D
Deleted member 38069
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These stories are exactly what I was excited to read!! Truly thanks for sharing and keep them coming!
geetar
Well-known member
That’s a one @noharleyyet I know you are a proud dad of him now.
JShane
Well-known member
It would be jump shooting a limit of wood ducks with my son. We walked a levee that had a beautiful water filled ditch on one side that was the most ideal wood duck habitat i've ever encountered. It was a smooth easy walk filled with sightings of deer, otters, hogs, turkeys, and plenty of chances at flushing wood ducks.
D
Deleted member 38069
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Hard to top a good wood duck shoot! Thanks for sharing.
Too hard to pick a favorite, but here are a couple that stand out...
Though it's been over 30yrs ago, I can still remember the look on my Dad's face when we found my first buck. I really remember the pride in that look.
Fast forward a bunch of years and I'm sitting in my treestand with my oldest. He's just along for the ride at 6yo. We see a small buck walking away from us. Grandma had given him a grunt call the previous Christmas, so he wanted to use it to call the buck back. A couple of very loud "BLLLEEEEEHHH"s erupted from the call. Sure enough the buck came back and I shot it. One of the smallest bucks I've ever shot. I look over and my son is shaking! He says, "This is the best day of my life!". I'm sure my face resembled my fathers...
Though it's been over 30yrs ago, I can still remember the look on my Dad's face when we found my first buck. I really remember the pride in that look.
Fast forward a bunch of years and I'm sitting in my treestand with my oldest. He's just along for the ride at 6yo. We see a small buck walking away from us. Grandma had given him a grunt call the previous Christmas, so he wanted to use it to call the buck back. A couple of very loud "BLLLEEEEEHHH"s erupted from the call. Sure enough the buck came back and I shot it. One of the smallest bucks I've ever shot. I look over and my son is shaking! He says, "This is the best day of my life!". I'm sure my face resembled my fathers...
I've had some good adventures on hunts & filled a few tags.
But I gotta admit it is taking a dink 6 point bull ,on my own place a few years ago. Not the hardest or easiest tag to fill. But a
very satisfying accomplishment @ 66.
But I gotta admit it is taking a dink 6 point bull ,on my own place a few years ago. Not the hardest or easiest tag to fill. But a
very satisfying accomplishment @ 66.
Fullquiver
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- Jul 18, 2018
- Messages
- 450
My favorite hunting memory was being with my dad out back on the farm during the archery season. I begged and begged for him to take me with him for the evening. He relented and let me come.
We sat for what seemed like a very long time. Then like a ghost a six point whitetail buck walked out. Mind you this was the mid 70's.
Dad was a savant as far as archery was concerned. This buck was 35 yards out and dad had his bear Super Kodiak recurve and Microflight yellow shafted arrows. I watched intently as he drew and shot. The arc of that yellow shaft in the fading light and the reaction of the buck as the arrow impacted. It made a short dash and crash into hawthorn bushes at the end of his run.
I remember the smell of the pine we were sitting in, the stillness of the woods after the brief drama had just unfolded and the smile on my father's face. He didn't say a word. He didn't have too.
We sat for what seemed like a very long time. Then like a ghost a six point whitetail buck walked out. Mind you this was the mid 70's.
Dad was a savant as far as archery was concerned. This buck was 35 yards out and dad had his bear Super Kodiak recurve and Microflight yellow shafted arrows. I watched intently as he drew and shot. The arc of that yellow shaft in the fading light and the reaction of the buck as the arrow impacted. It made a short dash and crash into hawthorn bushes at the end of his run.
I remember the smell of the pine we were sitting in, the stillness of the woods after the brief drama had just unfolded and the smile on my father's face. He didn't say a word. He didn't have too.
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I grew up in a non-hunting family on a our dairy farm in central MN. Our little farm had a creek running through it that was once a pasture. By the time I was a boy the cows weren’t grazing anymore and the pasture started getting overgrown. It was a hard place to sneak in to hunt deer as it seemed that the pasture itself was an island surrounded by fields. As long as crops were up still you could sneak in, and the pasture held deer as they traveled to feed. Once crops came out, it was rare to see deer in there.
I got lucky one year and the Nov slug season hit and we still had standing corn. I had a ladder stand set up watching about the only part of the pasture that hadn’t gotten over run by brush, maybe about 75 yard circle of grass butting up to the fence line. On the opposite side of the fence was the standing corn field. Sat there opening morning on a frosty day and couldn’t stay warm enough. Must have been about 9 when I was getting to cold to be very effective so I decided to try a grunt call to distract me for awhile. After I set the call down out comes a little buck from the corn. I had shot a few does on other properties before but a buck was rare for me to even see. Got ready and waited for him to stop at what I guessed was 50yards. First shot for his attention and he stared directly at me. Second shot got him concerned and a bit nervous. At this point I realized I had maybe misjudged him on range and I thought I better hold a bit higher. Third shot flattened him. I was shaking so bad and to this day don’t know why I set the gun down on my lap and unloaded it. About a minute later the buck stands up and walked the same trail back into the corn he came out of. I was frozen. Went from elated to heartbroken in a matter of seconds.
