I Hope it Rains in Heaven

By Terry Higginbotham
www.HuntStats.com

 

I’ve been hunting for as long as I can remember. The first hunt I ever went on with my dad, he had to change my diapers. My first real hunting memory is sitting on a tree stand and snuggling under my dad’s coat. To this day, I can still smell the musky scent of that old coat.My brother and I were raised on hunting, fishing, and trapping. Our lives were truly like the Hank Jr. song, “A Country Boy will Survive”, we can “skin a buck and run a trot line”. We have had many memorable hunts. I still remember our first deer, riding out a flood, eating Twinkies and sardines, and even being used as dogs when the real ones didn’t want to run anymore.

My favorite hunt of all, unfortunately, turned out to be the last for my dad, Lil’ brother, and me. It was the last hunting day of the season, and by the next season I was in Omaha Nebraska, Lil’ brother was in Florida, and Dad was back home in Louisiana. We always made plans to come home and go hunting, but something always seemed to get in the way. Five years later my dad passed away.

As our family gathered for his funeral, the talk, as it always seemed to, turned to hunting. We all sat around telling lies and big stories. Each story was bigger than the last and all of them larger than they truly were. Lil’ brother and I started thinking about the last time we had went hunting together. It had been 6 years earlier.

It was cold, and rainy. Dad had brought his favorite snack, Sardines and Twinkies. You have not lived, until you have tried this tasty treat. I kid; I don’t know a single soul, except for my dad that could even stomach this combination. But it was his favorite, when he was hunting. They were like a good luck charm. As we stopped the truck at the trailhead the rain started to come down harder. It was still a couple of hours before daylight, so we stayed in the warmth and relative dryness of Dad’s truck. Dad had put a moon roof in his old truck with a jig saw and some plexi-glass, so keeping dry could be a real sport some times.

To pass the time we talked about all our passed hunting trips. We recounted the time I shot the truck, a real life lesson in gun safety. The time my brother got lost in the woods and had to be rescued by game wardens in a helicopter. The time my dad shot a goat and tried to convince my brother and I, it was a spike. We told story after story. We finally noticed that it was raining harder, the roof was leaking more, and the Twinkies were getting wet. You can’t let good Twinkies and Sardines go to waste. We washed them all down with what was left of the Stop n’ Go Coffee. We spent the rest of the day telling tall tales and laughing. We never loaded a gun, nor got on a stand, but it was the best hunt I ever had.

It’s been seven years since my dad died. Lil’ Brother and I have not missed a year hunting together, since. We made a pact and we are sticking to it. We bring our sons along, now. We are teaching them what we were taught. Dad use to tell us the greatest gift you can give your child is your time. He forgot to tell us, as a father, the greatest gift you can give yourself is time with your kids. I miss him so much, especially during hunting season. But I know I will see him again. If Heaven is perfect, and I know it is, there will be a Stop n’ Go with bad weak coffee, sardines and Twinkies, and it will always rain the last day of hunting season.

(c) Copyright 2004 OuachitaGroup All Rights Reserved

Owner of HuntStats.com and The OuachitaGroup, Terry Higginbotham, is an avid hunter, fisherman, and outdoorsman. He runs a research project studying the Whitetail Deer and the American Wild Turkey. Information from this study is available online at HuntStats.com or by email at: articles@HuntStats.com

 

Tyler’s First Deer

By J.T. Harden

 

The day had finally arrived for my son’s first deer hunt. Thinking back now, I am not sure who was more excited to hit the woods, him or myself. My son Tyler was now 7 years old and I felt confident in his shooting skills to harvest a deer.

In the weeks prior to the Missouri youth season, I had done my scouting in hopes for a chance at any deer for Tyler. I had decided on a nice two-acre alfalfa field with ridgelines running to each side of the field. A group of does had become daily visitors to enjoy the green field.

Several days before, I had placed our Double Bull blind in the corner of the field back inside the timberline. I place several branches from fallen trees around the blind to help it disappear. Tyler and I each had a comfy chair to sit in for the long hours we all have grown accustomed to waiting for deer to arrive.

The night before brought back so many memories for myself and my childhood hunting with my father. Tyler and I spent that evening getting all of our hunting gear out for our early morning hunt. That night meant just as much to me as the hunt itself would be just to enjoy those hours with my son and his excitement.

I awoke well before the sound of my alarm going off and made us each several snacks to take along. I snuck into his room to find him only half asleep. “ Is it time to go dad, “ he said to me. “ Yes it is son” and we got dressed and headed out. The morning was unusually cold for this time of year with the temps dipping down to the low 30’s. It was a good thing I had gotten a new order of Under Armor Cold Gear from good friend Tim Herald for each of us.

We drove the 10 miles down the road to our hunting spot and arrived well before daylight. We both settled in and awaited the arrival of a beautiful south Missouri sunrise. The morning came and went with us hearing several shots all around us, but much to our surprise we saw nothing but an opossum run by our location. I had received a few phone calls from fellow proud parents that morning on my cell phone so about 10:00 a.m. we decided to call it a morning and go see what our friends had taken.

