This year, I carried the old warhorse M1 Garand for the morning hunt because my eyes don't really like open sights for those evening hunts. So for the morning hunt, as the day gets brighter and brighter, an old rifle like that does just fine. The only "problem" I faced was finding a shootable target where I was hunting.
Right off the bat, stuck in the burgeoning brightness of a growing dawn, I was beat to my stand by that irascible three pointer I'd seen last week hunting with a camera! I had had the sense to stop just in the edge of the clearing the stand sits alongside, and had thrown the binoculars up to check the field before crossing. Of course, the first thing I'd seen there was this same big-bodied, future-bruiser deer staring back at me from about thirty yards away.
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| This guy! That missing tine is in someone's belly right now I bet. |
I was still somewhat concealed, and I know he couldn't "see me" see me, so we both just stood still and stared. I was stuck. I knew he wasn't a shooter, too young, and I didn't want him flying off the handle and scare any other deer off when he did "see me" see me, so we both just stared. He didn't like it, but he broke the gaze first, and I got to see him do the classic deer moves to get a predator to give up a stalk. He did the stamp! He did the "blow". He took a step towards me--what?
Well, his wheezing blow noises would have alerted anyone else for 100 yards that something was amiss, so, still trying to get rid of this guy gently, I tried a "snort" to get him to move along. The good news? I pulled it off sounding just like a store bought call and/or a rival buck. The bad news? I pissed this horny bastard off and he started trotting right towards me!
He's a three pointer, I realized then, not because he's a genetic weakling, but because he's a fighter and he probably broke an antler off in some dummy's gut in a fight over some chick. And now he's coming to kick my ass...or worse, he thinks I'm some hot doe and he's gonna break me down like a shotgun and have his way. Either way, I was a tad nervous to see him trot up to about ten yards away from me. We still had scrub and trees between us, but he could close that yardage very quickly, more quickly than I could raise a rifle and defend myself and my honour.
I had forsaken the bayonet for the Garand, but wished I hadn't just then. I had to do something, so I just took one step to my right and, thankfully, he stopped short and turned right and trotted on up the edge of the clearing. He knew something was up, and decided he was out of there, albeit slowly. I'm glad he didn't bolt, raising his ass-flag the whole time, but he had to go. I made it up into my stand just in time to see him turn into the woods about 300 yards away, still nervous, but not panicked.
People don't think about it, but deer ain't all cuddly. As a matter of fact, I heard from Anthony, that someone out there recorded video of a doe eating the carcass of a fallen comrade! How's that for cute and cuddly, boys?
Anyway, sitting there, I saw a few lone bucks, and a couple of does, probably sisters, being chased by a retarded, yet ambitious spike buck looking for love. It breaks my heart to see a feller work that hard and get NOTHING--kinda reminded me of my college days when I got stood up 5 times by five different young ladies in five weeks my freshman year.
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| Here's a seven pointer that hung out for awhile. |
It was a pretty good show. And the whole time, I'm hearing shots from all around the countryside as well. And naturally one of the shots was from someone in our group. By ten o'clock, I was more than ready to get down. The sun was up and I was super thirsty, but by the time I got back to the truck and cracked my big orange, I got the text: "Head to roof stand for tracking."
Usually this is no big deal. When you shoot a deer through the heart and lungs, their instinct to run after they're hit can carry them for 10 to 15 seconds, even on broken forelegs. I've seen it done before. But, when you hit them hard with a well placed shot, the blood trail is easy to follow. When I found the guys tracking, it was clear that this was not a well-placed shot.
Tiny drops, few and far between, and an ever longer growing trail meant that the deer the "new guy" shot wasn't just going to lay down and die. After an hour of tracking, sometimes on our hands and knees, someone had to call it. When the blood had all but stopped, we were just guessing on direction anyway. Giving up on a wounded deer is disappointing to say the least. And I'd like to be able to wag a haughty finger, but I won't or can't. It happens, and has been happening for as long as people have been hunting.
In fact, while we were tracking this deer, I found a relic from another time and another hunter. I found most of what I guess is a spear point laying in the clay from some ancient, distant cousin . Was it broken in use, or had it been discarded back in the day cause it was broken? Who knows, but for a second, I felt the coincidence of the moment; two hunters, a couple of hundred years apart doing the same thing at the very same place. It was a pretty cool feeling.
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| The tip was broken off. Was it damaged in a deer a couple hundred years ago? |
I also found my first antler shed. It wasn't much to look at from just a yearling spike buck, but it was my first after years of stumbling around in the woods with a rifle. So I picked it up, carried it back, and threw it in the back of the truck--scratch that off the bucket list. I bet Emily's last rat would like the minerals in it while she (the rat, not Emily) keeps her teeth short and sharp.
The "new guy" took some ribbing from me as I couldn't resist even a gentle finger wag. We all felt pretty bad for the guy, and even set a target out at 100 yards and let him shoot from a stand to check his rifle's zero. It checked out perfect, which meant, he had just flubbed the shot. Buck fever? Lousy shooting position? Probably all of the above. Before the afternoon hunt, I got down on all fours and pointed to my armpit and said to him, "Right here! Hit 'em right here!" for the last word on the whole affair.
For my afternoon hunt, I cased the M1 and pulled out that Marlin Model 375 in .375 Winchester that I was bragging about a few months ago on another blog. This lever gun has a scope on it which lends itself well for evening hunts as the darker it gets, the better one, hell, I, can see targets with it. I took some jabs myself from the hunt host about this rifle along the lines of, "I have a real rifle you can borrow if you want." I've never really understood this mentality from him on the subject actually. In his mind (and Jack O'Connor's), if it ain't a bolt-action rifle chambered in .270 Winchester, it ain't worth carrying.
At any rate, I ended up in a stand with this rifle and some time to kill before the Remington Hour. Before the end of the day, I watched a pair of red tails ride a thermal up and out of sight. I heard shots from afar and sighed--always happy for another hunter to collect, but always wistful it ain't me that just punched his tag. I sent Cousin Bill a message of text when I thought a deer was headed his way--modern deer hunting includes many types of communication...the lone gunman mentality is quickly evaporating with smart phones. I do miss my walkie-talkies though. The third grader in me still likes them!
It was only a matter of time before a shootable deer stepped out. It wasn't a buck. Again, the only male deer I saw still needed some growing up to do. Since I'm a guest at this location (as well as most of the other locations) I pretty much do what I'm told. No bucks smaller than a HUGE eight, and only big does. Stuff happens, sure, I've blown it before, but I try to stick with the program. And just between you, me, and a fence post, the youngish does taste a hell of alot* better than a gnarly ol' buck.
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| This could be captioned, "Before". I'll spare you the after for now. |
So, opening day for me became harvest day, and I'd made it to another rifle season by the Dan River. I'll always count myself lucky to do so. I have seen too many widows at the gun shop bringing in forsaken rifles for sale. And last summer I lost a good friend, hunting partner, and brother from another mother to cancer. I never take it as a given that I'll be around for another year. I don't count birthdays anymore, but hunting seasons...opening days.
Sure, I can count the friends I have that like to hunt on one hand, but most are the kind that'll help you change a tire in the dark after you cut it on a sharp rock after an evening's hunt on opening day, which is just what we all did for Cousin Bill last night before we left for home.