I got out of the woods and drove back to the barn where my dad and brother were doing my chores. Dad had heard me shoot and wondered why I looked so worried. Gave it some time and drove back to the pasture. Had to cross the creek to get on the side the buck was and the only place to do that was on the other side of where the buck was headed when I last saw him. Essentially his trail would be headed to me and and I was headed to him.
As I walked slowly his direction my brain had told me in an instant that a deer was in front of me. Before I could get the gun up and pointed in his direction, my buck was up from the fence line, dove into the standing corn and disappeared. I could hear him running for a few seconds after and then silence. Since I was on the right side of the creek now, I needed to check for blood and try and put together what happened. At the site where I hit the buck initially and he went down, there was a fair bit of blood. Not a bad blood trail from there to where I had just jumped him either. But once in the corn there wasn’t much to follow and I lost him after 20 yards. I was sick.
I went home and tried to eat some lunch while I hopefully gave him time to expire and planned to head back out after. Got back to the place where he re-entered the field and started tracking again. Finding small pinpricks of blood every 20 feet or so. After a bit, I realized he got in one row and followed it so I stuck to that when I lost blood. Followed that row to the end-rows of the field and found one more spot of blood before I lost him again in the corner of the field. I started circling that blood and hoping to find more on one of the trails coming/going into the field. This field corner was probably about 20 yards from the meandering creek but maybe 25’ above it, sloping straight down to the water. I got on the top of that bank while circling, and noticed a deer laying down with it’s head buried in a dead fall. That stopped me cold. Got my gun on it and yelled to see it would get up. Tossed a stick and a few rocks down at it and realized it was my buck and he was dead. What a relief! I had the family’s cell phone so I called home to let my dad know where I was and that I had found the buck. Between myself, sisters, and mom all the vehicles were spoken for that day so my dad and brother jumped in a tractor and drove the mile from the house down to me as I was dressing it. Helped me toss my boots across the creek as I dragged my buck through the icy water to the other side of the creek to where they parked the tractor. We had the John Deere help me drag the buck the rest of the way to the truck.
All in all, this buck was found 50 yards from where I shot it but took about a 250 yard loop to get there. The shot was much more quartered than I initially thought. Slug entered the rib cage and was found in the neck on the same side. Destroyed one lung if I remember correctly. When I was skinning the deer I found the slug and put it aside to clean up later. The farm dog had other ideas and promptly swallowed the 1oz lead mushroom before I could prevent it. Dog lived for many more years but I never did find my slug.
I can look into the near future and see the farm being sold. The people who buy it will bulldoze the old fence line and probably straighten the creek into a ditch. Along with that, they’ll take a huge chunk of my childhood. Memories of fishing, trapping, hunting, playing, and growing up the best way I can see for a boy along that creek will hopefully stay with me forever. In the 14 years since this story happened I haven’t shot another buck. And for right now I am pretty ok with that and have been happy to shoot does. I haven’t tagged any deer on the family farm since this buck and I don’t want to replace this memory with anything of lessor value for a long time.
Edit: was wrong to think I could summarize this one.
I got lucky one year and the Nov slug season hit and we still had standing corn. I had a ladder stand set up watching about the only part of the pasture that hadn’t gotten over run by brush, maybe about 75 yard circle of grass butting up to the fence line. On the opposite side of the fence was the standing corn field. Sat there opening morning on a frosty day and couldn’t stay warm enough. Must have been about 9 when I was getting to cold to be very effective so I decided to try a grunt call to distract me for awhile. After I set the call down out comes a little buck from the corn. I had shot a few does on other properties before but a buck was rare for me to even see. Got ready and waited for him to stop at what I guessed was 50yards. First shot for his attention and he stared directly at me. Second shot got him concerned and a bit nervous. At this point I realized I had maybe misjudged him on range and I thought I better hold a bit higher. Third shot flattened him. I was shaking so bad and to this day don’t know why I set the gun down on my lap and unloaded it. About a minute later the buck stands up and walked the same trail back into the corn he came out of. I was frozen. Went from elated to heartbroken in a matter of seconds.
I got out of the woods and drove back to the barn where my dad and brother were doing my chores. Dad had heard me shoot and wondered why I looked so worried. Gave it some time and drove back to the pasture. Had to cross the creek to get on the side the buck was and the only place to do that was on the other side of where the buck was headed when I last saw him. Essentially his trail would be headed to me and and I was headed to him.
