My dad tells a story about when he was a young man and went out hunting with his grandpa.
It was a cold and windy day, the arctic north wind a sudden change from the pleasant southern breeze that had been blowing all summer and into the fall. Even down along the river bottom with it's abundance of trees both big and small the wind zipped along, making your cheeks smart. They'd already walked a long way when Grandpa finally spied some turkeys in a clearing. They loaded their guns.
"Don't shoot unless two or more of them have their heads together," Grandpa warned. To dad it seemed like an impossible suggestion. But sure enough, as soon as two or three turkey heads were all lined up, Grandpa squeezed off a shot. By golly, he brought the birds down alright.
Unfortunately, three birds with one shot still meant three turkeys to clean in the wind and the cold.
I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere.
But it has always struck me that more important than the stalking, more pressing than the need for meat, out of a hunt whether for turkey, antelope, deer or bears, was the need to glean a good story.
My own deer hunting story is really one of pure luck.
It was Saturday night of closing weekend and I was heading back to college the next day (shameless plug for Wayne State College) so this was my last chance to get the big buck I'd been salivating over for a week straight while I languished in the intellectual cage known as higher education. I've always been a kid after my dad's own heart and I shared a love of hunting, though not of early morning hunting, with the guy who gave me his name.
I was nervous. Not because I might have to shoot something but because I might not kill it with a shot. I was wracked by the idea that we might have to finish off the poor booger at close range. If there was a time to make a clean shot just like we'd practiced, this was it.
We took off around 4:00 with sunset just over an hour away. The best place to find deer is along the river so over the bridge and around the bend to Grandma Jamison's house we went.
"Keep your eyes open for some deer." I quickly went to scanning the trees and hay meadows as we trundled past in the big green pickup. Nothing moved.
We topped the hill on the east side of our ground. That's when we spotted him. Across the hay meadow and standing broadside on a hill was a buck of good shooting size. I won't lie and say he was the biggest buck I've ever seen but I will say my dad shows everybody with any interest in hunting the rack from my first deer.
Anyway. We got out of the pickup, crunching as quietly as we could across the vaguely scattered snow left from a freak storm a few weeks back. The buck didn't even raise his head.
Strategically placed, because we strategically place things instead of losing them or forgetting them at our ranch, on the field was a half of an alfalfa bale. A perfect place to brace up and take aim at the old buck.
I sighted him up. Dad asked if I was ready to shoot. All I remember thinking was: if I wasn't ready now, I didn't think I'd ever be.
I squeezed off a shot. The reverberations bounced off the trees and came ringing back in waves. The bucks head came up, he ran forward a few paces, the does with him scenting the air and skittering away. He limped on three legs.
Dad squeezed off a shot beside me.
I'd like to tell you that the buck went down after that or ran away without a scratch.
He didn't.
He kept standing so I squeezed off another shot.
Nothing.
Dad gave it one more go and the first big buck I'd ever shot dropped to the ground.
All said, we hung up the deer about sunset, one of the shortest hunting campaigns I've ever heard of. But it made a good story and when you go hunting. that's really the prize you come home with. That, and the sting of a north wind on your cheeks.
