Antelope Run

It was the driest year on record in the great Southwest. Texas had mostly burned up that year, Governor Perry declaring a State of Emergency. New Mexico was not much better, only recently having put down the largest forest fire in State history, one that started in the game unit in which I would be hunting for elk in three short weeks. I pondered all this as I stood, positioned in the center of the Two Rivers Damn near Roswell. I was peeing like a school boy and counting the seconds it took the drops to splat against the rocks below. True, in this blistering heat the water and nitrogen would evaporate but the phosphorous and potassium should make their way to the hungry plants down there, if it ever rained again. I do what I can for nature.

I was standing there contemplating the drought because I had found a dead antelope that day. I thought about bringing a piece of him home and having somebody ask me, “did you kill it?” “No”, I would say, “at least not directly.” “Whatdaya mean by that?” they would say. And I would say, “well, not directly because I’ve been contributing to global warming all my life. Global warming causes more severe droughts. When I found this poor withered goat it was the worst drought on record, and I’m fairly certain he died of thirst. Actually, I guess we all killed him.”

And that would make a good introduction to when they asked me, “is it true what they say, that you won a foot race with an antelope?” “Won?” I’d say. “I couldn’t say I won it, but I run it.” And it’s true. At 42 years of age, having no special credentials that would make it likely—such as my own wildlife show or extreme sports special—I had the audacity to run a foot race with an antelope,  two antelope in fact. Considering the drought and how hard I made those antelope run that day, I might have inadvertently killed them too. But I never hit one with an arrow. That’s for sure. Here’s how it happened.

I had tracked the herd now for one very long, hot August day. I had followed them in circles. I would sneak up on them, they would bust me and run off to a place I had been busted by them an hour ago. I would sneak up on them again and the whole process would repeat. There was almost no place to hide out there. Even the rocks were small. The trees were non-existent. Spindly cholla cactus were often the best “cover” I had. No self-respecting cougar would even try what I was doing which is precisely why the antelope have fared so well over time. At last I came to a point where I had spent an hour behind the only juniper bush in that square mile, the only one big enough to hide a man at least. I had managed to get within 80 yards of the herd, about 40 yards too many. As I abandoned the bush in an effort to close the distance, dragging my body over rocks and cactus, I was once again spotted. At first I only inspired curiosity as a doe approached my bush to better evaluate the danger I posed. Proving once again that antelope are smarter than me, she was able to sneak up… on me! Thinking they would go to the South around the bush they instead came from the North. They passed within 10 yards of me. I think I could see the smirks on their faces.  I had once again lost my opportunity to draw and shoot.

But this time was different. They did not circle back to where I had previously hunted them. Despite my best efforts, I had driven the herd out of our usual playground and instead they were now heading toward the border of the public land I was constrained to hunt on. I was frustrated, hot, tired, smelly and utterly unable to stay hidden from these creatures. If they escaped to private land it may take me days to find another herd, if at all. My options were limited. While I stood still, wondering what an intelligent hunter would do, they were making their way to freedom. I stopped thinking and just followed them.

I tried to stay hidden by a hill for a short while but as I came out on the other side of the hill, there they were, already in a gallop and losing me quickly. I picked up speed trying to close the distance again. The main part of the herd was directly in front of me, running away. Just then two antelope came out from behind the hill, also following the herd. They were to my left, and only about 100 yards away. They were trotting until they saw me. Then they picked up speed. So I picked up speed too. By this time I was going at a pretty good jog myself. I was keeping pace with them. So they sped up some more. Oddly, our paths were converging now, as we all attempted to catch up with their herd which was hundreds of yards yet in front of us.

A bizarre notion crossed my mind as I thought back on the antelope behavior I had observed thus far. These antelope had not put the kind of distance between themselves and me that a deer, much less an elk would have done. They often ran less than a half mile, part way up the slope of the next hill to a place where they could keep an eye on me. I wasn’t much of a threat and I hadn’t yet succeeded in completely spooking the herd. Maybe antelope don’t like to run long distances. Maybe these antelope are tired and thirsty because I have been chasing them all day and they had not been near water (I had a gallon bottle on my back which was now almost empty). Maybe these two particular antelope were really tired, or lame. They were the stragglers after all. Maybe, just maybe, I can out run them. 

