When the fog lifted, we almost wished that it hadn't. Hunters EVERYWHERE. It was like someone had sent out flyers or something
THe worst part wasn't all the hunters, it was the idiots that had ignored the signs and driven their trucks out into the middle of the CRP
WHat a great example for a 10 year old.
Here he was, shivering with sweat from an hour hike (where he had packed in his rifle and a camelbak with gear), boots wet, surrounded in fog, trying to keep his scope dry, and there, 300 yards away is a $#@ing pickup truck, with two fat $#@s in it, glassing into the same canyon, warm and dry. Probably scared every deer out of the canyon driving in there...
The fog didn't lift until 7:30, so we only got to glass for about 30 minutes before we had to start hiking out. Just about that time the mayhem began. Shooting from every direction. There is no way they all could have been shooting at bucks. On the way out we did spot a herd of muley does, tounges hanging out, running from draw to draw, dodging bullets. What a circus.
That night we decided to try another spot. It wasn't much better. We counted 10 hunters and two deer.
We hunted hard the next day, only taking a break to make it to church (yes, in our cammo) and then back out to the field. We saw 8 more deer, none of them legal.
That night Pathfinder Jr. said it would be OK if he just shot a whitetail doe. He had football practice every day this week, except for Monday (his team is playing in the "Superbowl" this Saturday), so we decided to change the game and hunt for a doe Monday after school.
I shot my buck Monday morning, and thanks to CoryTDF's deer cart and JohnnyTDF's help managed to get the buck the 3 miles back to the pickup, skinned and in the cooler by the time Pathfinder Jr got off the bus at 3:30. So we geared up, hit the Taco Bell, donned his lucky stocking cap, and off we went in search of Mrs Whitey.
We hiked into a spot where we had seen some whitetail does earlier that weekend. I let Jr pick out a vantage point (with a little guidance) where we could see a tree/brush line that opened into a filed of wheat stubble. We got comfortable, set up the spotting scope and the bipod on my .270 and waited for the "witching hour".
After an hour of glassing we spotted three whitetail does down in the river bottom (private land), about 500 yards away, working in our general direction. Slowly. Too slowly. We watched them for an hour, willing them closer, then lost sight of them in the trees. We were still trying to spot them, when I caught a movement at the field edge to my left. Two does had just walked out into the wheat stubble. I got Jr's attention, and we stayed stock-still until they stopped looking at us and started feeding. When they put their head's down, Jr got situated behind the rifle and I pulled out the range finder. They looked impossibly far away. I ranged the closer of the two.
268 yards.
I shook my head. "Too far" I whispered.
Jr looked through the scope for about 30 seconds.
"I can hit her Dad". He whispered back.
I shook my head again. "Too far" I repeated.
"No. I can make that shot Dad. I can hit her"
I thought for a moment.
"OK, if she turns broadside". I said.
A moment later she turned full broadside. The rifle boomed.
No tell-tale "whop". The doe didn't drop, didn't flinch, didn't tuck her tail. She bolted, flagged and ran about 20 yards to the edge of the field and stopped. My heart sank. A miss.
"That's OK buddy", I said. "That was a long shot."
"Dad, she's still standing broadside. I can still hit her" He said, chambering another round.
He fired again. Again, no "whop". No reaction from the deer. Another miss.
"It's too far" I said again. "Don't worry about it. That was a long shot"
He looked through the scope for a second. "Dad, she's standing funny"
I looked through the spotting scope. He was right. Her back legs were too far forward.
"Oh no." I thought. "She is gut-shot". I felt horrible. She was only a few feet from a steep, densly brushed thicket. We would never find her in there if she's wounded. Especially in the dark.
"She's still broadside" Jr said. "I can still hit her".
He shot two more times. No "whop". The deer still didn't move. Miss. Miss. This had to be destroying my boy's confidence.
I was about to reload the rifle when he spun his head around, eyes wide.
"Dad!" She just fell over!!"
I looked through the binos. He was right. There she was. Lying on the ground.
We cautiously got up and walked toward here. By the time we covered the 300 yards to her, she was stone dead. I rolled her over to check the entrance wound.
And guess what?
3 bullet holes. A little far back, but all in the kill zone. Two of them were less than 2 inches apart.
I had to apologize to my son. That deer was dead on her feet after the first shot.
"Dad?" He whispered.
"Yes" I said
"Can I talk now?"
"Yes"
"WHHOOOOOOO HOOOOOOO" he hollered, grabbing me arond the waist.
We celebrated for a few minutes, said a quick prayer of thanks, tagged her and got to work.
Pathfinder Jr did most of the gutting (with a little help), we ran a stout stick through her back hocks for a handle, and I started to drag her the half mile to the truck.
After about 1/4 mile, Jr. said he wanted to take a turn. "Okay" I chuckled (that deer easily outweighed him by 30 lbs). Lo and behold he made it about 50 yards. So we switched out for the last half of the drag. When we got the truck in sight, he insisted on doing the final 100 yards all himself, beaming from ear to ear the whole way.
At home he did most of the skinning (with some very careful tutoring of course) except for the back legs and the neck.
I couldn't be prouder of my boy. He hunted hard, didn't let the conditions or circumstances get him down, toughed out the cold and fatigue, made a great shot (3 of them actually), worked hard right up to the end, and claimed his trophy.
Great day.