It was now mid afternoon and I had caped out two bucks for two very excited young girls, but now it was Tyler’s turn again. We headed back to our castle we had built in the brush for an evening hunt. The hours passed by without him complaining of the cold or not seeing deer. The evening ended with a trip to McDonalds and no deer in the back of our truck.

We had to pass on the next mornings hunt due to complications, but would head back out the last evening of the youth season for what would be the best hunt of my life. Good friend Tim Mathews said that he wanted to take us to one of his spots he had because his daughter had filled her tag on the opening day with a nice 5-point buck.

We arrived to the meadow that we would be hunting on about 4 p.m. that afternoon. We walked the ridge to an open pasture and decided to settle down beside a nice oak tree over looking the pasture and a small stock tank. It was a nice evening to hunt with the sky lit up with a colorful array of oranges, yellows, and purples. As the sun slowly crept closer and closer to the tree line my hopes of my sons first deer were slowly fading when Tim grabbed my shoulder and said huge doe behind us.

I slowly moved Tyler around to the other side of the tree for a better shot. I could see her now out about 125 yards feeding across the field. Tyler steadied his Ruger Mark II .260 on his shooting sticks but could not find her in the scope. She fed behind a brush pile and we slid up for a closer shot. She came out the other side of the brush pile and was still out about 115 yards. She was just about to enter the woods and be out of site forever when Tyler said he saw her in his scope. Tim whistled and I gave a doe bleat and she came to a stop. He told me again he was on her, and I said to make sure he was behind the shoulder and he assured me he was. He reached up and flipped the safety off and I eagerly waited to hear the thunder of his gun. He shot and the doe crouched down with her tail down and did a 180-degree spin and ran into the woods.

“ Did I get her “ were the first words out of his mouth. I thought for sure he had missed her. “ I know I got her dad, I could see it in the scope. “ “ Let’s get up there and see if we can find blood then.” I said. We walked about twenty yards and another doe was feeding our way. I got Tyler into position again and told him to be steady and make a good shot. He would not take the shot because he was sure he shot the first doe, and kept telling over and over he knew he hit her good. Boy am I glad now he was right.

We walked up to where she entered the woods, but much to our amazement could not find a drop of blood. Tim mentioned that this was a draw that went out to where we parked. After a half hour of looking for blood we decided to walk the draw out and see if we could find her. We were about 70 yards into the timber when I shined my light up on the ridge to what at first I thought was a dead log. I walked up a little closer and knew it was her lying dead. I grabbed my son and we both ran up to her lying on the hillside with a perfect double lung shot. I must admit I had tears of joy in my eyes and hugged my son and told him this was the best hunt of my life. We gave high fives, hugs, and laughs while pulling her up the hill for pictures.

It seems like it was yesterday that this hunt took place as it is burned into my memory forever. As a fellow father and hunter I cannot express enough how important it is to get kids into the outdoors whether it be hunting, fishing, hiking, camping, or just playing get them outside to enjoy mother nature. I also encourage getting them and yourselves involved with the many organizations out there for kids like National Wild Turkey Federations Jake program, or the Ducks Unlimited Greenwings. These are just a couple of the many programs that are out there to teach kids the importance of keeping our hunting heritage alive. I ask each of you the next chance you have to take a kid hunting.

By JT Harden

A True Hunter and Nothing More

By Sean C. Simmons

This is how it began: I was looking around my hunting land in the spring and I found a nice sized six-point shed. So, I began to wonder where this deer could be. I put my game tracker up and got some pictures of him around my corn. The man across the street told me he had seen four big bucks around this same area. So after that all I could do was keep putting corn out for them to eat.

Opening day in Maryland for rifle season started. I went out there like any other hunting season and got in my stand. It was windy like nothing I had seen in a while. My hunting area is swamp land here near the shore. I waited all day and not a single doe or buck came within view of my stand. I was thinking that it must be the wind keeping them away.

All of the corn I had been putting out for the deer was now gone; they had eaten up 500lbs of the stuff. I decided that between the bad weather and not seeing any deer, they must be moving and feeding at night. The weekend came and went and I saw nothing at all; not a single deer.

So Monday arrived and I went out again. I waited again all day and as the sun was going down, I heard a grunt of some sort that startled me. From out of nowhere a deer came right by me running full tilt. I couldn’t get a good shot of at him. Frustrated, I went back too camp, ate dinner and went too bed.

I woke up the next morning and got all set up and stayed at my stand until 5:45 pm hit. I was cleaning up my stand and it was pretty much dark out there. In my head I thought maybe I should look at the corn pile one more time. As I neared the corn pile, I looked and there he was coming over the wood row. I looked in my scope and my heart was pounding. To me he looked like a ghost His rack was shining white along with his body. I went to shoot and my safety was half way on. By now I had calmed down a little so at about what I thought was 100yards away, I took a shot with my .300 Winchester magnum.

