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  • From: bob ford <bobford79 AT yahoo.com>
  • To: homestead AT lists.ibiblio.org
  • Subject: Re: [Homestead] deer hunting
  • Date: Sat, 13 Dec 2008 19:12:44 -0800 (PST)

Thanks for the written account ,Keith ..................bobford

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--- On Sat, 12/13/08, keith bellinger <bartermn AT epix.net> wrote:

> From: keith bellinger <bartermn AT epix.net>
> Subject: [Homestead] deer hunting
> To: "homestead" <homestead AT lists.ibiblio.org>
> Date: Saturday, December 13, 2008, 8:12 PM
> 12/10/2008
>
> Yesterday I saw the tail end of a big deer that saw, heard
> or smelled me
> first. I’ll go out on a limb and say it was a buck.
>
> Today I got wet, soaking wet. And, I didn’t see anything
> but a squirrel.
> But the temperature is in the forties; not sure what’s
> worse, cold or wet.
>
> When I came out of the woods this morning to a cold house I
> just sat
> here for a few minutes, wondering why I do it. When I’m
> outdoors,
> especially while hunting, my senses can reach out a
> thousand yards. I
> feel bigger.
>
> The chimney is cleaned, fire lit and floors vacuumed,
> coffee is dripping
> and I feel small. The rain is still coming down but the
> weather-people
> swear it will turn to snow before my hunting season is
> over. Good,
> because those deer are hard to see in a brown woods.
>
> 12/11/2008
>
> The rain didn’t turn to snow but ice. I was in it all
> day, got soaked
> and frozen and didn’t see even a white tail. I did see
> what I thought at
> the time was a fox, but now believe was a fisher or martin.
> It was
> darker than a fox and larger than a squirrel. Other than
> that I saw
> several squirrels, both red and gray, and some birds. Was
> it worth it?
>
> 12/13/2008
>
> Yesterday as I was readying to go, I glanced out the window
> and said to
> Gin, “it’s foggy out there.”
>
> I walked out the back door and found the fog was actually
> snow. Too late
> to turn back now, I hurried to the pines below Hawthorn
> Ridge and
> hunkered down. I was quickly coated and invisible, that big
> buck won’t
> know he’s died.
>
> I didn’t see a thing except tweetybirds.
>
> Today, the last day of our season, was cold! My thermometer
> read eleven
> degrees when I got up. At two o’clock this afternoon the
> thermometer at
> Rene and Ellie’s showed twenty-two. That was when I left
> my tree for the
> first time all day. I was absolutely frozen. The owners of
> my hunting
> range made me coffee, which combined with their woodstove
> warmed me
> enough to get back out there.
>
> Deer! I heard them coming but couldn’t pick them out for
> a minute. There
> they are! The first one’s a doe. I hadn’t raised my
> rifle yet. That
> second one looks like a … buck! I raised my rifle and
> looked into the
> scope. I saw fog. Must have breathed on it.
>
> Oh man! Quickly rubbing each lens I tried again and could
> just make out
> the buck through a still foggy circle. I pulled the
> trigger. The deer
> flinched, jumped and bounded into the thickest pines and
> laurel. Oh no!
> I listened. Crashing sounds. He’s been hit good. There he
> goes! Man, he
> doesn’t look wounded to me! Oh no!
>
> I listened while loading my pack—thermos and carpet
> scrap. Another
> crash, he’s heading right toward my truck! But that path
> is through the
> nastiest stuff in the woods. I climbed down very slowly.
> The ladder
> rungs were coated in an inch of ice. One slip and that buck
> gets away.
> Whew, solid ground.
>
> Walking directly toward the last heard noises I didn’t
> find his trail. I
> returned to my tree and started again, this time to where
> he was first
> shot. I found a single drop of blood. Two more steps
> revealed heavier
> splatter. There’s another, and another…
>
> I kicked him up several times during the trek but only
> caught glimpses
> of the stubborn, brave, noble deer; until, willing himself
> to his hooves
> one last time, he started hobbling away. I fired again. He
> dropped onto
> the white ground eighty yards ahead. As I neared I could
> see he was
> still breathing and staring defiantly in my direction. I
> walked close,
> fired my last bullet and ended my season with his life. My
> watch showed
> three-fifteen but tonight I learned it was running
> thirty-minutes slow.
> I won’t change the tag.
>
> I was kneeling, filling out the ear tag when I heard,
> “Did you get him,
> Keith?” I knew by the sound of his voice it was my
> friend’s neighbor,
> Jack. He stood between two trees a hundred feet to my
> right. I said,
> “Yes I did, Sir.” Jack said good job and walked away,
> perhaps thinking I
> was saying a prayer of thanks. I was. I also drank my last
> cup of coffee
> and smoked half a cigarette before getting off my knees.
>
> I had brought a camera and took a few less painful shots
> before field
> dressing the buck—an eight-point. The latex gloves I
> carried in my pack
> saved me from scrubbing my hands with snow. I saved the
> heart in a
> plastic baggy; will pickle it in memory of Grandpa Whalen.
>
> I dragged the buck to the front yard of my friends and
> visited a few
> moments. Rene helped load it into my truck. I thanked him
> for allowing
> me once again to harvest food for my family and another
> fine memory from
> his land. I will return with a more proper expression of my
> gratitude
> after butchering.
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