One more true story!
Walter may enjoy this one.
Me and a friend were doing a spring black bear hunt in coastal British Columbia. We were looking for bear in an area called the swamp, because it was a swamp with marshes and puddles everywhere. My buddy was first shot that day. We spot a black bear off in the distance, in the swampy ground. We put on a stalk and observed for several minutes. No cubs, no other bears around, and my friend gets the green light to fire. Big John fires, connects, and collects. The beast staggers 15 feet and expires. Our guide, Brad, starts walking towards the bear. We had been walking and splashing through the swamp without any dificulty in the shallow, marshy ground. Brad took another step and splashed into a puddle that was neck deep! He found the only deep spot in the entire swamp. With the weather around 55F degees, Brad ran back to the truck for a much needed change of clothes. He took alot of ribbing and kidding as the swimming guide!

This story took place last fall. Enjoy

I went back home for the Thanksgiving holiday and had two days to do a little hunting.

The day before Thanksgiving I was lucky enough to take a young 8-point to fill the freezer.

The day after Thanksgiving I took one of my good friends with me. Since I had already shot my buck, we decided to sit together. I was looking for a doe and he a buck and we thought if we were to split up I would see bucks and he would see does.

The place I hunt are some steep canyons where basically the deer travel the bottoms of the canyon. I just take a lawn chair and sit on the edge watching the canyon floor below. The canyons are only about 100 yds wide and probably 50-60 yds deep.

It was about 8:00 that morning and I thought I had heard something behind me on the ridge. As deer will also walk the post oak timberline along the edge of the canyons too. So, I stood up and was looking behind me, thinking there was a deer behind us. My buddy was probably about 25-30 yds to my right watching a bed in the canyon with me not being able to see that portion in front of him. After standing looking and listening behind us for about 5 minutes I never saw what I was hearing and wrote it off as a squirrel. I turned back around and sat back down. About 5 minutes later kaboom! My buddy shoots. I turn around looking his direction thinking there were some deer behind us. Then I realize he is looking in the bottom of the canyon and at about the same time I hear the deer running towards me. So, I spin back around looking back into the canyon then crash followed by splash!! I look over to my buddy and he raises his hand in the air. The buck is down. I walk over to him and look into the bottom but don't see a deer.

I ask, "Where is he at?"

Buddy responds, "He died right at the edge of the creek and rolled into it. You see his antler sticking up there?"

"Yeah, I see it. Looks like you got work to do, because I'm not getting wet and he's yours!"

So, we cawl into the bottom and my buddy fishes his deer out of the water. We field dress the deer and drag him to the top, which is no small feat in itself.



By this time, it is about 9:00 and I say let's move down the canyon about 300 yds or so and set up again because I'd really like to knock a doe down too. So, we move and get back over to another spot about 300-350 yds from where my buddy just took his buck. I get over to the edge and decided this isn't the place I wanted to sit. My buddy decided this was good enough for him and I decided to move another 50-75 yds to the east. No sooner had I sat down (probably about 10-15 secs) I hear something behind me again. I turn around and there is a doe running at a slight angle to my right about 75 yds, followed by yearling and another doe. They run to one of the fingers that feed the main the canyon and drop off into it. Once they hit the bottom they turn and head my way. The trees were fairly thick in this area but shooting lanes were present, if you picked a spot and the deer came thru them. Well, the first doe walks thru a lane followed by the yearling. I place the crosshairs on the opening and when the last doe fills the sight I pull the trigger. At the shot I see two things: 1) the doe humps up and takes off running and 2) a tree limb about 3/8" falls.

I walk over the where the deer was at the shot and see a huge pile of white hair about 3 feet in diameter, a small piece of fat about the size of your pinky nail, and a tiny piece of flesh. No blood, no blood trail, and no tracks! Crap, not good!! I mill around there for about 10-15 minutes and don't find anything else. I decided to head back and get my buddy to help me look for blood or sign. By this time he had made it down to my chair and was sitting in it.

He says, "Is it in the bottom?"

My reply, "Yeap, but she is still moving."

His response, "What? You missed."

"Nope, I hit her but I don't think I killed her!"

I take him back over to where I hit her and showed him the pile of hair and the small pieces of fat and flesh. We start moving in the direction she was headed when I last saw her.

Then buddy says, "Wait there she is!"

I look up and about 40 yds from us is a deer standing there broadside just looking at us. I put the deer in the scope and say, "That's another buck. He is a spike. That is not the deer I shot!"

We stand there another minute or so discussing this deer until he finally decides he needs to be somewhere else.

We formulated a plan for me to walk back to the 4-wheeler and go around to the point of the canyons, while my buddy is going to walk to me; thereby, making a small drive to hopefully push the wounded doe towards me. Well, to make a long story short, the doe never showed back up, my dad came out to feed the cattle in that pasture, blowing the sirene, etc. We decided to call it a morning and head into town to eat lunch.

After lunch, I thought it would be a good idea to hunt the south canyon since we'd done so much tramping around on the north canyon. We go over to my favorite spot get our chairs set up with my friend about 15 yds to my right. Also, to our right were 4-5 cows down in the bottom of the canyon. I look down at my watch, which reads 1:09 pm. My belly is full, the sun is nice and warm, and I've been up since 4:00 am; it's time to take a little nap! I cross my arms, duck my head and drift off into lala land. Then, I realize there is something running in front of me (meanwhile, I'm still about half asleep with head tucked everything). I think why are those cows running in front of me? Wait those cows were on the other side of the fence! There isn't supposed to be any cows on this side of the fence. Keep in mind, I'm still trying to process this while still in my little fetal position and somewhat asleep. Then, it dawns on me what I'm hearing is a damn deer. I look up and there she is a deer running off the opposite bank into the bottom of the canyon and crossing the creek. I grab my rifle, which is leaning up against a tree to my right. The deer is running up my side of the canyon to my left. I get her in the crosshairs and pull the trigger as she is racing past me at about 20 yds. She continues to run behind us but I can tell the shot was true by the blooding beginning to pump out.

I turn around to my buddy when I realize/hear another deer running thru the bottom. It is another buck hot on this doe's trail. He realizes we're there and turns off her trail and stops about 40 yds from me.

I start saying, 'Don't shoot, it's another buck, don't shoot."

Well, the buck hangs around to get a good look at him thru the scope. He is a bigger deer then my buddies but he is all busted up. I hope he makes it thru the winter.

After the deer runs off, I turn around to my buddy and start telling him that I was asleep and the thoughts that were going thru my mind and how I was trying to process them. He was telling me that he could hear the deer running but couldn't see them until they were almost out of the canyon.

About that time, I hear something again running thru the leaves behind me. I turn around and see a glimps of something running at us. I sit back down and realize it is a coyote. I pull up my gun, settle the crosshairs and pow. The coyote drops like a stone about 25yds from me and just about 5 yds behind were the doe had run and about 10 yds to the north of where I shot her.

I turned around to my buddy and say, "Do you believe this shit? I just shot a damn coyote too!"

We stand there another minute or so and then I look down at my watch and it reads 1:23pm. All of this had happened in 14 minutes. Absolutely unreal!!

I walk over the coyote and am admiring her exceptional pelt when buddy hollers saying he found my doe. I then hear him laughing histarically.



He starts hollering, "Dude, you have got to see this! You are not going to believe it!"

I respond, "What is it? What is wrong?"

He just says, "You just need to see it for yourself."

I walk over to the doe and he pulls back the front leg. "What the hell!? There is no way this is the same deer!"

