Ladies and Gentlemen,

We are giving away a copy of the above book as a prize for an ORIGINAL hunting story.

The story you write must have happened to you, or to a friend of yours while you are hunting together.

This contest will run until the end of this month, as many people have complained we did not give them enough time to get their brains in action.

So good luck to all, and let us hear those stories.

Apart from the above condition of originality, you are free to make it as "interesting" as you wish.

This happened to me when I shot a big mulely buck that netted 183 5/8 I had been watching this buck in one of my hunting areasfor a few days and I was sure he was going to make it into boone and crocket
I sat down on the opposite side of a clearing were he usualy comes out but this time when he came out he kinda looked around and bolted he was about 200 yards away so I pulled in on his nose and squeezed off the shot and he tumbled and didnt move. Stone cold dead a guy I used to hunt with was watching all of this from about half a mile away in my pick up and after all the action he comes over to help load the deer. The weird thing was rigamortus had set in the deer instantly and he was stiff as a board plus he had a massive body and it was everything we could do to laod him finally we are off and start heading to a friends farm near calgary to skin him and gut him using the farm tractor as we are nearing his place and now driving through the bow zone my tail gate fell down (which happened occasionaly on that truck) dave looks back and yells oh shit your deer fell out and he is running away. Of course I am telling him ya right funny guy but sure as shit my big back was making away with my deer tag stuck through his back tendon and of course the deer runs within about two hundred yards of a farmers house and falls over but still is'nt dead. Now it is about 9 o clock at night and dark out. The farmers dog is going ballistic so the farmer comes out doesnt see any thing and hollers at the stupid dog to shut up so here we are in the bow zone at night with a gun shot deer and my tag stuck in it I was sure this buck was going into the books and there was know way I was going to lose it so as panick started to set in we came up with a plan we tried to sneek up to the deer and knife him but he was still to alive for this and just got the stupid dog barking as the deer moved a little closer to the house finally we decided to reshoot the deer and we knew reloading the deer quickly was out of the question so we used the truck to drag the deer to the ditch and then slide him into the back and take off with a p.o farmer in hot pursuit we managed to get a way without getting into trouble. With hindsight there was a lot better ways to handle it but I am telling you at the time I was panickingand desperately wanted this deer.
P.S. if your deer is lying there with instantaneous rigamortis please dont put him in your vehicle just yet.

Take care and good luck
Trevor

This is a true story that happend last fall

The story of Deerless Zehfus

After 35 years of deer hunting and no animal to show for the many years of effort, Lt. Colonel (reserve) Mark Zehfus (Deerless Zehfus to his friends) knew something was clearly amiss. Light Colonel Mark (Deerless) Zehfus was not entirely sure what the problem was. A curse resulting from some inadvertent offence to a Bar-hag in his misspent youth was suspected as a likely cause.

This Year, it was time to overcome the curse. Deerless wisely chose to elicit the services of the (in)famous "Mammut Waffen Fabric's guide service, which is based in the Nicolet National Forest of Northern Wisconsin (owned and operated by Fred-Frites Bouwman and Rockhead).

It was a perfect opening day of the 2002 gun deer season in Wisconsin, a clear and cool day with a light dusting of snow. It had that scent of a good hunting day, that we all know.

Deerless (Zehfus) was ensconced by his guides in a naturally well-camouflaged blind overlooking a small meadow and several deer escape routes. Just before they left the blind, Deerless Zehfus was admonished by the guides Fred-Frites and Rockhead NOT to fall sleep at the blind like his good friend The other colonel frequently does. Plans were made for Rockhead and Fred-Frites, to regroup with the client, Deerless Zehfus, at the blind at around 12:30 PM for a hearty lunch of hard Deer Salami, Swiss cheese brown bread ,and nun’s tea.

Fred-Frites spent a fruitless morning stalking through the thick cedar swamp immediately south of Deerlees' blind in effort to direct a deer towards the blind.

Later As the meeting time neared, Rockhead quietly approached Zehfus and Fred- Frites from the northeast through a curtain of fragrant balsam. Just as he was about to step out from the evergreens he heard Fred-Frites exclaim "Hey would you Look at that" as a doe walked broadside in front of the two hunters eating lunch less than 30 yards away.

Deerless Zehfus did not even think of raising his rifle. Of course the fact that Deerless' rifle was still leaning against a tree in his blind 20 feet away may have contributed to the absence of shooting.

Clearly the curse of the Bar-hag was still operating.

Drastic measures were needed. After the lunch, in an attempt to rid Deerless of the stench of the curse, the two guides symbolically beat Deerless Zehfus senseless with aromatic cedar branches.

After he was revived, (with medicinal quantities of Nun’s tea) he was once again ensconced in the blind overlooking the meadow and deer escape routes and was once again admonished not to fall asleep with a further reminder that it is usually a good idea to keep your rifle within reach at ALL TIMES.

By late in the afternoon neither of the two guides had heard any gunshots from Deerless’ blind. Another driving/stalk was needed . Rockhead crossed a set of fresh deer tracks at the edge of the hrdwoods to the east of deerless. He stalked the deer through the light snow in the swamp in an effort to bring a deer in front of the cross hairs of Deerless’s custom Remington model 700-scout rifle. The effort was successful and a small spike buck sporting a pair of 7-inch knife blade spikes that were reminiscent of a Buck pathfinder knife blade (an excellent omen) came out of the escape route, in front of the colonel's blind. The deer provided a classic broad side shot.

This time Deerless was ready, the beating with cedar branches had done the trick and he clearly remembered the important technique of keeping your rifle within reach. Deerless needed only one shot to the heart with a hand-loaded cartridge capped with a 150-grain spitzer bullet. The deer collapsed after a 30 yard run.

The Colonel was ecstatic and could be heard from � mile away "The curse is Broken!!!!!, BREAK OUT THE BBEER "

Deerless Zehfus is now "One-shot” Zehfus to his close friends.......

Well at least when he is around.

RH.