Right after I fired, everyone began calling me on my 2-way radio. My dad was yelling at me, “Did you get it?” I told him it was very dark and I had aimed at his chest. I wasn’t sure if I had hit him or not but I knew those Leopold scopes are very good.

I got down out of my stand and walked over toward where the deer had been and plainer than day, there he was not even 15ft from were I shot at him. I had taken him right in the lungs.

I got back too camp and began comparing its’ antlers with all the others there. They sure looked bigger than any others that were there. You would have too have seen them to believe it.

I took the deer to the weigh in station. It weighed 185lbs. with an 8 pt rack. After that I had to get home to my wife. I had only got to see my deer for an hour but I thank God for giving me my life and this beautiful deer. Without Him this could have never happened. I am truly blessed with a wife and a little boy that I will share these moments with. I will teach my son to hunt just like my dad showed me.

I am 23 years old and I have been hunting beautiful whitetail deer for 10yrs and every year I love it.

Sean C. Simmons
Maryland

The Stand

By Tony Middleton
aka GunRights4Us

 

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 and parking area was 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 were 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.

By Tony Middleton

Son’s First Buck

By Tony Middleton
aka GunRights4Us

 

My son killed his first buck last season. Now if that isn’t a milestone in a young man’s life I don’t know what is. Sadly, there are too many young men who will never experience this milestone because of the changing values of this country. I was fortunate to grow up in a family that saw guns as tools, and hunting as both a pleasure and a necessity, and even though I am raising my family in the midst of suburban America, I still strive to impart to my boys the values of self-reliance and self-sufficiency. In my opinion, hunting is one of the best methods to do that. But that’s grist for an entirely different mill.

 

 

 

I’ll spare you all the burdensome details, but last fall I lost a valuable hunting lease in Baldwin county Georgia. It was about 1,000 acres of mixed farmland, hardwoods, and pine saplings that I shared with exactly zero other hunters for the vast sum of only $400. Fortunately I was able to secure one spot for myself with the hunting club that assumed the lease. But try as I might I couldn’t get more than a single spot. I was told that I could take my son, but only ONE firearm between the two us. It was a bitter pill to swallow to share property with five other hunters that for 10 plus years I’d had all to myself.

Josh and I missed opening weekend, but the second weekend found us on the stand in the predawn darkness. I picked out two side by side limbless trees that were close enough that I could whisper instructions to Josh, since I had decided that he would be the shooter this trip. We were in a good spot in the rear corner of the field, with a hardwood bottom to our backs and the perfect amount of cover between us and the edge of the field. This is about the point where Murphy made his appearance. I was so focused on helping Josh be quiet with his tree-climber stand that I fumbled and dropped a crucial wingnut in the weeds at the base of my tree. I had suffered the same loss of a critical wingnut years before, and I usually kept a spare taped to the stand. Now, standing there in the steadily lightening morning, I remembered using my spare wingnut on a home repair project during the summer. I had intended to replace it and had never gotten around to it. I cursed the ill luck and resigned to just stand quietly at the base of the tree.

Josh’s assembly of his stand, and his climb up the tree were about as quiet as a bull in a china shop! Clearly he had not practiced using his stand like I had instructed. My heart sank because I just knew that this would be a wasted hunt. The mosquitoes moved in for breakfast and my misery was complete.

Shortly after sunrise we watched three does work their way down along the far side of the field. Josh and I had already agreed that, even though it was a Doe Day weekend, we were there for horns! We enjoyed the view but we stuck to the plan. Seeing deer, any deer, always makes me feel good – even if I don’t shoot. I had begun to think that maybe Murphy would go ahead and leave us alone, but he made another appearance about this point.

I’ve been hunting deer for nearly thirty years, and one thing I’ve learned about the Whitetail buck is that he will usually show up when and where you least expect him. From the hardwood bottom to our left rear came a sound that makes a hunter’s ears perk up: the unmistakable noise made by a deer walking purposefully through dry leaves. In less time than it takes to tell about it, a nice six-point buck approached our stands. Josh, who had climbed to a height of only about ten feet above me, turned slowly and looked down at me with a look of absolute horror and frustration. At first I failed to understand why, but then it hit me. Josh is left-handed. His natural field of fire is to his right. The buck was coming from the one direction that would make it almost impossible for him to get a shot. Because of Josh’s height (in the tree), he couldn’t safely pass me the rifle. Because of how quickly the buck had appeared and how quickly he had closed the distance to us, there wasn’t time to make a move without making lots of unwelcome noise. I experienced the most incredible mix of frustration and thrill as I stood as still as a statue and watched the very shootable buck walk by at a distance of no more than ten feet! He never showed the first sign that he saw us, which is pretty remarkable since I was standing at ground level with my back up against a tree. That was the closest I have ever been to a deer “on the hoof”, and it was something I will never forget.

Later, as Josh and I trudged dejectedly to the house, we talked about all the things that we had done wrong. That afternoon, with a replacement wingnut and another one as a spare, we went back to our stands. This time we switched positions relative to one another. Josh sitting the right, and me to the left meant that he would cover the right and I would cover the left. The only route of an animal’s approach that we couldn’t adequately cover would be directly behind us. Of course, you know…that is exactly where the next buck came from: directly behind us.

