Bambi gets revenge - the deer herd of Henry County strikes back

Well I spent the last weekend of Alabama deer season in a tree stand in Henry County Alabama.  In fact I spent the entire day Saturday sitting in a climber 25 feet up a pine tree overlooking a creek bottom.  I got settled in before daybreak and I didn’t climb down until dark..  I saw a total of five deer, including a small six point chasing a doe.  Just nothing I wanted to hang on my wall – and my freezer is already full.

I started back home Sunday morning and had traveled no more than half a mile before a MONSTER buck ran right out in front of my truck.  If I hadn’t slammed on brakes I’d have hit him!  Whew.  Close call number 1.

Twenty minutes later I spied lots of eyes off the side of the road and I did the prudent thing and slowed down.  Traveling at about 40 mph I passed the largest gathering of deer I’ve ever seen in the wild.  There was at least 25 does standing a tight little cluster immediately beside the road.  I expected them to scatter in all directions – including right in front of me – for some reason not a one of the moved as I passed by, except to swivel theirs heads following my passing.  I even had time to lower my truck window and get an up close look.  Whew.  Close call number 2.

Three’s the charm they say.  About a minute after passing the doe convention on the left side of the road, I heard and felt a loud thud on the passenger side of my truck.  I knew instantly what had to be the cause.  Glancing down into my driver’s side mirror I could see a deer flying thru the air tumbling end over end and crashing down into the ditch along the opposite side of the road.  I pulled over and surveyed the damage.

Dents in the rear passenger door, a shattered topper window, a smashed fender on my 4 wheeler, and the tailgate ramp torn loose from it’s locking pins requiring that I actually tie the trailer tailgate in place in order to drive. 

I walked back the short distance to see about the deer – and he (or she) was gone!  Doubtless the animal dragged itself off to die later.

What a frustrating way to close out the best hunting season I’ve had in a quite awhile!    Oh well.  I’m just glad the animal didn’t come thru my windshield and end up in my lap.  

Deer hunting in Alabama

Standing beside my truck in the predawn darkness it had seemed like there was little or no wind.  Now sitting in a ground blind atop a hilly clear cut I discovered that there was indeed some wind, and it was utterly fickle about which way it was going to blow.  The worst time to hunt from a ground blind is when the winds are variable.  Deer have the most incredible sense of smell you can imagine, and if even a whiff of your scent drifts their way, you can forget any hope of them coming in your direction.  I resolved to change my location, even though the sun was already up.

Coming down off the hill very slowly, I watched as a doe ran along just inside the treeline in front of me.  Moments later off to my left I saw two does being chased by what appeared to be a coyote.  Well they look to be moving pretty good this morning I thought.  Let’s hurry up and get into a tree stand and get up high so as to mask my scent a little better.  I stepped up the pace. 

Thirty minutes later I was safely ensconced about twenty-five feet up a pine tree on a completely different part of the property.  Looking downhill over a partial clear cut I could see a creek bottom out about 180 yards in front of me.  Gaps in the foliage gave me a clear view into the bottom in only a couple of spots.  Similar gaps on my right and left gave me a view into the mixed pine and hardwood forest that flanked the clear cut I was overlooking. 

Around 10:30 a.m. my hunting buddy texted me and asked if I was ready to come down and head for the house.  “No… I think I’m going to stay up here until sunset” I replied.  Why not? I had something to nibble on in my pack and I had water and I was quite comfortable in my tree climber.  Best to make the most of an Alabama deer hunt I thought.

About an hour later I was looking into the woods off to my right when I see a doe slowly making her way downhill and towards the bottom out in front of me.  I watched her through my binoculars to see if she was alone – and she appeared to be.  Even though this was supposed to be the rut she looked to be in no particular hurry, and she also looked to be by herself.  Passing out of my view for the moment as she headed down the hillside, I put down my binoculars and shouldered my rifle.  Although I had no intention of shooting a doe, I still think it’s fun to put the crosshairs on them as a way of “counting coup”.  It allows me to fantasize around the notion of “I could have had you if I wanted!”