I told my best story the last time we had a contest, and I won a book, so I guess it's not allowed to repeat it. Too bad, it's funny. Those of you that remember might recall the punch-line from my friend Dave McGhee- "NO CLARKE, I'VE NEVER EVEN BEEN CAMPING AND THE FIRST THING YOU DO IS TAKE ME BEAR HUNTING!!!"

Anyways, another bear story...

My lovely and talented wife Penny and I went out grouse hunting one day, just up the road from our house.

She doesn't hunt, and won't come out with me for big game, but grouse are okay. She prefers not to see anything die, though. She's pretty scared of bears, even though she sees them daily in the spring. I'm not scared of bears at all...well black bears anyway. I've crept up on them (unarmed) just to see how close I could get. I've never seen a black bear that actually scared me, altough I've seen some big bears.

We packed a lunch, got in the truck, and off we went.

We parked on the side of a logging road, jumped out and headed down a old trail that weaves around some clearcuts.

On the way down, we flushed and shot a couple of grouse. I missed a couple too, even though Penny pointed them out to me. (She is far better at spotting game than I am. She would be a deadly hunter if she so chose.)

We got to a nice meadow by a creek, sat down, and unpacked the lunch. We lazed away an hour or so in the warm September sun, enjoying what could be our last day of real warm weather until spring. It was a beautiful fall day, the leaves were just turning, and everything felt good.

After lunch, we started back up the hill, me in front as usual. As we rounded a corner into a small clearing, I heard some snapping and cracking sounds. It was a bear, on all fours, feeding.

I whispered to Penny "Bear!"

Penny, (remember-scared of bears) did what she usually does, sort of put her head down and pretend it's not there!

I creeped a little further forward, to get a better look. Once I could see him clearly, I realized it was the biggest black bear I'd ever seen. It was as big as many grizzlies. I (rather stupidly, but uncontrollably) exhaled in a whisper "HOLY SHIT THAT'S A BIG BEAR!!!!"

WRONG thing to say!!!!

Penny looked at me, looked at the shotgun and said "Can you kill a bear with that? It was a 20 guage with #6 shot.

"Uhhhhh.....No."

I recieved a look that any man who knows a woman well could translate. It was "You are an idiot. YOU got us into this mess- how are you getting us out?"

At that point the bear either winded or heard us (it only took seconds) he stood up on his hind legs to take a look at us and sniff us. He woofed once, then took off into the brush.

Problem solved, right? Wrong.

The thing is, big bears might spook a little at first, but soon they realize "HEY! I'm a big badass bear. No puny little creatures are going to push me out of my territory. Screw them!"

We hustled up the trail, but the bear was following us, paralell to the trail. We could hear him crash through the bush, and occasionally caught a glimpse of him. I actually got a little freaked out, and Penny was not a happy camper.

We made it to the truck, and Penny jumped in. I stowed the shotgun, and grabbed a rifle. I had a bear tag after all.

Penny said "What are you doing?"

"I'm going back with the rifle. There's a chance that I could still catch up to him and get a shot at him."

Penny was NOT amused.

"IF YOU LEAVE ME ALONE HERE AND GO AFTER THAT BEAR, IT WILL KILL YOU AND I'LL DIVORCE YOU!!!!"

I'm still with Penny, and the biggest bear I've shot was about 400 pounds and just over 6" nose to tail....

[ 02-02-2003, 12:28: Message edited by: Gatehouse ]

Every September I take the whole month off to pursue elk in the BigHorn Mountains in north cental Wyoming with a bow.

Few years back, a early snow came and dropped over two feet off fresh snow, which pushed all the elk down out of the high country.

Early one morning after the snow had settled and the elk were everywhere, I ran into a large herd with sixty cows and calves with a large 6x6 bull. The bull had a Wyoming Game and Fish collar around his neck, thinking to myself this would be great if I could harvest this animal.

I snuck within a few yards of a cow with her calf and a small spike however, I couldn't get any closer to the big bull with all those eyes and ears, not to mention their kean sence of smell.

So I backed off to a safe distance and watched were the herd went to bed down for the day. After the herd moved off over a small ridge and was out of sight I headed back to camp to eat lunch and clean up a little.

Three o' clock that afternoon I was on the same side of the ridge as the elk. So I snuck toward a small meadow that I thought the elk would come out to feed that evening. While I was sneaking toward the meadow, at a snails pace I started to hear a continous sound, it made me think that one of the calves had got seperated from his/her mother and had been calling all afternoon. Thinking that the calf had been calling to cow had cause the calf to make this weird sound that I had never heard in the woods before today.

As I slowly approached the meadow the sound never stopped, when I came to the edge of the timber I expected to see a calf out in the meadow looking and calling for the cow. The meadow was completely empty except for eighteen inches of snow and a few patches of trees. Still looking out in the meadow trying to locate what ever was making this sound, while looking I spotted a large pine tree with a large over hanging branch that came down and touched the ground at the meadow edge. I felt if I could get to that tree I might be able to see more of the meadow and finally see what source was making the non-stop sound. The weird sound continued as I finally arrived at the base of this large tree, I was very puzzled to find still nothing in the meadow except the sound. So I walked out to the over hanging branch, thinking I would be able to see more of the meadow and locate the location off the calling. But, when I started to slowly move out to the branch the sound quite. I just thought the calf and reach the other side of the clearing and had moved into the timber where it might have found his/her mother.

After about fifteen minutes off glassing the meadow and not seeing or earing anything. I just figured that the soure of the sound had moved off. While I continued to wait and hoping the elk would come back out to feed this evening. Then all of a sudden I hear that sound again however, this time it is directly behind me. As I'm standing there snug up against this branch in full camo, this calf had walked up behind me without me seeing him/her or evening hearing it with all this snow on the ground.

With my bow in my left hand I slowly turn to see if I can spot the elk calf. As I turned around and getting the sock of my life, at six feet I'm looking into the face of a large mountain lion.

