A Way Of Life

By Shawn P. Howard
Howard Brothers Guide Service

As a tagging agent in central Maine, I get the opportunity to see what the area is offering for hunting and trapping success. I also get to meet many hunters from around Maine and from far away that come to enjoy what Maine has to offer. Some faces I see every November to tag their deer, and many return with just as big a smile to watch their hunting partner tag their trophy animal. Hunting season creates lifelong friendships, and brings family members together. Time spent in the outdoors offers quality time with loved ones away from the pressures of every day life.

Since I was 14 years old I have looked forward to deer camp, not only for the thrill of the hunt but also to spend time with my older brother Heath. Six years my senior, my brother spent much of our childhood testing my ability to withstand severe beatings and daily humiliations like only an older brother can provide. Throughout the early years I envisioned that one day the beatings would subside but what I didn’t envision is that my brother and I would share a common obsession for the outdoors.

Hunting season allows us to spend time together and share moments that we normally cannot seem to make time for. Sometimes it’s not easy for a grown man to turn to another and say, “ hey, I really care for you brother” but a high five and embrace after a successful shot from a ladder stand on a buck that you have been dogging for the last two weeks, says the same thing. Among hunters there is a universal language. The smiles and congratulatory high fives when someone returns to camp with a successful harvest, says, “Good job, we’re proud of you”. Just as a pat on the back and a shrug of the shoulders after a miss says “nice try, maybe next time friend”.

I am grateful that hunting brought my brother and I together. We will forever share a special bond in the outdoors. Today my brother passes his love for hunting on to his son Hunter and soon to his daughter Hannah. They will share special moments together and form a special bond with their father. I look forward to doing the same with my two sons Dalton and Bryson. Recently, I became a Registered Maine Guide. I want to share with others what my brother and I have experienced through hunting. It is not about the kill, it is about the experience. It’s about spending time with family and friends in an environment that somehow seems to bring people together like nothing else can. Hunting is an obsession, but a good one. Hunting is a way of life that many of us chose because it is a tool not only for game management but also for life management.

I hope that the tradition of hunting in Maine stays strong and that my sons will share the same bond that my brother and I share. Hunting is a way of life that only those who have experienced it can truly understand it.

A Way Of Life

As a tagging agent in central Maine I get the opportunity to see what the area is offering for hunting and trapping success. I also get to meet many hunters from around Maine and from far away that come to enjoy what Maine has to offer. Some faces I see every November to tag their deer, and many return with just as big a smile to watch their hunting partner tag their trophy animal. Hunting season creates lifelong friendships, and brings family members together. Time spent in the outdoors offers quality time with loved ones away from the pressures of every day life.

Since I was 14 years old I have looked forward to deer camp, not only for the thrill of the hunt but also to spend time with my older brother Heath. Six years my senior, my brother spent much of our childhood testing by ability to withstand severe beatings and daily humiliations like only an older brother can provide. Throughout the early years I envisioned that one day the beatings would subside but what I didn’t envision is that my brother and I would share a common obsession for the outdoors.

Hunting season allows us to spend time together and share moments that we normally cannot seem to make time for. Sometimes it’s not easy for a grown man to turn to another and say, “ hey, I really care for you brother” but a high five and embrace after a successful shot from a ladder stand on a buck that you have been dogging for the last two weeks, says the same thing. Among hunters there is a universal language. The smiles and congratulatory high fives when someone returns to camp with a successful harvest, says, “Good job, we’re proud of you”. Just as a pat on the back and a shrug of the shoulders after a miss says “nice try, maybe next time friend”.

I am grateful that hunting brought my brother and I together, we will forever share a special bond in the outdoors. Today my brother passes his love for hunting on to his son Hunter and soon to his daughter Hannah. They will share special moments together and form a special bond with their father. I look forward to doing the same with my two sons Dalton and Bryson.

Recently, I became a Registered Maine Guide. I want to share with others what my brother and I have experienced through hunting. It is not about the kill, it is about the experience. It’s about spending time with family and friends in an environment that somehow seems to bring people together like nothing else can. Hunting is an obsession, but a good one. Hunting is a way of life that many of us chose because it is a tool not only for game management but also for life management.

I hope that the tradition of hunting in Maine stays strong and that my sons will share the same bond that my brother and I share. Hunting is a way of life that only those who have experienced it can truly understand it.

Shawn P. Howard
Howard Bros. Guide Service

Thanks Dad, and A Wall Hanger to End it All…

By Paul Thein

 

I’m now 40-years old and I’ve been hunting a family farm since I’ve been a teenager fresh out of hunter’s safety classes. Hunting is a family tradition for us. Our hunting party consists of cousins and close family friends. Over the years I have watched many of them bag the big whitetail wall hanger you dream of. Of course I can’t complain and have done well on the family farm myself. My hunt last year was featured in a few magazines and online journals; showcasing five mature bucks I was able to harvest for our hunting party of nine. Even so, my deer hunts have never produced the whitetail of my dreams…the big one for the wall.