As I walked slowly his direction my brain had told me in an instant that a deer was in front of me. Before I could get the gun up and pointed in his direction, my buck was up from the fence line, dove into the standing corn and disappeared. I could hear him running for a few seconds after and then silence. Since I was on the right side of the creek now, I needed to check for blood and try and put together what happened. At the site where I hit the buck initially and he went down, there was a fair bit of blood. Not a bad blood trail from there to where I had just jumped him either. But once in the corn there wasn’t much to follow and I lost him after 20 yards. I was sick.
I went home and tried to eat some lunch while I hopefully gave him time to expire and planned to head back out after. Got back to the place where he re-entered the field and started tracking again. Finding small pinpricks of blood every 20 feet or so. After a bit, I realized he got in one row and followed it so I stuck to that when I lost blood. Followed that row to the end-rows of the field and found one more spot of blood before I lost him again in the corner of the field. I started circling that blood and hoping to find more on one of the trails coming/going into the field. This field corner was probably about 20 yards from the meandering creek but maybe 25’ above it, sloping straight down to the water. I got on the top of that bank while circling, and noticed a deer laying down with it’s head buried in a dead fall. That stopped me cold. Got my gun on it and yelled to see it would get up. Tossed a stick and a few rocks down at it and realized it was my buck and he was dead. What a relief! I had the family’s cell phone so I called home to let my dad know where I was and that I had found the buck. Between myself, sisters, and mom all the vehicles were spoken for that day so my dad and brother jumped in a tractor and drove the mile from the house down to me as I was dressing it. Helped me toss my boots across the creek as I dragged my buck through the icy water to the other side of the creek to where they parked the tractor. We had the John Deere help me drag the buck the rest of the way to the truck.
All in all, this buck was found 50 yards from where I shot it but took about a 250 yard loop to get there. The shot was much more quartered than I initially thought. Slug entered the rib cage and was found in the neck on the same side. Destroyed one lung if I remember correctly. When I was skinning the deer I found the slug and put it aside to clean up later. The farm dog had other ideas and promptly swallowed the 1oz lead mushroom before I could prevent it. Dog lived for many more years but I never did find my slug.
I can look into the near future and see the farm being sold. The people who buy it will bulldoze the old fence line and probably straighten the creek into a ditch. Along with that, they’ll take a huge chunk of my childhood. Memories of fishing, trapping, hunting, playing, and growing up the best way I can see for a boy along that creek will hopefully stay with me forever. In the 14 years since this story happened I haven’t shot another buck. And for right now I am pretty ok with that and have been happy to shoot does. I haven’t tagged any deer on the family farm since this buck and I don’t want to replace this memory with anything of lessor value for a long time.
Edit: was wrong to think I could summarize this one.
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ovis2
Well-known member
As with everyone, opening the memory banks leads to a flood of adventures that give me a rush of warm smiles. But three that jump out of the Dad in me:
(1) My oldest son's first cow elk hunt. On a very steep uphill shot on the cow, the rifle bucked and solidly scoped him above his right eye. Despite a good shot through the ribs, the cow was still on her feet. I told him to shot again, he nestled in for another steep uphill shot, and yep, another eyebrow scoping. Happy and tough kid. And a freezer full of elk meat.
(2) My 2nd son's first an animal was a Wyoming antelope we had seen a few times before that we called Crazy Horn because on horn tilted forward, almost parallel to his nose. About 3 days into the hunt, as the sun was rising in the eastern sky, Crazy Horn walked across the prairie a little over 200 yards from where we huddled behind a few of the county's only boulders. A single shot and Crazy Horn did the wobble dance and fell over. After congratulations and pictures, during the field dressing, my son asked if we could bury Crazy Horns heart in the high prairie he had called home. We did, and yes, I was very proud of him and still am.
(3) My daughter had killed a few antelope by the time she finally drew a cow elk tag. She is actually a better shot than her brothers, but we just couldn't get her a clear shot. On the 2nd time out, in the bitter cold and snow, we had a small train of cows and calves walk past us at about 75 yards, one of the yearlings stopped in the clear and she made a perfect shot, When we walked up the the young cow, she was just in awe. "I can't believe how huge it is!", she shouted.
(1) My oldest son's first cow elk hunt. On a very steep uphill shot on the cow, the rifle bucked and solidly scoped him above his right eye. Despite a good shot through the ribs, the cow was still on her feet. I told him to shot again, he nestled in for another steep uphill shot, and yep, another eyebrow scoping. Happy and tough kid. And a freezer full of elk meat.
