I grew up in rural central Illinois during a time when just seeing a deer was an event. My father was hunting them as soon as there was a season. I can vaguely remember him bringing home a 12 point old gray buck in 1974, harvested with a recurve and a cedar arrow. The big old deer scored about 150 and weighed in at 260 pounds dressed. Its looked down at me from the wall my entire life. It even made the local paper. When the coal companies sold the big woods he hunted, he switched to smaller woodlots that parishioners at his church let him hunt (he was a pastor). By then I my brothers and I wanted to hunt. As soon as we could pass his tests (4 arrows in a pie plate at 30 yards) he always put us first, giving us the best stands, but presenting it as "I want to hunt over there this morning," selecting a crappy place with little chance of a deer. The deer herds grew rapidly in the 1980s, seasons and limits increased and by the time I was a high schooler we only ate venison, and lots of it. Three big football playing sons eat a lot of meat.
Monday Pop now well into the 70s was visiting my house. His once powerful and thick frame is now bent. Spinal issues and nerve damage have robbed him of his strength and posture. His feet are numb and he stumbles often. No longer able to pull a bow, my uncle gave him a raggedly old geriatric crossbow and suggested he try it out. I got him down the hill in my back yard where the block target is. I cocked the bow, handed it to him and watched him trying to aim, squinting through a poor quality no eye relief scope, the bow wobbling like a flag in the breeze. I was not optimistic. Always a skilled marksman, apparently he can still time the wobble, as he was hitting the snuff can sized dots at 30 yards regularly. Though it was near 90 degrees, I asked if he'd like to try it out (here in Missouri bow season opens September 15).
I was able to drive him within a few yards of the blind on the edge of a turnip field, right where I installed a new trail and creek crossing with my dozer last summer. We got him set up in a little blind in front of the trampled turnips now looking look like a hog lot, tramped and browsed hard. I went and parked the truck, then walked a few hundred yards to a stand to marinate in sweat and mosquitos. Not long later, I heard the 357-magnum-like crack of his low-grade crossbow. A few minutes later the low whistle emerged from his gap toothed smile that always means blood spotted, come help boy. He nailed a little small antlered buck about 30 yards into the turnips. The little buck made it about 30 yards into the woods before expiring. I quickly gutted him, packed the chest cavity with ice and raced the 80 miles to my house. By 10 I had the hide off, meat boned and icing in a cooler. Pop maybe a little disappointed I wasn't handing him a knife to be stropped often enough as I mostly pulled the hide off the still warm carcass. The next morning, like we have done so many times before, we fried tenderloins in butter for breakfast, then cut meat and wrapped it in white butcher paper, laying it on dry ice in a cooler to freeze hard for the ride home to his house.
I don't know how many more deer pop will harvest, but I am sure grateful for this one, and for the man who taught me to seek out the last of the wild places, to walk the old paths, and to be still and listen for the faded drum beats of long ago. Though I have dressed at least fifty deer in my life, I still hear his voice echo through the canyons of my memory each and every time. Pull there son, cut here, but never there.......
Monday Pop now well into the 70s was visiting my house. His once powerful and thick frame is now bent. Spinal issues and nerve damage have robbed him of his strength and posture. His feet are numb and he stumbles often. No longer able to pull a bow, my uncle gave him a raggedly old geriatric crossbow and suggested he try it out. I got him down the hill in my back yard where the block target is. I cocked the bow, handed it to him and watched him trying to aim, squinting through a poor quality no eye relief scope, the bow wobbling like a flag in the breeze. I was not optimistic. Always a skilled marksman, apparently he can still time the wobble, as he was hitting the snuff can sized dots at 30 yards regularly. Though it was near 90 degrees, I asked if he'd like to try it out (here in Missouri bow season opens September 15).
I was able to drive him within a few yards of the blind on the edge of a turnip field, right where I installed a new trail and creek crossing with my dozer last summer. We got him set up in a little blind in front of the trampled turnips now looking look like a hog lot, tramped and browsed hard. I went and parked the truck, then walked a few hundred yards to a stand to marinate in sweat and mosquitos. Not long later, I heard the 357-magnum-like crack of his low-grade crossbow. A few minutes later the low whistle emerged from his gap toothed smile that always means blood spotted, come help boy. He nailed a little small antlered buck about 30 yards into the turnips. The little buck made it about 30 yards into the woods before expiring. I quickly gutted him, packed the chest cavity with ice and raced the 80 miles to my house. By 10 I had the hide off, meat boned and icing in a cooler. Pop maybe a little disappointed I wasn't handing him a knife to be stropped often enough as I mostly pulled the hide off the still warm carcass. The next morning, like we have done so many times before, we fried tenderloins in butter for breakfast, then cut meat and wrapped it in white butcher paper, laying it on dry ice in a cooler to freeze hard for the ride home to his house.
I don't know how many more deer pop will harvest, but I am sure grateful for this one, and for the man who taught me to seek out the last of the wild places, to walk the old paths, and to be still and listen for the faded drum beats of long ago. Though I have dressed at least fifty deer in my life, I still hear his voice echo through the canyons of my memory each and every time. Pull there son, cut here, but never there.......