Shifting in my seat a bit to give me a more natural point of aim, I placed the crosshairs on the spot where I expected the deer to cross into the creek bottom.  And sure enough, in a couple of minutes my doe stepped out precisely where I expected.  Placing the crosshairs on her left shoulder I could see her very plainly as she cranked her head around and scrutinized her own back trail.  Hmmm… is she being followed?  Careful to make no sudden moves – even though the doe was about 180 yards way – I eased my rifle down and took up the binoculars again and began glassing the area where I had first spotted the traveling doe.  In just about a minute there appeared a big-bodied buck following the exact path previously taken by the doe. 

Hot damn! 

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a buck in my crosshairs.  A succession of poor choices for hunting properties, and not nearly enough time spent scouting or hunting has left me “buckless” for more years that I care to reveal.  So perhaps you will understand, if even a little, the excitement of having an opportunity to drop a buck that was now unfolding before me.

There is an old deer hunting rule that says once you make the decision to shoot your buck, don’t look at the antlers anymore.  If you do, you risk getting excited and spoiling your shot.  I had seen a shiny main beam on the rack, and I had seen that he was a good size, so I made my shoot decision and carefully looked no more at the rack.  Knowing precisely where my animal would cross in the gap down below, I put down my binoculars and picked up my rifle.  I spent the moments while the buck was out of my view getting situated and ready for the shot.  The doe had passed out of sight somewhere along the bottom so I placed my crosshairs on the same spot where she had appeared just a couple of minutes before.  I had every expectation my trailing buck would show in the same spot.  He did.

Unlike the doe who casually stepped from cover, the buck did something unexpected.  He bounded across the gap and gave me no opportunity to take a point of aim and thus I had no shot.  In far less time than it takes to tell about it, my buck disappeared into cover in the direction the doe had gone.  Curses!  Damn the luck! Missed opportunities seemed to be my hunting trademark.  But nonetheless I maintained my sight picture with the rifle and continued to watch the small gap thru which my two deer had passed.

Only a moment went by and I heard a deer “blow” somewhere down in the foliage along the creek.  This is usually behavior you expect when they’ve been startled or frightened by a hunter, and not something I’ve ever witnessed them do in reaction to another deer.  With the wind blowing steadily from the direction of the bottom up toward me, I knew there was no way they had gotten my scent, so I kept my rifle pointed at the spot where I had last seen the buck.  I saw the doe charge across the opening and apparently reverse her course of a few minutes before and head back up the hill.  I remained steady on the gap.  The buck stepped out and moved to follow the doe.  This time he stopped as if pondering what he wanted to do.  I placed the crosshairs on his shoulder and squeezed the trigger.  At precisely the moment the trigger broke he stepped forward a bit and my point of aim was shifted to his gut rather than his shoulder.  But the .270 erupted at 2850 fps and I clearly saw the animal stagger as the round impacted about six inches left of where I would have preferred. 

Away into the bottom the buck ran with a discernably odd gait.  I knew he was hit, I just hoped very much that he wouldn’t be able to run very far.  I waited at least ten minutes there in the stand before trying to climb down.  As excited as I was it seemed prudent for safety’s sake that I regain my composure somewhat before trying to climb down from the tall pine tree. 

Thirty minutes later, now armed with a four-wheeler and utility wagon, I was at the bottom of the hill, and it took me no more than five minutes to find my buck.  He had run maybe 40 yards from where I shot him.  The bullet had hit him exactly where I had expected it would, and the view back to the tree from where I fired made me really wish I had a rangefinder with me to confirm the distance.  I believe it to have been about 180 yards, and obviously I was pleased with the result.

The rack on the ole boy was a bit disappointing.  But later at the processor we looked at the teeth and the opinion of those folks was that the animal was a three year-old deer.  So what I had was a somewhat anemic rack that would probably never have gotten any better regardless of how long the deer would have lived. In essence this was a cull buck; one whose genetics you don’t want perpetuated in the herd.  Cull buck or no, I still had a wonderful time.  The morning had started off with crappy winds, but here before me I had a good kill and the sweet memory of a good overall hunt. 

Alabama has one more weekend of deer season, and the late rut in Henry County guarantees it will be exciting.  You can bet your ass that GunRights4US will be there!

Little fella's ruined for life now

Last Saturday this nine year-old killed this excellent buck with a single shot at 260 yards in Jones county Georgia.  I feel plumb sorry for him.  He'll chase that feat for the rest of his life. (I'm also envious!)

I wonder how many (if any) of the men I encounter at work every day could make such a shot.  Americans were once known for their marksmanship skills.

