Post by Odin on Dec 26, 2017 21:32:17 GMT -5
My little VW putters up the last rise and round a little bend. I cut the lights, carve a U-turn and pull along side the gravel and into the grass. A flash catches my eye and I peer up to catch a shooting star blaze across the night sky like some sort of flaming slow-pitch softball. Stunning…
Well, at least there was that, I think to myself.
Sometimes hunting is simply that, hunting. It’s been five years since I’ve hitched a deer to the tow rope. Five long, long years. And so far this year hasn’t gone very well either. Last week was the season opener and on the second day I stopped a beautiful four-point at 70 yards and managed a clean miss with my scoped 475.
So this week I took a trip out to the range again to try to sort out what had happened. A poor shot would have been one thing, but a clean miss? C’mon. Well, the gun was shooting fine, as usual, so after the last rifle shooter left I pulled out Dad’s Python and walked up to about 25-30 yards and sat down. I’ve been working on a load using some of the Speer half-jackets that came with the gun and figure I might as well shoot a couple cylinders full to see if they group any better or worse than last time I was out.
Seated, knees up, forearm on thigh, six-o’clock hold on a pair of cheap paper plates. I run through two cylinders and walk up the the backstop. There sit two little groups nestled at the base of their respective plate, right in the space the front sight fills the rear notch.
Damn, those are teeny little groups.
Dad’s Python does need some blood on it, I think quietly to myself.
I slip the cartridge box from my coat pocket. Six rounds left. Well, I say to myself, there’s tomorrow’s hunting load.
I work my way to my blind under a bright silver moon, the ground a tapestry of blue diamonds. The wind cuts my face frozen and I silently wonder how in the world I’ll make it to dawn. I crunch my way through the oak ravine that separates my blind from the rest of the world and step out into a small crescent-shaped clearing that runs north-south between two deep ravines. At the head of the clearing, a ridge which spills out onto a broad expanse of ranch land. To the south, a steep drop and then the river.
As I head down the field edge toward my blind I hear a rustling of weeds. Two deer are feeding right in front of my chosen spot and I’ve just spooked them. My heart sinks. Then they stop and mill about some more. Well, what the heck I shrug, and make my way to my blind and work quietly to get settled in. There’s nearly an hour yet until first light. Thankfully, somehow, there’s no wind here.
After a short while I begin to hear that pair of deer milling closer and closer to my blind. But I can’t see a thing. They keep moving closer. At one point there’s one not ten feet to my left. She paws the ground, but doesn’t blow. I am a stone, willing myself into non-existence. She bleats and I hold my breath. Finally she moves on.
I hear the pair mill about, then move off to my right, the rustling of the tall grass fading into silence. Certainly they’re gone now. Moved up above the ridge and onto safety of the ranch land. Then light comes. A giant owl glides overhead. The birds flutter by. Chickadees and Cardinals. Then the squirrels awake.
I spend a couple hours sitting like a statue trying to distinguish between the random rustle of a fox squirrel and the measured cush, cush, cush of a whitetail’s hooves through the deep oak litter that flanks this little field. A bit past 8:30 my heart and my hands give in and I break my vigil for a cup of coffee. I sit and ponder my options as the warm beverage thaws me out. Sit a while longer, or take a walk and risk dropping a deer where no one has any business trying to drag a deer out? Then, out of nowhere there’s movement.
Peering directly across the field and into the oak ravine I spy them. A pair of does gliding past. A little rustle and then shortly they glide back from whence they came. Ears and eyes strain, but I cannot detect them. Then, out of nowhere, they’re behind me. Then across and in front of me, but still I see nothing. An hour passes without a sound. Then a crunch and snap far to my right. I turn to look and spot the lead doe edging out of the oaks and into the clearing from behind me, maybe 60 yards out. Then comes the second. I make ready, knee moving up, forearms to knee, pistol cocked. I rest the gun in a clear lane.
Neither deer is very large, but they’re nice. The lead doe is a bit bigger than her sister and she angles past my front sight as I struggle to decide. Decent doe, or unpunched tag? I sniff and she stops. The sight settles, the hammer drops and both does blast off into the oaks.
