Deer Season 2018 Part 8

Typical, Typical

In this installment of Deer Season 2018/19 we’ll round things out for that season and maybe even talk a little about the 2019/20 season, which started on September 15, 2019 and will run through January 15, 2020.

But first, let me tell you about the deer my dear wife killed.

She got it the hard way.  The really hard way.

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After rifle season ended with my taking of a fat doe for the freezer, bow season returned.  I gave my hunting area a few days’ rest to let the herd recover from the excitement of losing a member of their number, and the smell of blood in the area.

Annie and I took a trip out west to celebrate one of my grandkid’s birthday.  We had a lot of fun and family companionship.

On the way back, Annie and I talked and laughed and shared our sorrow at not getting to see our sweet grandbabies again until Christmas, and excitement about getting most of them together for that wonderful holiday.

As we drove and the sun sunk slowly toward the horizon behind us, the deer started appearing on the sides of the highway.  Of course, most of them were far enough away from the pavement that they were only a source of interest, but a few were closer.  A couple times, Annie slowed the van so that she could hit the brakes if the critters leaped out in front of us.

Luckily, none did.

As we neared God’s Country (home) we got to an area where we rarely see deer.  I jokingly said, “Well, it looks like we’re OK now.  No worries.”

Annie shook her head, “Why did you have to say that?”

It is common knowledge that what I had just done was to impose a jinx upon us.

Cue the ominous music, “Dut, dut, DU-U-U-UH!”

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About ten miles from home we crossed a bridge and just as the van bounced off the end, I saw eyes off the side of the road, flashing in the headlights.

I blurted, “Deer!  Right THERE!”

But it was too late.

Even as I spoke, a young doe leaped onto the road and tried to cross in front of the van.  A deer takes a few steps to reach a top speed of about 30-35 miles per hour.  The van was already going about 55 MPH.  With less than 20 feet separating deer and van from crossing paths, the inevitable was bound to happen…and did.

With a crunch, we collided.

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The deer spun in the air, flying in slow motion off the pavement and into the high weeds on the east side of the road, and down into the deep ditch there as Annie started to slow.  The van seemed to be running fine so I recommended, “Pull on up to those people’s driveway.”  I indicated a farm a few hundred yards away.  “Stop if I tell you to.”

I watched behind us for signs of any liquid leaking from the van.

Nothing.

Our dear van, Ruby, was strong and made it to the driveway with no problems.  I checked her over and, again, found no sign of an oil leak or a ruptured radiator.  Either could indicate the risk of a burned-out engine.  Not good.  Rims and tires were uninjured except for the stain of stomach and intestine contents the impact had sprayed on them.  The left front of the vehicle was crunched and the left headlight was laid open, but still working.   The left fender was peeled back and that whole corner and left side of the vehicle were sprinkled with stomach contents.  Bits of flesh and hair festooned the worst damage.

I had no doubt that we had left a dead or dying deer behind us in the ditch.

A quick call to the highway patrol got us permission to go home and wait for an officer to come fill out an accident report.

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I was glad when that night and the ensuing days were over and we finished wading through the murky swamp that is insurance claims.  It was time for some more deer hunting.  Hopefully I could harvest one with a bow and/or blackpowder, and not, like Annie, by vehicular homicide.

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Time in the deer stands was peaceful and quiet, and increasingly cold.  My jacket, knit cap, and glove/mittens were joined by insulated coveralls and hand warmers to make the hours at least bearable.  Deer continued to wander in and out, including bucks just under my acceptable limit for using up my valuable any deer tags.  The days wore on and black powder season arrived at Christmas time.  I tried to balance family time with hunting time, giving family the appropriate precedence.

After Christmas, my family members left for their wide-spread homes and I started spending more of my time on stand.  My .50 caliber front-stuffer was loaded and ready…I thought.

Again, I saw lots of deer almost every time I went out, but, as before, none of them was quite up to my minimum standard for early use of my any deer tag.

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When the last day of the muzzleloader season arrived, I decided I’d go ahead and use my firearms any deer tag on a legal buck.  Even if it wasn’t my desired wall-hanger, it would be more meat for the freezer.  Also, since none of the boys had bagged a buck, anything with antlers would put me on top of our unofficial competition.  Of course, I was actually ahead with the two (or three, depending on how you considered the unfortunate button buck), but some antlers would cement the victory.

As I climbed into the ladder stand that final morning of the smoke pole season, my rifle lightly tapped the ladder.  It made a barely noticeable sound and seemed unlikely to do any damage…I thought.

I don’t remember why now but I wasn’t going to be able to go back out that evening so, when I saw five bucks walk out of the trees, I was determined that one of them was going to go home with me.  The smallest was a four-pointer and the largest was a small six or eight, so I sighted the rifle on the biggest one and waited for a clear shot.

When that time came, I centered the sights and squeezed the trigger.  At the “Boom!” all five deer rocketed out of the clearing, but none showed any sign of an injury.

I waited as long as I could before I needed to go fix breakfast for Mom, and climbed down.  With the little time I had I went to the spot and searched for signs of a hit.  Nothing.  I had made a mental note of where the buck I’d shot at had entered the woods and checked the tree line.  Nothing.

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I took care of Mom’s morning needs and went back out to search some more.  Nothing.  I started at the place the bucks had been when I shot and searched in a spiral.  Nothing.  Then I searched in a grid.  Nothing.

At some point I raised my rifle and looked at it.  The rear, ramp sight looked a little farther back than I thought it should be so I touched it with the fingers of my right hand.  It moved.  I took hold and slid the sight up and down the ramp easily.

I swear, I remembered tightening the sight down after zeroing it in during the off-season, but at times like that, you start to second-guess yourself. 

I searched the next day and the day after that, and went back in a few days before surrendering my muzzle loader season to bad luck…or, perhaps poor preparation.

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Bow season was still in for a few more days and I spent as much of it as I could hunting.  My season didn’t get any worse, or any better either, for that matter.  Most of the leaves were gone for the year, and the weather remained crisp and mostly clear.  I enjoyed the mornings and evenings I got to sit in the ladder stand or the pop-up blind, and continued to see deer almost every day, but the bucks I’d set my mental sights on didn’t come in range of my Barnett crossbow.

Hey, they don’t get big by being stupid.

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Life interfered again, as it is wont to do, and I was unable to spend the last few days of the season hunting.  I was sad to say goodbye to my four-hooved friends, and bid them a safe and happy eight months…until next deer season, when I would again take up bow and gun, and go in pursuit of the wily whitetail deer.

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