Every May, my father and I wait for Nevada’s big game draw. We’ve applied every year since 2019 and usually luck into at least one tag. This time, we did better than usual: I drew pronghorn near Winnemucca, and he drew antelope and mule deer up north. We planned to start with his hunts, but a last-minute shift sent me out first, hunting solo.

I couldn't take time off, but remote work and a Starlink made it possible to work from my tailgate. I drove out after hours and set up camp by a desert spring. The opener was on a Thursday. At dawn, I glassed a valley where does and yearlings drifted through the sage. A nice buck even wandered close once, but I was stuck in a virtual meeting. By the time I checked the scope, he was gone. I packed up and moved on, racking miles on the Tacoma, chasing groups that always seemed just out of reach—or grazing on private land. Several times, I got within five hundred yards but ran out of cover. I never could close those last few steps.

After a few days under the August sun, I pointed the truck toward Elko. I still had a week of work ahead and figured I’d scout for my father’s upcoming tags. Maybe I’d circle back to Winnemucca after we took care of his hunts, hoping for another crack at those pronghorn.