roysclockgun
Handloader
- Dec 17, 2005
- 736
- 0
The Blessing
The low sun glinted off the antlers as the buck trudged purposefully toward me, out of the thick bottom. His line of march would angle him past my tree stand at roughly a forty five degree angle, bringing within thirty yards of my muzzle. For the first time that evening I felt no bite from the sub zero wind that made a mockery of my wool clothing. Earlier I had reflected on the wool that I was wearing and imagined any number of my ancestors in these same woods, waiting for a deer, or any critter that could go into the pot, to come within range. My Dad's family had lived on this land in what now is a bedroom community in northern Baltimore County. On a number of occasions, I have been threatened with having my hunting rights taken away by city folk, who now have taken over this area by organizing "improvement associations" and have no connection to the soil. My own direct line here goes back to before the American Revolution, but that carries no weight. If there are enough complaints about my flailing away at deer on my forty two acres that borders the thousands of acres of Baltimore reservoir property, they will end my hunting here with any sort of firearm.
Again I thought of the men who also lined up their sights on a deer, perhaps on this same spot. They were not wearing wool pants because they had planned to go hunting that morning. The pants that they wore were likely the only pair that they owned. Their stomach may have growled, reminding them how empty the pantry was getting on this cold, late November day. Getting a deer would bring more joy regarding the chance for fresh meat, than it would bring excitement over a successful kill of a buck!
On the old maps, showing royal British land grants of this area, it is called "Deer Park". How appropriate these days, for since the Maryland herds were reestablished in the 1920s and 30s, thousands of deer have been harvested around here. During the market hunter era of 1900 and earlier, deer herds had been shot down to nothing and any number of Baltimore restaurants had "Venison" on their menu. That all ended shortly after 1900 when deer were no longer to be found in the region. Market hunting had done a job of overkill. Finally, after diligent work and much money paid by hunters, through taxes placed on all things connected to hunting, herds were built back up by bringing deer from western Maryland mountains and from neighboring states. In 1948 a one week deer season was opened for buck only. By time the 1990s came around, it was claimed that more deer existed in Maryland than had been here when the Indians ruled the area!
My Dad, as a child, subsidized the family income by trapping and every morning, before he was nine years old, he checked his trap lines to pick up fox and racoon live from his traps and take them to the fur buyer to receive ten cents for each critter. The most dangerous to put into his sack, were skunks, as he had to grab them just right to avoid being bitten, or being made to stink to high heaven. If the skunk got him, he had to miss school and hope that his mother still had enough tomatoes to spare, so that he could bathe himself in tomato juice to get rid of the skunk's odor. During all of Dad's trapping in the woods of northern Baltimore County, he never saw a deer and Lord knows if he had, he and his family would have hunted for them. During all of Dad's growing up, there were no deer to see!
Now, as my buck drew near, I spoke to myself, inside my head : "Do not blow this shot! Keep calm as he will be very close!" At eighty five yards the buck angled slightly right, which would begin to lengthing the range, so I slowly began to squeeze the trigger, as I held the crosshairs on his neck while he continued walking. He was close enough to make a neck shot a clear and easy shot and I would lose little, if any meat and the shot would kill almost instantly. Just as I felt the nudge of the recoil against my shoulder I saw that the buck had swung his head to his left. Images of a ruined rack swam in my mind's eye. In the split second that it took me to recover my sight picture, the buck was down. Without thinking, I had chambered another round and held the cross hairs hard on the deer's spine, as he lay with his face and legs away from me, only feebly kicking with one fore hoof. Memories of stories of how "dead" deer suddenly jumped up and ran off, as the hapless hunter was climbing down from his tree stand, filled my mind. My finger rested lightly on the trigger and inside my head, I dared the buck to try to rise. A long two minutes passed and no movement came from the buck. Removing the round and closing the bolt on an empty chamber, I tied the rifle and lowered it from my perch to the ground. After approaching away from his hooves, I prodded the buck with my muzzle but got no response. Even before I hunkered down, I spotted a small, neat hole over the deer's left eye, where my bullet had entered his head and lanced downward to exit the right side of his lower neck. No wonder he had dropped as if poled! I sat with him and placed my hands on his still warm shoulder, reveling in the moments that he and I would be there, alone in the forest. His thick, hollow hair gave off heat to my cold hands as I worked my fingers through to his warm hide and enjoyed the loosening of my cold joints, relieved by the heat that the deer gave me. The gods of the hunt had smiled on me at his expense, but his life was taken not only to satisfy my strong desire to hunt, but to have my family enjoy food that was not created inside of plastic wrap and sold chilled under bright flourescent lighting. My buck had never been touched by another man. He had likely already sired many more deer, as his rack was high and wide. At this moment, I can still look up on the wall and see his handsome chest mount lording over my den. Before I began to field dress him, I could sit with him and watch the sun track across the sky and thank God that I still feel this closeness to Him in a wild place like this, without concrete under my boots. I felt strong kinship to my ancestors who gave me the hunter's heritage to carry on. All of the days waiting in the cold, between kills were forgotten and I knew why I rose in the predawn darkness to do this.
