Deer hunting season, once again, is knocking on our doors. It seems like yesterday that we were putting our rifles away for another year.
Although I loved deer hunting, and did it for many years, I have now retired from the sport. Alas, age waits for no one.
Recently I received a wonderful shock. I was sorting papers from my desk and discovered a paper I wrote back in the fall of 1966, when I went hunting for the first time in Cape Breton. I would like to share my story to today’s hunters. The data in the story is true. I hope you enjoy it.
BATTLING A BUCK
Fog seeped eerily through the trees. It was the crack of dawn and I was deep in the bowels of the dense Gabarus woods.
I had carefully made my way across a hardwood ridge and had descended into a swamp, which looked as if it had been taken from a scene in the TV horror show, “Twilight Zone.” My heart pounded as I scanned the area. It was big … in fact, it was immense with a tangle of windfalls drooped with wispy, hanging moss.
“One could get lost in here,” I thought, “really lost.” I tried to swallow, but couldn’t.
To make matters worse, a nervous ripple ran up my spine.
Courage being the better part of valour, I decided to make my stand. I sized up the situation and spotted a fresh deer trail not far from the swamp. Close by, I noticed a comfortable looking fallen tree, which gave me good cover and a decent view of the deer trail.
I tiptoed forward and sat down. By now, my bones were starting to chill so I lit a cigarette. As if things were not uncomfortable enough, the fog now decided to downgrade to mist. I mentally reviewed my situation as I peered warily through the trees.
“It’s a good morning for a hunt,” I said to myself. Soggy ground cover made for stealthy movement, which had allowed me to arrive in the swamp with minimum noise. Before entering the woods, I had calculatingly loaded my Winchester 32 Special rifle with the latest craze in factory ammo, the steel-tipped bullet.
I was now ready for anything from a monstrous buck to a growling werewolf. With my luck, the latter just might be my target.
Except for the occasional drumming of a woodpecker, the forest was quiet … almost too quiet. It seemed to soothe my tiredness at having risen at 4 a.m. My mind slowly drifted to the warmth of my bed. I wondered at the irrationality of leaving its comfort so that I could be here on a soaked log in the middle of a dank bog.
“Hunters,” I thought, “true hunters, are a rare breed … a special group dedicated to the perseverance of the most basic of primeval skills.”
I was beginning to believe that I was one of that rare breed (which, I must confess, was a bit scary), when a huge grey-brown object bounded over a log, and suddenly materialized some 50 feet on the trail directly in front of me. I swallowed and forced my pounding heart from my throat. It was a buck. A big buck with a majestic set of horns, and it was completely oblivious to my presence.
With nose to the ground it continued in my direction. Partially hidden by the fallen tree’s branches, I had some cover to protect my movements. With the safety off, I slowly brought the Winchester up to my shoulder and attempted to aim. The buck’s head-on approach made the target small, and I knew at this range that I would get just one shot.
I drew a bead on the centre of his face, but the rifle failed to co-operate. It seemed to have come alive. It moved ever so slightly up and down, contrary to my commands, and then decided to sway a bit from left to right. I had to get the rifle under control. I tightened my grip on the fore-stock and pressed the butt deep into my shoulder. For a split second the space between the deer’s eyes, the foresight and the notch in the rear-sight, became one. I squeezed the trigger.
The Winchester barked with authority. Simultaneously, the buck bolted into the air and dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Adrenalin seemed to bring my pulse rate to about 500 beats per minute. My eyes were rivetted to the huge horn-rack on the buck that was now my prize. “Wow,” I thought, “what a beauty!”
Being an experienced hunter (I had helped my dad with at least one or two kills when I was in my early teens), I knew full well that my first task was to field dress the deer because … uh … I think it had something to do with getting all the blood out of the animal, even though its dead heart was quite incapable of pumping a solitary drop. Anyway, it was a moot point, the task had to be done, and I was not going to break with tradition. I had been waiting a long time for this day. My first big buck.
I placed my Winchester, “ole Betsie,” on the ground and unsheathed my sharply honed Bowie knife. Resembling a somewhat modern version of Daniel Boone, I quickly closed on my trophy.
I nervously stood by the deer for a few seconds as I wondered how I should go about my task. You must realize that field dressing a deer is a somewhat tedious job and requires positioning one’s self correctly in order to do it with the grace of a surgeon.
Herein lay my problem … I couldn’t quite remember just where dad had positioned himself for this delicate operation.
A moment of uncertainty was rapidly replaced with a surge of youthful bullheaded confidence. Straddling the buck’s shoulder and neck area I firmly grasped the raised antler with one hand and placed the gleaming knife just below the jawline on the throat. The next sequence of events happened with such rapidity that I’m not totally sure that I can accurately describe them. But I’ll try.
I was raised in a farm community and as a kid rode bareback on several horses, some of which were cantankerous and tested my ability to stay on their backs. But I was never, in my wildest imagination, prepared for the ride that I was about to encounter.
The knife prickling the buck’s neck seemed to have been his wake-up call. Stricken with terror, he reacted. He could not have gone straighter into the air had he been launched from Cape Kennedy.
Reflexively, I grabbed both antlers … a wrong move. Instinctively, he bolted like a freight train for the most dense alder bushes and undergrowth. I clung for dear life to his horns … another wrong move.
I have felt the wicked sting of a wet towel snapped at my backside, but it paled in comparison to the alder whipping that awaited me. Amidst the snapping and cracking of nature’s “cat and nine tails,” the buck and I parted. He, to the deep woods and me, face first into the muck of the swamp floor.
Muddy, with bruised ribs and knees, and stinging face, I staggered from the tangle. Not willing to concede victory to the buck, I made my way back to my rifle, shook the cobwebs from my nauseous head and gave pursuit. It was 7:15 a.m.
Around noon, downtrodden in spirit, scratched to pieces and drenched from the now pouring rain, I threw in the towel and plodded my way back to the car.
EPILOGUE
There are three important lessons to my adventure:
The first is to never lay your rifle down when approaching a downed deer. Approach the animal with caution and be ready to shoot again should it stir.
The second is to wait for a half-hour before giving chase to a wounded deer. A wounded deer will not normally travel far before it lays down for a rest, but it will not do so if it is being chased. Once it lays down it will weaken or die.
The third and perhaps the most important lesson is to never, ever, under any circumstances, straddle a downed deer before it has been field-dressed.
Maj. Gary W. Ross is retired from the military. He lives in Sydney.