This year, half of our hunting land sold off and was developed into a golf course and housing development. I guess you can’t stop urban sprawl and it has finally caught up to our land. This year there was talk amongst our hunting party that this could possibly be the last hunt due to the continued developments.

After 25 years of memories you can now see the end of an era of great hunting and family memories coming to an end. I couldn’t help but feel sad that similar hunting experiences won’t be there for future generations to enjoy. Hunting is much more than killing deer, it’s a family reunion filled with playful competition over who can shoot the big one and childhood memories.

Living in California now makes it difficult for me to return to my boyhood home of Minnesota, but this is one hunt I knew I had to make. After all, this could be the year… what if I’m the one who bags the wall hanger of my dreams! What if this is the last hunt?

I returned and the weather was ideal, I didn’t have to fight the bitter cold that sometimes makes your teeth chatter and I saw more deer each day than I ever remember seeing. I enjoyed the familiar noises and sights of pasts, squirrels sounding like approaching deer as they dig through the brown leaves on the ground and the wild turkeys walking past my stand each morning.

Many memories of the past hunts raced through my head each day I walked through the woods to my stand. Day after day I waited patiently for the buck of my dreams enjoying the beauty of it all.

Nearing the end of this hunting season and possibly the end of an era, I actually began to come to terms with the reality that I might not knock down a big buck. With only two-days left in the season and just when I came to accept the fact I may never get one for the wall, the buck of my childhood dreams popped his head out of the thick river woods. He came quietly at dusk to scent the does feeding in the open field on the clover.

“Wow”, I thought to myself. “This buck is nice!” He had plenty of rack over the ears and an old white face showing his age. As he took a step cautiously into the open clover field only 60 yards away, I raised my gun. I didn’t take time to count the points or give him a chance to scent me.

After 25 years of hunting, I was sure this was the one – Mr. Wall Hanger! I put my sites on him and squeezed the trigger. The ‘Ol Boy fell immediately in his tracks. I could see him lay there from my stand and waited a moment to make sure he was down for good.

I couldn’t hold my composure and used my cell phone to report back to the house what I was sure it was a trophy. I knew it was the one I had hoped for 20-years and dreamed of since a kid. I thought to myself, “Now I can leave this wonderful experience with a memory I take with me and hang on my wall. I’ll have something to keep the memories alive and tell the next generation about.” This is the way it should end with your biggest buck at the end!

Still not knowing how many points this buck was, I finally composed myself to approach what I hoped would be at least a 10-pointer for my mantle. With each step I was more and more assured this was my dream buck.

As I walked within arms reach I saw a “drop tine”. I thought, “All right. A drop tine buck! No one has shot a drop tine on the farm ever.”

Then as I grabbed hold of his massive rack and pulled the one side out of the mud. I saw how nice this boy really was. “Yippee, a 13-point double drop tine buck!” This is the one I had dreamt of year-after-year since I was a boy hunting with that single shot 12-gauge. Wow what a way to end it all. A trophy of a lifetime and a wall-hanger to remember it all…keeping the memories alive forever! Thanks dad for the experience…

Two Jakes and Them Darn “Skeeters”

 

It was Good Friday, April 18, 2003. It was overcast and muggy in South Carolina. My brother, a friend of ours, our friends boy (age 6 or so) and I, were off to turkey hunt. The “skeeters” were so loud it sounded like the recent NASCAR race at Bristol with all of the buzzing around our heads. We could barely hear the owl hoots. I almost couldn’t see any of the camouflage on my brother’s “Hat” because of the “skeeters”. I mean there were at least 40 plus just on his hat. After applying bug spray a second time, we headed off.At the first place we stopped, we were only greeted by the skeeters and a couple of barred owls that commenced at a few fly-bys in perfect wing-tip to wing-tip formation. Since we didn’t hear any birds gobble, our friend suggested that we move to a different spot and give it a try. We decided to set up a few yards off a dirt road where we had seen a lot of fresh tracks. We placed a pair of hen decoys on our side of the road and a Jake decoy on the other side. All of the decoys were arranged so any birds walking down the road would have to be within 50– 60 yards before they could see them. We didn’t want a bird to hang-up more than 100 yards and not come in.

With the decoys placed, my brother gave a series of clucks and purrs on his Lynch Jet slate call. No answers. Then he gave a few series of yelps on his Gaskins Box call. We sat there and nothing showed up. We waited for almost an hour. At 8:30AM there was neither a sight nor sound of any turkeys, so my brother asked me to ease out into the road with my gun and see if anything was up or down it. I was very quiet when I made my way to the edge of the road but there was nothing up the road and nothing down the road. So I turned and walked back to pack up my stuff.