One of those little things I'll never forget

Back in the middle 90’s I was regularly deer hunting a certain piece of property, and I got the idea (probably from some hunting article) to get my own aerial photographs of the place.

I made a few calls and priced an hour of flight time, and as I recall I paid $225 to go up in a rubber-band powered Cessna for one hour. That price would probably be at least double today!

The appointed day and time came and I met the pilot at the field, and somewhere in the conversation to book the jaunt either he didn’t hear me, or I failed to tell him, that the purpose of the ride was to take photographs. So after we were already strapped in, and with the engine running, he expressed surprise at the appearance of the camera in my lap. So he jumps out of the idling aircraft, runs around to my side and takes the passenger side door OFF and stows it in the rear of the fuselage. Now I’ve never been a big seat-belt advocate, but you can bet your ass that when I realized what he was doing, I hitched my seat-beat up as tight as I could get it!

We took off and WOW what a view! It was so loud that you could hardly hear yourself think of course, and the only way the pilot and I could communicate was with headsets. In far less time than it took to drive there, we were over my hunting property and flying level at 1500 feet. I instructed my driver to try and fly on an east/west axis so all my photos would be oriented either looking north or south.

When we came over the first spot that I was particularly eager to see I asked him to bank the plane “a bit” so I could get a better angle for my photos. He banked it a little bit all right. Where a moment before I was looking at a green carpet below me, now I was looking at green wallpaper! He banked the airplane a full ninety degrees and I found myself looking straight down even though it felt like I was looking outward. Great for the photos I admit – but it took some getting used to.

When we were done and returning to the airfield, as he banked the plane to get lined up on the runway, the pilot pointed out something in the trees below us. I asked what the unrecognizable shape was and over the roar of the engine he replied “It’s a wrecked aircraft that went down here last summer – nobody was killed though!” That’s a disconcerting thing to hear from your pilot as you’re coming in on final approach.

I got some great photos that day and I made good use of them for many years thereafter. Sadly the area was completely logged out at some point and I stopped hunting there. The photos no longer being of any use I threw most of them away. But I kept this one just to remember the occasion.

Six months or so after I made my photo flight, my pilot was killed in that same plane, and on that same airfield, when he crashed while trying to pickup an advertising banner.

Some Pete, but mostly Repeat

There really is such a thing as writer’s block ya know. I’ve had a case of it for some time now, and the desire to bang away at the keyboard has waned within me. Much of it is surely profound disgust at the way I see things going in the world around me. I’m starting to feel like a 5th century citizen of Rome! And how much can you say, that hasn’t already been said, about the fall of Rome\America?

In any event, I was looking back at some of the things I’ve penned here in the past (in attempt to find inspiration methinks) and stumbled across one or two things I’ve said that bare repeating - if I say so myself!

We are becoming a nation of squealers

This weekend's hunting report: Wounded Buck feeds the swamp instead of me and my family!

Well, I stuck a six point buck on Sunday morning with a crossbow bolt. I know I got a solid hit because there was a significant blood trail to follow. After hearing the “thunk” and watching him make like a furry lightning bolt, I waited in my stand for the prescribed thirty minutes before climbing down. I pulled the release on him at 0705.

I started trying to pick up the bloodtrail, and that took about 20 minutes before I found it. Of course it led out of the uplands area where you’re allowed to hunt, down into the main body of the Okefenokee Swamp. I went in maybe a hundred yards before caution demanded that I return to my truck for some flagging tape and a GPS. A few years ago I got lost for an afternoon in an area adjacent to the Okefenokee, and it is NO FUN. So I will take steps to keep from that ever happening again!

Once I reacquired the trail, I headed off into the thick stuff. Now when I say thick I mean THICK! There were many points along the way where I had to get down on all fours and crawl through. At least the ground (if you could call it that) was relatively dry initially.

After some distance I came upon where my buck had laid down for a bit and left quite a blood puddle. But whether he arose spontaneously or whether he heard me coming – I don’t know. All I know for sure is that when I reached the point where the blood trail came to the point where the occasional wet spot became a swamp with water as far ahead as I could see – I stopped, and would go no further. My handheld GPS told me that I was over a third of a mile back in the swamp proper.

It’s very disappointing to lose a kill that way. I have no compunctions about killing a prey animal, but neither do I want one to suffer and be lost and have its meat feed only the swamp creatures. I much prefer his horns decorate my wall, and his flesh decorate my dinner plate.

