Hiking briskly up a shallow draw that petered out near the feeding antelope, we soon closed the gap. On our bellies, we slithered behind a handy sandstone rim screened with sagebrush. Peering through the cover, we stared across a shallow basin at the four bucks. Two had interrupted breakfast for an impromptu battle, but the larger buck kept to the buffet. A quick check through the rangefinder showed the animals at 300 yards, well beyond reasonable range of the .45-caliber CVA inline that lay on the stone by my side.

Though our position seemed initially hopeless, the hunter-friendly character of high-elevation habitat again lent us its aid. Beyond our perch, a heavy clump of brush appeared close enough to the buck to yield a shot. Another small rock pile and a smattering of foot-high sagebrush just might conceal a crawl. Again I lasered the buck, then turned the Bushnell rangefinder on the brushpile. Three hundred less sixty yards--not quite within range, but very close.

Moments later, our soiled bellies lay behind the brush. Step by step, the browsing path of the pronghorn took it further from our post. Out of options, still 250 yards away, I told Dom to stay put while I moved ahead.

My combat-crawl remained undetected as I closed the gap. Then one of the young bucks stared purposefully in my direction, and I knew my time was up. Two heaves of the elbows brought me to an oval stone, just the right height for a rifle rest.

The buck we'd come for faced me, quartering slightly, offering a 200-yard target similar to those I'd pierced at the practice range with 225-grain PowerBelt bullets resting on American Pioneer FFFg powder. I fired, then instinctively began to reload, but the buck was down for good. Dominic popped out of his hiding place and came grinning down the slope.

"Did I do good staying still?" he asked as we reached the buck. I nodded and looked around. Sunshine brightened the rugged peaks of the mountains, beautiful and distinct in the quiet, blue morning. Had the stalk another end, I'd still remember the scene for a very long time.

If time allowed the telling, other tales of pronghorn in high places might ink this page. On one adventure, bugling bull elk awakened me well before dawn as I slumbered in a backpack tent hours before hunting antelope in a secluded valley on the east side of the Wyoming Range. Just last fall, I took a highland buck in Montana after a morning's hunt that revealed more mule deer than pronghorn.

With the right expectations and equipment, pursuing North America's fastest mammal at the upper reaches of its habitat is a unique, unforgettable experience.