My brother passed me on his way to get the decoys. Our friend and his son were 15-20 yards diagonally behind us over our left shoulder packing up. Nobody had spoken a word. I get my seat in my pack and turned to look at my brother. He’s frozen hunkered beside the first decoy. He stuck up two fingers and motions up the road. He then motions for us to quickly sit back down. I motioned to our friend and his boy to sit back down. By this time my brother was back to the tree motioning to our friend that two birds were coming down the road. My brother had seen one bird standing at attention in the road at 100 plus yards. Also, there was another bird feeding that had a white head; so we knew that there was at least one gobbler out there. I think my brother called a few times more; a few series of clucks, purrs & soft yelps. My heart was racing. I shifted a little more in their direction and waited.

At 8:50AM there was no sign of them. So my brother does a low crawl slowly out to the edge of the road to take a look. Peering from behind one of the hen decoys, he sees a head rise up at about 60 – 70 yards in the middle of the road. They were still making their way down to us; apparently they weren’t close enough to see the decoys yet. My brother was using his binoculars to try to see them working down toward us. At 9:15AM, he decided to low crawl back out and see if they were still coming toward us. He had picked up his binoculars and was crawling back out to see if they were on the way or if they had turned off the road into some scrub oaks.

He didn’t have a chance. Four seconds later a dog barked three times about 200 yards behind us and a long beard gobbled 50 – 75 yards in front of us. My heart stopped and the “Ol Shakes” kicked in. I turned a little more towards the sound. My brother grabbed his Gaskins Box and gave a series of soft yelps and clucks. We waited and waited with no answer. About 9:27AM my brother said, “Don’t move!! There they are!! Don’t move!! Breathe!! Don’t move!!” Two birds were making a beeline down the road right at the decoys. We were shoulder to shoulder and I couldn’t see anything. We were looking in the same direction but I couldn’t see what he was seeing.

An oak tree about 10 inches in diameter that was about four yards in front of us blocked my vision. My brother’s breathing changed and I knew it was on!! At eleven steps, he could see two solid red heads twisting and turning in the roadbed. The gobblers were looking at the decoys trying to decide what to do. My brother could see their heads in plain view but I could not see anything. He saw the birds turn around and start to walk back in the direction that they had come from. With my peripheral vision, I caught movement to my right. I rolled my eyes as far as I could. I saw the black body of a turkey and the head on that bird was so red it should have been on fire. That was the first gobbler I’d ever seen while hunting. Over the other five hunts/days this year, it was just hens.

So I watched him take two steps and he was out of my sight. I still couldn’t see what my brother was seeing. So I shifted my body as quickly as I could, and got the thunder stick pointed on the spot where he had been and there goes another bird through. I didn’t know what it was, so I did nothing. “Ooh!! Wait!! There’s more movement coming into the opening from the left side”. As he stepped into the small opening my brother said, “Can you see him?” I said, “Yes!” My brother “putted” once to stop the bird. He said, “Take him!!”
I didn’t hear my gun go off at all. I remember seeing smoke and that big black dot rolling over away from me. The Super Black Eagle 3 ½” thunder stick roared to life. I paused. I was in disbelief when I saw that. He said, “Run!!” So I flipped on my safety and I was running before I even stood up. I got over to him and he’s graveyard; stone cold dead. Wait a minute! What is that behind him? There’s a wing bouncing 10 feet behind him. “Uh oh,” I thought to myself. “I didn’t see that hen there.” Just then my brother came running by me and grabbed it up. He looked at my bird that was still flopping just a little and says, “Pick him up by the neck”. So I grabbed it up and his neck was warm and bloody. My brother reached around and took the bird from me with his right hand. He didn’t say anything about the second bird; nothing. Soon as he turned and started out towards the road the second bird spun towards me and WWAAAAHOOOO!!!!!!!!! It had a BEARD too!!

We got out into the road and started walking back towards our gear and our friend was walking up the road toward us just a grinnin’. His son was all smiles too. I’m all over the place. I’m shaking, and grinning. I’m pacing backwards and forwards. I was in shock. Since I couldn’t control the “Shakes” long enough to unload it, I gave my brother my gun to unload. I got my first turkey and second turkey with the same shot. I went over to get my pack and find my spent shell. I looked back to where they were standing when I shot. I still can’t believe it. I walked it off, toe to heal with my boots. I don’t remember running through all the brush and small trees that I had shot beside. It was about 25 yards to the first one & the second was less than 5 yards past him. Man oh man!!!

Thanks to our friend for being a great guide. Thanks to my brother for calling them. Thanks to our friend’s son, “The Lucky Leprechaun”, for being on my hunt. My day was made even before I made the kill. It was great to see that little guy all decked out and ready for action. The Legend of the “Little Debbie’s Oatmeal Crème Pies” continues. It is alive and well in 2003 here in South Carolina. First Bird- 14lb., 5 1/2in beard, 1/2in spurs Second Bird- 16lb., 5in beard, 1/2in spurs.

By, Anonymous

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

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