From a high ridge we scanned the Wyoming plains for black horns. Patches of quartz flashed white under the morning sun, mimicking pronghorn rumps at a glance, and gusts shook our maxed-out views in the spotting scope. Distractions and conditions aside, my buddy Steven Brutger and I had little trouble locating game. A mile and a half north, a buck and a few does grazed a meadow. Stalking the herd would’ve been easy: A cluster of aspens quaked between us, and if we could sneak through the trees we’d have a clear shot. The buck’s rack looked decent in the scope—not a trophy, but respectable. We kept an eye on him while we glassed for something else. Two miles east, another buck busied himself with nine does. I struggled to gauge his size, but he appeared bigger than the other buck. What we could see clearly, though, was the complete lack of cover that stood between him and us.