Buddy says, "Ok, how do you explain it then? Is this the side you were shooting at?"

"Yes."

"Then why can't it be her? I bet it is her!"

I don't know how or why but I'm about 99% sure it was the same doe I'd shot at that morning. I guess the limb I saw fall at the shot was just enough to deflect the bullet off path. A damn story I wouldn't believe had I not been there and witnessed it myself.

Like I said to my buddy on the way home, "An interesting day deer hunting that is better then most fishing tales."





Here is a picture of the little buck I took the day before Thanksgiving. I shot this buck not more than about 100 yds from where my buddy shot his buck just two days later.

Once when hunting in the ontairo forest with my little Cooey .22LR with a 4x air rifle scope i happened to come upon some grouse well thinking weather i should take the shot or not, a little to my left i see movement when i look i notice its a full grown bull moose he was a giant must of had a 60" spread. So well thinking if i have any chance with the little .22 with the 40 grain solid lead bullets he starts trotting to me, 100 yards, 75 yards, 50 yards, he is getting closer and i am still hoping he stops. just then the grouse walks out infront of me with the moose still coming at me i had less then 10 seconds to make the choice. So i brought the gun up aimed the 4x crosshairs right in between the bulls eye's and pulled the trigger but he keeps coming so i decide to empty the clip in him. finaly on my last bullet i dropped him at a distance of 3 feet. i then reloaded and shot all the grouse in view.

Matthew, the best bird dog in Hawaii.

This happened back in 1984. My hunting buddy, Slim, from Alaska was visiting and I hooked him up with Perry to hunt francolin on the island of Molokai. Perry had consistantly claimed that his dog, a German short haired pointer named Walter (true) was the best damn bird dog in the islands. It was a hot, humid, no wind day. Slim worked his way down and around a small gully. He took a breather on a small mound and released healthy fart. With no wind, it just hung there and made his eyes water. Slim decided to move and made his way back to the top where Perry and Matthew had just arrived.

Perry exclaimed, "Matthew's getting birdy, Slim get down in the gully and work him." Slim replied, "I was just down there and there ain't anything there." Matthew makes his way down to where Slim was standing on the mound and immediately points straight up in the air with nose very high.

Perry then starts screaming, "Matthew, not in the air, on the ground, find the bird!" Matthew doesn't move and continues his point. Perry then runs down to Matthew and scolds the dog, "What's the matter with you, not in the air, on the ground, find the bird!"

By this time, Slim is laughing soo hard that he can't even stand.

Geoff

The following story is mostly true and was told to me by Jim. I fictionalized the driving section and the on-foot trek to make it sound like a bit more effort was involved than was actually the case.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back to Africa

With blood oozing from my shins, I pushed through the dense vegetation of southern Zimbabwe’s mopane scrub. My legs were stiff and sore from several miles of tracking a herd of African game on foot. I was in heaven.

At the age of five I announced to my family that I would go to Africa to hunt when I grew up. Now at 38, I hid with my hunting party just downwind and out of sight of one of the world’s largest antelope, the giant eland.

Earlier that morning as the sun began to illuminate the land, our Land Rover groaned out of camp near Beitbridge under the burden of myself, two native trackers, one professional hunter, and necessary equipment to sustain us for the day. I sat on the upper deck seat of the vehicle’s open back, cradling the most important item between my knees while its barrel reached toward the thin ribbon of clouds crawling along above us. It was my custom made .458 Winchester magnum rifle and it seemed to know it purpose.

Our journey took us over miles of dusty roads where barefoot locals appeared periodically smiling and waving as they made their way to tend to their own important matters. It wouldn’t be long before we reached the unpopulated wilds of Zimbabwe. After less than an hour of smelling the hot engine struggling on an increasingly difficult road, the PH and the trackers had a brief exchange and apparently had decided it was time to head out on foot.

We gathered our equipment and firearms then set out on a well worn game trail. Each passing mile led us deeper into the scrub where the vegetation thickened and grew increasingly vicious. The butterfly shaped leaves of the mopane trees offered limited shade from the intense African sun. However, I considered the heat and the pain to be only minor inconveniences as I got closer to getting my eland.

The region supported large numbers of well-fed wild game. But on this day it seemed every animal and herd that presented itself was either an animal I already had or not currently looking for. To find eland we would have to continue following an elusive herd that had managed to stay ahead of us the entire morning.

While I photographed scores of impala, wildebeest and zebra, the trackers chattered back and forth in their native tongue as they scoured the earth for signs of eland spoor. Finally, after nearly five miles of tackling the bush on foot and, with profuse thanks to the ancestors, we finally had a visual on our quarry. The herd of about thirty stood facing the same direction, their dewlaps aligned like strange African art. The PH carefully glassed the group and triumphantly announced that a magnificent bull stood to the right of the herd. I lowered my binoculars briefly, took in a deep breath and agreed that he was, indeed, a monster.

Although we moved steadily closer to them, the eland continued grazing and only shuffled positions occasionally in their search for ever sweeter tufts of grass. It seemed that this group had finally achieved the impossible; they’d arrived at a place they were content with. I was grateful. My back, my feet and my legs were grateful.

The animals stood on one side of an open grassy area grazing near the edge of the scrub line. We were across the open grassy area from them, separated by a little over 200 yards. Trying to improve our position without coming out into the open, we moved to the edge of a dense thicket. It soon became apparent that I would have to take the shot from this distance, if it was possible to even get an adequate angle.

Two bulls at the right of the herd had decided to bed down in the shade and wait for the heat of the day to pass. One of them was my monster. After careful consideration and discussion it was decided that I would take the shot. With an eland lying on its belly, head erect and all four legs tucked up near its body, its heart is very near the ground. A tough shot for sure, but I knew I could do it. A man must have confidence even if he has nothing else.

I leaned into the scope and lined him up and then slowly squeezed the trigger. In an instant I heard the familiar thud that verified I had a hit. But with the speed and determination of a child who’d spotted an approaching ice cream truck, the animal jumped to his feet and took off at a dead run. The PH stood and announced that it was a perfect shot and my target was dead, although clearly not yet aware of the fact. A short fifty yards later my trophy dropped to await my arrival.

He truly was a magnificent and huge eland. But his size paled in comparison to the size of the excitement and joy I experienced that day. I’ve been back several times to claim various trophies including a monster kudu and massive Cape buffalo. Each time I settle back into the airplane seat for the crippling 18 hour flight back to the US, I find myself reliving every aspect of the hunt and already planning the next one.

With Africa there is always a next one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a cold and frosty morning. The frost was so thick you could crunch in it. It was dark too, so dark the first ray of light was yet to eminate from the east. I had pulled my old Chevy truck to within 200 yards of my deer stand in western Tennessee. It was early in the season and the rut was on! This was the morning for the big one!! I slowly got out of the truck and gather my gear and rifle and started walking toward the towering deer stand overlooking a field of tall grass surrounded by corn fields. A perfect morning! Suddenly! Yikes!! What has me?? A pain, it thunders, it twists, it turns! What could this be?? Oh my!! I have to s#$@!!! What do I do on this PERFECT morning? I slip back into the truck, turn around, and head back to the farm shop a mile back up the rural highway. The shop is unlocked. I do not have to s#@& on the sidewalk. I take my s#&* in the necessary room. I drive back to EXACTLY where I was parked. The very first rays of light eminate from the east. Of course this is the PERFECT morning. I step out of the truck, gather my stuff, start toward the stand, and where is my rifle??? My rifle, my beautiful Win. Classic M70 .270,with wood stock, is not with me. I search...inside the truck...outside the truck...there it is....UNDER the front tire of the truck. The stock is broken. I have driven back over my rifle on this PERFECT morning. The action looks ok. The stock is barely hanging by a thread. I hunt with it. Had I shot it it would have driven the action thru my skull. I had laid the rifle against the front tire momentarily then hit with THE THUNDER. You know the feeling...you've had it too!