The cat was crouched down with all four feet under his /her body with it's tail slowly swinging back and forth. Now I knew I might be in a heap of trouble if that mountain lion decided to jump on me, and knowing that I will have to fight back the best I can even though I was out of my league.

I had to do something and do it fast, so I took my bow in my left hand and held it out toward the cat at arms length hoping to keep the bow in between the two of us. With my sudden move the mountain lion jumped straight up and in mid air turned completely 180 degrees and slowly trotted down off into the black timber.

It's a good thing I so big and ugly, I spoke to a few people that said if I had been sitting down on the ground the out come might have been entirly different.

Needless to say I was five miles from my camp and it was starting to get dark. On the way back to camp every little bird sound, I would turn and look behind me. That was the fastest five miles I ever walked.

The next day I was pretty close to the same area but down in the bottom of a large draw. I had found a trail that the elk were using to travel from their bedding to their feeding grounds. Twenty yard from the trail I built a make shift blind and sat and waited for the elk to come back to the bedding areas. While sitting there I spotted movement through the sagebrush to my right. I couldn't believe my eyes (the mind plays funny thing) I swear I seen a mountain lion walking in that sagebrush. What are the chances of seeing two mountain lions out in the wild in two days I asked myself.

Out walked a nice Bobcat caring a hare that it had killed in her mouth. Everytime see would take a step in the deep snow she would step on the large hare and pull her head down.

I was going to try and follow the bobcat and see where she was taking the rabbit, instead of just eating at the spot she killed it. But then I realized I was here to hunt elk and not follow a bobcat through the mountains.

A few minutes after the bobcat had walked out of sight I heard one heck of a cat fight right around the hill side. I figured see was taking the hare to here kittens and they were fighting over the meal.

I didn't harvest a elk that year however, it was still a succesful hunt.

Scratch

Fooling around on the farm and my first antelope

My friend and I were both 16 years old, me one day his senior. I use to visit him on their farm almost every weekend and sometimes, whole holidays. We use to do what normal teenagers on a farm would do and that is too fool around try and build a veld buggy out of an old car and shoot a lot especially with the .22 and the .410 shotgun on birds in their orange and lemon grooves. They had an old .22 lr the one that has a tube underneath it and you can load up too 12 rounds ! Any Kwevoels “Go away bird” use to fly off as soon as they saw us as they knew giving off a warning would mean and end to them ! My friend also had an old 75 cc bike with no brakes. Guess how we did brake with it, on a count we use to put down our shoes with thick soles on the ground. Mind you it took us a while to slow down especially when we were doing 80 kph. With the 303 or 243 slung on my back and my friend riding we use to see if we could get a hog or anything else that would present itself but not always impala or kudu as his father use to tell us when we could bag one but there was no questions to be asked about any hogs, jackal or monkey. I had my first chance on an antelope an impala on their place, being quite of an expert on hogs as my count was just over 25 hogs already in the last two years all of which with borrowed rifles and on other peoples farm. (Or so I thought !)

Anyway we were cruising down the dirt road to another farm of theirs on the mean machine with the 75 cc motor. Suddenly out of the corner of my eye I spotted an impala ewe we put down our manual brakes and believe me we had a new record with stopping so fast. We both had helmets on as we use to wear them only when we took the main dirt road. Slinging the 303 off my back the one ewe was standing perfectly broadside at a range of around 50 yards I loaded the soft and aimed trough the scope. Please bear in mind I still have the helmet on and us not being the experts didn’t know about scope parallax ! Boom ! And the recoil of the gun didn’t let me see how my impala dropped asking my friend Lourens where it dropped he started laughing out loud I asked what is the matter ? He struggled to speak and told me “Miss”! What I missed at this range and it was a perfect line up ? Yes, I did the reason why he was laughing so hard is that he saw the whole picture. We walked up to the spot where they were standing meanwhile I took the helmet off. He started laughing again “Look” he said there is the spot where you hit the tree ! “The tree!” I said but how the impala was standing on the right of the tree perfectly broadside ? “When the shot went off a chunk of the tree trunk hit the impala right on the head she almost fell from the shock but outran all of the company !” “That is why I was laughing so much can you imagine a chunk like that hitting her on her head from nowhere ? I’ve never seen a n impala run like that !“ Well that was it my first chance at a antelope and I blew it !

On another day we got hold of two metal dustbin lids and did we have some fun we took out the 12 bore from the safe this being an old side by side with two triggers and a whole bunch of different size of shot the biggest of them being LG and the smallest no. 5 shot. We decide to go out and test what the different size of shot would actually do if you were shot with it. (Watching, too many action movies will let your kids think like this) After about 15-18 shots each and shoulders that were slumping we were convinced that SSG was the mother of all loads all of these shots were shot at close range of around 15 yards. Like we said we were not experts but a 15 yards with SSG you would have had a mighty big bunch of holes and some of them a double dose with the 2 balls almost making one hole. Another brain haired Idea of mine was to outclass my friend and shoot two francolins with one shot. Yes we were shooting them off the ground but we didn’t know better we tried once or twice to shoot flying birds but it was just a waste of ammo as far as we were concerned. (Too many misses) To get back to my idea this was with the same side by side one of the barrels being a fully choked barrel. So there was, these two francolins 1 foot from each other and I aimed right between them to bag both of them with one shot. After the shot there was dust, leaves and sticks flying with the two francolins flying off in opposite directions. My aim was too perfect, perfectly in the middle and I was using the choked barrel, which worked with the first trigger. I was dumbfounded how the hell, Lourens, burst out laughing again and I told him of my plan. All he could say is that I was getting too greedy and true was his words.