There was only one problem with my theory that I will now stop to explain. I am a 42 year old man. I am in pretty good shape if you compare me to your average American who works a desk job. That’s not much of a comparison. Although I enjoy hiking from time to time and even exercise now and again, I am not, and never have been, a runner. I twisted my back in the 7^th grade track-and-field long jump event. That led to a doctor’s excuse to stay out of PE for the remainder of my secondary education. I thought for many years that I was incapable of running and so never even tried. In this particular case I was wearing hiking boots, not running shoes. The terrain was level but rocky and rough. I was carrying about 20 pounds of gear on my back, plus carrying my seven pound bow in one hand. I had been carrying this bow all day. I would periodically switch arms to rest each shoulder but now both shoulders were sore and I had already put 7 miles on my feet in 100 degree weather. Obviously I was not constrained by a lack of belief in myself at that moment. I took off at a dead run.

Naturally, so did they. Turns out they weren’t lame, or particularly lazy. They had been bluffing, perhaps, but now they were looking like the tryouts for the antelope Olympics. So what. I ran harder. And each time I did, they matched and exceeded my speed. We were still converging toward the main herd. I could see their muscles flexing and rippling under their light coats of fur, dust kicking up under their feet, their true athleticism shining through. I sensed no fear in this contest on either our parts. It really felt like they just wanted to beat me, to show me who was king of the sage brush. And then it dawned on me. Oh, my, God! I am racing against antelope! I am now less than 100 feet from them even as we converge our trajectories and they pull ahead. Hunting was no longer in my mind, only an adolescent desire to beat them at their own game. I had traded my goal of killing and eating one of these beasts for the pleasure of sport alone. I had become a sportsman, but not in the crude sense of the word, the obfuscating, commercial attempt to whitewash the act of killing as a mere game we play, with animals as the only losers. But I was playing a different game. I was on a level playing field. If anything, they had the advantage. I was not about to take a running shot with my bow, and at some level they knew that, because they never diverged from our converging path. They knew they could beat me if they just poured on a little more steam, something they appeared to have in abundant reserve.

And so they did. After a few more minutes I relented, but not before the stragglers had rejoined the herd and the herd had shifted course away from the property boundary. I can’t take credit for their shift but I wonder if they hadn’t decided that this was fun and that they wanted to keep competing against me. Perhaps they hoped I would keep chasing them. The herd turned to the North and slowed down to a walk some 500 feet in front of me. I crossed their path behind them at a breathless walk, circling to the West. They veered North East. I continued to pressure them until they had taken a wide circle, more than a mile long, that led them all the way back to the fence, just a short distance from where I had first encountered them. Now they were out in the flat open, and I knew they would never let me closer if I tried tonight. The sun was waning and I decided to stop hunting for the day and see what morning would bring. “See you tomorrow” I called out, and imagined the Wiley Coyote punching his time card at the end of a hard day of blowing himself up.

My heels were raw, blisters popped, and no amount of moleskin and band-aids would fix it. Nonetheless I persisted. I hunted through the next morning, chasing the same group who had patiently waited for me to show up and punch my time clock. I got within 100 yards of them several times but now they were getting spooked. By noon I had lost their trail and I abandoned my hunt all together. Going home empty handed again, I moaned. But upon further reflection it was clear that I was not empty handed at all. I asked myself, “How many people do you know that have run a foot race with any wild animal, much less an antelope?” None, I thought. Not a one. I’m sure I’m not the only person to ever do it, or the only American or the only middle-class, white man (well, maybe the only middle-class, white, American anthropologist). But it was a rare thing indeed. I didn’t have a trophy to hang on my wall, to prove that I had bested a beast in an unfair fight, but I had something much more valuable; another great hunting story to tell.