That reminds me...

Once I am out in the woods, I am out. If nature calls, it calls and I answer... or at least try...

I came in early from a hunt and my brother asked me, "Why are you in so early, you get something?"

"No, I need to get a pair of underwear."

"What? Why the hell do you need underwear."

"Couldn;t hold it long enough, had to cut them off."

He burst into fits of laughing while I sat down on the bench in the mud room and began to take off my boots.

"where's your other sock?"

'With my underwear."

Hard to beat a Jerry Clower coon huntin story!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZwJsNnU-44&feature=related

I was out shooting with Walter and Saeed on a days driven pheasanty and partridge. Saeed had just bought a very expensive black labrador who was supposed to be an amazing dog.

The day was the first day that the dog was being taken out shooting and Saeed was telling everyone how wonderfull his dog was and how his dog would pick up all the runners at the end of the drive blrah blah blah....

Well at the end of the first drive Saeed had shot a good number of pheasants and partridges, and he cast the dog off towards some cover to pick a particularly lively pheasant runner that had fallen in the thick bramble. As he cast the dog off he turned around to call walter over so that walters black labrador could get some lessons in retrieving from the master.

Saeed saw Walter walk upto the cover without his dog anywhere to be seen, and started telling him to watch the labrador below them quartering the ground in a very stylish fashion. The dog covered the ground well and after some very determined hunting picked the lively cock pheasant on the far side of a stream. The dog looked up and saw his master on the opposite bank, and bounded back in our direction, bird in mouth. The proud look on Saeeds face was there for all to see as the black lab came back towards them with his prize. The retrive that would stay in all our memories for a long time.

"move back, move back" he said, allowing the dog space to clear the bit of sheep fencing that separated them. The dog made his way over the final obstacle and covered the last 10 yards sitting and looking up straight at Walter. Walter took the pheasant from the dog and patted him on the head.

"Why is my dog bringing his retrieve to you?" asked Saeed?

"He isn't this is my dog, yours doesn't have a collar." said Walter. "When you cast him of, as soon as you turned your back your dog took off back to the cars over that hill..."

Saeed was very sheepish for the rest of the day!!



This is actually a true story where the super dog in question was purchased by a rather well known Hollywood actor. I've changed the names to protect the innocent and flatter Walter into making me an AR billionaire!!

I'll just get my coat....


FB

Ok here goes, no laughing.

A TIME FOR BRAGGING

I was attending college at Colorado State University in the late 80’s and, having moved there from Florida, had only hunted a few birds, squirrels, and assorted small game. My first Fall in Colorado I cruised roads east of town on the plains knocking on farmers’ and ranchers’ doors to ask permission to hunt their property. I eventually found a nice fellow, Doug, ten years my senior, an avid bird hunter and hunting dog breeder/trainer, and hunted doves and ducks with him now and then.

As deer season approached, my friend said “I guess you’re alright. How’d you like to take the horses and hunt Mule Deer with me in November?†Would I? “That would be great. Thanks.†My only rifle was a .35 Remington and he suggested we might take longer shots and recommended I borrow his .257 Roberts instead. I sighted it in two inches high at 100 yards with a neat one inch three-shot group – sweet. A few weeks later I met him at the ranch, we loaded up two horses, and headed for the hills. I was excited like a 17-year-old boy on prom night; oh the possibilities.

We saddled up the horses in the darkness at, maybe, 0200 and I learned a few things I never knew about the mischievous beasts; they are disobedient, vindictive, paranoid creatures. We came to our first stream, swift water perhaps six inches deep, and my horse, Sugar, stopped. I mean dead stopped. At Doug’s urging, I smacked the horse hard on the ass and dug in my heels and she finally crossed the stream. Maybe two miles into the ride in the darkness Sugar, evil nag that she was, jumped sideways what seemed like ten feet. What the hell? Apparently, as Doug belatedly explained, horses think every boulder is a bear and every bush is a mountain lion. I spent the next hour waiting for Sugar to wig out and leave me cling from a cliff. We finally reached the last water crossing. The water, not so swift but still moving along at a good clip, was a foot or so deep with banks a foot above the water. This time, much to my delight, Sugar walked right into the river, demonstrating her acceptance of my place as her master and her place as my loyal beast of burden…and promptly tried to rub me off on a pine tree and unseat via walking under a low hanging branch. Vindictive nag.

We finally reached the end of the ride and dismounted our horses and tied them to a tree. Out came the binoculars and Doug had a small herd of Mule Deer spotted a half mile or so away and 1000 feet up a hillside. Poor college student that I was I had to borrow the binoculars and quickly trained my eagle-eyes to the same spot on the hill. What did I see much to my amazement? A bunch of rocks, some dirt, a little sagebrush, and a few scattered trees; pines mostly as I recall, perhaps a few Aspen. Where were the damned deer? Kind, patient Doug – “Dumbass, those dirty white rocks are the deer – butts, asses, tails…come on, Matt, use your eyes.†And he was right. Eight or so deer materialized out of thin air like magic.

Doug plotted a course that would take us up a gully to within an easy 100 yards of the, hopefully, still feeding deer. Hell, at that range I’d thread the bullet through the deer’s left ventricle. No worries. We eventually closed the gap and Doug had me crawl onto a flat rock from which I’d be able to shoot my deer if they hadn’t moved. Oh the suspense, but they were still there and, if anything, even a few yards closer. I nestled into my rifle and fired. Yay – let’s go track down my buck. Hey, what the heck’s going on here; no blood, no hair, no nothing… “Must be the rifle, Doug.†Damned horse probably knocked the scope around on purpose.

We followed the deer’s tracks for a couple hundred yards before Doug spotted them again, a couple hundred yards and a hundred feet or so above us across a small ravine. “Matt, get a rest. I’ll stop ‘em for you. Be sure to shoot the buck,†whispered Doug. I kneeled and laid the rifle across a dead snag. Doug whistled loudly and, sure enough, the half dozen or so deer stopped in their track and stared at us.

I aimed slightly high on the buck’s brisket in order to drop my bullet right into his vitals and squeezed on the shot. Instant gratification. I looked through the scope and saw four legs sticking up in the air and fall over. Nailed him and the buck was mine. Doug and I climbed up the hill with him asking “You’re sure you shot the buck, right? It wasn’t one of the does, was it?†Whoa, I was aiming at the buck wasn’t I? “Yeah, I shot the buck. I held high and dropped the bullet right into the kill zone. Didn’t you see him drop like he was pole-axed?â€

We made it to my deer, a fine little forkhorn, but a monster buck to this first time deer hunter. I was ecstatic. Doug patiently walked me through gutting the deer and I dove in elbow deep. The he said, “Matt, did you find the bullet hole?†Come to think of it, I’d never even looked. No blood in the chest cavity. “No, but maybe I was a little high and spined him.†Nope, not that. It took some time before we finally found the hole. I’d missed my point of aim by some two feet and hit the buck in his lower jaw. The bullet deflected and lodged in his neck vertebrae – instant death…but through not intentionally done. So what could I say? “See Doug, I told you that nag knocked the scope out of alignment.â€

We packed the buck out on my horse’s back while I walked. It was only six miles and I was still on cloud nine. Sometime around midnight we finally made it back to Doug’s ranch and hung the buck up in the barn. I crashed out in Doug’s living room and the next morning we decided to resight the rifle before we headed out again to get Doug his winter meat. We picked out a big piece of cardboard, Doug drew a small black circle, and I laid down behind the .257 and fired off three rounds…a one inch group, two inches high.