Now to come to the biggest experience I had on the farm ! Lourens’s dad told him that he would like a kudu for the staff and the pot and there is no way that we will let a chance like that go by. Off we went around 4 pm to wait up at an open field that the kudus use to love to come to Lourens being use to this business and have shot a couple of kudu already wasn’t that eager and only wanted to go at 5pm but I nagged him even though he would be the one that would do the shooting. Choosing out a nice spot on the corner of the field and lying down comfortably we started our wait. A short while later a steenbuck came out in the open to look for some tidbits between the soil. The sun was getting lower as well and the sky turned into all kinds of soft colours. Nothing except the steenbuck and a warthog, very far down on the other side of the field showed it self. We weren’t after hogs anyway so we left him but he was safe anyway being 500 – 600 yards away. I heard a noise behind me and a twig broke, straining my eyes I couldn’t see anything. Hearing some noise again I looked around and there was a young kudu bull just starting his second turn on his horns slowly moving and browsing while he was moving. The wind was in our favor and he was around 45 yards from us in the thick stuff. I tapped Lourens and whispered to him about the kudu he looked behind him and couldn’t see him at first he believed me and strained his eyes to see if he could spot him. Then he told me I was seeing things I urged him to look again and again he didn’t see him I was so persistent that he gave me the 303 and told me right if I see him then I can shoot him. My heart started beating another chance at an antelope and this, a kudu. All the boys I know from school started off with an impala as their first buck and here I was with a chance to bag a kudu as my first buck.

I took the rifle from him and turned around lying on my back I slowly picked my head up then my neck and arched my back. I then slowly raised my knee. The bull was looking straight at me now but couldn’t quite figure out what he was seeing. I had to pull off a frontal shot as he moved himself to have a better look at us. Resting the rifle on my knee my heart was going mad at 120 kph I took the safety off. Aiming very carefully my heart raced even faster. I settled the crosshair perfectly for a frontal on the muscled body of the bull, then there was a calm over me. I no longer heard my heart or my heavy breathing it was just me, and the bull and a big chance of a lifetime. Off went the shot and I strained my neck so that I wouldn’t loose the bull out of my sight, with a crash he came down he didn’t even move he was just there lying motionless and lifeless. “#@$%, %&$#!” “ Wow, did you see it ?” “Give me back the rifle maybe there is another kudu around and keep quiet!“ “No way, there aren’t anymore kudu otherwise I would have seen it you couldn’t even see this one!” This time I outclassed him! I couldn’t believe it my first antelope and it was a kudu bull, I walked up to the bull with disbelief such a huge animal and it dropped stone dead where it stood with the frontal shot.

The 303 was, the ultimate rifle for me then after what it has done with the kudu. Little did I know that most antelope drop to perfectly placed, frontal shot, as I would pick up from experience on other hunts. We took the walk back to the house and we arrived there just before dark . Lourens forgot to tell me what he and his cousin had done the previous weekend and I struggled to convince his dad that he needed to help us load the bull. The previous weekend they came back to the house and gathered the whole family to help pick up the kudu that they have shot. This turned out to be a big prank to get everybody out of the house and onto the back of the bakkie. Finally after what seemed ages more like a couple of minutes of whining his dad decided to come along and we took the bakkie. It took us around 5 minutes to get there and by that time it was dark we stopped the bakkie with the lights shining to where the kudu was suppose to lay. His dad suddenly stopped climbing out of the bakkie and switched on the CB radio he called home to his wife and when she picked up to answer he told her “Frederik has really gone and done it this time and shot a huge springhare !” She exclaimed what ? “Yes, Frederik has shot one hell of a big springhare !” She replied and said ok, all three of us dragged the bull to the bakkie and Lourens turned the bakkie around so the back was open to us to make it easier to load the bull.

If you know how big kudu are you will know how the three of us struggled to load the kudu onto the back after a couple of tries we got most of the weight of the kudu onto the back and we pulled the rest onto the back. He wasn’t a mature bull but had only started his second turn in his horn but already had the nice beard underneath the neck and chin. He was also looking in very fair shape, with a bit of the light from the bakkie I could see the ticks climbing off him as if they knew their feast of blood has ended. Almost back at the farmhouse and the dogs started barking and Lourens’s, Mother also came to have a look at this big springhare. She was very happy to see the kudu and the congratulations started all over again. My language wasn’t the best as well still from all the excitements and I hear it almost every time I see them and the conversation starts to go anywhere towards hunting. We only took out the insides and cut off the head and feet of the bull and decided to let it hang until tomorrow to process in the meat room. Lourens also took out one of the fillets and said that we should cook it for tonight as a celebration of my first buck. We sliced up the fillet in medallions and quickly heated them over the pan and grinded some fresh black pepper over them and had them just like that. I can still remember the taste of it, it was the best fillet I had tasted in my life.

The next day Lourens and his dad showed me how to cut and process the kudu, man I dind’t think it could be so much work. We cleaned of all the meat from the bones and made biltong and mince the mince would be used to make boerewors and droewors and the rest was for biltong. I took 6 nice pieces of biltong to hang at home, they were all around 15” long by 4” wide and 1” thick perfect cut for backstrap biltong. I also took the horns to the local taxidermy to get it mounted as a European mount. Well that was it the whole story behind my first buck and I’m sure that most of you will agree moments like this in one’s life are treasured safely and forever in your mind.

As hunters who only get to participate in what they love doing for a short time each year, we each try and to be prepared as possible. We endeavor to anticipate each scenario that may be encountered. But sometimes no matter how hard you try it doesn�t come out exactly as planned.

I have been big game hunting since 1991. During this time it has been my pleasure to enjoy guided hunts, hunting on leased properties, and properties well maintained to encourage the growth and population of whitetail deer. I have also watched videos and completely consumed the articles pertaining to my hunting interests.

For the 2000 hunting season my older son received permission for us to hunt 500 acres of undeveloped property in Tennessee. He and I would be the only two permitted to hunt the season and he was not familiar with the property. So come early September my wife and I drove up to Tennessee, put on our hiking boots and daypacks, and took off on a scouting of the property. Luck was with us for beautiful days and warm temperatures.

