Pam Flam! - Also not recommended!

Armed with the Pam and a lighter, he did his best flamethrower impression. It was an impressive display, but the charcoal remained unmoved.

Eventually, we surrendered and fired up the trusty two-burner propane stove. Salmon steaks and seasoned mashed taters tasted just fine without the charcoal.

At least we were eating well and getting chances.

The next day was D-Day.

My crazy brother was determined to make an amphibious assault on the untested island in a drag sled. Honestly, I was glad we’d met Shane. Without the loan of his sled, Chris probably would have swum over.

The plan was to hunt the quarry pits and cornfield at first light. If we came up empty, we’d collect the “sled-boat” from Shane’s place and launch the invasion by midmorning.

It was still breezy, but the forecast promised sunshine and warmer temperatures. We suspected the pits might be empty after the previous evening’s stampede, so this time we’d sit and see what showed up. Dave and my brother would hunt the corn.

Dave managed to spot his doe at about the same instant she busted him. He sent an arrow after her as she ran, but it sailed harmlessly past, and she crashed back into the corn.

At the pits, Chris B posted near the trail between the two dirt mounds on the west side. I took my corner of the east pit as the sun crept above the horizon.

Nothing showed for me. Chris B got considerably more excitement.

He was sitting on a little stool, admiring the scenery, when he glanced left and discovered seven to nine deer standing about twenty-five yards away. They’d crossed the trail between the mounds and were now on his side of the road.

He swiveled to get into position, and his arrow came off the string.

Naturally.

While he got himself sorted out, the deer milled nervously but stayed put. He finally raised his bow, shot, and missed.

They were still within range, so he got another arrow away.

Missed again.

Apparently, deer standing around waiting for you can be just as unnerving as deer running everywhere.

By then, everyone had had a decent chance except my brother. He hoped the island would fix that.

We regrouped at camp, where I fried a ham steak and put together some quick bagel sliders. Then we piled into one truck for the beach assault.

On the way out, we stopped at the campground’s canoe area for two life jackets.

“DAY USE” was plastered across the backs.

I doubted whoever ordered them had pictured this particular day’s use.

At Shane’s, the sled was waiting in the driveway, and Amy greeted us with another loaf of sourdough. Their generosity was hard to believe. We’d come looking for something that might float and left with bread, too.

We drove to a nearby put-in, parked, and carried our invasion craft down to the river. A light chop rippled across the water, with the wind blowing against the current.

Chris B and I would provide shore support: binoculars, video, and a phone for calling 911 if the naval portion of the operation went poorly.

My brother and Dave climbed into the sled, each took half of a kayak paddle, and shoved off.

Somehow, they made it across without sinking.

Amphibious assault

At one point, the stern had only a few inches of freeboard. Leaning forward wasn’t much better, because the rope holes in the bow let water in.

The boat offered a fairly narrow range of acceptable behavior.

On the island, they gathered their gear and tucked the life jackets beneath the sled to keep it from blowing away. Then they split up, each taking a side, while Chris B and I settled on a rock with our binoculars.\

The island’s top was nearly treeless, almost like an airstrip. A fringe of trees ringed the perimeter below a bank that rose eight to ten feet to the flat ground above.

We could see Dave slipping along the beach on our side. He climbed the bank, disappeared, then came back down. He did that a few times.

Then he hit the beach at a full run.

Back up the bank. Back down again.

From our rock, it was hard to tell exactly what was happening.

Meanwhile, the sun was getting warm enough that I wished I’d brought sunscreen.

We pieced together the action afterward.

My brother had been working around the far side, easing his head above the bank here and there, when he spotted a herd bedded nearby. There was a buck in the group, but a small doe stood broadside within his range.

 Tall teasel weeds hid most of her body, and her head and neck were turned toward him. Thinking this might be his only chance, he estimated where the vitals were behind the cover and released.

The arrow hit, and the deer scattered toward Dave’s side. Chris got video of a decent four-point buck trailing the does.

herd on island

Dave came up over the opposite bank, saw the buck, and hurried a shot at roughly thirty-five yards.

Missed.

The deer wheeled back toward Chris, who had already moved down the beach to intercept them. He couldn’t get a shot, and they turned toward Dave again.

That explained the sprint we’d watched from shore.

Dave raced down the beach, climbed the bank ahead of them, and got another chance at the buck.

Another miss.

By then, the deer had had enough of the island’s new management. They poured off the far side, plunged into the river, and swam to the opposite bank.

All except the doe Chris had hit.

He recovered his arrow, bloody from a complete pass-through with the Grizzly broadhead. It looked promising. After waiting about forty-five minutes, though, he found an empty bed with a large clot of blood in it.

The blood trail was sparse. Following it, he jumped the doe once, then again.

