You don’t come to Wyoming looking for an easy hunt. You come for the grit of it, the challenge of testing yourself against a creature that can vanish faster than a ghost in a gale.
The sun was just spilling over the horizon, slashing streaks of orange and red across the endless sky. It was the kind of morning that promised more than good weather—it promised adventure. I was here, near Casper, standing on 80,000 acres of wild country owned by the Cole Creek Sheep Company. A place where men have hunted since the days when pronghorn antelope were just as wild as the wind that blows here. This wasn’t just any hunt. This was a chase for the fastest land animal in North America. They call them “speed goats,” and you better believe they’ve earned the name. Guiding me were Kelly Clause and his son, Cody—real salt-of-the-earth types who run Cole Creek Outfitters. They’ve been guiding folks around these parts for years, and they know this country better than most know their own backyards. They’ve got a reputation built on trust, skill, and a fair bit of grit, too, and their history with the Hornady family, who’ve hunted with them for years, added a layer of comfort to the day. But make no mistake, hunting with Kelly and Cody isn’t a walk in the park; it’s a walk in the wild.
Pronghorns aren’t your average quarry. Most call them antelope, but that’s just a lazy nickname. They are the last of the Antilocapridae family, and their closest cousins are giraffes and okapis, if you can believe it. But that doesn’t matter much out here. What matters is that they can hit 60mph without breaking a sweat and see you coming from nearly a mile away. Their eyes are big, bulging things that give them nearly 360-degree vision. Out here, that’s how you stay alive. They were built to run from ancient predators that don’t even exist anymore, and they never got the memo that they’ve outlived most of what was chasing them.
The Wyoming prairie isn’t as flat as it looks. At first, it seems like an ocean of sagebrush and prickly pear cactus, but the ground is sneaky. Little dips and rises hide the real story, and it’s a story that a smart hunter can use to his advantage. This isn’t a place for rushing in like a bull in a china shop. No, this is a place for creeping and crawling, for spotting and stalking. We rolled slowly across the ranch in Kelly’s truck, eyes peeled. We spotted several groups of pronghorn, and the older bucks caught my attention. Faces darker than the rest, horns a bit thicker and meaner looking. The rut was on, and the bucks were cruising, looking to mix it up. There was tension in the air, the kind that makes you feel alive.
We spotted a group of pronghorns out in the open, heads down, grazing like they didn’t have a care in the world. They weren’t spooked—yet. We used the truck to get a bit closer, staying low, quiet. The wind was steady at 18 miles per hour, blowing left to right. That’s important out here; the wind can be your best friend or your worst enemy.
We climbed out and moved slowly through the sagebrush, using the dips in the land to stay out of sight. I’d been shooting PRS matches, stretching out past 900 yards, but hunting isn’t a match. It’s not about showing off; it’s about making the shot count. I wanted to get inside 400 yards. I settled into position with my Game Changer bag, an odd name for something that’s turned me into a better shooter. I spotted a good buck—older, with a flat prong (known as a ‘cutter’) above the ear. That’s what you want.
A trophy, sure, but there’s a lot of respect in taking an animal that’s been around a few seasons.
The wind was still there, blowing. The pronghorn hadn’t quite figured out we were there, but they were getting suspicious. The lead buck lifted his head, scanning like he knew something was off. We froze, and time stretched thin. You could hear the prairie breathing, feel it in your bones. One twitch, one wrong move, and the game would be up.
But we held our nerve. Dropped into a little ravine, kept low, and stayed quiet. It was a chess match with a wild animal, and nobody wanted to blink first. When we finally eased out of that cover, the pronghorn were still there, still watching but not quite spooked. This was it. No more time to think. You make your move, or you don’t.
I got down, set the rifle, and waited for the wind to settle just enough. My rifle, a 7mm PRC loaded with Hornady’s 175gr ELD-X, was as ready as I was. I dialed in a 5 MOA elevation adjustment for the 388-yard shot and held eight inches left for wind. I knew what I had to do. There’s a moment in hunting where everything goes quiet. Not outside, but inside. It’s just you, the rifle, and the animal. I took that breath, let it out slow, and squeezed the trigger. The shot broke clean, and the buck dropped like a sack of rocks. No run, no struggle. Just down. Walking up to that buck, I felt that rush, that mix of pride and respect. This wasn’t just about taking an animal; it was about everything that led up to it. The stalk, the patience, the waiting, the shot. It’s all got to come together, and today it did. The buck scored in the mid-70s—not quite record book, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is the hunt, the moment, the challenge.
You got to tip your hat to these animals. Once upon a time, there were 35 million pronghorns roaming these plains. By 1915, that number had plummeted to 13,000. Overhunting and a shrinking habitat had taken their toll, and the future didn’t look good.
But everyone stepped up—hunters, conservationists, people who cared—and now there are around 800,000 of these speedsters kicking around the American West. They’re survivors, plain and simple, and the hunting dollars help keep it that way. It’s a real American success story, one where hunters play the hero.
As we all know, hunting’s about more than just pulling a trigger. It’s about matching wits with the wild, about testing yourself against something that’s got all the odds in its favour. It’s about history, too. The Cole Creek Sheep Company has been around since the 1880s, and that kind of legacy gets into your bones when you’re out there. As we loaded the pronghorn into the truck, I thought about that history—about all the hunters who’d walked this same ground, felt the same wind, and seen the same sunrise. There’s a connection there, a feeling that you’re part of something bigger.
For anyone looking to chase something truly wild, to feel that thump in your chest when you know you’ve got one shot to get it right, Wyoming’s pronghorn country is calling. The land, the wind, the challenge—it’s all there, waiting for those who dare to earn it.
KIT BOX
G.A. Precision rifle, 7mm PRC
Hornady 175gr ELD-X ammunition
Game Changer shooting bag