Hunting The Pocket inside Okefenokee Swamp

I hunted inside the Okefenokee National Wildlife refuge this weekend for the second weekend in a row.

The list of rules is lengthy, and as you might imagine it's probably compiled by someone who has never in their life hunted for deer. For example, you're not allowed to use any sort of flagging tape or reflective tacks to help you find your way in the dark woods. I suppose that these things might utterly destroy the largest swamp in America. Finding your spot is a real challenge without them.

The other rule that is particularly onerous is the requirement that your treestand can NOT be left on the tree - even overnite. It must be packed in and out on every trip! Well... the noise created by this rule has probably cost me a shot at some deer. Not to mention what happened to me Saturday morning.

I hiked in (another rule - No ATVs) in the predawn darkness carrying my tree climber. Once at the base of the tree I had an equipment failure. My tree climber had a major malfunction. Nothing to do, but hike right back out. With only the one tree climber at my camp, I was forced to drive to my other hunting camp for a replacement; a roundtrip of 186 miles. Saturday was NOT my day.

Sunday I saw a group of deer feeding right by the main gate. Rules say no hunting within a mile of the main gate. Now... bear in mind this is an ARCHERY hunt - no guns! So all I could do was look at the pretty deer feeding peacefully there beside the road as I drove on my way.

Here are a couple of pics taken from the stand I sat in Sunday morning (Much closer to the road than Saturday's spot). Note the fire damage visible in the foreground.





The view behind me. That's some THICK stuff there!



Yours truly

The Stand - a Hunting Tale

This story was originally posted in 2004, but as hunting season approaches I tend to think more and more about getting in the woods.

You know, not every “hunting” story involves shooting a big buck. There’s a lot that goes into getting ready for hunting season, and this is one of those little adventures that precedes the ultimate adventure of getting that granddaddy whitetail.

Last hunting season I had placed a ladder stand along the St. Mary’s river. It was a 15-foot tall stand and I positioned it about 50 yards from the bank of the river. Recently I secured lease rights to a prime piece of property up around Milledgeville, Georgia, so it was necessary to go recover my best stand so I could take it up to my new hunting grounds. My 14 year-old son went with me to help retrieve it and I’m sure glad he did too because I’d have never been able to manage it alone.We drove up early on Saturday morning, and when we got to the boat ramp we were shocked to discover that the boat ramp, picnic area and parking area was all under about 9 feet of flowing water! The road down the hill to the parking area had become the de facto boat ramp. So we went ahead and launched my little boat there and proceeded on up river to where we thought the ladder stand would be.

The St. Mary’s was higher than I’ve ever seen it in ten years of exploring it in motorboats and canoes. The water had risen to approximately 14 feet above normal obscuring the banks on both sides. The river literally extended back into the woods and out of sight. Talk about current! Boy we had plenty of it, even back in the flooded woods. It was all my little 10-horse kicker could do to take us upstream.

When we finally reached the bend in the river where the stand was located, another problem presented itself. The piece of flagging tape that I had tied about 6 feet up a tree was completely underwater. With the river spilling over its banks to such an extent, nothing looked familiar. It took about a half an hour of cruising back and forth until we spied the stand back among the trees. I had fully expected to be wading in a couple of feet of water while retrieving the stand. Now I was shocked to see that only the top three or four feet of the 15-foot stand was visible above the water! Clearly this would be, at least in part, an underwater operation.

I aimed the boat at what looked like the best avenue of approach through the flooded trees, gunned the motor to get some momentum, and then killed the engine. We got to the stand with a combination of paddling and pulling ourselves along using tree limbs. There was actually a respectable amount of current to be considered as well so it was necessary to tie up next to the stand. I even dropped the anchor! Sitting there in the boat we were perfectly level with the seat of the stand. Obviously the floodwaters were over our heads.

Because of the hour’s drive followed by a twenty minute boat ride, I had emphasized to Josh that we needed to bring along everything we could possibly need while there. Toward that end I had even brought along a large pair of bolt cutters in case the padlock on the chained stand refused to cooperate after ten months of exposure and non-use. It was at about this point that Josh pointed out that we should have brought along some swim fins and dive masks if we wanted to be fully prepared. I could hardly argue with him.