The climb was much quieter than our morning climb since we had no setup noises to make, having left the stands at the base of the trees. Now we were positioned about 5 feet apart from one another, and about 15 feet high. Before us lay a mown hayfield, 200 yards wide and 800 yards long. The right side boundary of the field was formed by a tree line that ran the full length of the field, and at no point was wider than 20 yards. Its left boundary was a more substantial strip of woods that probably averaged 150 yards wide its full length. All the adjoining fields were backed by a low swampy bottom that stretched back to the Oconee River. And out of this bottom, straight behind us, came Josh’s buck.

Our prey was no trophy, but he was a buck of legal size sporting four points. I wouldn’t have shot this fellow, but then I have killed more deer than I can count [I feel compelled to write that this is not bragging. Many of mine were equally humble]. This would be Josh’s first kill, if he so desired. We had been back on our stands for about hour or so when the sound of the approaching animal came to our ear. Our visitor came up the incline out of the swamp, and entered the only bone fide thicket anywhere near our position. To my son’s extreme right, the tree line began. At this precise spot, the underbrush thickened to the degree that I would not advise a shot into it. The buck first paused on the far side of the underbrush and began working a rub. All this time, Josh and I had stayed still as was possible given that hungry mosquitoes had passed the word to their sisters that the evening meal had arrived. We had mouthed a few things back and forth, but as the deer close closer we avoided all sounds and slowed down to the speed of minute hands. Even though he was barely 30 yards away, I communicated to Josh that he ought not to shoot through the brush. Better to wait and see if the buck moved into a different spot allowing a more clear shot.

The buck, oblivious to our presence, continued to work his rub for the next quarter of an hour it seemed. After a bit he began to move on up the tree line, in effect quartering away from us though increasingly thicker cover. Disappointment crept into Josh’s face but I whispered to him to hang on and see what happens. Something told me that the closer we got to sunset, the more likely our buck would leave the concealment of the tree line and venture out into the field. If he did that within a reasonable distance, “you’ll most definitely get a shot” I said.

You might wonder at the fact we were now speaking to one another with a deer still so close. But the truth is, our rambunctious young buck was fully committed to a new rub to the extent that he was making plenty of cover noise for us. Although he was now about 50 or 60 yards away, we couldn’t see a single bit of him. We could hear every sound he made however.

The minutes passed. Josh and I both relaxed some, but we stayed at the ready. I observed my son and was proud to note that he was practicing excellent movement discipline and noise discipline. He was showing the signs of being a deliberate and focused hunter, and to note that pleased me immensely.

As sunset was still three quarters of an hour away, we were more concerned that the buck would get too far away before he made his left turn out into the open. He had finished with the second rub and now was proceeding further away up the treeline. Josh is a good shot, but if the animal was 200 yards away across the field, the chances of an accurate shot with the 30-30 would be greatly reduced.

Suddenly the deer made an appearance on the edge of the field. He looked to be about 70 yards away. Josh tensed and watched the animal intently. The line of sight from the hunter to the prey was not yet clear of brush. He waited and watched patiently. I watched both deer and man.

After what seemed to be five minutes of browsing along the tree line our buck turned and stepped further into the field. The change in position brought a nearly clear view to Josh and without hesitation he slowly stood up to further improve his view. As he rose from his seat he slowly brought the rifle to his shoulder. In one very slow and deliberate move he put himself into the firing position he needed. Liking what he saw, he silently cocked the rifle and gently squeezed the trigger. The report was sharp and the impact was obvious. I witnessed a perfect shot behind the animal’s left shoulder. The buck winced and attempted to rush from the spot. A staggering leftward circle was never completed as the animal stumbled and fell within twenty yards.

We waited a couple minutes before starting down from our stands. I cannot give an adequate description of all that I felt and all that Josh felt during those next few minutes. Pride comes high on both our lists if we were to try and list all the emotions that possessed us. His pride at his first kill. My pride at seeing proof that the boy …was a boy no longer.

By Tony Middleton

Sight in Your Slug Gun Without Breaking the Bank

By Richard Becraft

New shotgun, new barrel, it doesn’t matter what the reason. Sooner or later every hunter needs to do it. Sight in that deer gun. If everyone had a magazine backing them with an expense account and plenty of time wouldn’t we all be lucky! Just stop by the grocery. Pick up a magazine, ransom rest, a box of every kind of shells made and then on out to our dream range.

Well until that happens, let me see what I can do to take some of the sting out of our end of that expensive ammunition. Let’s start by getting it “on the paper”. We need a steady shooting platform and a steady, comfortable place for the shooter to sit while aiming. Sand bags are a must and something lighter but solid to use with them for adjustments. I use wooden blocks for that but I imagine phone books would work very well in place of them. Add a nylon ratchet strap to this list, a good paper target with a holder and we are ready to head to the range.