Never brag about the shot until after you know where the bullet hit. Shucks, I could’ve been known as the guy who kills bucks at 100 yards with head shots.

I am an avid duck hunter.

A few years ago, my father wanted to go duck hunting. He had never been and is self-critical of his poor shotgun skills. He is good with a rifle, but never has been a wing shooter.

Anyway, off we go early one morning.

We get set up in one of my favorite spots, but a bit late, so I am rushing around trying to get the decoys set, gun ready and start calling. I am completely ignoring him. So he is just sitting and not getting ready to hunt.

It is just legal shooting time and two mallard drakes drop 15 yds away, just like in the magazines. I think my dad will never have as easy a shot. A quick glance and he is fumbling with his blind bag, shotgun still in the case!! Boom! Boom! And two fat mallards drop. At least I am having fun! Sorry dad.

Next, after a bit of calling, a pair of gadwalls start to drop in on us. I am now the one fumbling with the gun. I guess I should have waited on that coffee. I watch as my dad is "aiming" his shotgun. I am thinking, shoot. Just shoot. Nothing. They are in the decoys and notice us. My dad is still aiming. I am screaming "Shoot!" silently. Then, Boom! Boom! And two very dead gadwalls hit the water. My dad has rarely hit a clay, let alone a duck and now he has a double to his credit.

The rest of the morning is spectacular and about an hour after it started, we had a limit of eight mallards and four gadwalls in the boat.

Despite numerous trips since, dad has not hit another duck.

Happy Father's Day!!!

In the interest of capturing your attention (and in winning the largest denomination!), I will keep this brief...

Many years ago, when deer were rare and doe tags non-existent, a man had a family of four daughters. The girls, though beautiful and robust, were not allowed to venture afield with their father, who was of the opinion that hunting and fishing were solely the realm of men.

Time passed, and their father kept them well fed, with all the bounty of the earth (in and out of season, I might add). The girls grew strong and vibrant, and were married to young men.

It was among these new-found sons that the father spent much time hunting and fishing. And, as he lived more by the spirit of the law than the letter, he expected these boys to do likewise.

Then one day during deer season, he stationed one of the men under a cherry tree for a deer drive. "Shoot anything that moves, horns or not,"--there was no mistaking his instructions--"and don't worry that you have only one [buck!] tag; we'll sort that out afterwards."

So, the son-in-law stood dutifully under the cherry tree, Krag-Jorgensen in hand. Soon, a doe came by, then another, and another, and another. It was "a vertiable flock of does!", he said, "and not an antler to be seen."

Being more inclined to preserve his hunting privileges than his father-in-law, he declined to shoot.

Then, not a minute later, he heard a shot...then a second...and finally a third. He walked over to the old man--and lo! there were three dead does, all within 50 feet of one another.

"Why the hell didn't you shoot?!" my grandfather demanded. "You stood under the cheery tree, right?"

"Shoot what?" my uncle replied, "I never saw a one!"

So it is I say to you, dear friends: "I can never tell a lie."

friar

I told you about Ted and the snipe, and my wife and the dog. This is about me and the bear.

I was 19 and had been invited to go to the deer camp by my old man. The property was next to Angola prison, it was North of Baton Rouge La. It was a natural gravel pit formed by the Mississippi river. It had the steepest hills the state was known to have. There were drop offs that were 50 to over 200 foot straight down. A club rule required that all hunters returned to the main road before dark.

The property was so wild, it still had several groups of black bear living on it. One group lived and used the area that we hunted. There was a old sow that did not like humans at all. Some one had shot one of her cubs, and she was mean as hell because of it. She had been known to have run off more than one hunter from his stand.

Now for the story

It had been raining for a week when we got to the camp. I had found a scrape the week before near the top of the tallest hills on the property, it was about a mile back, the trail was twisting with several steep drop offs on the left side (one was 100 foot straight down). The right side of the trail was a thicket at about a 10% grade. You would not go down there unless had too. The deer used it and had several trails crossing the main trail that we used. .

I walked back to my stand at 2 pm. Due to the rain the trail was clean of any tracks. I made my hunt with no luck, then started back about 15 minutes before dark. I wanted to get past those drop offs before it got too dark. On the way out I studied the trail. I found a set of deer tracks, a new scrape and the bear tracks. The Bear tracks turned off into the thicket. As I walked down the trail it became clear that the bear had followed my prints up the hill. She tracked me for about 100 yards or so. I was making good time and very little noise. Then I heard her, something heavy was moving in the thicket. I looked but could not make anything out, it was too thick and getting dark. I slowed down and walked as quietly as I could, I would still hear her every few minutes or so. I was going to sneak out of there if possible. I was down wind of the bear and could smell her! I had read that black bears smelled bad because of the fermenting berries stuck on their coats. I knew for sure that this bear was within 25 yards of me and following me down hill (I could smell and hear her). Because I had slowed down trying to sneak out, it had gotten dark, I did not have a flashlight (I was to be on the road before dark), I did not think I would need one. I couldn't go to the right because of one remaining drop off, my only choices was to sneak out by going down hill on the trail. My senses are now at peak, I can see well out to 10 feet or so, my heart is pounding in my ears, the hair on the back of my neck is standing straight out. I have cocked the hammer on the 444 marlin I was carrying. I did feel a little comfort in having enough gun. I was ready to do battle if it came to it, but was wanting to sneak out if I could. Nobody as ever walked more quietly!. Its now dark has hell! I can see only 5 feet down the trail. I take a step, the ground explodes around me! I can't tell were shes coming from, I fire a shot to blind her with the muzzel blast and to see her if possible! Did I mention that this was also my first introduction to a covey off wild Quail? I don't know how I did not pee in my pants. I had walked into the middle of a large covey hiding under some maple leaves. I like shooting Quail, but don't know if its for the sport or revenge. Its been 35 years but my heart still races when I think of that hunt.

JD

It's not a hunting story, but it's a horrific story about a caracal that somehow got loose in America, from a zoo perhaps. The cat did a home invasion where it growled and hissed at the occupants, intimidated the family dog, and forced the owner to feed him raw chicken. Very high drama:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBVIvn46o6A



(Beautiful animal, but why in the world would anyone want one of these as a pet?)

true story,i was hunting himmalayan ibex between china border all day went by we didnt see any ibex was tierd and was away from camp,my guid deceided that we should stay the night with local ladak ppl who suppose to have a hut in the middle of plains in the mountain surroundinds there was one single hut so we went their my guide use to know the language so we went inside and sat by the fire the family was a couple an old man and a child,i asked my guide that they seems very poor why dont we open our tin food and offer them aswell he said they r preparing some welcome treat for u i said whats that he was smiling and said nothing in a while they brought a plate full of charcoal and between that there was a tennis size burned ball was there i asked again in curiosity what can it b he replyed that when we came inside there was a mule standing outside its his testical and that they have one mule only so the guest of houner has to eat it i was shocked and said no way i cannot eat that he said its very bad as they have sacrifice thier mules one testical for u cause u r the guest for them if u dont eat it they will mind and it will b bad omen and u may not find the ibex tommorow,then the man of the house cut the ball and offered me a big peice u can imagine how suallowed that thing with a shot of rice wine,only i know i could see the red blood lines in it,anyways my luck trned next day and i did got the ibex but cannot forget the taste of the testical,hope u like my story,regards

quote:

Originally posted by someoldguy:
It's not a hunting story, but it's a horrific story about a caracal that somehow got loose in America, from a zoo perhaps. The cat did a home invasion where it growled and hissed at the occupants, intimidated the family dog, and forced the owner to feed him raw chicken. Very high drama:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBVIvn46o6A



(Beautiful animal, but why in the world would anyone want one of these as a pet?)