We removed the chain with no trouble and while still seated in the boat. Thankfully the lock worked with no difficulty. So did the strap and ratchet assembly that secured the upper part of the stand firmly to the tree. However, somewhere down below the swirling water was another ratchet and strap coupled with a stabilizer pole that had to be dealt with, and there was no way to do that while remaining dry. So…Josh and I stripped down to our skivvies, and he led the way by climbing out onto the top rung of the submerged ladder stand and down into the dark water of the flooded St. Mary’s river. I toyed with him for a second by staying on the boat and urging him to hurry up and dissemble the stand. But his look of outrage at the very idea was enough to get me on down into the water.

As we both attacked the stand while treading water, I was struck by the thought that this would be exactly the time that we wouldn’t want to entertain any visits of the local reptilian variety, namely snakes and “gators”. I said as much to Josh and watched the look on his face change to grave concern. We continued working on disassembling the stand and after a few moments I extended my leg under water and purposely bumped him on the thigh. The response was immediate! He hollered and almost leaped vertically out of the water. My roar of laughter was enough to change his fear to anger, but later when we were safe and on our way home he agreed that I “got him good”.

Piece by piece we managed to deconstruct the heavy metal stand and get it into the boat. The final indignity was when it came time for me to hoist myself back into the boat without the benefit of having anything underwater that I could stand on. With just upper body strength I managed to heave myself aboard, but I was certainly pretty well spent by that point. I’m sure not as young as I used to be!

The ride back to the boat ramp and the drive back home were uneventful, except that we decided we should go ahead and drive on up to the hunting lease and get our stands in position since hunting season’s opening day would rapidly be upon us. So early the following morning we made the four-hour drive to the area near my brother’s home outside Milledgeville in order to go ahead and place our stands. It was a beautiful morning, and the drive and the time spent with my son were both great. Evaluating the exact location for putting up the stands was now much easier since it wasn’t being done in the pre-dawn darkness of opening day. And even the short visit with my brother followed by another four-hour drive home was enjoyable since it was quality time spent with my boy.

I’ve hunted all my life, and I’ve had lots of great and some not-so-great experiences while hunting. At this point in my life, I’ve also learned that the actual experience of the kill is not the only enjoyment to be had. The camaraderie of being around other hunters, the preparation for and anticipation of the coming season, and time spent with your son, are all aspects of an enjoyable hunting experience. And now I’ve also learned one additional lesson: the next time I go to recover a tree stand placed along a river, I’ll take some scuba gear with me.

Diary of a morning squirrel hunt

I arrived at the starting point of my morning squirrel hunt just a little later than I would have preferred. It’s long been my habit to get into the woods a bit before sunrise and sit down somewhere and wait for the squirrels to wake up and get active around me. But my tardiness today would force me to use my forest-ninja skills.

It was a pleasant surprise to discover that the previous day’s rain, and the heavy morning fog, had left the ground cover nice and wet. Moving quietly would not be an issue at all.

As I entered the woods I was thinking of my last squirrel hunt a few weeks ago wherein all the squirrels had taken the midnight flight to Cleveland. Areas of the forest normally alive with tree rats (during deer season) had been completely devoid of squirrels, and I was hoping desperately that today’s hunt wouldn’t play out the same way. Within about two minutes I was assured that today would be entirely different matter. The trees were well stocked with my favorite furry-tailed, acorn eating rodent!

The first shot from my Henry pump .22 dropped a squirrel a short distance away and I carefully marked his fall before scanning the vicinity for my next customer. Seeing nothing immediately I moved forward to recover my kill. Unfortunately, he had fallen into a thicket and it required me to make quite a bit of noise to get to him. The squirrels closest to me were alerted to my presence so I eased further into the swamp for the next round.

Sixty or seventy yards further along I noted a lot of noise coming from an area off to my right. Standing quietly for a few minutes and observing I spotted what appeared to be about half a dozen tree rats in full eat and play mode. So I turned toward them and began a five minute ease to get into position.

My Henry rifle has a nice Burris 2.5 X 7 X 28mm scope that is extremely bright, and of course the rifle itself is well zeroed with its favorite subsonic ammo. So the next several shots – which were ridiculous misses – I can only chalk up to my own excitement at being in a target-rich environment. I’ve been squirrel hunting for over forty years, and I get just as excited today as I did the first time I ever shouldered a rifle and shot my first squirrel. I love it that much!

“Ok Guns, just settle down and get it right” I told myself.