She appeared too badly hurt to follow the others across the river. They decided to back out, give her more time, and return in the morning.

The expedition paddled back empty-handed, except for a whitetail skull that Chris found.

After returning the sled to Shane’s, we headed to camp and considered our next move over biscuits browned in the Dutch oven and sausage gravy.

Not even my brother wanted to repeat that crossing in the dark. We decided to hunt the first couple of hours after daylight, then return to the island and ferry all four of us across for a thorough search.

My brother also realized he’d lost his fancy custom Damascus knife during the commotion. Somewhere along the way, the bloody arrow had been pulled from his quiver, too.

He now had a deer, a knife, and an arrow to find. His interest in returning was considerable.

We squeezed in a short hunt on foot from camp that evening, but saw nothing.

That night, we crawled into our sleeping bags wondering what morning would bring—and hoping the island would finally give something back.

The morning saw me sitting on Dave’s cornfield corner.  After a slow sneak in and perfect wind, I found natural blind within bow shot of the field edge.  Chris was posted on the far end.  Despite the perfect set up, neither of us saw a thing.

Chris B tried to recreate his engagement at the west pit, but the only thing he saw was a coyote that he missed closely.   Dave at the other pit saw nothing as well. 

It was time to get the sled and try for the island again.

We drove past the closer, smaller, island towards camp and saw a column of deer heading into that island!  We stopped and glassed and I noticed the gleam of antler as another deer already on the island passed out of sight.  There was a buck there!

Back at camp we consolidated and retrieved the two life jackets once more.

We headed back on the road parallel the river and as we approached the south end of the island we just saw the deer on,  we spotted two camo clad people walking slowly in the wake of the deer.  NO!  Someone else must have seen those deer enter the island as well.  That “island” was wadable from the far shore.  The gentleman in the lead had a compound bow with arrow nocked.  The guy following must have been only filming.

Ah well, we had a deer to look for, and they may push them onto our island.

The plan was for all 4 of us to ferry across one at a time changing ferryman, but when Chris was dropped off, instead of waiting for me and Chris B, he took off around the island to find his knife.  He figured I guess that the deer would not be there and was hoping he could just find his gear and then we could get to hunting the second island.  That was not the plan!  After I came across (Chris B decided to wait this one out) Dave and I circled downwind to the far side of the island.  Chris however, finding his knife, poked his head above the berm and there was a fat doe staring at him.  He decided not to shoot as he already had a deer down.  He let us know on text and my response was, “why didn’t you wait!”.  Then as he was explaining to me that they  were probably still on the island like last time, I pointed out the herd leaving the island and already about ½ a mile away.  A good group of 9 deer (no bucks). 

Dave and I were livid. 

We pushed the island anyway at a slow stillhunt, but all the deer were gone.  All except Chris’s deer.  He found her under the trees and she was gut shot.  The arrow had gone into the gut and out through the back leg thereby wiping any gut sign clean from the arrow and looking like a muscle hit.  She was cold but the meat was still good.  He had the unenviable task of field dressing it.

She was a smaller yearling but still over 90 pounds. Dave and Chris drug it across to the beach and gathered the sled for the return trip.  

Chris would have to return for me, and I would take Dave back over.  In the excitement Chris forgot the life jacket for himself, but he made it anyway.

Back at camp, My brother and I skinned the deer and deboned it onto a tarp as the others went to get Ice and bags.  

We made short work, and soon I was on one end of the table cooking up onions for frying some fresh backstrap, and Chris was on the other end processing a deer. 

We kept it on downlow as much as possible as we were on the afore mentioned Federal Wildlife Sanctuary!

That meat was excellent!

Friday was the last day and relatively uneventful.  I made a long walk from the campsite all the way up to the back side of Titty Shaker road.  All I saw was some fresh tracks including a bull elk. 

I salted the hide and planned to try to tan it back home. Chris would drive the meat and our gear back alone again, the salted hide riding in a roll atop of the hitch mounted cargo carrier.

This hunt turned out to be one of our most memorable, not as much from the trophy perspective, but from the good times and memories aspect.  Each hunter had some opportunities, we had a blast, and we didn’t waste our license fee.  Each of us got a little meat and a lot of stories. 

Thanks for riding along on this long and winding tale. We covered a lot of ground—and, against better judgment, a little water.

 

 

Meals:

Bury the dutch oven beef pot roast with potatoes

Sausage Biscuits and gravy

Ham Steak sliders with bagels

Marinated Salmon and garlic mashed taters

Honey bourbon chicken fillet sliders

Cheese steak sandwiches

Chicken breast smothered in onion gravy with garlic mashed potatoes

Mule deer backstrap medallions with caramelized onions