MEDFORD, OREGON. If you're going to be a successful hunter, there's one truism that you must understand: even if everything goes right, it can still go wrong. But what happens when everything goes wrong? When everything goes sideways and your original plan goes out the door to such a degree, you feel like curling up into a ball and crying. What do you do then?
My trip to Southern Oregon to chase blacktail deer was one multiple years in the making, as Stark Future's Dan Quick and I had been tossing around an all-electric hunting trip since he used to work for Zero Motorcycles back in the day. This year, however, we were finally putting the plan together.
I'd built my perfect hunting rifle, got it dialed with some long-range help, had just come off the most successful hunt of my career, was fit enough for the rugged, coniferous rainforest-covered mountains of Oregon, and called my friend Robert at Huntin' Fool for some guidance on where to target blacktail. And after months behind the bars of a Varg EX, I felt supremely ready to ride any sort of gnarly terrain. We also secured two Rivian R1Ts to make this a true all-electric hunting trip.
I also had new rain gear from Kings Camo, new knives from both Benchmade and MKC, enough Nosler ammo to put down a blacktail, a bear, and a lion—the three hunting permits in my pocket—and all the Uncrustables I could want for. And for a while, everything was going the right way. But on the onset of the trip, sideways everything went. And it kept going sideways from there.
Yet, in the sideways of it all, I was reminded of a quote from The Flash TV show, in which a character repeats a mantra I frequently quote, and that's "There are only four rules you need to remember: make the plan, execute the plan, wait for the plan to go off the rails...throw away the plan." And so we did. Continually.
So much so, I demand redemption next season.
The first hurdle was the Rivian R1Ts, as while the company touts towing capacity and a range estimator that's built into the truck's brain, neither was up to the rather easy task of towing a light trailer with a handful of Stark Varg EXs. The first signs of trouble were going from my house in Heber City, Utah, to Park City, only about 20 miles away, to charge the trucks up to full before we set off on the first real leg of the 14-hour trip.
In total, the trailer maybe weighed around 2,500 pounds with the bikes, but that 20-mile trek ate about 70 miles of range. We knew it'd eat more range than not having the trailers, but that was startling.
Still, we had mapped out chargers along the way and figured we could do it. Especially with the ever-expanding fast chargers in the West. Yet, when we got to the Electrify America Ultra Fast 350kW chargers in Park City, they'd only charge at 70kW, with our two trucks being the only two vehicles there. We waited an hour and a half just to get the trucks back to 100% charge, with the towing range estimator saying we'd have 240 miles at 100% battery. Doable, since our next charger was on the Nevada border, some 140-ish miles away.
And that charger had to be faster than this one, right?
An hour in, and we'd dropped our speeds to 65 mph in an 80 mph corridor that ran along the Bonnevile Salt Flats. 30 miles out, and that speed fell to 50 mph, as I limped the R1T to the second Electrify America Ultra Fast charger in Wendover, Nevada. Our walkie-talkies clicked back and forth as Dan and I communicated with one another at what would become the most tense driving I've ever done.
My range fell precipitously, and with Dan behind me with his hazards on, I rolled into the chargers at 0% battery, 0 miles of range. We'd gone just 147 miles from full and I was shaking. But we were still bullied by the prospects of our long-planned EV hunting trip, and if these chargers would do the stated 350kW speeds, we'd be golden.
They didn't.
We were stuck in Wendover for four hours, as the electrons trickled in at a glacial pace. During which I'd called InsideEVs' Patrick George and Mack Hogan, who suggested we try a local Tesla Supercharger. They, however, were only V2s, which meant the Rivians couldn't charge off them. And so we sat, ate too many snacks, cursed the EV heavens, and plotted our potential avenues to reclaim the trip. Countless possibilities were discussed, including rolling the dice and continuing forward. But between two supposedly Ultra Fast chargers not being Ultra Fast or even semi-quick, and our lackluster range, we decided to turn tail, drop the Rivian's back off in Salt Lake City, grab my 100,000-mile Honda Ridgeline, and book it to Oregon. It was the right decision at the time, though I'll have more to say about the Rivians later, and how I'd like a redo.