Following my own advice I dropped the next three squirrels in the space of about ten seconds.

Again, one of the three fell into a palmetto cluster that would make enough noise to wake the dead when I waded into it to retrieve my squirrel. A long time ago I learned that if you shoot more than about three squirrels in a row without recovering them, you risk forgetting their location in all the excitement. I truly hate not recovering a kill, so as bad I wanted to keep shooting, I resolved to not shoot more than three without going to pick them up.

After I had gathered up the carcasses I moved forward another sixty or seventy yards and got still and quiet again.

Scanning the trees all the time, looking for movement, I spotted the silhouette of a squirrel on a tree limb out to my front at a range of nearly seventy yards; a very long shot for a squirrel! So I braced my rifle against a tree and took a bead on him. I used the second horizontal crosshair and placed it right at the top of his head and gently squeezed the trigger. I was rewarded with a clean kill that fell straight into … another clump of palmettos!

Recovering my longest shot / kill of the morning from the biggest clump of palmettos yet, now I faced a swamp bottom out in front of me that was deeper than I had expected. For the next few minutes I was more absorbed in crossing the swamp (without bogging up to my ass) than I was in spotting more squirrel. But once across I resumed scanning for movement.

In just a few minutes I spotted a couple of squirrels in a tree just a short distance out in front of me. A few easy steps forward, while they were playing with one another, and I was in shooting position.

I dropped the first while the second was out of sight behind the tree. He stuck his head out to see what was going on – and I missed the second shot. Damn!

Spotting me the squirrel ran down the backside of the tree and stopped at the base of it. I eased forward at the ready, fully expecting him to dart off along the ground, or maybe to run back up the tree. But for some reason he did neither. Thinking himself hidden he stayed right at the base of the tree. With the help of the sodden and silent leaves I closed to within about ten feet before I spotted just the tip of his tail sticking out on the left side of the truck. So I began tracking to the right very slowly, keeping my rifle at the ready. When just the top of his head came into view – I blew it off from about eight feet away!

Now I realized what it was I had forgotten to bring with me this morning: my game bag. I was toting all these dead squirrels by the tail, and doggone if they weren’t beginning to get heavy! I had no wish loose one while walking so I stashed em on the trail with the intent to come back with my four-wheeler and pick them up.

On the walk back to the four-wheeler I killed another one that I spotted while he sat stock still high on a limb.

Squirrel hunting with a 22 rifle is both fun and educating. It’s great training in stalking, target acquisition, and marksmanship. And when it’s all over – you get to eat them!

The typical GunRights4US hunting tale

I sat on a deer stand in Alabama last Saturday morning watching some does and a small buck feeding in a field of clover. My standards are pretty high when it comes to bucks so I allowed him to survive until next year.

Once the activity began to diminish later in the morning I foolishly allowed my mind to wander, and as a result I lost my focus.

On the far side of the field, a little distance up the road that led into the field, I could see something moving – but I couldn’t tell just what it was. At first I moved to raise my rifle and put the scope on it, but then the thought occurred to me that it was pretty far away and perhaps I should get a better look thru my binoculars. I wasted valuable seconds reaching for my high dollar peepers.

What leaped into view was a beautiful ten-point rack that any hunter would be proud to hang over the mantle. In the split second that elapsed as I realized what I was seeing, the big fella adjusted his course and steered into the brush alongside the road and disappeared forever into the forest.

From the first sighting of “something moving” until the last image of his hindquarter vanishing into the greenery, no more than five seconds passed by. But if I had followed my first instinct and put the rifle scope on target rather than the binoculars, I would perhaps be posting a different picture here this morning.

Loss of focus, even for a moment, can mean the difference between success and failure. And that’s true of more than just deer hunting.

The day AFTER Thanksgiving - in pictures

Hunting season update

Didn't see any deer. But I got a real up close look at a couple of million mosquitoes! They got a real close look at me too - so close that I'm sure they could TASTE me!

I saw three coons - racoons that is - walking along underneath my treestand. One of them got a whiff of me and came over to the base of the tree to sniff around. I leaned over and spit on him.

LOL

When all is said and done, the worst day I ever had hunting was better than the best day I ever spent at work!

It's almost hunting season...

And I soon will be spending lots of time in a tree...



...hoping for a glimpse of this guy!



Forgive me if posting becomes erratic. I look forward to this like a kid at Christmas!

