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I like the rainy days. Days when it stays dark all day
and the water pours down, be it drizzle or a downpour. I like to write on such
days, uninterrupted by people asking me to come out and do something.
Most fishermen know that a rainy day is good day to be
out. Many deer hunters share that sentiment, and I am one of them. One recent
day explains the reason we often say, "Remember that day in the rain?"
The rain had arrived after a week of changing weather
- cold to warm, then snow followed by rain. The day before the storm had been
dark from the fog banks created by melting snow. The deer were much more active
than normal, apparently in anticipation of the approaching rain. Reported
sightings were many, although few were taken. Such is the luck of the hunt
I blew my chance like many others on that day, and I
had to smile at my overconfidence of that morning. Since I had the next day open
I decided to try the same spot again.
I walked to my stand in a light drizzle and thought
this bode well. Fifteen minutes later the skies opened up. In another five
minutes the rain found its way down the back of my neck and between the shoulder
blades. Sure I had rain gear. I just didn't know where it was at the moment. So
I circled through a cedar swamp for a couple of hours, getting soaked and
nothing else. "Call in the hounds and piss on the fire, this hunt's
over." (That's what they say at the end of a Southern hunt. It seemed to
fit this occasion.)
I had a change of inner clothes in the truck, and I
was so cold and tired that I lay down in the seat and slept until noon. When I
awoke I went to visit an old friend on the other side of the township.
My friend had indeed grown old since I had last seen
him. Now pushing eighty, old Rip had a hard job getting around these days but he
still relied on what food he could garner from the forest. I hoped he had his
deer already. He didn't.
"Only one I've seen was so big I didn't want to
have to drag it out. I didn't even want to carry the quarters. I mean, it was
huge. I'll wait for a small one. One that will be tender enough for me to
eat."
As he put on the coffee I noticed a strange rifle in
the corner.
"Pick her up," said Rip. That one was made
in the first year, 1894."
I saw that it was a Winchester 94 in 25-35 caliber. It
was the full rifle size and it was indeed in good shape.
"I thought you always used a 45-70, Rip."
"Got too heavy for me. A fellow traded that for
my old Model 86."
I could see why. His old 86 had been worth the price
of a good used truck, but I kept quiet about that. Rip was happy. Why tell him
the difference?
He was at the other end of the cabin looking for a
picture to show me when his excited voice blurted out, "There's a deer in
the woods in back of the garden. Grab that rifle. "
There was no time to argue. I grabbed the unfamiliar
rifle, two shells for it, and Rip's orange hat and coat. The deer had
disappeared into the woods on the hillside on the right, and I started straight
up the hill to try to intersect its path. I hadn't gone ten feet before I heard
Rip's voice whisper, "It's back in the clearing."
Sure enough, the deer was once again moving into the
woods. After a few steps in the crunchy snow I was able to hop along exposed
rocks to the top of the hill. I leaned against a pine tree and waited. In thirty
seconds along came the deer. I tried to settle the tiny front bead in the bottom
of the full buckhorn sight. This was an undertaking, and the deer kept moving
through a curtain of trees. Finally I got the bead settled, held on an opening
in front of the deer and waited. When his head and neck entered the opening I
squeezed the trigger.
The animal ran off at the tiny crack of the shot and I
was worried that I had missed. I went down to check and found no sign of a hit.
Then I found one hair. Of course, it could have fallen out when he ran, but I
checked further and found a small clump of hair a few feet off.
"Looks like you gave him a shave." Rip had
come out to look and he was not impressed.
"Let's follow it up, Rip. You never know."
It was fifty yards before we found blood. Thirty feet further on lay the deer.
It was not the big buck I had started after, but a small buck with spikes, easy
to drag and tender eating. There must have been two of them. I had shot the
ideal buck for Rip. I offered up a possible solution.
"Rip, why don't you put your tag on this one? It
should have been your deer and I shot it with your rifle."
"I can't. It's against the rules, you know? I
been hunting too long to change now."
I could see that he was right. I had never even
suggested such a thing before. Still, I figured there had to be a way to give
him some food.
"Say, Rip, you mind if I hang this in your
woodshed? I'll come back up and butcher him tomorrow."
"Sure thing. Do whatever you want."
"Will you take some of the meat?"
"If you're sure you've got enough. Don't cut
yourself short."
In the morning I laid the nicely deboned chunks of
venison on his woodpile. I took some tenderloin for myself, and then told him,
"The rest is yours, Old Boy. I can't eat much meat anymore, so I'd like you
to have this."
"That shines, boy." I could see that he was
pleased. "If you get hungry, you just stop by."
"I will, Rip. Some nice rainy day."
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