But our luck didn't change after the switch-up, as we'd lost a full day of hunting going back for my truck. That not only put us behind schedule, but behind the weather coming in. And everything I'd been told by friends and colleagues about blacktail—including my talk with blacktail guru Gary Lewis—even in the best of weather, these are some of the wiliest of animals on the planet. Ghosts of the forest. And rain and snow were both in the forecast.
Our destination was Medford, Oregon, a small hamlet on the California border, with ample public lands all around it. It's a spot where dark conifer forests rise to towering heights, where fog rolls in to cast an eerie beauty through the trees, and where precipitation can be chaotic. The mountains give off a very H.P. Lovecraft vibe, and I adore them, even after the hell they'd soon run us through.
We'd picked up another friend, conflict journalist James Stout, the night we rolled into town. And while that day was on the warmer, drier side of things, the following day pissed rain. Even with some local intel, the rain kept our Stark Vargs parked on the trailer, as the roads were washed out, and it would've been sketchy as hell with our laden packs. We, however, remained undeterred and set forth into the woods, trudging through the muddy landscape.
Signs of deer and bear were everywhere, as we tracked fresh prints, claw marks, scat, and scrapes. But soon, the rain turned ever harder, and we quickly set up a tarp, dug out the side of a hill, and sheltered in place. Our spirits, however, were still high as we shared stories, some snacks, and laughed at the hilarity of the situation of three grown men under what was basically a poncho.
But sideways things went again.
A shot rang out. Not unheard of during hunting season. But then another shot. And another. And then four more. They were close, too, and while we'd all heard multiple shots in our lives, when the conflict journalist of the group stands up quickly, you tend to go with their gut, as if they're too close for comfort for him, they're likely too close for you. Furthermore, whatever the case, the hillbilly who was reenacting Fallujah had likely spooked everything in a 10-mile area. Our spot was burned. Not to mention, we were soaked.
We rallied that afternoon, snagging some warm coffee in town, and poring over onX Hunt to see if we could find a better spot and a place to camp. On the other side of the range we hunted that morning, we found what could've been some great public land, so we decided to head that way. But the morning rain quickly turned to snow and forced us lower.
Again, the Stark Vargs remained on the trailer.
Yet, while heading lower, we entered an oak tree zone, where acorns—the Uncrustables of deer—were plentiful, and a spike blacktail buck emerged from the woods. Quickly, James hopped out of the truck, leveled his rifle, and shot the deer, which was maybe only 10 yards away. He didn't move as he was likely stunned by the brazenness of this human. It happened so quickly, I barely registered what had occurred, too, instead watching the buck jump, leap into the bushes, and head down a hill into the forest below.
James, while a proficient marksman, felt nervous about the affair, as he expected the deer to have dropped where it stood. But his 6.5 Creedmoor round was likely still supersonic when it buried into the ground after passing through the blacktail. The deer didn't go far, though it did jump two hills in the 50 yards it ran.
The MKC knives, a Speedgoat 2.0 and Blackfoot 2.0 (my favorite of the two), made fast work of the deer. Like such fast work, I continually cursed not having them on my elk hunt a few months ago.
Night fell around us, however, and while we likely only spent maybe an hour butchering the deer, it was already dark when we arrived back at the trucks. Yet, when we got there, we were somewhat accosted by a local elderly couple who thought something bad had befallen us, seeing as we had three bikes on the trailer, and no one to be found. But they listened to our story, and then sorta adopted us for the night, letting us crash in their barn just down the road. It was a surreal experience, but one that kept us out of the rain and snow that night.
Thank you, Frank and Jeanne.
We awoke early the following morning, retrieved our gear and the deer, and headed out to see if we could tag two other bucks for Dan and I. Snow, however, fell rapidly and in big, fluffy, sticky chunks. The roads and trails were icy, and the Stark Vargs once again remained on the trailer. Our first destination, however, was full of trucks, and we made the decision to move to a new location just down the road. Acorn-producing oaks were everywhere, according to our onX research, and the area looked promising. The rain and snow, however, continued, and during the morning, we huddled under a pine tree, glassing whatever we could.