We spent the day scouting a beautiful piece of rolling land that was probably 75% wooded including hardwoods and pine with clear cuts that provided ample shooting range. The clear cuts would sometimes include a hill or most usually go back into a hollow. At the end of the day, we had found lots of prints, a couple of small scrapes, a bedding area, and had actually startled two deer. In talking with the people knowledgeable of the area the claim was this property was full of deer, turkey, no hogs, and on a rare occasion a black bear. Of course I was convinced this was buck heaven and a very mature buck was going to fall under my muzzle in a couple of months.

That next weekend, my son and I scoured the property by truck and put up two 15� stands and made a beautiful little blind at the top of a small hollow that overlooked a ridge that included one of the scrapes and also wasn�t far from the previously found bedding area. During this period we took the time to position mineral blocks where deer may have to cross in front of the stands or blind. The next day, convinced I had done all possible with the amount of time and resources available, I headed home to Florida.

In the two months that followed, I spent considerable time on a wonderful web sight that included a chat room that was solely aimed at hunting in Tennessee. I got the phases of the moon and the best shooting times for each day, quite accurate forecasts (that was a surprise), check-in and registering stations, where to have the meat processed, where to purchase my non-resident license, the daylight shooting times, and much more trivia that was of utmost importance to me at the time.

Five weeks after going over the property with my son, he went back to check on the mineral blocks to find they were being hit frequently. He was also picking up rumors of a nice 10-point being sighted more than occasionally around one of the stands. I KNEW IT! Two weeks later he again returned to find the area covered with tracks and one of the mineral blocks totally gone and so he replaced it. Once again in two weeks (which is now two weeks prior to opening day) he again returned to find the mineral blocks were seeing high use and to find the rumors of the 10-point persisting.

Well, it is finally time for the day we have all been working and waiting for. I take off from work and drive back up to Tennessee. I am prepared for below freezing weather, with multiple layers of clothing that has all been washed with non-dyed and non-scent detergent. I have my full-face mask for both weather and camouflage. The boots have once again been weather proofed and are non-odiferous. The grunts are in the pack as is the ammunition. Of course the T.P. never even leaves either of my packs (I have lost a shirt tail or two). I have a good skinning knife and also cleaning tools with me and available. The Ruger .270 has been sighted in and rechecked again for accuracy. My son has borrowed his brother-in-law�s four-wheel drive pickup for when it is time to haul out that record buck. And new for me this year is my video camera, which several writers and television shows are encouraging sportsmen to take with them. Everything is perfect.

The morning arrives; the clothing is laid out the evening before in the order it is necessary to dress. The rifle and backpack are by the door waiting on my ride. My son shows up precisely at the prescribed time to announce the truck is low on fuel. Not to worry, I think, we gave ourselves some fudge time; we have all day and several others if necessary. We fill the gas tank and are again proceeding to buck heaven. Upon arrival I notice the road back into the property has had considerable work done on it and is a pleasant ride to the gate. We open the gate and get not further than 100 yards when we stop short and our mouths drop open.

There are caterpillars everywhere! Large ones! Large yellow ones with diesel engines! Quite literally, half of the cover has been removed and there are five or six large smoldering fires of trees. Apparently one of the fires had been out of control. Where the 10-pointer was seen, the woods to the north had been severely burned. After a brief consultation, we realize there isn�t much we can do. We do not have permission to hunt any other property and if we did, it is opening day and other hunters are already in their stands. We decide to stay with what we have worked on and hope that the other hunting activity will drive deer back onto what was our ideal little piece of hunting property.

After two days of sitting in a tree stand in sub-freezing weather and listening to shooting from all directions around me, while seeing or hearing nothing, I decide to call it a hunt and another lesson learned. The second day on return to the truck we startled a Buck standing by passenger side and of course we had empty chambers and clips.

By the way the fish and game department representative came by and checked out licenses and was terribly surprised that we didn�t see anything � �This property is covered with deer�.

In the original and nonfiction category, I gave it my best shot last month and came up short. But, I'll try again. In this story, in which nothing dies at the hands of the protagonist is really a series of emails that I wrote a couple of years ago. Perhaps it will seem strange to read now, but it was pretty exciting for me then. I'm not sure if my wife enjoyed this adventure so much (and pardon her french, but this is nonfiction), however, I had a hell of a good time....

Deer Hunting with T - 2000
This morning, out with Tamra and her percussion rifle grocery shopping. We were snugged into a 1.25 century-old coal dig on a bench 20 feet above a timbered flood plain, listening to leave drop, coons fight, and squirrels chuck. Wasn't long before T turns towards me and glancing over my shoulder says "a deer, right there, behind you". Yeah right. Been down this old road before. "It's a buck a fucking buck" - she adds color when needed to be convincing. "It's a big fucking buck". Sure.

Finally, I turned a bit, and sure enough, a buck. 12 yards away. Looking at us, too stupid with juvenile overconfidence to split post haste as it should have. It was a tall 6 pt, and perfect groceries for her golden retriever. So, I keep a loose eye on the deer and everytime he moves I whisper for her to pivot left, "turn",,,, "turn",,,, " turn". And just about the time, I figure this might actually work out in Ande's favor (Ande is T's golden and the ultimate motivation for this grocery shopping adventure), she cocks the rifle and the buck hits our scent line - poof - instant education. Oh well, T was pretty unhappy, and this is my fault of course, because I didn't believe her at first. Why that matters, I have no idea, but it does.

20 mintues, two squirrels, one coon, one red fox, and 10,000 grackels later, she spots two more deer 90 yd out in front - where they are supposed to be. On line as I predicted the first one should have been. They are small 6's or 8's, but medium sized bodies. Perfect groceries. They come on angling at us from right to left.

The first buck stops, < 20 yds out and directly in front of us. Also directly behind a log. Safe for the moment. T is thinking that groceries will not happen and is a bit frustrated and moving a bit too much for my liking. I know that buck is going to keep moving and I know where he is going to be in a few moments. But she doesn't. So, she's trying to get the gun on him, and can't because of the log and bad angles in general.