I’m using a Remington 870 here so with this type of pump action gun you can remove the barrel for this process. Once at the range set up your target 10 yards out from the table and set up your sand bags and blocks with the barrel with sights on them and the strap laying loosely under the block. I’m using a Remington 870 here so with this type of pump action gun you can remove the barrel. Place the nylon strap over the barrel and hook it to it’s self and tighten just enough to hold the barrel in a fixed position and again check for alignment with the bull’s eye.

Now look through the barrel and check for alignment with the bull. If it appears correct look down the sights for the same alinement as you see looking through the barrel. If these appear to match you are ready to move on to 25 yards and haven’t fired a shot yet. If they are not then make a sight adjustment and recheck until there is no obvious difference. When the sights and barrel appear aligned at 10 yards I recommend moving out to 25 yards and repeat.

I wouldn’t fire a shot until I had achieved this “eye ball” bore sighting alignment first. Once achieved though You are ready to fire one at 25 yards. Just because this seems very close to the target don’t take it for granted. Get the gun set on the bags and yourself solid in the seat. With an empty chamber dry fire the weapon once and watch through the scope or over the iron sights for any movement when the trigger snaps. Make what ever adjustments needed to minimize this occurrence. With that achieved load one in the chamber and make one solid, no doubts, shot aimed directly at the bull.

This shot should land in the bull or approximately 1 inch low. If it is not then once again strap down the gun and aim the sites or cross hairs directly on the center of the bull where you were aiming when the first shot was fired. When the sights are on the bull and the gun is solidly held by the strap on the sand bags, now you can adjust the sights to the point of impact.

Repeat this procedure at 50 yards and 75 yards and you’ll be ready to start trying different brands of slugs to shoot for groups to determine the best accuracy for you gun. For the terrain and the way I hunt here in southern Indiana I like to have my slug gun zeroed in for 75 yards. Zeroed at 75 and using the ammunition that suits your gun any shot between 0 and 100 yards should be a dead on “gimme”.

If you are familiar with a 22 long rifle and it’s ballistics characteristics your are ready for most 12 gauge slugs. Both the 22 Long Rifle and 12 gauge slugs are close enough to the same velocity that any where with in their range of acceptable accuracy the difference in ballistics on deer size game should be negligible.

Of course hitting them and killing them are completely different propositions requiring legitimate weapons suitable for deer size game. But when you are looking out there across an open field with a slug gun you have established confidence in it might help when choosing an aim point to consider where you would aim with that little 22 you’ve shot at all kinds of distances and targets. To many times hunters will over estimate a distance in the field and shoot right over the top of a deer.

This should get just about any deer gun on the paper at 75 yards and ready to start testing for groups in less than 5 shots. When those five shots each kick like a mule and cost a buck fifty a piece nobody wants to waste any. Good luck to all and maybe if the bruise goes away in time we’ll make a run for ammo and try some of those three shot groups to see what this thing is really capable of!

By Richard Becraft

I Saw No Deer

By George Karalis

Every year, there is this matter of becoming more fully integrated into the environment in which I hunt; to understand the ebb and flow, how the whitetail responds, and especially, how the buck keeps guard.

Every year it is a matter of learning how to better identify the flow of nature, to see her currents and to learn how to wade in gently and undetected, to dissolve into her spirit and to become one with her. Passionate indeed. It is about respect and doing it right.

And the summer serves as the eve of a new season. With it there is a summer calm which replaces the intense anticipation; the anxiety of the earlier months of the year. Those months when it was yet so far away, that I would find myself in the woods with bow.

It is as if though I was adrift at sea, away from shore, away from my lover’s arms. Knowing it would be a long time and all that I could do is dream. Preparation yes, with resilience to be sure, but with the sting of knowing, that I must wait.

But now the tide has turned and the Sun’s rays strike me a bit more softly, whispering that the time is drawing near. And the stoicism is replaced with a calm determination, knowing that I will be with her yet again and soon. And with bow in hand, I will share with her the setting Sun and wait to see what she will bring to me.

And I recall one such special day.

I saw no deer on a cold, windy and snowy Christmas Eve. It had been a great season, but a challenging one and I’d hunted hard. I was getting tired of getting out there. So I just figured I’d get out there, do some scouting and maybe hunt a little.

Against a cold strong wind, with my cold weather gear I set off. Skirting a known big buck thicket, I found no tracks in or out. So I continued on to the next one, a different thicket, but it was the same story. I headed off to the ridge picking up the trail of two hunters and their dogs. I followed their path wanting to figure their impact on the deer. I judged that they had hunted the morning based on their sign.

These hunters where familiar with the terrain; they knew where to cross the ridge to hunt the break line of the thicket. They knew where to enter to cross the swamp. They knew where to cut across the thicket to where the creek bends so they could get back. They had covered my entire early season hunting grounds, deliberately and thoroughly. Not a deer track did I see.

I headed to the other swamp, on the other side of the ridge that the creek empties into, from which it forms and continues once again. The small game hunters do not go there, as it is big timber skirting the reeds, with no easy creek crossing, still no sign.

