Art Eatman
Moderator In Memoriam
Well, sometimes.
I took Byron Quick out this afternoon on a little pasear through the back country. I figured I oughta at least find him a darned deer, after dry runs of the last few days.
So, saddling up the Gray Goat, we headed out. Drove here, there and yonder, stopping from time to time to look the country over. No joy. I sorta timed it to get to a particular area in the last hour of daylight, having seen a few deer in that area in the past.
Still no luck. Topping a rise, I idled down and stopped. Time for a rest break (again), anyway. Some 25 miles behind us, of really rough jeep trail. We yakked, stared, and yakked some more. Hmm, time to move on, sez me. Just as I touched the key, I saw a deer. Hmm. Buck? Well, sorta. fork-horn. Big body for a youngun; maybe 120, field-dressed. So, we get out to say Hello. Maybe 50 yards. I warned Byron that if he shot the buck, we'd have to clean him. Well, that solved that problem. Bucky cocked an eye at us; we cocked an eye at him, and we all stood there, looking cockeyed.
By this time we were maybe 35 yards from Bucky. He decided to leave. He took off at what was almost a fast walk for twenty yards. Stopped. Looked. Byron got a photo. We talked to him some more and he wandered off, taking maybe five minutes to get around a hill and out of sight...
Hokay. Off we go, intrepid hunters, still seeking the Mighty Biggun. Another couple of miles, and Lo! And, Behold! Six deer! Two yearlings, two does, a bit-bigger forkhorn, and an almost-shootable 3x3. Maybe 75 yards. So, more cockeyed. We walk and talk, and they say it's time to leave. I'll bet they almost got into a full trot! Lots of stopping and looking back.
Y'know, you almost hate to shoot any deer that stoopid.
Maybeso tomorrow we'll find Ol' Biggie...
, Art
I took Byron Quick out this afternoon on a little pasear through the back country. I figured I oughta at least find him a darned deer, after dry runs of the last few days.
So, saddling up the Gray Goat, we headed out. Drove here, there and yonder, stopping from time to time to look the country over. No joy. I sorta timed it to get to a particular area in the last hour of daylight, having seen a few deer in that area in the past.
Still no luck. Topping a rise, I idled down and stopped. Time for a rest break (again), anyway. Some 25 miles behind us, of really rough jeep trail. We yakked, stared, and yakked some more. Hmm, time to move on, sez me. Just as I touched the key, I saw a deer. Hmm. Buck? Well, sorta. fork-horn. Big body for a youngun; maybe 120, field-dressed. So, we get out to say Hello. Maybe 50 yards. I warned Byron that if he shot the buck, we'd have to clean him. Well, that solved that problem. Bucky cocked an eye at us; we cocked an eye at him, and we all stood there, looking cockeyed.
By this time we were maybe 35 yards from Bucky. He decided to leave. He took off at what was almost a fast walk for twenty yards. Stopped. Looked. Byron got a photo. We talked to him some more and he wandered off, taking maybe five minutes to get around a hill and out of sight...
Hokay. Off we go, intrepid hunters, still seeking the Mighty Biggun. Another couple of miles, and Lo! And, Behold! Six deer! Two yearlings, two does, a bit-bigger forkhorn, and an almost-shootable 3x3. Maybe 75 yards. So, more cockeyed. We walk and talk, and they say it's time to leave. I'll bet they almost got into a full trot! Lots of stopping and looking back.
Y'know, you almost hate to shoot any deer that stoopid.
Maybeso tomorrow we'll find Ol' Biggie...
, Art