Fortunately, after a while the buck moves on again, disappearing behind a mound. I grabbed the barrel and swung it way to her left and she understood what I wanted her to do. Sure enough in a moment, the buck materializes broadside sub-15 yds. He looks like he is going to keep walking so I let out a short psssst, and he stops stock still. Perfect position, looking our way, but the gun is up, it's cocked, the trigger set. I'm sitting on T's right shoulder. I could almost sight the rifle myself. She's on him, perfect perfect, anytime now. and click. Two bounds and he is gone. What a bummer.

The hammer did not fall past half cock. I don't know why but maybe half a dozen times, it's hung at half cock for some reason. The fly looks okay and 49 times out of fifty, it will fire just fine. But why? I cannot figure it out. Meanwhile T is very unhappy with me because as sure as it's October, it's my fault.

And if any of you should be thinking of a new muzzleloader, I cannot tell you how much I cannot recommend Deer Creek Rifles/Mowry/EthanAllen, or any other subsidiary name that they use. Nice wood, nice lines, very mediocre barrel, and the lock.....

Her time will come, but right now, she's on the phone with her mom describing the tragedy. I'm gonna be in the dog house for a good long time {the dog is on the couch of course}.Wish me luck, but if you don't hear from me by Tuesday, it's probably because she's taken her frustration out on me one more time, and this time the lock worked

Later that week.....

Of course, ya shoulda been there last night. This gal has had 4 bucks in front of her, and two that gave her bonafide opportunities. The hammer miscue was one, but last night, in our own backyard, doing everything right, her lack of confidence slowed her down just enough that she had to let another one walk. She takes this harder than most. It is still October. It is still my fault.

Meanwhile there is blood on my boots and a 6 pt hanging in my garage. This is the first time I've ever seen a deer actually blown off it's feet. Unreal. I didn't think it could happen. But I was sitting on a stool next to a log next to a trail. About 40 yds and out of sight from T. A couple of Sunday hikers with dogs were unpleasantly offended by the sight of my orange, but what the hey, trespassers can't be picky. Hope they don't come back.

Anyway, this buck shows up about an hour later. Moseying up the trail kinda like he's going someplace but not in a special hurry either. Coming right at me. Looks like golden retriever food to me. So I get the rifle on him (.54 flinter). A head on shot is not my choice, indeed, I've never done one on a deer. But he's going to crowding me, and I don't have a bayonet on my Carolina. So on he comes and finally at 30-40 yds he hesitates for a moment, turned slightly to his left. And the little green light that usually only shows up when bowhunting comes on. Next thing you know, there's smoke and fire and all that. And that buck just rocks right back on his rear end. Not as in standing on his hind end, but rocked straight back like he'd been hit by a truck. Over on his butt, sitting now straight up, neck extended, front legs pawing air. And then down over on his side, dead as the proverbial wedge.

I've seen deer drop on the spot, but this was decidedly not straight down but back over really smacked back. I've never seen this and I've shot deer closer and further way. All that equal-opposite action-reaction stuff to the contrary, I should have been blown off my stool.

Bullet struck just in front of the right front shoulder. Did not exit, Have yet to do a complete post mortem, but the bullet (roundball 235 grs). Did not reach the abdominal cavity and for sure the lungs were torched. I don't think any major bones were hit. Will know tonight.

Sorry for that aside, back to T's early season adventure....

In the last weekend of the season, we returned to the little bunker hole where the first morning's misadventures had so handsomely educated those three bucks. Again, two deer show up, much on the same line as the first pair. But not quite. The difference is significant in that they are not on the trail, and thus, not going to show up at that sub-15 yd position on the left. In fact, they graze out in front of us about 50 yds out meandering around and gradually pulling away. Tamra sights, resights and aims some more, but 50 yds is too far for her comfort zone. So, they walk. Yes, it is still October. It is still my fault.

This may sound like an anticlimax to the season, and I suppose it could be, but I had more fun watching a lot of bucks do their thing, and at the same time watch T struggle with each situation. In the end, it was probably my most memorable deer hunting season of all time, the little buck I shot in the backyard not withstanding.

In case you wonder, T has killed deer - two exactly. Her first was the previous year, so she was not a complete rookie. I just happen to have a picture of it too. It's kind of interesting to look at how she slowly developed a smile about the whole event.

Brent

Coastal Inlet Adventure Story by Jeff Semler

As published in BC Hunter

I had always wanted to go on a good bear hunt, but I knew I had to make sure I went with an outfitter who would provide the type of hunt I desired. After much searching and making several phone calls to references, I spoke with Brad Lister, owner and guide of Coastal Inlet Adventures. I had received nothing but glowing reports on the accommodations, guide and game and it wasn't long before I had booked a hunt for the first part of April, 1998.

It seemed like April was never going to get here. In the meantime, I was working at getting in shape, practising at the rifle range and getting my hunting gear together.

My flight was scheduled to leave Corpus Christi at 6:30 am on April 5th. I set the alarm for 4:30 but figured I would wake up early anyway. Instead, I was so excited I couldn't sleep. Sometime after midnight, I dozed off only to have the alarm go off almost immediately. No matter, I was going to chase black bear in lovely British Columbia!

My flight to Vancouver from Dallas was due to take off at 9:30, but with delays we took off three hours late. I was worried sick. Would my float plane pilot be available to take me to camp? Did he wait for me? Did he have other obligations?

After landing in Vancouver, I discovered the taxi drivers were all on strike! Now I was getting really worried. The limousine drivers, who were not on strike, were working as fast as they could. I caught a limo to the Sea-Air docks and Louie of Thetis Air, along with my float plane was ready and waiting for me. I was relieved to have everything work out.

The quick hop up the coast a low altitude was spellbinding. Big mountains, big water and big trees everywhere you looked. Such a change from the arid southwest. Our landing on the inlet at camp was so smooth, you had to look to see if we actually touched down. I saw a house floating on the inlet and a motorboat crossing over to the dock. It was Brad and Ted, the cook. We went back to the float house where we unpacked. It was now 4pm and we only had a couple of hours of daylight left.