I think you answered your own question. It is a beautiful animal.
I also like the looks of the Serval (it is something about the spots), but realize that it is a wild animal and wouldn't do well around the house.

True story

I was hunting grizzly’s in Alberta about 20 years ago. Though a screw up with the booking agent, I was forced to hunt 2 x 1. Luckily, my new hunting partner was a pretty good guy. We hunted hard for the first 5 days of a 10 day hunt with no luck or signs. (another screw up with a booking agent, Alberta isn’t the best place to hunt grizzlies).

Part way thorough a long walk on the 5 day, we came upon a huge pile of still steaming grizzly crap. My new hunting partner looked at me with a grimace and said, “I don’t want to mess with anything that can sh*t, that muchâ€.

Needless to say the rest of the trip I was hunting 1 on 1.

I was sitting in a blind near Okahandja with a black tracker. The walkie talkie came on and Freederick announced to me, ' Wounded leopard ! Sh$$t! Sh$$t! Sh$$t !' First time I heard that fine man speak English !!!

We drove over to where Bill and Helgaard were waiting .... they had been driving by a high blind when they spotted the leopard up in the blind watching them !!!! It ran down the ladder and as it ran by a small opening at full speed, Ol' Bill shot and wounded it !!!

I asked him ... my normally sweet baritone dripping with ice ... ' Let me get this straight .... you shot at a running unwounded leopard ???!!!!

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr !!! And that wasn't the leopard sounding off in the long grass ...

So we lined up ... five abreast .. Aart with his FN (on full auto so that if things went south everyone would get a chance to die at the same time) ...Bill ... Freederick, and the two left handers Helgaard and myself ... We marched about ten yards into the tall grass when the line stopped. I asked why we were pausing ??? Aart muttered, 'If you smoked ... you'd know !' Several of the men smoked a cigarette and we continued on .... One chap who doesn't like wounded leopards very much fell a bit behind in the line .. and it was he who spotted the cat ahead and off to my right ... I opened up with my 8 Mag damn near deafening Bill who had told me earlier that he couldn't really afford any more of a hearing loss ... Be that as it may, no matter how much he griped he walked away in much better shape than the cat ... Epilogue: that was the last leopard I shot at until that evening ... Quite a day ...

I just thought some of you might be interested to know that we have paid out
$Z 2,091,000,000.00 so far to our writers on this thread

Saeed

I gave up 3 and have one more to tell, but have not seen one by you or Walter.


JD

A TIME FOR BRAGGING..PART II

Humiliation being my forte, here's another short story. Unfortunately, also a true story. i'd been training my Springer Spaniel bitch and she was quartering niceky in range, finding bird-scented dummies, and bringing them to me. We warmed up on early season doves and were anxiously awaiting pheasant season.

At the office I learned one of my coworkers had always wanted to go bird hunting. I offered totake him when pheasant season opened. Of course, I took time to talk up my Springer and all her fine attributes. I could hardly wait to show her off and get a few birds as well.

Well before light I picked up my coworker and we headed out to a small property with woods, lots of fields, and a few ponds. Once there, we stopped to visit with the landowner and enjoy a cup of coffee. Pleasantries complete, we assembled our shotguns and let the Springer, Shelby, out to run the edge off and take care of her morning piss.

Not five minutes into the hunt, a nice rooster got up not ten yards in front of my friend and inches from Shelby's nose. A quck snap shot wnged the bird and he was down and running, headed toward some thick bruhs near a pond. Off like a shot, Shelby soon caught up to he bird...and...ran longside him like they were best buddies out for a jog. Of course, this clever ploy gave the rooster no chance of hiding in the brush, so into the pind he swam. Didn't know pheasants could swim, did you? Me either. My dog? She sat down the the mud on the shore and watched the bird swim away, low in the water. Only after loud threats and making it clear the shore was no place to be did Shelby swim out after the bird...and...you guessed it...swam alongside the damned thing. My friend, clearly not a bird dog aficianado, began laughing so hard he set his gun down and began rolling on the ground.

In time, Shelby, Springer Spaniel from hell, began dunking the bird with her paw as if playing with it and the poor bird drowned. She gently towed the ragged and waterlogged bird to shore by the very tip of his long tailfathers.

Think I heard about this back at work? Yep, for months. I even receive an e-mail now and then from some kind soul reminding me of my "great" pheasant dog. Shelby died last year and my whole family cried, even me. Damned dog.

As I type this, my newest bird dog, Rosie, a gorgeous orange and white Brittany Spaniel, named after Katherine Hepburn's character in The African Queen, is sleeping on the back of the couch like a bloody cat. Quail season will be here in a few months, but I ain't bragging, no siree bob.

A TIME TO BRAG...PART III

I guess even at 11-years-old it was clear hunting with me wasn't going to be all trophy photos, fine whiskey, and double barrels. Okay, maybe double barrels and fine whiskey...but few great trophy photos.

At 10-years-old, my father gave me an SKB Over/Under .20ga shotgun for Christmas. We shot a round of skeet, me getting a bloody nose, thereby ensuring I kept that dog-gone stock away from my precious face. Let's go hunting.

My dad was stationed at an airbase in Idaho and we headed for broken country to hunt Chukar. My dad had a professionally trained German Shorthair Pointer we named Buck. We were hunting with dad's friends and as we came upon a river, we left one truck there and everyone piled into dad's Jeep for a ride to higher ground.

After a kidney jarring ride, we parked not 100 yards from the edge of a deep canyon. Buck was released and begn marking every sagebrush within 50 yards of the Jeep.

We slowly worked our way a short way down the canyon, reluctant to give back altitude that would hard to regain and followed the contour lines downstream. The birds were either runners of flushed wild, but dad managed a brace with his AYA No.2, a beautiful gun that now rests in my safe. God Bless my dad -- a man who believes he shorthand down family heirlooms in time for him to watch them being enjoyed.

Me? Well, I shot a few times, likely not even close enough to scare a Chukar with a bad heart. At least, not until we made our way down to the river where dad could clean his birds before we mounted the truck for a ride back up to the Jeep. While dad was cleaning his birds with Buck lapping up some cool water, I was still looking for my first game bird. Not far from my dad I saw quick movement in a small copse of trees with underbrush. Crouching, I saw a single Chukar walking through a very small clear spot and, sportsmanship thrown clear, I ground-swatted him. Over he fell and I whooped like a wild Indian. "Dad, I got a bird. I got a bird." Sure enough, I waled up and looked down at my trophy, but what was this. The bird was still alive. His leg was twitching. Was he about to take wing and leave me birdless? don't think so. At no more than five or six feet I let got a second shot from my 20ga and the bird...well...he disappeared. Gone.

Dad showed up with Buck and me, now on my hands and knees, and that dog started rooting around for my bird. He sure wasn't in that smoking hole I'd shot into the ground where he used to be. I fnally found what was left of my bird...maybe 1/2 of what he was when I shot hi...the first time. Dad, ever the gentleman and encuraging sportsman, took it from me, admred what was left, and washed it off in the river saying we'd be sure to eat these birds this weekend.