(2) My 2nd son's first an animal was a Wyoming antelope we had seen a few times before that we called Crazy Horn because on horn tilted forward, almost parallel to his nose. About 3 days into the hunt, as the sun was rising in the eastern sky, Crazy Horn walked across the prairie a little over 200 yards from where we huddled behind a few of the county's only boulders. A single shot and Crazy Horn did the wobble dance and fell over. After congratulations and pictures, during the field dressing, my son asked if we could bury Crazy Horns heart in the high prairie he had called home. We did, and yes, I was very proud of him and still am.
(3) My daughter had killed a few antelope by the time she finally drew a cow elk tag. She is actually a better shot than her brothers, but we just couldn't get her a clear shot. On the 2nd time out, in the bitter cold and snow, we had a small train of cows and calves walk past us at about 75 yards, one of the yearlings stopped in the clear and she made a perfect shot, When we walked up the the young cow, she was just in awe. "I can't believe how huge it is!", she shouted.
Best was a doe hunt we used to do in the Ruby Valley where Dad came up. He was having some health issues; lost his leg due to botched surgeries & had been diagnosed with renal cell carcinoma. He was well enough to come up and hunt. He had stopped hunting before I was born, since he could afford to buy meat rather than poach it like he had too as a kid (Grandpa didn't come home from Germany in a good place). So it was a coming around for him, and it was exciting that I got to hunt with my father. There were a bunch of guys staying at my friend's place in Sheridan, and Dad & I got a hotel so he could have some quiet down time to rest as he wore out easily.
We ended up doing well - as usual. Lots of whitetail does were harvested and we had great comradery. It was a social hunt, and not too serious about antlers, etc. We had huge breakfasts after the early morning hunts, big lunches, and big naps before heading out again for the evening. One day, we smoked a fawn hind quarter, wrapped in bacon. It lasted about 20 minutes. Our local friend was the Methodist Pastor for the Valley, so we had lots of spots to hunt. Most had soli deer populations and harvest was essentially a given. We were set up in a bottom, at the edge of a slough off the Beaverhead river, and two buddies were doing a swing through the cover to see if there was anything in there. A nice little buck popped out and ran by Dad & I. As the only one with a buck tag, I swung on him w/the 06 and dropped him at 150 yards on the run. Probably the best shot I've ever made. Dad got excited and smacked my back, yelling "great shot!" We walked up on the buck, and finished him quickly (I hit high and broke the spine). I know it's common for most folks to have that kind of affirmation from their father as a child, but since we hadn't hunted, this was the first time he did that. Later in the trip, he shot a doe with an open-sighted drilling. with his fake leg, he couldn't really do rough terrain, so I walked out with him and gutted it, slung it on my back and walked the 500 yards back to the truck. We were standing at the truck, as the stars were coming out and the last light was fading from the day and he just said "It's been a great life."
He passed a year or two after that. But I'll always remember dad in that soft light, with a big smile & feeling like he was still alive, and that he could still do what he liked.
We ended up doing well - as usual. Lots of whitetail does were harvested and we had great comradery. It was a social hunt, and not too serious about antlers, etc. We had huge breakfasts after the early morning hunts, big lunches, and big naps before heading out again for the evening. One day, we smoked a fawn hind quarter, wrapped in bacon. It lasted about 20 minutes. Our local friend was the Methodist Pastor for the Valley, so we had lots of spots to hunt. Most had soli deer populations and harvest was essentially a given. We were set up in a bottom, at the edge of a slough off the Beaverhead river, and two buddies were doing a swing through the cover to see if there was anything in there. A nice little buck popped out and ran by Dad & I. As the only one with a buck tag, I swung on him w/the 06 and dropped him at 150 yards on the run. Probably the best shot I've ever made. Dad got excited and smacked my back, yelling "great shot!" We walked up on the buck, and finished him quickly (I hit high and broke the spine). I know it's common for most folks to have that kind of affirmation from their father as a child, but since we hadn't hunted, this was the first time he did that. Later in the trip, he shot a doe with an open-sighted drilling. with his fake leg, he couldn't really do rough terrain, so I walked out with him and gutted it, slung it on my back and walked the 500 yards back to the truck. We were standing at the truck, as the stars were coming out and the last light was fading from the day and he just said "It's been a great life."
He passed a year or two after that. But I'll always remember dad in that soft light, with a big smile & feeling like he was still alive, and that he could still do what he liked.
3855WIN
Well-known member
It was the first day of youth season. My son was six years old and trying to kill his first deer. I had found some buck sign on a hardwood hillside with a thick regrowth area behind it. We set up on the ground that morning with his single shot New England .223 set up with a bipod. In the first 15 minutes of shooting light, we had two spikes start up the hill. He picked up the back end of his rifle and I cocked the hammer for him. One of the bucks was at 12 steps and I whispered “shoot him when you can”. Boom and down he went. I made sure the buck was down for good and he says “well, I killed my first deer”. I asked him why he shot the deer between the eyes? He said, “I looked in the scope and all I saw was his face”. Me and that kid have had a bunch of adventures since then. He’s a fine outdoorsman.