I settled the shotgun issue for all time

The father we both loved died nearly 22 years ago. And the old man owned an Eastern Arms shotgun that he purchased around 1934 for the princely sum of $10.00. It was a single-shot break-open 12 gauge with a 34 inch barrel. The front site bead was missing. The firing pin had to be pushed back in with your finger. The stock showed signs of burns from a campfire it sustained in the late 1930’s. And usually it came apart into two separate pieces when you broke it open. Oh and the fore-stock would fall off at the drop of a hat.

For these reasons, and out of respect for the memory of Dad, neither my brother nor I had fired it since his death. But that shotgun was his prized possession! Being of poor backwoods stock, that gun had spent long years putting meat on his family’s table. Daddy’s death elevated that old shotgun almost to the status of a holy relic in mine and my brother’s eyes.

When Daddy died, there was no argument between us over which one got his shotgun. Neither one of us needed it, but both of us coveted it. So thus began a twenty year odyssey of that shotgun moving back and forth from my house to my brother’s house - and back again. Each time I would visit him, I would pick up the shotgun as I made my way to door, and say something along the lines of “Well THIS is going home where it belongs!” No argument. And then the process would be reversed when Brother visited me. He’d come for a visit and leave with the shotgun; a smart-assed retort on his lips as he walked out the door. Again…no argument.

This ritual continued for upwards of fifteen years. But about five years ago my brother changed the rules of the game. As I got ready to leave his house to drive home one day, he handed me the shotgun and said “Son…this will end up in your hands one day soon anyway. I’d rather know that you had it, than take a chance on it getting away from us after I’ve gone.”

So for the last five years or so it has sat unmoved in my gun vault.

When my brother died last week, it occurred to me that I knew exactly what I wanted to do with that old shotgun. I called my sons from my brother’s house and asked that they bring the shotgun with them when they came for the funeral. And then I had a few quiet words with the funeral director off to one side. “This isn’t for presentation sake” I told him as I gave him the shotgun thru a side door. After all the family and friends had left the viewing room, and before they secured the casket, I had them put Daddy’s old shotgun inside. It was no one’s business there except for me and my brother.

I specified that the casket would not be opened at graveside, and so I confirmed with the funeral director that he’d done as I asked. With a big ole grin he said “Don’t you worry…I got it crooked in his arm just like he was heading out for the swamp.”

It made me feel good to think that Tuffy was going through the Pearly Gates with a shotgun in one hand, and a rebel flag in the other! I hope he enjoys hunting with Daddy over there on the other shore.

I HATE cleaning deer!

But this backstrap I'm eating right now would not taste NEARLY as good if it still had the skin on it!

Great deer - perfect opportunity - pull trigger - CLICK

This incident happened on December 9, 2007

I just wanted to share with y’all my hunting experience from this past weekend.

My personal best is a 9 point buck, so naturally I want something bigger. This season I have let perfectly good bucks walk by in the hope of seeing something I’d be proud to hang over my fireplace.

Long before sunup Saturday morning I slipped into a promising spot in an area that I have consistently seen deer. I had a perfect stalk to get into position. There was just enough wind and traffic noise to cover the sound of me climbing the tree. It was a perfect morning for deer hunting: cool temperatures, steady predictable breeze. I positioned myself 40’ up a large pine on the edge a hillside that sloped down into a very thick swamp. Across my front, from left to right, ran an old logging road that showed lots of recent deer sign.

I watched a gorgeous sunrise over the far ridgeline with a mist hanging over the swamp that glowed almost magically.

At 8:30 a.m. I was silently scanning my whole field of fire from left to right. A moment before the logging road to my left was empty. Now there was a new shape there. I watched closely and saw the flick of an ear, and then the swish of a white tail. Instantly, but quietly and carefully, I brought the rifle up to my shoulder.

Now in my scope I could see more clearly the large 10 point rack decorating the animal’s head. I could also see several other smaller bucks slowly amble into the trail behind their “leader”. In absolute stillness and silence I watched them as they slowly made their along the old road directly towards me.

With great care I took off the safety and made ready for the shot. At a distance of about 50 yards, the 10 point I was eyeing turned broadside and stood stock still, in essence giving me a perfect shot opportunity. I paused in breathing and gently squeezed the trigger while holding the cross hairs over the animal’s heart.

