Barnes Bullets

Successful Hunter

Successful Hunter Magazine - May/June Issue 2005
Texas Hide and Seek
By Clair Rees

No animals were harmed in the making of this article. Well, that’s not exactly true. Also, that disclaimer makes it sound like I headed to the Bar-B Ranch in Medina County, Texas, with a “Friends of Animals” agenda. I’d fully intended to seriously harm (kill dead) either a trophy blackbuck antelope or an Axis buck.

After a wildly unique, amazingly successful stalk (more on this later), I blew a 90-yard shot from a solid sitting position. Okay, I had a great excuse (don’t we all?), which again I’ll explain later - but the bottom line is, I missed!

That miss turned out to be a good thing, and it wasn’t the end of the story. I’d spent the previous day photographing my hunting partner Stan Skinner as he stalked an American bison the size of an Abrams tank. After the first couple of hours, we would’ve been happy to trade places with anyone who thinks bison hunting is a lead-pipe cinch.

In addition to hunting exotic game, another purpose of the trip was to allow Stan and me to become better acquainted with the custom rifles Charlie Sisk builds. I’d long been aware of these rifles but had never had the chance to use one. Charlie wanted to correct that situation, so he invited the two of us to join him at the Bar-B Ranch.

A fairly new operation, the 1,500-acre ranch has been hosting weekend hunts for the past three years. The ranch is owned and operated by Clay Boone and other family members. While 100 head of longhorn cattle graze on the ranch, the primary focus is on game management and quality hunts.

“We have plenty of trophy whitetail, as well as feral hogs, javelina, coyotes, bobcats, turkey, dove and quail,” Clay said. “We also have a small herd of blackbuck antelope and a few hundred Axis deer ( chital ) roaming the ranch. We imported these animals from India, and the herds are growing nicely. These exotics have done so well experts say there are now more blackbuck and Axis deer in Texas than remain in their native India.

“In addition, we offer bison and Asiatic buffalo hunting on a very limited basis,” he added. “These hunts have to be arranged a year or two in advance. We give these animals a minimum of one full year to become familiar with the area before anyone hunts them. They have acres and acres of dense forest to hide in, so hunting them is anything but a pushover.”

Stan and I found that out on the first day of the hunt. We’d spotted a bison the previous afternoon as we returned from zeroing our rifles at the shooting range. “Take a look over there,” Clay said, pointing to a black, massive shape standing at the edge of the brush. “As long as we stay in the truck, we should be able to drive pretty close.”

He was right. Accustomed to ranch traffic, the bull paid the truck little attention as it idled to within 40 yards. He posed nicely for photos, but the fading light prevented us from taking any. His size was even more impressive at such close range.

“Take a good look,” Clay said. “We’ll have a hard time finding him tomorrow.”

Clay’s words were prophetic. At first morning light, we spotted a bison feeding at the opposite end of a several acre field. Stan, Charlie and I quietly dismounted on the far side of the truck, but as soon as we stepped into the open, the bull bolted for the brush.

This was Stan’s hunt. Charlie provided backup, while I’d offered to trail along behind and photograph the proceedings. Stan is managing editor of Safari magazine, where he planned to feature the hunt. Several photos would be needed for illustration, and I volunteered to supply them. I didn’t want to miss all the excitement.

The pie-plate-sized tracks were easy to follow, at first, but these telltale signs were eventually hidden by increasingly heavy undergrowth. Rifles at the ready, Stan and Charlie followed a faint trail of bent grass through the dense, tangled brush.

Be ready!” Charlie quietly warned. “The bull’s running in front of us, but if he feels cornered he may turn and make a stand. If that happens, we could be facing a charge.

“The first shot is yours,” he told Stan. “But if it doesn’t stop him right now , we both need to keep shooting until our rifles run dry. These guys can take a lot of punishment. A wounded bison is nothing to mess with.”

Both Stan and Charlie carried custom Sisk rifles chambered for the potent .458 Lott. The rifles were fed identical handloads consisting of exceptionally tough, 450-grain Barnes Triple-Shock X-Bullets ahead of 78 grains of Hodgdon 335. The loads were contained in Bell cases fitted with Federal Gold Medal 215M primers. Velocity was 2,470 fps. Accuracy averaged 1.4 minute of angle (MOA) from the aperture-sighted rifles.

The brush was sometimes so thick we had to shoulder our way through it. This was no problem for the bison; he simply bullied his way ahead. Every few yards Stan, Charlie and I encountered one of several varieties of painfully prickly, stabbing flora Texas is famous for.

We followed the bull the better part of two hours. The sun was climbing, and we soon dripped with sweat. One curse of wearing prescription eyeglasses was the need to periodically remove them and swipe wet lenses with an increasingly soggy handkerchief. I was certain the bison would suddenly appear in my path as I performed this annoying ritual, and I’d run right into the critter while my vision was temporarily hampered.