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there are just so many and as soon a I hit post reply I will think of something else, but as of this momentThe Kaibab, cougar hunting with dogs, and geese hunting from corn stalk teepees with my father and grandfather are some of my favorite childhood memories
Victoria Falls, Caprivi Strip, CAR, with my husband, floods my mind with memories . Bad; accidentally dropping my double rifle into the river. Good, the smells, sounds, hunts, foods, hunts of Africa. Fear: Lion when it became obvious on one hunt , he was now hunting us and the Hippo chasing me out of the river when I was bathing always brings a smile to my face--now--not then.
Possibly the favorite trips with my husband was the Mackenzie river float hunt, NW Terr. .The stars were lined up perfectly on that hunt, so to speak. The children were raised, the business was doing well, the scenery was beautiful and the animals kept walking to the river asking to be shot.
Children. My daughter was hell bent on hunting Pheasants in S>D> and her and I drove up together. Great trip and hunt. Our son, was hell bent on hunting bear on Kodiak Is. The hunt, the island, the fishing, the trip is still one of the trips he talks about.
Loved the Ibex hunt in Spain with my granddaughter and daughter. I was physically unable to do more than go to the hunt lodge with them. But it was a great trip for three generations of women. And she was using the Weatherby Camilla I bought her
The one the children enjoy telling is more about explaining the type of man their father was to others, but it is a hunting story told at my expense.
On one of our Argentina trips with family, I could not hit a bull in the butt with a board if he was standing right in front of me. I kept missing shots and after missing once again, I threw my shotgun at the birds. My husband walked over, picked it up, cleaned it off, loaded it, and handed it back to me and said. Your shooting under them, and walked on.
I just remembered another one, but will stop here !! Just to many, sorry for the long post.
OntarioHunter
Well-known member
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- Sep 11, 2020
- Messages
- 5,980
This is a tough one. So many memories to choose from. Of course, the first elk is always unforgettable. Just happened to also be the best one I've yet taken. 
1971 a few months before the Army got me. It took two weeks and a couple of worn out horses to bring him out. A very bad spot to shoot anything ... or just to be breathing. I almost died from exposure up there the week before. Never hunted that mountain again.
Two years ago shooting an incoming/charging? African gemsbuck through the heart at fifteen yards ranks up there.
Happened so fast I really didn't have time to get excited.
My brother and I shot our first ducks during the same outing back in 1965. A couple of fine northern greenheads and his was banded! My first Lab was also just "a pup" back then. That memory is definitely top five. Mike and I still hunt together every fall. He recently turned seventy and I'm not far behind. We were shooting 16 gauges Dad bought for us. Mine a Model 12 and his a Remington Model 31, both guns still in our safes.
Definitely the memories I cherish most involve hunting with my dogs. Their first birds, their last birds, the most difficult retrieves, prettiest points, etc. Definitely at the top of that list is this goose I shot Thanksgiving weekend 1985: The scariest retreive.
After a difficult stalk through heavy timber I got the drop on a lone honker sitting on the ice of Flathead River. Ordinarily when ice was involved, I would tie up my Lab before shooting. But I figured we'd be okay if I killed it on the spot. Don't roll the dice with your best friend's life! Sure enough the honker had just enough gas to flop into the raging river. Ethyl was off as soon as I shot and no stopping her. But once she had it she couldn't get back up on the ice. I tried to wave her downstream to a gravel bar a quarter mile away but floating ice hit her in the back of the head and she panicked. After a couple more failed attempts I could see she was fading fast. I threw down the gun, stripped off my big parka, and crawled out on the ice to get her. The noise of gurgling current underneath told me that ice was not very thick! But what can ya do? It was my fault and I think I'd rather die than let her die because of my mistake. Well, that's what I would have thought ... if I'd made any effort to rationalize. She hung on till I reached the edge flat on my belly and gripped it with my right fingers and the scruff of her neck with my left hand. Then in one careful smooth motion I rolled onto my right side and heaved her out. The ice let out a loud "crack" and she wisely darted for shore. I peeked over my shoulder and she was standing on the bank watching me intently, dead goose still in her jaws. Oh so carefully I inched my way back to her. Got dressed and we hurried for home. About ten minutes later as I was jumping across a small creek that dumped into the river, I looked back up the bank. The entire sheet of ice was gone! Hungry Horse dam had started its morning generation cycle maybe forty minutes earlier. Rising warmer water was clearing up the previous night's ice. That was a close one. The buck I shot in North Idaho two days earlier. It froze before we could get it skinned. Just another deer.