I hear faint stumbling. Then silence…
Well, at least there was that, I think to myself.
Sometimes hunting is simply that, hunting. It’s been five years since I’ve hitched a deer to the tow rope. Five long, long years. And so far this year hasn’t gone very well either. Last week was the season opener and on the second day I stopped a beautiful four-point at 70 yards and managed a clean miss with my scoped 475.
So this week I took a trip out to the range again to try to sort out what had happened. A poor shot would have been one thing, but a clean miss? C’mon. Well, the gun was shooting fine, as usual, so after the last rifle shooter left I pulled out Dad’s Python and walked up to about 25-30 yards and sat down. I’ve been working on a load using some of the Speer half-jackets that came with the gun and figure I might as well shoot a couple cylinders full to see if they group any better or worse than last time I was out.
Seated, knees up, forearm on thigh, six-o’clock hold on a pair of cheap paper plates. I run through two cylinders and walk up the the backstop. There sit two little groups nestled at the base of their respective plate, right in the space the front sight fills the rear notch.
Damn, those are teeny little groups.
Dad’s Python does need some blood on it, I think quietly to myself.
I slip the cartridge box from my coat pocket. Six rounds left. Well, I say to myself, there’s tomorrow’s hunting load.
I work my way to my blind under a bright silver moon, the ground a tapestry of blue diamonds. The wind cuts my face frozen and I silently wonder how in the world I’ll make it to dawn. I crunch my way through the oak ravine that separates my blind from the rest of the world and step out into a small crescent-shaped clearing that runs north-south between two deep ravines. At the head of the clearing, a ridge which spills out onto a broad expanse of ranch land. To the south, a steep drop and then the river.
As I head down the field edge toward my blind I hear a rustling of weeds. Two deer are feeding right in front of my chosen spot and I’ve just spooked them. My heart sinks. Then they stop and mill about some more. Well, what the heck I shrug, and make my way to my blind and work quietly to get settled in. There’s nearly an hour yet until first light. Thankfully, somehow, there’s no wind here.
After a short while I begin to hear that pair of deer milling closer and closer to my blind. But I can’t see a thing. They keep moving closer. At one point there’s one not ten feet to my left. She paws the ground, but doesn’t blow. I am a stone, willing myself into non-existence. She bleats and I hold my breath. Finally she moves on.
I hear the pair mill about, then move off to my right, the rustling of the tall grass fading into silence. Certainly they’re gone now. Moved up above the ridge and onto safety of the ranch land. Then light comes. A giant owl glides overhead. The birds flutter by. Chickadees and Cardinals. Then the squirrels awake.
I spend a couple hours sitting like a statue trying to distinguish between the random rustle of a fox squirrel and the measured cush, cush, cush of a whitetail’s hooves through the deep oak litter that flanks this little field. A bit past 8:30 my heart and my hands give in and I break my vigil for a cup of coffee. I sit and ponder my options as the warm beverage thaws me out. Sit a while longer, or take a walk and risk dropping a deer where no one has any business trying to drag a deer out? Then, out of nowhere there’s movement.
Peering directly across the field and into the oak ravine I spy them. A pair of does gliding past. A little rustle and then shortly they glide back from whence they came. Ears and eyes strain, but I cannot detect them. Then, out of nowhere, they’re behind me. Then across and in front of me, but still I see nothing. An hour passes without a sound. Then a crunch and snap far to my right. I turn to look and spot the lead doe edging out of the oaks and into the clearing from behind me, maybe 60 yards out. Then comes the second. I make ready, knee moving up, forearms to knee, pistol cocked. I rest the gun in a clear lane.
Neither deer is very large, but they’re nice. The lead doe is a bit bigger than her sister and she angles past my front sight as I struggle to decide. Decent doe, or unpunched tag? I sniff and she stops. The sight settles, the hammer drops and both does blast off into the oaks.
I hear faint stumbling. Then silence…