We drove the back roads near Wildhorse Reservoir for a week. The truck rattled over washboard roads each day. The afternoons came on hot, with little wind to ease the heat, and the desert nights offered only the faintest relief. Sagebrush and bunch grasses stretched in every direction, pale green and gold under the early sun. We knew the pronghorn were there, hidden in the ridges and draws. My father and I had drawn tags here but never filled one. The hours slid by at the same unhurried pace as the horizon, broken only by the flicker of movement in the sage.

By midmorning on our first day, we spotted a small band of pronghorn in a shallow draw. Their white rumps flashed like signals against the golden grasses. We left the truck and moved low, the rifle slung over my dad’s shoulder. Our footfalls were quiet and measured. We were close—maybe thirty yards. The pronghorn’s ears and horns poked above a gentle rise.

“Quiet,” I whispered, motioning for him to crouch lower.

A UTV droned over the ridge, the whine of its engine cutting the stillness like a chainsaw, out of place in the quiet desert. In a swirl of dust, the pronghorn were gone before we could ready a shot.

“A good first stalk,” I said. “It wouldn’t be hunting if we’d tagged out on day one.”

Later that day, we spotted the same herd a mile out, feeding below a rocky outcrop. We circled wide to keep out of sight. The sun hung high, pressing heat down on us. Thistle husks crunched under our boots. We closed the distance but drifted too far east and into view of the grazing pronghorn. A silent “Stop!” passed between us as we weighed our next move. We backtracked behind a low rise, moving twenty yards at a time. Our eyes flicked from the pale ground cover to the herd. At two hundred yards, we crouched into position. They were alert now, our scent carried on the wind. The does began trotting out of range. The lone buck paused to stare. The rifle cracked across the wash, echoing in the heavy air. The buck sprang forward, unscathed, joining the does as they crested the ridge, gone before my dad could chamber another round. Hiking back to the truck a haze settled in from distant wildfires, painting the horizon a dull gray.

Two days later the reservoir was calm. The weekend crowd had cleared, leaving the backroads empty. A large herd of pronghorn moved toward the water, the shoreline covered in willows and mudflats. We used the broken landscape to mask our approach, following a faint game trail worn smooth by hooves, half-buried in loose gravel. The sage smelled sharp on a gentle headwind. A small rock outcrop rose between us and the antelope. We settled on a flat behind a cluster of rocks that made a good bench to shoot toward the mudflat where does and fawns had gathered.

“Let’s take a break here,” my dad said. “We can wait on the buck.”

“I agree,” I said, draining the last of my water. “You watch here; I’ll fetch lunch and more water from the truck.”

The pronghorn kept feeding and resting on the mudflat. The buck was nowhere in sight.

“Look,” my dad said, pointing behind us. “He’s still herding does.”

We slipped into the shade of another outcrop. The pronghorn drifted our way.

“This’ll be a close shot,” I whispered.

My dad braced his rifle. The lead doe froze, head up, ears flicking. A moment later, the herd bolted, wary of us. The buck never moved into range. We spent the next two days searching hills and draws, catching only distant glimpses.

Later that week, we set our sights on a heavy-horned buck we called Hank the Tank. We’d watched him long enough to know he favored a small valley, always grazing along the slopes above. Driving in we’d flush a covey of grouse, wings beating like muffled drums in the quiet air. We parked behind a stand of willows. Cattle dotted the narrow valley floor, and we used them for cover. The ground was dry and cracked; each step felt loud in my ears. The lowing of the cows helped mask our movements. Eventually, I spotted Hank bedded behind a tall bush. My father raised his rifle, searching for the buck, but the brush was thick, and Hank blended with the dull greens and yellows.

“He’s right in front of you, at twelve o’clock,” I hissed, growing impatient. Then I hollered, waving a white game bag, hoping Hank might stand and look our way. He did, bolting before my father could find him in the scope.

We walked back to the truck in silence, our boots crunching the gravel on the two-track. I wanted to apologize, but the look in my father’s eyes said it was already forgiven. We watched the ridges as we went, hoping the herd might wander into sight again, giving us one more chance.

We were nearing the end of our hunt. My father’s rifle had given us hell from the start—four shots, four clean misses.

“Here, Dad,” I said, handing him my rifle as we loaded up for the afternoon. “I know how to range it better than your rifle.”

We decided to try new ground. The sun was high and oppressive when we spotted a lone buck 250 yards from the road, feeding with no concern for us. He wasn’t Hank the Tank, but he was big enough. My father set the rifle on a tripod. His hands were steady, as though he were holding the old .22 he used to teach me. The shot boomed. The buck fled, a faint puff of dust the only sign. My father lowered the rifle and exhaled, unsure if the hit was clean.

We walked to where we’d last seen the pronghorn. A few steps farther, it lay still—a clean shot through the lungs. The desert seemed to hold its breath with us. I felt a surge of relief and respect—for the animal, for the land, for the time my father and I had put in.

My father went for the truck while I began dressing the buck, the heat pressing on my back. With no shade or wind, we had to hurry. When he returned, the frustrations of the past week melted away. The weight of disappointment was replaced by the weight of meat in the cooler.

We left the sage flats behind, driving back to camp. The cab buzzed from the high of a successful hunt. We had redeemed ourselves after years of unsuccessful hunts. The truck’s engine droned softly under our conversation. The road stretched ahead like a promise. We drove on, the desert rolling past, our coolers heavy with success and our minds already on the next hunt, only a month and sixty miles away.