The next sound I heard was “CLICK”! Not “BOOM” but “CLICK”.

In total amazement the thought ran thru my mind “What the …” and THEN I hear “BOOM”! There was more than enough time between the click and the boom for me to completely lose both my concentration AND my point of aim! The bullet and the deer all went to parts unknown.

I sat there, mouth agape, and watched as my quarry and his buddies all melted hurriedly back into the swamp from whence they came. To say that I was sick at my stomach does not begin to describe how I felt at that precise moment.

Other than that….I had a great hunting weekend!

The great Kansas City squirrel slaughter of 1983

Naturally the story takes place in KC as I was stationed there for a couple of years while in the Marines.

A fellow I worked for invited me to go squirrel hunting with him one Saturday morning. I didn’t get too many opportunities to hunt in those days and so I excitedly jumped on the invitation.

On the designated morning I met him at his house and we drove to some woods near Grandview Missouri. We arrived a little late as I recall, since the sun was already up, but better late than never right?

Chuck briefed me on the layout of the property as we entered the edge of the woods. Then he went his way... and I went mine.

Very quickly I realized this was going to be one heck of a hunt. The place was literally crawling with squirrels! And not little grays either; big fat red ones!

I started methodically knocking them down with my Ruger 10/22. I remember a couple of excellent long shots I made that morning. I also remember two squirrels playing together in one tree. They were so engrossed in their play that they paid no heed to me whatsoever as I crept into position for the shot.

Pow! One down. The second squirrel stuck his head out from behind the tree at the exact instant of the shot, and uttered the strangest sound I ever heard from a squirrel. It actually had a little questioning tone to it as if to say “What the heck was that?”

I answered his question with another “Pow” straight thru his perfectly silhouetted head. The memory of those two squirrels makes me smile broadly.

Occasionally I heard Chuck shooting on the other end of the property, but I was too busy to take much notice.

Finally, with the morning growing old and the squirrels having begun to lay low in earnest, I turned and headed back toward the truck. When I got there I found Chuck perched on the tailgate with a cigarette in his mouth and four red squirrels laid out beside him.

“How’d you do” he said. “Sounded like a young war over there where you were at!”

“Oh I did alright” I replied as I laid my rifle down and began to pull squirrels out of my game bag and pockets. His eyes grew wide and his mouth hung open a bit as I just kept pulling out more and more squirrels from every pocket until there were fourteen laid out side by side.

“Holy smokes...I thought you were over there just wasting shells all this time!”

“No I think I did pretty good” says I with a big ole grin.

I’ve killed plenty squirrels over the years, but that morning outside Kansas City still stands as my best, most memorable squirrel hunt.

Somebody killed this one in south GA recently

I've never killed anything so awesome. But even if I did, I doubt it would cure my itch.

GunRights4US's latest forest adventures

This last Saturday morning I proved again that deer only show up when and where you least expect them.

I’m sitting in a cypress tree with a thick cluster of young pines to my front, and a hardwood swamp to my rear. An old firebreak divides the pines from the swamp and I have 60 yards of visibility in both directions. The weather is nice with a mild temperature and a steady breeze from in front of me. Unfortunately, there’s a squirrel convention in full swing. Never in forty years of hunting have I seen so many squirrels in one bit of woods! From every direction comes the sound of barking, gnawing, limbs rustling, and acorns raining down. I can hardly hear myself think, let alone discern the particular sound of the furry, horned, forest ninja commonly known as a whitetail buck.

During a relative lull in the tree rat activities I do seem to hear the sound of foot steps out in the pines off to my left a ways. As if to confirm that something is moving, one of the tree rats scampers out of the pines and across the firebreak. He darts up a tree and proceeds to rant and rave in squirrel-ese at whatever it was that startled him. I watched the area especially hard for the next hour and never saw or heard anything else.

Finally around 11 a.m. I climbed down very quietly and set about gathering myself together for the hike out. I casually glance down the firebreak and there stands Bobby Big Buck looking right at me. I had only enough time to drop my lower jaw – and that’s all. Looking like a bit of furry lightning, he did a high speed vanishing act that would have made Houdini jealous.

Apparently the sound I heard was him coming into that corner of the pines to bed down, and my climb down had been enough to bump him off his bed.

It's hunting season...so blogging may get a bit slow

I'm spending every possible moment in a tree...



...hoping for a glimpse of this guy!