The next morning we hunted but since Brad had said most of the action occurred in the afternoon, I wasn't too worried that we hadn't found our giant before lunch. That afternoon, we took the launch to shore, and then jumped in the truck and drove over a small dam, and then onto a series of old mountain roads. At an area we called Big Meadow, Brad spotted something black that was moving. It was small, black, fuzzy and fast. We had to be a half mile away, halfway up a mountain looking down. The mountains were shadowing the clearing, making a sighting more difficult. At that distance, old tree stumps look just like a black bear. Brad called them 'stump bears'.

Brad studied the bear below and made his plans. We would double back in the truck to the opposite side of Big Meadow and then start the stalk. We made our way through several hundred yards of swamp and thicket. The vegetation was so dense, it was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. Brad said that the bear was a keeper, and a real dandy. We carefully picked our way through the greenery and cautiously peered ahead. The big blackie was gone!

We hugged the edge of the cover and scanned the rest of the area. Brad motioned to me that he had found him again. We got close enough to whisper. Brad double checked with his binoculars. "Yep", he motioned, "It's a good one", and "Can you take him?" I zapped him with my range finder - 200 yards - no problem. I found a tree stump that provided a very convenient rest and when the crosshairs of my .338 magnum settled just behind the bears' shoulder, I fired. The bear went down immediately, but we waited several minutes and then cautiously approached. As we got closer, we saw the bear lift his head so Brad said "Shoot him again." Minutes later I was beside my trophy. As soon as we got to the bruin, we saw that his teeth were worn down or missing. He was definitely the old man of the valley and probably would not have lasted another year in this climate. He was turning grey and had white hairs mixed in with his black fur. His claws were white and he sported a large blaze of white on his chest. This big boy weighed 300 pounds and stood six foot four inches. I'd have to agree that months ago, when Brad said he had bears, he really meant he had bears. We skinned him out and packed the meat back to camp where Ted was waiting with hot food and cold beer. I could not have been happier!

Monday was a very relaxing day. We slept in, explored another area and went fishing later in the morning. Bears do not like to get up early. We would see a few in the morning but things usually did not pick up until after three in the afternoon.

On Tuesday, we searched for game close to camp. Our method was to drive logging roads, spotting the bears and then stalking them by foot. We saw several but no keepers until after 3pm. Brad again spotted a bear up the mountain in a clearing; he never missed one. We stopped the truck and began picking our way up the hillside. We moved to within 200 yards, and then watched and waited. Brad set me up with a level rest and a clear line of fire. On closer inspection, Brad said that this one was a small one but "Let's just sit tight for a while." Suddenly the little bear made tracks up the mountain to our left. Next, a big, pretty, fat and healthy black bear appeared from out of the thick brush to our right and began following the small bear. I ranged him at 200 yards and did a quick calculation to compensate for the steep angle.

He was rapidly following the small bear. Brad told me we had the rest of the week to hunt and maybe I should pass on this one. I asked him if this was a good bear. He said "Yes", so I told Brad, "There's a good one right here and right now and I want him." The plan was for Brad to blow the predator call to stop the big boy and for me to shoot him. The call squealed and I fired, twice in quick succession.

This bear took both of us to move. He was huge and easily weighed 350 pounds. When I put my fingers into his pelt, they disappeared into the fur all the way to the knuckles. What a hunt! In only 47 hours I had two very nice black bears. Brad meant what he said when he said he had bear. During my week at Coastal Inlet Adventures I saw almost four dozen blackies. Would I go again? You bet! I am already booked for next year!

My usual group of suspects that make the fall pilgramidge to Wyoming each year in pursuit of Mule Deer and Antelope was put on hold in 2001 due to the ill health of one of the groups mother in law. Seeing as we used his fifth wheel camper and he wasn't going none of us went.

At the urging of my brother in law who just happens to own 400 acres south west of Denver I put in for a private land muzzelloading bull Elk tag. I had also applied for a Michigan Elk tag for that year. I thought my chances of getting either tag extremely remote. It was my lucky year as I drew a bull tag for Colorado and a cow tag for Michigan.

September 8th found me scouting my brother in laws place. Opening day found 10 inches of snow on the ground and very cold temps. Although a few elk were seen none were bulls.

I was walking down the drive on 9/10 with Kenny (my brother in law) when I noticed a medium size pine tree that was shredded and fresh tracks across the drive and the road. The road angels sharply downhill and is wooded on both sides. On the other side of the woods is a medow. We stalked to edge and I saw a bush in the middle of the medow. The bush was in reality a bull Elk! A stalk was made and the bull spotted us and stood up faceing us. Kenny thought the distance was about 150yds. I had a good rest and touched off the smokepole. The iron sights of my Remington 700ML had about obliterated the bull but I thought I held high enough. Well the Elk was standing in a small depression and when we paced it off it was more like 225yds NOT 150.

The weather had warmed considerably from the previous day and the snow was melting. We found blood and let the bull lay up for about an hour befor we began tracking. He was heading up the mountain which I knew wasn't a good sign. That added to the fact I knew he was hit and the greater distance than originall judged led me to the conclusion the he was hit low in the brisket. We combed the moutain to no avail. Kennys intimate knowledge of the area saved my ass. A full eight hours after the first shot I saw him lying down in the dark timber. A quick shot got him back on his feet but he only went about 100yds before lying down again. A third shot to the neck put him down for good.

Why do Elk die at the bottom of the mountain? He was a good four mile from the ranch and there were no roads to ge a truck to. We quartered and packed him out in what turned out to be a very very long day. As darkness was approaching and both of us were whipped beyond reason we tied the cape and antlers up in a tree and would come back tomorrow.

The next day was 9/11 and I awoke to those horrors. We retrived the cape and the 6x6 antlers which would score 289. Not a huge bull but my first with a muzzeloader and after makeing a less than good first shot was damn glad he was recovered and not left to suffer and become coyote bait. That first by the way was loe in the chest and went through the diaphram so the bull was doomed from the start.

