THE TAG TEAM

“YOU’RE GONNA BUST THOSE GOATS,” Jim Schiermiester said. He was squinting up the ridge, where a khaki arc of sagebrush scrubbed an endless blue sky. Schiermiester has owned this family ranch for decades, so he knows these pronghorns better than most. “Just one of you go.”

I followed his gaze to the top of the rise, trying not to look at my son, Jack. He had filled his Wyoming pronghorn tag the day before, and as the shot went off, I was close enough to hear his breathing. That’s what he and I had hoped for over the last few weeks while thinking about this trip—each of us sharing that moment: after the stalk, after the crawl, after you will your lungs to heel and you settle the crosshairs.

“You’re probably right,” I said. “But it’s a package deal. Been the point all along.”

Schiermiester pursed his lips, then gave a little shrug of his shoulders. The gesture was clear: Then it’s all on you.

I nodded at Jack. He grabbed the shooting sticks, and we headed into the wind.

A Change of Plans

We had rolled into camp, a deep cleft in the undulating prairies