That evening, dad made sure mom knew I'd shot my first bird and how proud he was of me. Mom pan fried those bird and covered hem with a little gravy. My bird on my plate and dads' on his. Interesting thing was that my serving was just as big as dad's.

Well, last year in Oktober I was hunting in Libin. It was a driven hunt, so all men were posted and we waited for the beaters to do their work.
I was posted on the corner of two lanes where I had a good view of everything passing over them. It was an exceptional day. The sun shining, nice and warm and we had had a very good lunch with a nice glass of wine.
It didn't take long for me to start feeling a little drowsy and sat down on my chair, waiting for the game. My head was nodding, when I heard a sound. I quickly turned and saw a boar at full speed. He was going to cross the lane about 50 meters from me and I judged it to be safe to shoot (the other positioned hunters were safely out of the line of fire).
I got up and promptly banged my head against an overhanging branch. Cursing and fumbling, I got a shot off, but missed the running pig gloriously. Alas, that's te way it went, and I resolved to remain standing as not to make the same mistake twice. After about an hour, the trumpets sounded to stop the hunt and I walked over to where the next hunter was posted to tell him about the incident.
When I was about 40 meters from him, I could see him lying on the ground, in front of his chair. At that moment, my heart started to race and my mind started to panic. Did I shoot him? No, I couldn't have! The angle was good. Did I make a mistake. Did the bullet ricochet? What could have happened?
I quickly rushed to his position and there he was ... snoring. Apparently, he fell asleep and had fallen face first in the grass. Because it was a comfortable position, he didn't get up and slept until I woke him.
Afterwards, everybody had a good laugh about it, but I will never forget the relief I felt when I heard him snore!

While hunting in 2001 I wounded an Impala. We tracked the ram a very long way and gave up at dark. Next day we tracked him all morning before deciding to let him calm down since he was staying in the same general area. Late that afternoon while hunting farther away we ran across his spoor again with a disticntive dragging foreleg and followed until dark. We bagan to jokingly call him the demon Impala. Next day same thing, we ran across his tracks in an unexpected place and after several hours on clear sandy ground the tracks suddenly just stopped. The tracker an old man who said little spoke to my PH briefly turned his hand palm up and raised it towards the sky, then simply turned around and walked away towards home. The PH explained the tracker said the Impala had flown away and he wouldn't follow him again.

It was the opening week of the Georgia deer season in 2005. Normally, the weather in Georgia is very hot in mid-October but that first week in 2005 was really cold.

I hunt on my uncle's property and I know every blade of grass on the old farm. Well, I knew that the deer would be coming down to the fields at that time of year so I was waiting under some cane that grows along side the creek that edges the field. The wind was in my direction and conditions were perfect.

It was about 30 minutes until sundown and I heard a bluejay calling about two hundred yards away along the edge of the field. Aha! A deer might be milling around waiting for his chance to cross the field and then the creek. So, I scanned the edge of the field with my glasses and as I was taking in the scene something didn't ring true. I had passed something that was out of place so I scanned the binoculars back and there it was. I had seen the ring of white hair that surrounds a deer's mouth and nose.

There he was, an old and very wide 8-pointer. All I could see of him was his face and his antlers. I could not tell in which direction his body was quartering. I put the glasses down and picked up my rifle. On that day I was carrying my BBR 300 Win. Mag. I put the crosshairs on him and waited....and waited...and waited.

Well, it was about that time that out of the corner of my eye I saw something black run out into the field. What the hell! I looked out in the field and there was a black cat, of all things, and he was jumping up into the air. You know how cats will do; he was jumping up after a butterfly or a mouse our something that was flying through the air. He kinda looked like tha guy in the old Toyota commercials (if you can remember back that far).

Well, he caught whatever it was he was after and turned and headed back to the treeline. Quickly I scanned my rifle back to the other tree line and the buck was gone. A damn black cat had ruined my hunt.

Landrum

This is the last of my stories!My first three stories were all true, just as this one is. This is a story of my first bow kill on deer. I am willing to bet none of you guys, no mater how far you have traveled or how much money you have spent can claim the same feat.

I was 19 and at LSU for my first year of college. I had a 35lb fiberglass stick bow that I used for rabbits and bow fishing with me at the time. I got the bow for $5.00 from Western Auto after Hurricane Betsy tore up Louisiana, they were clearing out all damage goods.


My Botany lab partner asked me to go deer hunting on opening day. The family farm was just outside of Baton Rouge city limits. I said sure,and that I had the bow but need some arrows. Off too Stienbergs Sporting goods we went. What a place, they had a full body polar bear, and stuff from Africa I did not know.There was a Moose and Elk also. I bought 4 cedar arrows with stamped 2 blade broad heads for 1.99 each. 3 of them shot good, I was able to get them good and sharp, I didn't have a quiver so I would knocked one and carry 2. I was ready for action. That night I did not sleep much, I was thinking of deer and that polar bear.

The next morning we arrived at the farm, the wind was right for a stark down the power lines, Fred on one side me on the other. I am walking as quite as I could (Its easy when you don't weight 180 lbs). I look of to the left, there is a pretty little doe beded down less than 15 yards away.

I just freeze, its was dark , and trying to see thought the old fashion face nets was not easy. 2 3 4 5 minutes go by, she doesn't stand or offer me a good shot, but the light is up and I can see clearly now! My only shot is the back of her head,then I noticed Fred was making his way back to me (sounding like a bull in a china closet). Its now or never, I lock on to back of her head and let fly, the arrow strikes home where the spine meets the skull and slide into the brain pan. She does 't even flinch, and I am feeling thankfull for her quick and painless death.

Fred is 40 yards away and fusses at me now for wasting my time on armadillos. I tell him I just killed a doe and she laying there 15 yards away.

He walks up looks at the doe with my arrow sticking out of her head,and yells "Dam you shot a doe". Since he was the local Preachers kid we were glad no one was around to hear him. I told him I would would keep my mouth shut about his transgression if he would drag her out.

We start over to the deer and the smell hits me, I told Fred the cursing was bad enough, but farting like that was uncalled far and could taint the meat. He blamed me for the smell as he reached down to grab the deer to roll her over. It was then we noticed the maggots.

Yes folks I killed a dead Deer, and did it very well with a perfect shot at that. If she had been alive it would not been any more exciting.

I bet you think I am finished, wrong.

Fred and I started down the clear cut again, Fred got a little ahead and jumped a big 12 point in full rut, the buck took of clearing 6 foot high broom sage like it was nothing. He crosed at 40+ yards on a full bore run, I was too shocked to try a shot. I have yet to see a bigger prettier Deer.

No! I am not done yet.

Fred told everybody about me killing a dead deer. At the student union my Botany teacher (a serious hunter) walked over and said and I qoute

"Given my success at bow hunting, He was afraid to ask about my first sexual experience.then He stated if I enjoyed that hunt,I would find sex after 10 years of marriage fulfilling!

I am done

JD

WOW!!!!!!!!!!!!! Thanks Saeed, $615,200,000.00! Wealth beyond my wildest dreams.