1971 a few months before the Army got me. It took two weeks and a couple of worn out horses to bring him out. A very bad spot to shoot anything ... or just to be breathing. I almost died from exposure up there the week before. Never hunted that mountain again.Two years ago shooting an incoming/charging? African gemsbuck through the heart at fifteen yards ranks up there.
Happened so fast I really didn't have time to get excited.
My brother and I shot our first ducks during the same outing back in 1965. A couple of fine northern greenheads and his was banded! My first Lab was also just "a pup" back then. That memory is definitely top five. Mike and I still hunt together every fall. He recently turned seventy and I'm not far behind. We were shooting 16 gauges Dad bought for us. Mine a Model 12 and his a Remington Model 31, both guns still in our safes.
Definitely the memories I cherish most involve hunting with my dogs. Their first birds, their last birds, the most difficult retrieves, prettiest points, etc. Definitely at the top of that list is this goose I shot Thanksgiving weekend 1985: The scariest retreive.
After a difficult stalk through heavy timber I got the drop on a lone honker sitting on the ice of Flathead River. Ordinarily when ice was involved, I would tie up my Lab before shooting. But I figured we'd be okay if I killed it on the spot. Don't roll the dice with your best friend's life! Sure enough the honker had just enough gas to flop into the raging river. Ethyl was off as soon as I shot and no stopping her. But once she had it she couldn't get back up on the ice. I tried to wave her downstream to a gravel bar a quarter mile away but floating ice hit her in the back of the head and she panicked. After a couple more failed attempts I could see she was fading fast. I threw down the gun, stripped off my big parka, and crawled out on the ice to get her. The noise of gurgling current underneath told me that ice was not very thick! But what can ya do? It was my fault and I think I'd rather die than let her die because of my mistake. Well, that's what I would have thought ... if I'd made any effort to rationalize. She hung on till I reached the edge flat on my belly and gripped it with my right fingers and the scruff of her neck with my left hand. Then in one careful smooth motion I rolled onto my right side and heaved her out. The ice let out a loud "crack" and she wisely darted for shore. I peeked over my shoulder and she was standing on the bank watching me intently, dead goose still in her jaws. Oh so carefully I inched my way back to her. Got dressed and we hurried for home. About ten minutes later as I was jumping across a small creek that dumped into the river, I looked back up the bank. The entire sheet of ice was gone! Hungry Horse dam had started its morning generation cycle maybe forty minutes earlier. Rising warmer water was clearing up the previous night's ice. That was a close one. The buck I shot in North Idaho two days earlier. It froze before we could get it skinned. Just another deer.
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Panda Bear
Well-known member
- Joined
- Apr 23, 2019
- Messages
- 845
Whale hunting was something my ancestors did and when it was legal to hunt them again, my first Whale hunt was special for several reasons. The hunt and festival lasted several days. Never forget it. Outside of that, most of my scary moments came from the elements more than animals. Planes and canoes at certain moments in certain weather, can create what we call "Jesus" moments. But on one hunt a white bear hurt one of my dogs and I am told I looked like that meme NoHarleyet posts sometimes of the woman "yelling and pointing her figure "
If the shoe fits and all that
If the shoe fits and all that
geetar
Well-known member
This is fantastic.
D
Deleted member 38069
Guest
Amazing story and thank you very much for sharing!
D
Deleted member 38069
Guest
Great summaries, the hippo would be freaky!
The Kaibab, cougar hunting with dogs, and geese hunting from corn stalk teepees with my father and grandfather are some of my favorite childhood memories
Victoria Falls, Caprivi Strip, CAR, with my husband, floods my mind with memories . Bad; accidentally dropping my double rifle into the river. Good, the smells, sounds, hunts, foods, hunts of Africa. Fear: Lion when it became obvious on one hunt , he was now hunting us and the Hippo chasing me out of the river when I was bathing always brings a smile to my face--now--not then.
Possibly the favorite trips with my husband was the Mackenzie river float hunt, NW Terr. .The stars were lined up perfectly on that hunt, so to speak. The children were raised, the business was doing well, the scenery was beautiful and the animals kept walking to the river asking to be shot.
Children. My daughter was hell bent on hunting Pheasants in S>D> and her and I drove up together. Great trip and hunt. Our son, was hell bent on hunting bear on Kodiak Is. The hunt, the island, the fishing, the trip is still one of the trips he talks about.
Loved the Ibex hunt in Spain with my granddaughter and daughter. I was physically unable to do more than go to the hunt lodge with them. But it was a great trip for three generations of women. And she was using the Weatherby Camilla I bought her
The one the children enjoy telling is more about explaining the type of man their father was to others, but it is a hunting story told at my expense.