I try crossing the creek at an unfamiliar spot and my leg goes through the still fragile ice and I fall forward onto the opposite bank, the weight of my backpacked stand and sticks sending me sliding forward. I get up, dust myself off and wonder what am I doing out here?

And as I’m brushing the water off my pants, I see his tracks. Unmistakable, splayed and round in the snow, they press deep into the earth. His gate is wide. I am no longer tired.

And he is traveling again with another deer as he always does late in the season, for the last three years that I have hunted him. They break off from one another and head to the thicket, as I’ve watched them do so many times, before they come together again and bed close.

I setup at the funnel and waited, but they did not come, that night. I watched the woods grow darker and the snowy floor grow brighter as the evening slid into night. The wind blew strong and heavy as I shared the evening with them in that same thicket.

I wondered at the marvel of it. And that is enough, for me to try once more.

By George Karalis

My First Deer

 

Saturday, October 4th, 2003, SC - That afternoon, I set out on my second hunt of the day with my guide leading the way. It was only my fourth day ever of serious deer hunting. It was a rough walk through a grown-up clear-cut. We walked through brush that Brair Rabbit wouldn’t have touched! I didn’t mind it though; cause I had a good feelin’ about the hunt. We got to the location where he wanted to setup, and we got our stands hung around the tree. My guide scampers up the tree about as quickly as a one of those pesky squirrels! I, being an inexperienced climber, took to my stand with confidence; because of the feelin’ I’d been having about this afternoon. So, up I went! I had no problems climbing up. I got to the height I needed to be at and as I dug the top seat part of the climber into the tree for the last time it slipped down about 2 inches. After gathering my thoughts on that slippage, I took my seat in my climber for the first time hunting. Recently, I had bought a Summit Revolution climbing stand.

My guide and I got settled fairly quickly. Soon three does walked out. They were scattered 10 - 20 yards apart. They were feeding, listening and looking up every now and then. The older, larger one of the three kept looking up the hill beside us. They slowly made their way a little closer to us, still feeding along calmly. Then suddenly without warning, they charged into the brush right beside us. I wasn’t really sure what to do, other than to sit as still as possible. That was a feat unto itself because this was the closest I’ve ever been to live deer while hunting. I’m thinking, what in the world made them bolt like that? They didn’t go too far; they just moved pretty quickly.

My guide informed me there was now a buck in the clearing. I was looking and looking but I couldn’t see him. I let my eyes blur. I was trying so hard to see him that I was making shadows and twigs into deer and I just wasn’t seeing him. Then I spotted him! He was with in range of the muzzleloader when I spotted him. Him being so close is why I over looked him the first time. I could tell that he had more than 6 points but that’s all I could see. I couldn’t get a good total count. My heart was pumping so hard it felt as though my body was jerking each time my heart beat. My heart was almost beating out of my chest.

I finally got the gun on him. I couldn’t seem to hold the crosshairs still because of the nervous twitch I had suddenly developed, so I rested it on my knees. That actually helped a little, but my knees were a shakin’ too! As I continued to rest the muzzleloader on my knees, my guide yelled, “Hey!” Rather than stopping, the buck took one more step to his left and looked back over his shoulder. Now he wasn’t broadside anymore. I had always been taught to aim for the heart or lungs. Well, at this point neither was an option; without shooting directly into the body on a diagonal. And I wasn’t about to try for a head shot on this one. So, I put the dancin’ crosshairs on the back of his neck and shoulders. I figured by aiming there, I would have a good chance at a solid kill or a clean miss.

I paused for a moment, and I waited; and I waited some more. I took a deep breath and slowly squeezed the trigger. It was 6:38 PM. Since I was using a muzzleloader, I couldn’t see a dang thing right after the shot except a lot of smoke. Then I caught a glimpse of my buck running up a hill towards the tree line. I looked up to my guide that was above me on the backside of the tree and said, “I think I missed him.” This was the first time I had shot a smoke pole.

I looked back to see my buck barrel rollin’ back down the hill. I was totally shocked. I honestly thought I missed him clean!! That’s when I lost it. I’m talking the Big Ol’ Gator-sized tears of joy! Man-o’-man!!! My first deer and a descent deer at that! I’d like to give a “BIG THANKS” to my guide for the use of the smoke pole and the opportunity to have an awesome hunt! THANK YOU!! The buck was an 8-pointer and weighed 127 lbs. He’s currently in the processes of getting ready for the freezer, grill and ultimately the wall. What a hunt!!!

- by Anonymous

Like Paul Harvey Says, “and now the rest of the story.”

By Dave Wamer

11 hours is a long time to spend sitting in a treestand.

My body felt the ache of the previous days hunt in which I spent the day in a stand. However, I was back on stand and willing to put in another 11-12 hour day. I heard steps in the leaves off to my right and looked up slowly in that direction. I saw legs of a deer and then a head…

This hunt was taking place at Croft State Park in SC on a bow only draw hunt where there are some monster deer. We had been to this area several weeks before to walk around and do some scouting. That scouting trip started as an adventure itself as we ran into Mr. “No Shoulders” Copperhead as we were getting out of the truck. Lankyman, Rustyfan, SBEhunter and myself covered a lot of ground that day searching for a spot to stick a big one. Not one spot really stuck out until near the end of our trip. The thunderstorms rolled in as we headed up from a creek bottom back towards the trucks.