Steven
The low sun glinted off the antlers as the buck trudged purposefully toward me, out of the thick bottom. His line of march would angle him past my tree stand at roughly a forty five degree angle, bringing within thirty yards of my muzzle. For the first time that evening I felt no bite from the sub zero wind that made a mockery of my wool clothing. Earlier I had reflected on the wool that I was wearing and imagined any number of my ancestors in these same woods, waiting for a deer, or any critter that could go into the pot, to come within range. My Dad's family had lived on this land in what now is a bedroom community in northern Baltimore County. On a number of occasions, I have been threatened with having my hunting rights taken away by city folk, who now have taken over this area by organizing "improvement associations" and have no connection to the soil. My own direct line here goes back to before the American Revolution, but that carries no weight. If there are enough complaints about my flailing away at deer on my forty two acres that borders the thousands of acres of Baltimore reservoir property, they will end my hunting here with any sort of firearm.
Again I thought of the men who also lined up their sights on a deer, perhaps on this same spot. They were not wearing wool pants because they had planned to go hunting that morning. The pants that they wore were likely the only pair that they owned. Their stomach may have growled, reminding them how empty the pantry was getting on this cold, late November day. Getting a deer would bring more joy regarding the chance for fresh meat, than it would bring excitement over a successful kill of a buck!
On the old maps, showing royal British land grants of this area, it is called "Deer Park". How appropriate these days, for since the Maryland herds were reestablished in the 1920s and 30s, thousands of deer have been harvested around here. During the market hunter era of 1900 and earlier, deer herds had been shot down to nothing and any number of Baltimore restaurants had "Venison" on their menu. That all ended shortly after 1900 when deer were no longer to be found in the region. Market hunting had done a job of overkill. Finally, after diligent work and much money paid by hunters, through taxes placed on all things connected to hunting, herds were built back up by bringing deer from western Maryland mountains and from neighboring states. In 1948 a one week deer season was opened for buck only. By time the 1990s came around, it was claimed that more deer existed in Maryland than had been here when the Indians ruled the area!
My Dad, as a child, subsidized the family income by trapping and every morning, before he was nine years old, he checked his trap lines to pick up fox and racoon live from his traps and take them to the fur buyer to receive ten cents for each critter. The most dangerous to put into his sack, were skunks, as he had to grab them just right to avoid being bitten, or being made to stink to high heaven. If the skunk got him, he had to miss school and hope that his mother still had enough tomatoes to spare, so that he could bathe himself in tomato juice to get rid of the skunk's odor. During all of Dad's trapping in the woods of northern Baltimore County, he never saw a deer and Lord knows if he had, he and his family would have hunted for them. During all of Dad's growing up, there were no deer to see!
Now, as my buck drew near, I spoke to myself, inside my head : "Do not blow this shot! Keep calm as he will be very close!" At eighty five yards the buck angled slightly right, which would begin to lengthing the range, so I slowly began to squeeze the trigger, as I held the crosshairs on his neck while he continued walking. He was close enough to make a neck shot a clear and easy shot and I would lose little, if any meat and the shot would kill almost instantly. Just as I felt the nudge of the recoil against my shoulder I saw that the buck had swung his head to his left. Images of a ruined rack swam in my mind's eye. In the split second that it took me to recover my sight picture, the buck was down. Without thinking, I had chambered another round and held the cross hairs hard on the deer's spine, as he lay with his face and legs away from me, only feebly kicking with one fore hoof. Memories of stories of how "dead" deer suddenly jumped up and ran off, as the hapless hunter was climbing down from his tree stand, filled my mind. My finger rested lightly on the trigger and inside my head, I dared the buck to try to rise. A long two minutes passed and no movement came from the buck. Removing the round and closing the bolt on an empty chamber, I tied the rifle and lowered it from my perch to the ground. After approaching away from his hooves, I prodded the buck with my muzzle but got no response. Even before I hunkered down, I spotted a small, neat hole over the deer's left eye, where my bullet had entered his head and lanced downward to exit the right side of his lower neck. No wonder he had dropped as if poled! I sat with him and placed my hands on his still warm shoulder, reveling in the moments that he and I would be there, alone in the forest. His thick, hollow hair gave off heat to my cold hands as I worked my fingers through to his warm hide and enjoyed the loosening of my cold joints, relieved by the heat that the deer gave me. The gods of the hunt had smiled on me at his expense, but his life was taken not only to satisfy my strong desire to hunt, but to have my family enjoy food that was not created inside of plastic wrap and sold chilled under bright flourescent lighting. My buck had never been touched by another man. He had likely already sired many more deer, as his rack was high and wide. At this moment, I can still look up on the wall and see his handsome chest mount lording over my den. Before I began to field dress him, I could sit with him and watch the sun track across the sky and thank God that I still feel this closeness to Him in a wild place like this, without concrete under my boots. I felt strong kinship to my ancestors who gave me the hunter's heritage to carry on. All of the days waiting in the cold, between kills were forgotten and I knew why I rose in the predawn darkness to do this.
Steven