Blacktail does were around, but we couldn't turn up a single buck.
With the rain abating, we started hiking further up a ridge when I spotted a group of deer off to our right in a meadow. I caught a glimpse of antlers and drew my Christensen Arms rifle up, steadying it on my hiking poles as best I could. But the deer moved behind a tree, and no clean shot was available. Whatever the case may have been, the group moved quickly out of the meadow, and I gave chase, walking up the ridge, and then using the wind against my face to stalk inward. In the short time since first glance and second, they'd moved down through a draw, and already began working their way up the opposing hillside.
I threw myself prone, drew my rifle once again, and endeavored to put my crosshairs on the antlered animal I'd seen. A blacktail spike came into view, moving up the hill. I settled behind the gun, ranged the animal for around 240 yards, and clicked off safe, waiting for the deer to turn and give me a fatal shot. But as it did, a doe moved just enough in front of the buck to give me pause. The shot was very doable, but just that. I decided to wait, hoping to get another angle and the doe to move. It didn't occur, and the group of seven blacktails moved up over the ridgeline and out of my life.
It was an awesome experience, and I'm glad I didn't take the shot. It wasn't worth the risk, even for the tack driver that is this Christensen rifle. But we didn't see another deer for the rest of the day.
Dan and James had to leave the following morning, which left me hunting alone. But over the night, the sun had arisen, the rain had halted, and it warmed up by about 20 degrees. I chose to go back to where I saw the spike for my morning hunt. Yet, even after a number of miles, nothing moved. To the point of not seeing anything outside a single doe.
So with the weather being far better than prior days, I went deeper into the mountains surrounding Medford, and finally took the Varg off the trailer. While I've always believed that EV dirt bikes and EV bicycles are great for hunting, it was high in those mountains where that belief was solidified, as I was able to not just cover ground rapidly, but sneak up on groups of deer to such a degree, I could practically touch them.
Criss-crossing the forest, my Sitka hunting pack hauling my gear and rifle strapped to my back, I covered over 60 miles of trails during the afternoon. And encountered everything from gnarly, dark single track—so sketchy, I actually told myself this was a terrible idea—to open fields and new trails that likely would've been passed by other hunters. Through it all, does abounded. One group looked on at me with a curious glance, as I got to within 5-10 yards of them on the single track, wondering what this odd buzzy noise was off to their left.
Had a buck been with them, I could've tackled it.
But there were no bucks, at least none that I saw. And I glassed drainages, sent grunts and bleats, hiked a bunch on well-used deer trails, and did everything I could to turn one up. Night fell around me, as the trails illuminated via the Stark Varg's headlight. Yet, all I saw were 40 does that day.
And because we'd lost time to the truck fiasco, the rain, the snow, and a number of other small issues I didn't get into, my hunt was over. Even so, I wouldn't have seen the amount of deer I did on that final day without the Varg, and it being one of the best ways to cover ground in rapid order, or how quiet that motorcycle is. I'm going to take it out this weekend here in Utah, as I still have a mule deer tag to fill.
The plan, in the end, was a simple one. At least, I thought so. Take some EVs into the woods, hunt some deer. But as with all plans, it went off the rails, and we had to throw away the plan. That meant a lot less riding, a lot less country covered, and way fewer tags filled. We got one, but it was far less than the nine we had between us. That, however, is hunting. And while I'm disappointed in the outcome, it was one of those experiences that taught me a lot. What to do, what not to do, and what I need to plan for during my next out-of-state hunt. As well as what I absolutely can't plan for.
It also reinforced the idea that EV dirt bikes are the way forward for hunters, as they're fast, quiet, and perfect for a lot of backcountry antics. Still, I was outsmarted and outcunned by a blacktail, and I demand redemption next season. Oh yeah, I'm definitely going back, and I'm definitely bringing a Stark Varg with me.