This happened a long, long time ago and is submitted here partly because it is sort of funny and partly to show that anyone (me included) is capable of pulling a "Walter".
My grandfather took the two young pups (me and my brother) quail hunting one day. I was probably 8 or 9 shooting a single shot 410. As we tramped through the brushy canyon, I stumbled and fell. I noticed that the muzzle had jammed up with mud. No problem, when I shoot at the next quail, the mud will just blow out. Wasn't long before a quail rockets out of the brush and streaks down the canyon. I swung and missed (no suprise, anyone that can hit quail with a single shot 410 has my respect to this day). As I brought down the gun to reload the muzzle looked kind of funny. It was peeled back like a banana for about 2 inches and the front sight was gone.
The good news was (and if I were Walter I would tell you this was intentional), we had the barrel cut off and put a new front sight on and since the choke was gone, it was a much better quail gun!

1984: Tarryall, Colorado, and I was elk hunting with traditional muzzleloading gear. It was cold, and I had "nested" myself in a pile of leaves and debris along a trail. Alas, no elk, but along came a field mouse, and he was interested in licking the outside of my powder horn. That finished, he proceeded to investigate me. He crawled around and through my huge red beard, and I wondered if he was just looking to get warm. When he got around to nuzzling my lips, I couldn't wait any longer. I let out a very hard"PSSSSSSST", and watched him break the field mouse broadjump record as he didn't hit land for at least six feet in front of me! No elk that year, but I won't ever forget me and the mouse! Cheers, Luke

Ok, here goes, cuz I need the money really bad. . .

As a young lad I remember my first pheasant hunt all too well. It was a passage of rite for us youngsters in the family to be invited to spend the night at Grandpa's house prior to our first pheasant hunt with the rest of the men in the family. The guest bedroom next to the bathroom was designated for the newest hunting VIP, and a special place was also appointed at the breakfast table for the new hunter. My uncle, and his wife who were newly weds at that time, were also staying over and occupied the other guest bedroom. Being naive and young, and excited about the hunt, I could not sleep. Hearing strange noises coming from the bedroom next to mine, I went to investigate and was told by some of the other adults to head directly back to bed and not to worry about the noises and commotion. However, an hour later found me getting back up to relieve my overflowing bladder. Upon rushing to the bathroom and opening the bathroom door, I was met with uncontrollable screaming, yelling and cursing as two naked and writhing bodies attempted to dislodge and entangle themselves from one another. My life flashed before my eyes as a bevy of angry adults jumped out of bed to chase me through the house for disobeying their prior orders. However I quickly outran all of them and made it outside just in time to find a place to drain what had not already found its way into my shorts and pajamas.
After nearly freezing to death, and finding that my crown jewels had migrated north to warmer parts, I finally sneaked back into the house and back to bed, carefully avoiding everyone and everything. Awakened by the smell of bacon, eggs and fresh coffee three hours later, I stumbled downstairs and found my appointed place at the breakfast table with the rest of the hunters, enjoying grandpa's simple breakfast of blackened bacon, burnt toast and eggs way, way, way over easy. As a child I had been known for having a queasy stomach, especially early in the morning, but the excitement of this grand and glorious moment seemed to overshadow all ill feelings. After dressing in my hunting clothes, I assisted the rest of the hunters in loading up the old stick shift suburban with the dogs, guns, ammo, hunting coats and homemade lunches that grandma had made for all of us the night before. With me in the back seat with the dogs, we proceeded to drive to the local river bottoms for the opening. As the road was somewhat twisty and turny, my stomach finally could not handle it anymore and without any warning I heaved my sacred breakfast all over the two hunting dogs, the parties' hunting coats, and grandpa's finest Browning Auto-5 shotgun. We quickly found a pull off spot off of the two lane highway and tried to wash everything off with what water we had in a couple of small Coleman water jugs, but the smell of it all would not go away and we were soon riding with all of the windows down in the freezing early November morning.
Reaching the farm lane we found a parking spot and everyone exited the suburban. It wasn't a pretty sight or smell, but we made the best of it. I was given the VIP position as we fanned out to start our walk through two corn stubble fields at the crack of dawn. Being warned not to shoot the dogs or any person either connected with or not with our hunting party, I concentrated on watching the dogs work their magic. Suddenly, two roosters broke free of the stubble directly under my feet, cackling loudly as they made their way into the air, and before I could even pull the trigger two others in the party shot and dropped the birds. However, one rooster, upon hitting the ground, was still running like a racehorse, and I quickly shot, not realizing that the two dogs were onto the bird. Well, you guessed it. After the yelping subsided my dad, grandpa and uncle then spent the next highly productive two hours of the pheasant season opener picking lead bb's out of the dogs. With one bird amongst the four of us in the bag (with a limit of two birds possible per hunter on opening day), we returned to the suburban only to find that grandpa, in haste on opening morning, had locked the keys inside. Breaking a side window, we finally were able to open the doors and get everything and everyone loaded for the ride back to the vet's to have the dogs checked.
Later that afternoon(after eating our homemade sack lunchs at the vet's office while waiting for him to finish taking care of the two gun shot dogs), grandpa announced that we would return to the riverbottoms to finish the hunt. We then hunted a favorite spot of my uncle's known as the "jungle" taking two more roosters. Returning to the suburban, my grandpa asked me if I wanted to drive the suburban down the farm lane and park it near the river while they made a drive through the adjacent corn field. Being eager to please, after such a disasterous start, I quickly agreed. I started the surburban, easing out on the clutch after putting it in gear and lurching forward. Slowly following the farm lane, but carefully concentrating on watching the hunters instead of the road, I soon lost all concentration on the most important task at hand. Looking up, and realizing that it was suddenly too late to stop, I found myself and the suburban face to face with one of the big cottonwood trees lining the farm lane. The end result was a perfect crease down in the middle of the suburban's hood, a broken grill and a punctured radiator. Suffice it to say, the long walk back to the filling station for the tow truck and the subsequent ride back to grandma's house to pick up the spare truck were both uneventful. Enough damage had been done in 24 hours. And, we didn't get our limits of birds.

ok, true story...

so the day started out normal enough, waiting half hour for donny to wake up and let me in out of the cold. the bench on his front porch is pretty comfy. so we roll out and get jerry locati. fine. head out the "posted, private land" that no one else has permission to be on. well, looky here. lots of cars parked on the side of the road at our spot. we had both sides of the road posted, but i guess that doesnt really matter. so screw them! we unloaded the 4 wheelers and headed into the center of the property. let all the deer run to us! at dawn, beautiful CRP. rolling draws, vineyard close by, looks perfect. three does bust out 800 yards ahead. apparently they are a bit spooky! roll around the property. nothing. the 3 does were it. oh well, there is another patch of stubble up the road we have available. an hour later, jerry remembers where it is. more beautiful land. same rolling hills, but with 2-3 year old stubble. great looking stuff. donny shoots at the 2nd coyote of the day. misses this one, too. the only animal on the property. well, i guess we can run some of the tresspassin bastards off the other side of the road and take a look. head back where we started, still lots of guys. run a few of them off. just because it was feel free to hunt last year, doenst automatically mean is is this year. one kid said, "its CRP, goverment land. anyone can hunt it." well, not quite. in fact, not at all! talked to the landowner from next door. he said there was a commotion and trucks driving on the posted land. come to find out later, 37 inch 4x4 muley and a fist fight between two parties over it. donny and i drove all over that side of the road, too. 3 muley does.