On one of our Argentina trips with family, I could not hit a bull in the butt with a board if he was standing right in front of me. I kept missing shots and after missing once again, I threw my shotgun at the birds. My husband walked over, picked it up, cleaned it off, loaded it, and handed it back to me and said. Your shooting under them, and walked on.
I just remembered another one, but will stop here !! Just to many, sorry for the long post.
D
Deleted member 38069
Guest
Anyone who protects their dog like that, is alright in my book!Whale hunting was something my ancestors did and when it was legal to hunt them again, my first Whale hunt was special for several reasons. The hunt and festival lasted several days. Never forget it. Outside of that, most of my scary moments came from the elements more than animals. Planes and canoes at certain moments in certain weather, can create what we call "Jesus" moments. But on one hunt a white bear hurt one of my dogs and I am told I looked like that meme NoHarleyet posts sometimes of the woman "yelling and pointing her figure "
If the shoe fits and all that
Thanks for sharing.
beagle001
Well-known member
Ask another time and I might tell you of the day we chased a big droptine in South Dakota, or when I watched two of my buddies miss the same muley in a matter of three minutes, or maybe some of the days spent at our hunting shack… not hunting at all, or maybe, half-hunting…. Being with one of my best friends, who is a 100% committed badarse conservation warden FINALLY get his first buck is right up there with one of the funnest hunts.
Instead, I’ll tell the tale of my first blood trail job. I spent more time at my “grandparents” as a kid than I did at home. No, we weren’t actually blood, but that didn’t matter much… Duke and I were best friends.
One night Duke’s son and his wife came by saying she’d hit a buck and asked Duke to come out and help. I’d been left behind before, being maybe 5 or 6 at the time, but Duke got a twinkle in his eye and loaded me up. It “should be a short track…”
Famous last words
Apparently she did not hit the buck near as well as she thought. The buck circled and doubled back twice, at least as the story goes, and the adults had lost blood countless times. Luckily, they had “Eagle Eyes” with, as I was referred to for many years after that night. I picked up blood they’d lost on three occasions, and eventually we found the buck.
Duke beamed with pride. Everywhere we went… his work, a friend’s, the tavern… he would tell the story of how this snot-nosed kid “Eagle Eyes” saved the day. His sidekick. His buddy.
Even as I grew up, he’d always remark how he couldn’t believe I found that blood and that buck in the pitch dark (they had flashlights, I didn’t)
We hunted together plenty, and I don’t think we ever killed a deer… we gave them plenty of warning with all of our giggles and full-out laughs. In fact, I remember one hunt we both looked up at the same time to a deer standing 50 yards away, our eyeballs as big as saucers. Duke shot twice, and I’m pretty sure we heard that deer laugh at us as it jogged away. Then we laughed too.
Years of Marb Reds precipitously took his breath and lungs from him, and it wasn’t long before he was limited to walks from the house to the garage, on a good day. Eventually, it got to the point where I had to back the truck up to his front window to show him my buck. But that was my first destination every time.
Duke got his lungs back on Easter this year. His last couple years were absolutely miserable, but he was sure happy and proud he got to meet my boys before he was gone.
Instead, I’ll tell the tale of my first blood trail job. I spent more time at my “grandparents” as a kid than I did at home. No, we weren’t actually blood, but that didn’t matter much… Duke and I were best friends.
One night Duke’s son and his wife came by saying she’d hit a buck and asked Duke to come out and help. I’d been left behind before, being maybe 5 or 6 at the time, but Duke got a twinkle in his eye and loaded me up. It “should be a short track…”
Famous last words
Apparently she did not hit the buck near as well as she thought. The buck circled and doubled back twice, at least as the story goes, and the adults had lost blood countless times. Luckily, they had “Eagle Eyes” with, as I was referred to for many years after that night. I picked up blood they’d lost on three occasions, and eventually we found the buck.
Duke beamed with pride. Everywhere we went… his work, a friend’s, the tavern… he would tell the story of how this snot-nosed kid “Eagle Eyes” saved the day. His sidekick. His buddy.
Even as I grew up, he’d always remark how he couldn’t believe I found that blood and that buck in the pitch dark (they had flashlights, I didn’t)
We hunted together plenty, and I don’t think we ever killed a deer… we gave them plenty of warning with all of our giggles and full-out laughs. In fact, I remember one hunt we both looked up at the same time to a deer standing 50 yards away, our eyeballs as big as saucers. Duke shot twice, and I’m pretty sure we heard that deer laugh at us as it jogged away. Then we laughed too.
Years of Marb Reds precipitously took his breath and lungs from him, and it wasn’t long before he was limited to walks from the house to the garage, on a good day. Eventually, it got to the point where I had to back the truck up to his front window to show him my buck. But that was my first destination every time.
