I spent a weekend at Al and Karin's hunting at Cochrane's a few weeks back, and even screwed up my chance at a big beautiful buck. I made a horrendous shot and never recovered the deer. This was the first deer I had within range I had all season. This was the third I had seen while bow hunting all season. I am a spoiled brat from the heart of deer country, and I didn't deserve to shoot one up here. I have had duck, pheasants, and walleye at my finger tips since I moved up here, and my deer brain was destroying me. Once the rifle season opened, I hoped I could shoot the first brown one that showed up and be done with it.
My beloved Rachel brought me back to reality the evening before my hunt. I have not had an evening talking with her that has hasn't ended in reduced blood pressure. I just needed to get out and enjoy myself again without the stigma of shooting a booner, or a deer at all. My goals were to see a deer, and enjoy the rafts of geese that wafted through from Canada.
I was able to get permission from a landowner less than a mile up the road. In fact, I was on the property adjacent to where I hunting doves in September, and the same one I used to access my first duck hunts of the season. Because the house was empty at the time, and there were no horses in the pasture, I literally sat in the pasture right behind the house.
I sat beneath an overhanging cedar tree and watched the world wake up.
I finally got to see my deer.
I watched three bucks work the edge of the slough on the adjacent property, all three shooters, but one was a tank. It amazed me that at 700 yards I could see the splits in his G2's. When I lost them I watch another decent buck work that same edge and walked directly away over the crest of the hill towards Clark. When I lost sight of him, I watched a red pickup pull into the same field and park on the crest where the buck stood minutes before.
I continued to scope for more deer and watched another brute of a buck push a doe into the deep and chase off four other small bucks in the area. At around 9am I watched that decent buck from earlier come back over the top of the hill and lock up halfway down. The red pick dude was enjoying his nice toasty 'South Dakota deer stand', and the buck slowly made his way down to the bottoms, not taking his eyes off of the truck.
I was beyond freezing at this point.
I have struggled with the cold this year and I do not know why, but thankfully it has not cost me too much yet.
Nick texted me a photo of his unpreparedness of the winter onslaught. I responded with my own photo of clear and cold. My hands could barely handle my phone. I hit send and looked up.
Next to a lone, tipped boxelder in the pasture was that decent buck.
He took roughly half an hour to cover a half section and now he was in my pasture. I dropped the phone, moved my make-shift bipod, and settled the cross-hairs.
I thought, "lets see how close he can get before I-"
BLAM!!!!
I tried to rack another shell into the chamber and failed horribly. I watched as my first South Dakota swamp donkey pinwheeled around from where he stood last.
I made my standard incoherent phone calls and stood in awe. Normally, I would shoot a deer and regain feeling in my extremities again, but as I stood at the top of the hill, I was so cold I was nauseous. I went back to the car, all 70 yards to it, and did my best to collect my gutting supplies. My leg and toes were burning by the time I got back to my spot. I grabbed my bi-pod and headed down the hill. I got to share the recovery of Michael's buck this season over face-time, but since my phone is minimalist, I figured I would just have him on the line. It was a great to share the recovery of my rifle buck, even if it was over the phone. Pics ensued:
The shot was 218 yards with my Uncle Rick's 300 win. mag. I thought my muzzleloader barked...
Because he dropped on the spot and pinwheeled around, I thought I had actually smoked him. As I told everyone in my calls, "Smoked him, right through the heart. And by heart I mean hip..."
Less than ideal, but as my Uncle Rick always told me, dead is dead, don't matter how.
I have worked hard for this site.
Rachel told me awhile back that she would rather I just put a dead deer in boat instead of hanging it on the back of our nice vehicle. I will be damned before I miss out on that chance.
Michael Parker felt it necessary to send me this later in the afternoon:
I was able to bring it home, and then put it in the boat to cool overnight before we quartered him out. Rachel's boss gave us the green light to use there heated facilities and the calf jack so I was able to hang my deer and butcher it with tunes.
He was not the largest deer I have ever harvested, and in fact, he was likely the smallest in body of any none-button buck I have ever shot. There are two classes of deer in this country, small and stringy, and herford steers with antlers. I think we all know which gene pool I pulled from.
I am generally not one for sending off my deer to have someone else do the work, but after quartering, trimming, and cleaning, I sent the meat we got to the locker. Their reputation is stellar, and that's what the Mrs. wanted. I guess we will see in a couple months.
Stay Tuned
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