I needn’t have worried. I don’t know how close we got to the bull, but it wasn’t near enough to catch even a glimpse of the elusive bovine. We decided to call it a morning and radioed for the truck to meet us on a track we’d been following earlier.

We figured a leisurely lunch back at the ranch house would give the bison time to settle down and forget all about the morning’s unpleasantries. At 3:00 we climbed in the truck and began the search anew.

“Let’s check out a couple of pastures,” Clay suggested. “He should be coming out to eat in an hour or so. Maybe we can spot him in the open. Hopefully the truck won’t spook him.”

Sure enough, we finally saw him grazing in the corner of a clearing. “I think I can drive a little closer,” Clay said. “Then I’ll turn the truck sideways to the bull and leave it running. Stan, you and Charlie get quietly out the far side. Have your shooting stick ready, then slowly ease into the open when the bull’s head is down. Try not to spook him. If he gets back in that heavy brush, we won’t see him again today!”

This time things went according to plan. Ignoring the idling truck 60 yards away, the animal was unaware of the humans sidling sideways into the open until Stan fired the first shot. As the .458 Lott bellowed, the big bull bolted toward the sanctuary of the dense forest. Charlie’s rifle boomed a second later, while Stan frantically worked the bolt and fired again. If anything, the bison seemed to pick up speed. Stan’s fourth shot finally brought the animal to a halt, but he didn’t go down. He simply hunched his shoulders and stood there.

Reloading the magazine, Stan hurried closer with Charlie following at his heels. A fifth shot brought the enormous animal to its knees, while a sixth finally laid him out. Approaching cautiously to within a couple of yards, Stan found himself caught in the animal’s angry gaze. It took another “finisher” before the bull’s eyes finally glazed over.

When the animal was dressed (with the help of a front-end loader to hoist the carcass erect), we discovered all the bullets had gone precisely where intended. Three had completely destroyed the heart and lungs, while one of the two Triple-Shock X-Bullets that were recovered had punched through ribs and chest, shattered the far shoulder and lodged in the animal’s thick hide. The bullet exhibited the perfect “X-petal” shape Barnes’ all-copper bullet is famous for. Weight retention was 100 percent. Five of the Triple-Shock bullets had completely penetrated the animal, exiting the far side.

That the bull was still on its feet after absorbing four well-placed Triple-Shock bullets from a pair of .458 Lott rifles was unbelievable testimony to its stamina. At that point the bison was dead on his feet, but it took three more shots to finish the job.

Before dawn the next morning, Stan made himself comfortable in a wooden blind overlooking a feeder some 120 yards away. Meanwhile, I had a new toy to experiment with: A ghillie suit from Cabela’s, advertised as exceptionally light and comfortable. The complete outfit consisted of a jacket, pants, boonie hood and face mask -all made of breathable 100 percent polymer mesh.

I’d been warned that blackbuck antelope were even more skittish than American pronghorn. “They’re awfully hard to approach,” Charlie had told me. “Expect to do some long-range shooting.”

Craig Shahan, a guide who doubled as camp cook, dropped me off at the edge of a patch of brush, using his flashlight to find the way. It wouldn’t be daylight for another hour. “I’ll pick you up after 10:00,” he said. “Good luck.”

Seated comfortably in a folding chair, I listened to the fading sounds of night. A coyote chorus not far away filled the air with an amazing cacophony of barks, yips and yodeling howls, chilling the blood of lesser creatures eventually destined to wind up on some yodel dog’s menu. I hoped the nearby concert wouldn’t chase any blackbuck or chital away. When the sun finally peeked over the horizon, it was directly in my eyes.

“This isn’t good,” I thought. I moved to a spot with the sun at my back and was rewarded by the sight of two different bands of blackbuck antelope feeding in the distance. Each band held at least one buck.

“Great!” I said to myself. “I’ll just sit tight until they move within range.”

An hour later it was apparent that wasn’t going to happen. The animals were a good quarter-mile away, and they weren’t coming any closer. Eventually one group wandered out of sight to the left, while the other showed signs of bedding down for a morning nap.

I wasn’t sure how effective the ghillie suit would prove to be, but it looked like my only chance to get within range. Except for a scrawny trio of naked-branched trees, the field was bare of cover.

The forest behind me masked my silhouette. I slowly moved to the right until the trees stood between me and the resting antelope. “Here goes nothing,” I thought, stepping away from the brush line and beginning to walk toward the bedded herd.

I could see the antelope through the barren branches, which meant they could see me just as well. I was too lazy to crawl that far, and I wanted to give the ghillie suit a real test. I simply slumped to reduce my height, then shambled slowly forward, keeping the thin screen of trees between me and the lazing animals.

Every 15 or 20 yards, I stopped and raised my binocular. Yep, the critters were in clear sight. While they gave no sign they saw me, so was I! Apparently the ghillie suit disguised my fearsome human shape to the point I wasn’t seen as a threat - just another ambling bush.