 

We followed a ridge line that looked promising and came to the top where a small saddle 30-50 yards long connected to the adjacent ridge before dropping off the other side into a ravine. The saddle and ridge tops were mixed with white oaks and pines with a thick growth of understory that would allow deer to feel secure while moving from ridge to ridge. It looked difficult to bow hunt, with few shooting lanes from only a couple of trees big enough to climb. The place just felt like deer. There was food from the oaks and muscadines, easy access to water, thick cover for secure travel and it was no easy task for anyone to stumble on from the road. I liked it and planned on being back with bow in hand.

The first day was uneventful, long and hot with little activity. Since my scouting trip a few weeks earlier, a buck had visited a holly type tree 20 yards in front of me and left a small scrape as his calling card. The oaks were dropping acorns as squirrels danced from limb to limb driving me nuts all day long. The wind was right and blowing west to east across my front. I was just short of the top of the saddle facing south towards a large creek. I could not see the creek, which was 150-200 yards away due to thick growth. However, I had a good 75-100 yard view of the two ridges coming from the creek bottom that were joined in front of me by this narrow land bridge. I passed the time with some cheese crackers and a few chapters of a book. Finally, I saw movement and saw a deer approaching. I glanced at my watch and thought that it was odd for them to be moving at 3:30 in the afternoon as warm as it was. I was ready for the showdown regardless of the time and slowly reached for my bow. I could not tell if the deer had antlers yet and I slowly stood up as the deer walked behind a large tree. The deer began to turn from me and walked over the ridge. Quickly, I rolled the can over to try and bleat and attract the attention of the quickly leaving deer. She stopped, poked her head up, and looked straight in my direction. After a short search, she could not see the deer that was making the noise and resumed her march across the ridge. I tried the bleat again. This time her reaction was one of nervousness and the bleat caused her to trot off without looking back. It was early, and now I had some newfound anticipation, there were deer using this area. Much to my disappointment, I did not see another deer that evening. A smile did cap off the day as several turkeys flew up to roost along the ridge to my right and I thought of the days end bringing me one day closer to turkey season.

In the stand at 0515, the second day began as most with a lively transition from dark to light as the creatures of the woods awoke to meet the new day. Wish I could say the same for me. The second straight day of waking at 0330 was getting to me. I could barely keep my eyes open in the comfort of my stand. I fought off the sleep and managed to stay alert ready for a deer at any minute. They would not come, no signs of deer moving at first light, nor as the sun crested the tree tops. Hmm, I was looking at another long, long day in the tree. It was the last day of the hunt and I was not coming down from the tree until oh, dark thirty that night. Just after 8 O’clock I caught movement to my left and saw a deer coming over the ridge on the same trail as the deer from the previous night. I glimpsed antlers and thought it to be a 4 or 5 point. I gently raised into position and prepared for the shot. The deer turned down towards the creek bottom and headed away from me, not responding to bleat or grunts. I settled back in and patiently waited.

This deer had antlers! The deer was moving towards me acting like a vacuum cleaner while he scooped up acorns as he eased down the trail. I glanced at my watch and it was 1138. I wondered if this was the same buck I had seen earlier this morning. I grabbed my bow from the hanger and turned to position for the shot. The buck was coming down towards the saddle with the wind at his tail. I only had a few shooting lanes, but he was going to maintain a course that took him down a trail from my right to left and broadside at 20-25 yards. I watched him pass by the first lane, still not quite broadside and not the shot I wanted. He paused next to the scrape and raised his nose as to check and see who was visiting and then continued to slowly on his path. I came to draw as he passed behind a clump of brush and a small tree. I was in his backyard and the buck never knew it. Just as I quickly thought of my anchor point and did the quick mental check, the buck stepped into the shooting lane. It was almost a grunt and shot at the same time. The buck was just starting to quarter away as the broadhead hit the pump with the crack and slap as the arrow met its target. The deer kicked wildly like a donkey, my first thought was it was a heart shot and he wouldn’t make it far. The buck dropped his rear like a dog scratching his butt on the ground and then staggered as he tried to run up the ridge. No luck! He was loosing senses quickly and was stumbling down the side of the ridge with each step he took during the death run. I lost sight of him in a pine tree blow down 75-100 yards away as I heard him crash. Quickly, I scanned the ground for my arrow as I realized my heart was beating so fast I could see my glasses rise up and down with my pulse beat. The arrow was laying just where I had shot him, I glassed the area with binos and saw good blood on the arrow and the ground around it.