that ended the morning hunt. afternoon donny and i drove up the hill behind the house a few draws over. before we were out of the pasture, jumped two little whitetail does. headed into the two big draws. 1 doe, 1 coyote. head into the next draw, boarding klicker's. donny spots a buck about 500 yards away. just standing in the open. not a care in the world. we sneak within 250. still there. we count down, shoot on three. well, i count one, two, shoot. donny counts one, two, three, shot. anyway, buck drops in his tracks. cool! head over to him. get within 30 yards, still moving. fine, sit and let him die. he has other plans. tumbles into the deep brush. ok, leave him be to die. not a whole lot of blood. must be internal. after 1/2 hour, he appears on the opposite hillside! WALkING AWAY! shit! i shoot him in the neck. he flips over backwards. finally. thought we might lose him. head over to him. he gets up and jumps into the brush! motherfucker! i dive into the brush after him. good blood now. hole in his neck is good. i jump him within 8 feet. too thick to shoot. i can hear his raspy breathing. donny shoots a couple of times. he's down. takes me 20 minutes to get out of the brush, it's so thick. Two klicker hunters watching us from above. screw 'em! he's ours now. donny and i yell across the canyon. he can see the deer. he is still moving! i try to wait a little bit, finally get him in sight. looks dead. ;head down, but wait! he's breathing! cocksucker! i stalk down to him, gun ready. he lifts his head, bang. 2nd hole in the neck. at 20 yards, this is the final. deer was shot through the front shoulders 1st shot. missed the lungs, heart, liver, anything vital! found bullet under the hide on opposite side. my bullet. 1st hole in neck, missed veins and windpipe. 1 back leg trashed from just above the knee. front leg shot, other with shrapnel. deer was shot 6 times, first 2 should have been fatal. the will to live was amazing. poor bastard. must been in pain, legs all shot up, chest shot through, neck shot through . . . jesus! tough old bastard. nice 4x5. donny gets 4 wheeler while i gut and clean, well, kinda clean. busted the stomach trying to pull it out, bladder fighting me the whole time. but got the job done. just not my best work. winch him up the hill with capsan winch - LIFESAVER! that thing is worth it's weight in gold! 500 feet down the draw, had deer out in 1/2 hour or so. onto 4 wheeler where his head is run over and breaks skull. can rattle with his own horns! but finally hanging, clean, and in better shape than i thought. so you might think this is where the story ends, but no. while dumping the hide and bones in the brush, he gets his final revenge by transferring some FLEAS! yes, i caught three, showered, washed all the cloths i took, left bags outside, and my skin is still crawling. washed my hair with dog flea shampoo, hope it did its job. this deer better taste fricking AWESOME!

No hunting story to share, but thought folks might enjoy seeing what $250,000,000 looks like. Good news is that I am a billionaire, bad news is that I am a billionaire in Zim.

Hey Guys, another true story!!!
It was dove season. south Texas, 1987. How can someone remember that far back? It was the only time she went dove hunting with me and the scenery was breath-taking!!!
We were dove hunting. This is and was the only time she ever went hunting of any kind with me. I bought her a Remington 1100, youth model , in 20 gauge. She was five feet, four inches, 120 pounds, and 10 pounds are on her chest. She is doubly blessed.
As usual, she was wearing tight jeans. I got her a form fitting camo tee shirt. She looked great with all those curves!!! Because I was always trying to unhook her bra from behind, she was using a front snapping bra. She thought she had just outsmarted me! It was around 4pm, and a dove was coming her way. I was standing next to her, and gave her first shot. She tracked the bird, fired, and nailed her dove. With recoil, her front opening bra snap popped open, splilling the girls out into her tight tee shirt. I did not say anything, I enjoyed the show. She discovered the fact after 15-20 minutes. I did not get any birds,or anything else, for a while,I just saw a pair of big ones!!! This was the best bird hunt I ever saw!!!

Hey got my millions yesterday Saeed thank you wery much!!

Saeed
Thanks for the money. I am surprised that it does not feel any different to be rich. They said I would not amount to much! Now I am published with a big royalty money. What did they know

Thanks
JD

I have a second hand story I always thought funny. I can just imagine a bunch of guys in this circumstance sitting around and the following happening.

My dad was stationed in Persia (Iran) during WWII. He was there for four years as part of the Persian Gulf Command which ran the system which supplied Russia with munitions. He was in the southern desert region, but was often assigned to a group who hunted in the north to supply fresh meat, which was not available otherwise. They would take about six hunters and a like number of skinners with refrigerator trucks north and hunt until the trucks were full. Primary game was deer and huge wild boar. They hunted with Springfields (preferably) and M1's, but had only military hardball ammo.

One fall evening after the hunt, they were sitting around a fire, drinking coffee. Huge flocks of geese were migrating in Vees overhead and they were commenting on the number and the height at which they were flying. My dad's best friend Farrell commented "Man, I would love to have one of those to roast".

One of the guys by the fire stood up, walked over, picked up his Springfield, took aim and fired. The lead goose in one of the Vee's folded up, fell for about 60 seconds and landed with a huge thump and bounce right in the middle of the fire. While everyone sat there stunned, he calmly racked his Springfield, sat down, picked up his cup and said "Farrel, if you wanted one of those, you should have told me sooner".

WoooooooooooHooooooooo!!!!!!!

The Jackpot has been HIT!!!!!!!!!!

$61,520,000.00 I have finally hit the BIG TIME!


All kidding aside, thank you very much Saeed. I love to collect foreign money and this will be proudly displayed with my somewhat meager collection. I will always remember your generosity.

Jim

One more that happened to me.

When I was first married, my dad, my father-in-law and I decided to go deer hunting on my wife's farm. That area had some huge corn fed bucks. My dad and I had scouted one which was laying up about dawn every morning in a tiny pond/swamp in the middle of a several hundred acre field surrounded by wooded hills. There was no hope of getting him during the day, since he would simply leave on the side opposite you.

We decided our best chance was waylaying him on opening morning on one of the three routes he used to enter the area.

At 5 AM, we put my father-in-law (who was not really a hunter) into an old hay barn which was hard beside on of the hollows which the buck used for approach. We went to the other two spots, which were each about a quarter mile away.

Just as the light started to come up, I saw movement above the barn. I watched the big old buck (looked to be a 14 point) sneak down the gulley and right along the edge of the barn. He passed within 10 feet of the side, and continued on across the field and into the swamp. I kept waiting for a shot, but nothing happened. About that time, my Dad arrived with a "What happened?" We hustled up to the barn, not sure what we would find. When we looked in through the gap between the doors, there lay my father-in-law, gun across his chest, sound asleep on a pile of haybales!

Totally true:

On the hill in Scotland, out for a Red Stag.

After a couple of hours of fruitless stalking we three drove up the side of a valley and stopped to glass the other side. We got out of the landrover.

I needed a pee and went to the other side and stood with my back to the car and got my unit out.

The guys are standing with their backs to my back, scouring the landscape with their binos and commenting "can't see anything" etc etc.

I'm standing there holding my unit and staring at a small herd of Stags who were all of 25 yards from mee looking right at me...looking right at them. Several of them started to pee too!

I'm whispering frantically: "Guys...Guys....turn around...Stags!"

"nice try mate...we don't want to watch you pee...we are trying to find deer here!"

As I zipped up....the Stags ran off.

Clearly my unit is not a threat!

I received an envelope in the mail, opened it, and instantly became a millionaire! What a feeling!

Thank you, Saeed!! You are most kind!

I've been having some fun with mine . . . I live smack dab in the middle of the Barnett Shale natural gas field that is very positively affecting our economy here. It's fun to pull out the cash and follow it with a story that "my gas money started coming it". Some folks actually believe that I am being paid in foreign currency and their eyes get real big when I rifle through the bills to find the ten million dollar note!

Last night I pulled it on a friend who is a banker and she immediately started talking me into opening an account at her bank!

Thanks again, Saeed!! This is too much fun!

JDS