Duke got his lungs back on Easter this year. His last couple years were absolutely miserable, but he was sure happy and proud he got to meet my boys before he was gone.
Shangobango
Well-known member
I have so many.
I am an unrepentant deer addict however I have a tie here between two different turkey hunts, decades apart.
The first was the day I killed my first turkey. Must have been March 1987 or so. I think I was 10. My grandpa left me in a makeshift blind at daylight armed with my little single shot .410. I spent more time talking back and forth with the barred owls with the hooter my grandpa gave me than I did scratching on my turkey call over the next 2 hours or so.
I heard a shot not all that far away. My grandpa came slipping up to the blind with a gobbler slung over his shoulder. Said he never gobbled. He joined me in the blind and began to call. We heard a gobble way off. He told me to gather up my stuff and follow him. I don't remember how far we walked but I am sure it wasn't all that far. We settled down in a shallow natural drain and he called again. Several gobblers came running. I shot one at about 20 steps. My grandpa told the story the rest of his life of how I almost beat the shot to the bird. I was so proud to return to camp with a big gobbler just like papaw.
On the second hunt, my son, his friend, and me were hunting turkeys. We drove a little ways up a two track to get off a main gravel road and got out to the sound of several gobblers doing there thing. Neither one of the boys had killed a turkey at this time. We managed to noisily get within about 150 yards of where the birds were strutting. I had the boys flip a coin to see who had first crack. My son won the flip. I got both boys set up in a way that they could safely cover the 180 or so degrees in the general direction that the turkeys were. My goal was to get them both birds simultaneously. It didn't work out. A mature gobbler cut from the group to come check out the hen he was hearing up the hill. My son shot him at 15 steps. By the time we had gathered ourselves and snapped a couple of pics, the remaining birds had fired back up a few hundred yards away.
We spent the next two days on those birds trying to get my sons friend a shot but despite several close calls never closed the deal. I went back on the 4th day of the season and got back on them but another hunter flushed them. As much gobbling as they had done everyday I couldn't believe it took days for someone else to get on them.
An hour later my uncle text and said he had just shot a bird but he had walked way off from the truck. I went and scooped him up and turns out he was the beneficiary of the hunter flushing the birds. They came to his clucking without gobbling and he killed the big gobbler I had been working on for days. He was bigger than I thought. One of the biggest turkeys I have ever personally seen. I sure wish the kiddo could have got him but was thrilled my uncle did.
Man we used to have a ton of turkeys.
I am an unrepentant deer addict however I have a tie here between two different turkey hunts, decades apart.
The first was the day I killed my first turkey. Must have been March 1987 or so. I think I was 10. My grandpa left me in a makeshift blind at daylight armed with my little single shot .410. I spent more time talking back and forth with the barred owls with the hooter my grandpa gave me than I did scratching on my turkey call over the next 2 hours or so.
I heard a shot not all that far away. My grandpa came slipping up to the blind with a gobbler slung over his shoulder. Said he never gobbled. He joined me in the blind and began to call. We heard a gobble way off. He told me to gather up my stuff and follow him. I don't remember how far we walked but I am sure it wasn't all that far. We settled down in a shallow natural drain and he called again. Several gobblers came running. I shot one at about 20 steps. My grandpa told the story the rest of his life of how I almost beat the shot to the bird. I was so proud to return to camp with a big gobbler just like papaw.
On the second hunt, my son, his friend, and me were hunting turkeys. We drove a little ways up a two track to get off a main gravel road and got out to the sound of several gobblers doing there thing. Neither one of the boys had killed a turkey at this time. We managed to noisily get within about 150 yards of where the birds were strutting. I had the boys flip a coin to see who had first crack. My son won the flip. I got both boys set up in a way that they could safely cover the 180 or so degrees in the general direction that the turkeys were. My goal was to get them both birds simultaneously. It didn't work out. A mature gobbler cut from the group to come check out the hen he was hearing up the hill. My son shot him at 15 steps. By the time we had gathered ourselves and snapped a couple of pics, the remaining birds had fired back up a few hundred yards away.
We spent the next two days on those birds trying to get my sons friend a shot but despite several close calls never closed the deal. I went back on the 4th day of the season and got back on them but another hunter flushed them. As much gobbling as they had done everyday I couldn't believe it took days for someone else to get on them.
An hour later my uncle text and said he had just shot a bird but he had walked way off from the truck. I went and scooped him up and turns out he was the beneficiary of the hunter flushing the birds. They came to his clucking without gobbling and he killed the big gobbler I had been working on for days. He was bigger than I thought. One of the biggest turkeys I have ever personally seen. I sure wish the kiddo could have got him but was thrilled my uncle did.
Man we used to have a ton of turkeys.