I packed up my things and decided to climb down and take my stuff halfway back to the truck before searching for the deer. No sense in rushing things. I had the rest of the day to find him and haul him out. Heck, there were several hills to cross and it was time to go find some dragging help anyway. I climbed down, checked the arrow and the sign, and felt good about the shot. There was bubbly, lung shot looking blood all over the arrow. I headed towards the truck realizing that my radio was in it. At the top of the next hill I hooted to rustyfan who had been hunting 150-200 yards from me. He hooted back and I eased over to tell him the news and get his help. Roughly 45 minutes later we were back at the base of my tree and ready to find the deer. The trail was easy to follow, blood heavy in most places and we never had to stop and really look for it. As we eased down the hill, Paul said “is that him”, but I could not tell from my vantage point. “Yeah, its him, there he is” Paul said as he walked up on the deer that had collapsed in the blow down pine that I had seen from the treestand. He was down and we took a minute to give thanks, look over the deer, share a smoke, and think about the long drag we had ahead of us with this deer.

The hunt ended with great results. Not only because I shot a deer, but because of the people I was with. I spent time in camp with a fella that is like another father to me, Treeclimber. I shared the struggle of dragging a deer from the woods in unbearable heat and miserable flies with a buddy that is always there for me, Rustyfan. And, I shared camp, scouting, stories, and another day hunting with my best friend, Lankyman.

Life is great, thanks for letting me share my story.

Dave Wamer
Copyright September 2003
All rights reserved

 

The Hunter’s Journey

By Ralph Martone

 

Perched atop the old Hotpoint refrigerator at camp is an item that seems oddly out of place. Resting in its place of honor is a section of wild cherry branch. Only about 14 inches long and an inch in diameter, the small piece of wood stands as a reminder that hunting is a sport of inches. Drilled squarely in the center of the branch is a hole from a flintlock rifle.The hole represents one of the biggest bucks I’ve seen while hunting. Each time I take the stick from its spot atop the refrigerator, I relive the hunt, the shot and the sight of that heavy-racked buck trotting off, headed for parts unknown. The small portion of sapling, containing a clean, round hole tinged in gray from the passing lead ball, is important to me. It reminds me that hunting is more than just the sum of your successes; that trophies lie not just in mounted heads or filled tags. Hunting is the extent of your experiences, interacting with nature and becoming part of a whole larger than yourself where you neither control nor dominate. The outcome is the result of your preparation and planning coinciding with the lives and instincts of other equally endowed creatures.

As deer hunters, we watch intently for movement that signals the coming of the buck we expect so much to see. When long minutes turn into hours and the day is wearing thin, our expectations are lowered. The buck needn’t be so big and the horns can now be less than the trophies seen on calendars. We are beginning to accept the worst; nothing will pass this way today.

Then, without the warning or fanfare that such an event deserves, a deer materializes. Looking as if it has always been there, it fits into the surrounding landscape like a long, lost piece of a puzzle. The deer by itself is enough to drain the breath from your lungs. But now that your eyes and mind see the horns, there is no way to regain the breath you’ve lost.

You try to react, but its over and the deer is gone. You stare hard at the spot where the deer once stood. A spot that for a brief second held so much hope. Everything now seems different. At the same time there are both more and less possibilities. As the buck proved, in hunting, anything can happen. Even though the deer is long gone, its ghost remains standing in that very spot. If you look carefully and concentrate hard enough and long enough, you can still see it standing there. Now in your mind’s eye, you raise the gun and fire, ending the hunt just the way you had planned.

It happens in all hunting. Turkey appear suddenly, putt and retreat, only to live on in our memories forever. Grouse hunters approach likely looking cover, ready, knowing what they must do at the first sounds of a flush. And yet at the flush they are left staring at a small hole among the branches where the rising bird has disappeared forever from our sight, but never from our minds.

In the beginning, days afield are measured in terms of games seen, shots taken and tags filled. With time, many hunters reach an understanding about what it means to be successful. As the years pass and the hunter matures, new measures of the hunt develop. Shafts of sunlight filtering down through the forest’s canopy to light up a distance hillside take the place of game sighted. Encountering a red fox hunting mice in a hay field or a goshawk cruising the timber in search of pine squirrels can more than make up for shots not taken. And finally, tags left unfilled are faced without regret as long as friends and young hunters have returned safe and happy from the day’s hunt. Only in one’s dreams does every buck fall before the hunter’s gun, every turkey answers the call with resounding doubles gobbles and each grouse takes wing from the grapevines only to land with a thud on the autumn leaves.

Watching a successful grouse hunter, I often think that it may be the moments just after the kill that are both the happiest and saddest. As the hunter reaches down for the fallen bird there is always a mixture of emotion. Success is blended with awe. The love for the bird as it once was is not easily replaced by the stirring of success. I’ve never seen a grouse hunter pick up a fallen bird that he didn’t smooth the feathers that encircle the neck. Running a large callused hand, scratched and bleeding from the push through the kind of thickets that grouse call home, over the crown of the head and down the back with a touch so gentle even his wife might be jealous.

I never set out to be a hunter, but in the end I can think of nothing better to be. Yes, I have other interests. I enjoy fishing, baseball, and basketball, but in reality, I am neither a fisherman, a basketball or baseball player. In the end, I am a hunter.

By Ralph Martone

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