UltraDeer

WE HADN’T BEEN IN THE BLIND FIVE MINUTES WHEN HE STEPPED OUT OF THE TIMBER. 

“Good Lord,” I whispered to Buster. “Look at that rack!” The bases of the antlers were as big around as a man’s wrists, and the beams spread at least a foot on either side of the buck’s ears, then curved up and up into five massive points on each side. He was an orgasmic trophy. “How big do you think he is?”

“Hang on a sec.” Buster leaned over his laptop and flicked the mouse. “That’s 1403. Let’s see . . . he’s at 327 typical this year. Not bad.”

“You must live with these deer. How can you tell which buck that is from here?”

“Well, I do spend a lotta time out here, but figurin’ out which deer is which ain’t no problem. Look.” He flicked to another screen. It was a GoogleEarth map of the preserve. Superimposed on the GIS layout were several hundred fluorescent dots.

“See, we’re here.” He moved the mouse to the lower left corner and put it on one of the dots. “And this is him.” A dialogue box popped up. “1403, male, 327T, BD: 5/28/2015.”

My jaw dropped as I looked at the screen. “How’s that work?”

“Well, we useta put GPS collars on all the deer, but the clients didn’t like ‘em much, so we switched to subcutaneous transponders. Under the skin. They bounce a signal out to the satellites and give us real-time locations. Handy.”

“Well, I’ll take him,” I said, reaching for the .270.

Buster put a hand on my arm. “Wish you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“That rack’s got at least three more years’ growth coming.  Could top out near 360. If you shoot him now, there’d be a surcharge for foregone potential.”

“Foregone potential?”

“That’s what our lawyers call it. He’ll be worth at least another five grand before he’s done.”

I put the .270 back in the rack.

B.C. “Buster” Pointcounter is the manager of UltraDeer®, Inc., a 10,000-acre shooting preserve near Whitetail City, Kansas. When Buster and his partners invited me to visit UltraDeer®, I figured it was just another quality-deer operation, but they assured me the trip would be worthwhile. Among other things, they guaranteed I’d kill a whitetail that would rank in Boone and Crockett’s top five. That’s the kind of guarantee a deer hunter just has to test.

“No brag, just fact,” Buster told me when I asked him how he could make such an offer. “For most of the last hunnerd years, deer management was stuck in the dark ages— bunch a’ state biologists wanderin’ around, tryin’ to figure out how many doe licenses they had to sell to keep a wild herd from eatin’ itself out a’ house and home.

“Then quality deer management came along: Feed those deer; make sure they got the minerals they need; use yer hunters to clean up the genetics, and when you let somebody kill one a’ yer trophies, make him pay fer the privilege. That was thinkin’ in the right direction— they just didn’t take it far enough.

“We’re thinkin’ out a’ the box. Lemme show you.”

We jumped in his pick-up and drove around the lodge to a complex of buildings that looked a lot like the U.S. Veterinary Health Labs at Iowa State University. Some had fenced compounds outside with carefully tended grass and shrubs to give their four-legged residents a sense of security. Others were more substantial. We drove up to the door of the largest of these, and Buster led me inside

“It’s all about genetics,” he explained as we checked in with the receptionist, took out our security badges, and went into the shower room to put on our hospital scrubs.

“The quality-deer folks had that right,” he said as we emerged into a vast laboratory. “Trouble was the way they tried to control gene flow. Shoot the little ones and let the big ones grow? Way too primitive. You can’t tell fer sure what a yearling buck’s potential is just by looking at his horns. Is he just a spike?  Well, what if he was born late because his momma didn’t get bred in her first heat last fall? Case like that, he might have a lot of potential, but he’d be dead in a quality-deer operation.

“And what about his momma? She’s half the genetic equation and a quality-deer manager don’t know a thing about her. Naw, we figured there had to be a better way to breed fer quality bucks. That’s some of what we’re doin’ here.”

“So how does UltraDeer® go about it?”

“First, you gotta know every deer. When a fawn is dropped on this preserve, we get our hands on it the first day.  Tattoo the registration number on the inside of the lip, stick a transponder under its hide, and follow that critter the rest of its life. Here, take a look at this.”

Buster stepped over to a computer terminal and called up a file.

“Here’s the kind of records we keep on every deer. Birth date, birth weight, all the vital statistics. DNA analysis. Whole pedigree, too— that goes back ten generations now. What buck was bred with what doe . . .”

“Wait a minute. How the heck do you control the breeding?”

“Well, you can’t maximize the potential a’ these here bucks if you don’t control the breeding. There ain’t much— how can I put this delicately fer yer readers?— there ain’t much lovemakin’ between deer on our place. We took a page out a’ the livestock industry’s book— several of ‘em, in fact. We electro-ejaculate our best bucks. The whole operation runs on artificial insemination.”

“So you chase the bucks around while they’re in rut, catch them, then run them through your semen harvesting operation?”

