HERE’S WHAT I’VE SEEN in my first three hours of jackrabbit hunting in the Sonoran Desert’s middle of nowhere: Stalking through the mesquite and paloverde, shimmying past the occasional stout ocotillo, I have seen jackrabbits hauling jackrabbit ass. I’ve seen them flying across the desert scrub like ground-hugging missiles. I’ve seen them pronking like antelope and plowing at 30 mph with their heads down to the ground like pointing dogs. When they’re on the move, it’s hard to miss an antelope jackrabbit. They are simply huge, among the largest lagomorphs in the world. A trophy antelope jackrabbit can push 13 pounds. The tops of their ears can be 3 feet from the ground. And despite their size, they are the second-fastest land animal in North America, having been clocked at 50 mph, lagging slightly behind the pronghorn antelope.
To be honest, I had a different image in mind. As we were driving southwest from Tucson, with camping gear for four days and enough rimfire rifle ammunition to open a country store, Johnathan O’Dell told me that antelope jacks often feed most of the night and into the dawn hours. Then they sit, fat and happy, and with their tushes tucked into brush, cocked like hammer guns and ready to vault if danger approaches. That’s what I’m looking for, but with most of the morning behind me, I have seen at least two dozen antelope jacks, and not a single one was backed into the shade and cooling its elongated heels. And in three hours of watching jackrabbits burn rubber every time I get within 75 yards, I’ve not yet had a single decent shot.
Until one big bunny makes a mistake.
I didn’t really see the jackrabbit as much as sense its movement—off in the right