I continued this amazing “stalk” until I came to the base of the three trees, which offered a thin screen of grass as additional cover. I finally sat down barely 90 yards from the oblivious antelope. With the grass hiding my movements, I lifted the Swarovski 8×32mm EL binocular to my eyes for an “up close and personal” look. The lone buck had nice, black horns, but I had zero experience judging blackbuck heads. One thing I was sure of: This wasn’t a serious trophy. It was obviously a young animal - how young I couldn’t tell. The horns I’d seen mounted at the ranch were longer and sported three full twists (curls?). No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see any more than two (maybe not even two) full twists.

Should I or shouldn’t I? I had an easy shot at an honest-to-goodness blackbuck buck. What’s more, it was my last full day of hunting. I was catching a plane early the next afternoon, leaving barely enough time for a quick morning hunt.

Finally deciding some kind of buck was better than no buck at all for photography purposes, I unlimbered my Steady-Stix bipod, cranked the 3-9x Kahles scope to its lowest magnification, then hitched myself sideways until I was clear of the grass. There was absolutely no cover between me and the antelope, but they continued paying me no attention.

Steadying the .280 Remington Sisk rifle with the bipod, I took a last look through the binocular. Yes or no? The buck was directly before me, lying fully prone. A doe lay behind him directly in the path of my bullet. I knew from past experience the 120-grain Triple-Shock would drive completely through the buck, undoubtedly killing the doe on the far side.

Steadying the rifle, I gave a shrill whistle. I can whistle pretty loudly, but the animals continued ignoring me. I tried again, hoping to get the animals on their feet and allow me a clear shot at the buck. This time two does raised their heads and glanced around. This was getting ridiculous. A third whistle brought a few more heads up, but that was the only response. A long, shrieking steam-engine salute finally rousted the antelope to their feet.

The buck stood posing as I placed the crosshair behind his foreleg. Dead meat! Just as I tripped the trigger, the buck shot forward in full panic flight. One moment he filled the reticle, then he was simply gone! I couldn’t image what had happened. I only hoped I’d made a clean miss. I had my answer seconds later, as the truck pulled up alongside me. I hadn’t heard it enter the field 200 yards away, spooking the blackbuck into instant flight.

“I thought I heard the bullet hit,” Clay said. “Sounded like a gut shot.” Sickened, I joined Clay and Charlie in searching for blood or any other sign of a hit.

The antelope had disappeared into the thick jungle surrounding the field, and we tried to follow them there. Another half-hour of searching yielded nothing, although Clay was convinced he’d caught a couple of distinctive whiffs of gut-shot critter.

“We’ll come back a few hours after lunch,” Clay said. “Give him time to stiffen up. They should be out feeding again by then.”

At 4:00 P . M . we headed back. The same little herd of 11 antelope were calmly feeding in a field not 500 yards from where I’d spooked them. To my great relief, the little buck looked hale and hearty, obviously unhit by my ill-timed shot.

“That’s a pretty small buck,” Clay pointed out. “Want to put your suit on and go after him again?”

“Nope!” I said. “He’s dodged the bullet once. I don’t have the heart to try again, particularly since he’s not a real trophy.” With Clay’s judgment backing me up, I was glad I’d missed.

I spent the following morning at the feeding station Stan had unsuccessfully staked out the day before. Instead of sitting in the wooden blind, I simply sat in the open not 40 yards from the feeder. I hadn’t bothered ordering the Scent-Lok version of the ghillie suit, but deer arriving for breakfast ignored me completely. I had five or six whitetails- including a monster eightpoint buck - pass within 25 yards. However, I didn’t look quite right to one curious doe, who kept cocking her head and giving me the evil eye. The suspicious doe finally left, but none of the other deer followed. If I’d had a whitetail license in my pocket, I would have cheerfully shot that buck!

As I walked the half-mile back to the ranch, I stumbled across the other band of antelope I’d seen the morning before. The buck in this bunch was even smaller, but just for grins I slowly walked toward them, keeping in the shadow of the eastern tree line. When I was maybe 125 to 150 yards away, I stepped into the sunlight and removed my boonie headpiece. Instantly alarmed, the antelope sprang away in their trademark “pause in midair” leaps.

While Axis deer are far more numerous on the ranch, I saw only a single spotted doe during the hunt, while Stan had a fleeing chance at an enormous Axis buck. The sun in Stan’s eyes prevented a shot, and the animal didn’t hang around for a second try.

While I failed to shoot anything (not the first time it’s happened), I considered my hunt highly successful. I’d discovered the secret of invisibility! I’m going to try my ghillie suit out on ducks next week, and it should be terrific for calling in varmints and putting the sneak on eagle-eyed pronghorn. I haven’t had so much fun in ages. Look out, coyotes! Here I come!