“Oh, we don’t haveta chase ‘em; they come in on their own.”

“Huh?”

“Well to tell you the truth, some of the bucks kinda like the process— you hadn’t oughta print that. But we got other ways to lay our hands on ‘em. The quality deer folks was thinkin’ the right direction on that, too, but they didn’t take it far enough.”

“Ah, you use feeding stations.”

“Well, yeah, but not the way you’re thinkin’. Feeding’s important— you can’t get yer whole genetic potential out of a buck if you don’t control his diet. We’re doin’ research on that, and we got a good mix. But deer are pretty skittish. You go trappin’ ‘em at feed stations, messin’ with their privates, they may not come back.

“So we took the whole thing another step. When our deer come into a feed station, they gotta squeeze in, and when they do, they get an injection.  It’s all automatic. We give ‘em some antibiotic— that’s another page from the livestock industry, helps ‘em grow— and a little somethin’ else, too. After they get that first shot, they’ll be comin’ back fer more, no matter what.”

“They’re addicted! What do you use— heroin?”

“We don’t like the word ‘addicted.’ Let’s just say they like the stuff. Keeps ‘em calm, helps ‘em grow better. I can’t tell you what we use— it’s a trade secret. Comes from Colombia, though.”

“So you hold the does here while they’re in heat . . .”

“Used to. Now we gotta good bead on the way all that works.  Catch ‘em at the injection station when they’re ready and do the whole thing there. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”

“It all seems a little . . . tame,” I said.

“Yeah, well, you gotta put aside some a’ these romantic notions if you wanta make money. Nice thing about the AI is it gives us another revenue stream. We useta’ sell a few of our bigger bucks to quality deer operations.  Now, we can sell semen instead. Get a’ lot more bang fer yer buck that way. Heh, heh . . I kind a’ like that. . . .”

I’ve got to give you this, Buster. Looks like you’ve got this genetic issue pretty well solved.”

“We’re comfortable with the way we’re working things right now, but we’re not done. Not by a long shot.”

“What else is there?” I wondered.

“Oh, the R&D guys got some great ideas. Here the last couple years, they been working on gene splicin’. Great opportunity . . .”

“What do you mean?”

“They found the gene that makes elk antlers.  Three of ‘em, actually. Spliced ‘em into some a’ our whitetails. We had a buck last year scored almost 500 Boone and Crockett. That was some rack!”

“I guess so!  Can I see him?”

“Nah. He died. Couldn’t hold his head up. We’re workin’ on that, though. If we can find the elk genes fer neck muscles, we figger the sky’s the limit on racks.”

I pondered the idea of a 500-point whitetail rack for a minute or two. The fossils of the extinct Irish elk came to mind, stags whose racks spanned up to twelve feet and weighed up to ninety pounds. UltraDeer® was on its way to recreating that trophy. Then another side of the operation came to mind.

“Who are your customers, Buster?”

“Clients. We call ‘em clients. When you’re payin’ $25,000 for a basic hunt, plus trophy fees, you got a right to a little respect. They’re mostly men, like you’d expect. In six years now, I don’t think we’ve had more than a couple a’ women come to hunt, and they came with their men. Most of the guys are on the shady side a’ sixty. Made their millions, now they want to enjoy some a’ the good things in life. We put ‘em up in the lodge— nice place, dontcha think?— feed ‘em real good, and give ‘em the chance to kill a once-in-a-lifetime trophy.”

“They’re all hunting out of your blinds?”

“Yep. They don’t wanna walk, and we don’t want ‘em walkin’ anyway. Just stirs up the stock. And, when you’re out walkin’, you can’t use the computer; no computer means you can’t ID the bucks you’re lookin’ at. The blinds work better. They’re set up right there at the injection stations. Clients get a good look and an easy shot. Electrical outlets, heat, T-1 hook-ups fer the laptops.”

“I see in your brochure that you provide meat processing and packaging along with taxidermy.”

“Oh, yeah, we’re a one-stop operation. The taxidermy sideline’s been good for us. The meat processin’, not so good.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, turns out most of our clients ain’t interested in the meat. Just want the trophy. But that’s okay. We recycle the meat they don’t take.”

“Recycle?”

“Yup. Now this is off the record. We’d been lookin’ for a high-protein supplement for our deer feed, and it struck us— why not use the meat? That there’s another lesson we took from the livestock boys.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon touring the facilities, then at a little before five, Buster looked at his watch.

“Oops. We’d best be headin’ out to the blind.”

“When do they start coming out?” I asked.

“There ain’t no ‘start’ to it. The buck you’re gonna shoot’ll be at his injection station at 5:20 sharp. Number 2508. Ain’t the best buck we got on the place by a long shot, but he’s scorin’ 205 typical this year. That’ll look good in the book.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Buster. Your operation really is one of a kind.”

“UltraDeer®, man— no brag, just fact. By the way, you gonna want yer meat?”

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