| Two Bits This is a hunting story. If the killing of furry, defenseless wood land creatures upsets you, best move on. 
I got my buck today, that's the short version. But I believe it is true that a happening isn't over till the stories are told. The oldest communications we have from prehistory humans are the cave paintings, some of them portraying hunting scenes. Hunting stories. Deer season here covers 16 days, Nov. 6 to 22. Harvest is dreadful late this year, most of the corn is still standing, and an elevator guy like yours truly is spending every daylight hour taking care of business. So the announcement that we didn't need to come in til noon on Sunday meant that this 5 hour window was probably my one and only chance to get to the woods without needing a flashlight! As the picture reveals, I actually did start out in the dark. Venus was just clearing the eastern horizon when I got into the tree stand. I sat, I stood, I chewed gum, I got very excited about a rustling sound that turned out to be a squirrel, but never saw a deer. 30 minutes after sunup, the last robin of the year scolding me thoroughly, stiff and cold and discouraged at the prospect of no further opportunities, I climbed down. And on a whim, I decided at least to walk the length of the shelterbelt to see if there were deer that would not come to me. This is referred to as "stalk hunting". Quite unlike "stand" hunting. Ever hear of those people who can move silently through the woods? Placing each foot carefully, toe first, side to side to push away sticks and gently resting the weight on the ball of the foot, then repeating with the other leg? I am NOT one of those. Can't do it. Like fishing, I have no patience for putting in that much effort with no assurance that anything will come of my attempts. So I did the best I could, clumping down the trail in my work boots, yesterday's diesel scent on my gloves and all. Walk, stop, look, walk again. Sure enough, part way down the belt, just after I had started moving again a deer exploded to my left and ran ahead of me. Drat! But wait! A deer with too much curiosity and a dangerous lack of common sense! I had frozen stock still, and after a 100 yard dash, so did he! He stopped, considered for awhile, and began to work back towards me. No kidding! He was gone and in the clear, but couldn't identify a threat, so he came back. I took my stance, told my beating heart to dial it back just a notch or two, and got the gun up while there was a tree blocking the line of sight.Then it was a case of picking a clear spot and waiting for him to arrive there. Dad's good old 30-30, lever action, open sights. Put the pumpkin on the post and squeeze the trigger before you start to think too much. That deer dropped like the fist of Zeus had smote him something fierce! When we skinned out, it was revealed that the entry wound was left side of neck, while the exit was right rib cage. As my son in law observed, "No wonder he dropped, there was no major organ that you didn't destroy!" A very respectable buck, four points on each side, decently sized carcass, and no running it down to finish off. I am very pleased. Deer hunting has come late to me, but since they live in my alfalfa year around, and shelter from the coyotes under the umbrella of my watch dogs, drinking from the cattle water and likely sampling their mineral, a harvest seems fair compensation. Deer season always puts me in mind of Dad. I'm privileged to carry his gun, probably one of the more enduring legacies from that era. Wednesday will be my folks wedding anniversary, a time always connected with deer camp in the lore from that time. 1944, and my understanding is that deer camp tradition then took a back seat for some decades. But my heart is warmed to know that he took it up again late, and on my walk across the farm on the day of his funeral, I found a chair, church metal folding chair, situated on what was called the northwest territory, with a rug to rest his feet on looking over some prime deer cover. Good hunting, Dad. (Tears) |
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