When I returned from Colorado there was a cow tag for Michigan!! The hunt was to be in December and I was excited as there would be snow.

December set records for warm temperatures which hovered in the mid 60's. The Elk weren't moveing and the few I did see were bulls. As my time drew to a close with no elk I got an invitation to hunt of all places Elk Ridge Golf Course!!

The course is carved out of the woods and the Elk wreak havoc on the greens and fairways. The first day we saw plenty of Elk but couldn't get close. The wind was blowing about 40MPH and they were skittish. The next day was cold and calm. I had traded the muzzelloader for my Ruger 338. As I came up a rise (walking on the cart path so I made no noise) there was a bunch of Elk in a fairway. It was the 11th hole a 340yd par four from the white tees. I got behind a big Red Pine and as I was behind the blue tees and the Elk were halfway from tee to green I thought they would be about 180yds out. A big cow seperated herself and I sent a 250gr Nosler Partition behind her shoulder. She went a short distance and died just past the out of bounds marker. There was a Titelist just in front of her nose. The two shot penality for being out of bounds was waved in favor of fresh tenderloin. On DNR scales she dressed 410lbs.

!!

Illinois Bowhunting

Well, to start off with when you get 6 firemen together to do anything your going to have one helluva time. We drove from Texas to Southern Illinois, as we generally do every year, to bow hunt in the national forest. Last year Bwana Jim shot a bruiser in the 150 class. We would see whose turn it was this year.

After a few days of relatively un excited hunting, we had all seen good bucks, but just no good opportunities.

As we all show up back at camp one night, Randy looks like he's been sick. "Whatsamatter?" says I."Look fer yerself" says he. There, before us all, is the tale. First you see the broadhead, covered in dirt and mud. Then, the upsetting site of stomach contents with blood mixed in. Then, lastly, blood on the vanes. Bright red blood! We immediately begin the interrogation. What was it, buck or doe? "Buck, big big buck. Big as Jims'." Where were you? "South side." What time was it? "'bout 4:30" What did he do when you shot? "Ran off!" Did ya track him any? "Nah, too skeered I'd spook him."

All of this with his head down. Finally, he said he thought it was a thirty yard shot, but stepped it off at thirty eight. The arrow had gone low, about 6 inches. "Don't worry Randy, Jim and I have been to the dark continent, and are expert trackers. So is Steve. We'll get him in the morning. I know it was a sleepless night for him, and we all felt bad for him.

Next morning, we all go into town for breakfast, then out to find the Monster. We get to the site, which is well marked. Soon, we find blood, GOOD blood! "ALRIGHT!" high fives all around. I assure Randy that his deer is very close. Through the briars and catclaw vines we go. Lots of sign, lots of blood. "Look, heres where he had to lay down! He can't be far now!" Onward we go. 100, 200, 300 yards. Then, out of the cover into an open field. Still good sign, although starting to dwindle some. You realize that something has started to gnaw at your insides. After another hundred yards, you know what it is. There is no more sign. No blood, no tracks, no deer.

Back to the last tiny drop of blood. Everyone go in circles. Then everyone go everywhere. For two hours, there is no more sign. I am sure I can find almost any deer. This one will be no exception. I go where I would if I was shot in the gut with an arrow, but there is no deer there.

One thousand yards away from the last drop of blood, on an opposite corner of the open field, the Pope and Young buck keeps watch on his back trail. It was all he could do to get over the top wire of a five wire fence last night, and he hasn't recovered from the effort yet. He hears the noises that tell him danger is near, yet he remains motionless. This is what has kept him safe all these years. The man walks past where he crossed the fence last night, and it's all the buck can do to keep still, but he does, and the man walks on past. Just like always. As soon as he is out of sight, the buck gets up and moves deeper into home territory. Through more briars and catclaws, the thicker the better.

As Steve and I walk the fence a second time, we both remark at the amount of belly hair on the fence in this one spot. "Hell, cross over and see what you can find," says I.

You would have thought there was a 10 pound gold nugget laying on the ground, to hear Steves' shout. "Wahoo! Lots of blood, lots of it! Over here, over here!" Soon, we are all looking at the spot where the buck had obviously spent the night. Now we are on the trail again, although the blood soon stops. Tracking is easier here. These tracks and blood drops are much fresher. But alas, the ground turns hard, leaves diminish, and you get that feeling again.

The buck feels safe now, even though he has heard the sounds of danger again. Nothing ever bothers him here. It is too thick for anything except other animals, and he does not fear them. He feels very tired. The sun is almost directly overhead. Time to curl up next to the old log.

Again, the trackers start their circling. Only this time, it works. "Over here! Fresh tracks, blood!"

The buck does not hear danger this time. He has died a peaceful death, from the arrow that pierced his liver, just barely. The hunters come upon him within 200 yards of the fence he last crossed, though it took them over 2 and 1/2 hours from that point. Over 7 hours from the time tracking first started.

Randy was the last person to see his buck that day, he had wandered off to be sick again and try and figure out where he was going to bury his bow and arrows. Good friends and perserverance pays off. Not that it matters but yeah, he'll make Pope and Young.

[ 02-07-2003, 01:34: Message edited by: Quint 6 ]

[ 02-07-2003, 01:35: Message edited by: Quint 6 ]

"Judge", Craig, the guide said, "I don't want you to ever come back here again! You called me a son-of-a-bitch and you can just find somewhere else to hunt!"

I spun around on the big float of the single Otter now pulled up close to the shore line. I had just placed my duffel bag and bow case in the plane and was about to climb aboard for the flight back to civilization. Puzzled, surprised and hurt by Craigs harsh words, I asked him what the heck he was talking about.

Craig spat out, "You called me a s.o.b yesterday when we were looking for your bear. I don't care if you come every year and bring a bunch of guys. You aren't coming back again!"

I looked over at my five fellow bear hunters who were still on the bank and like a bomb going off, we all starting laughing like teenagers who had just put a Hershey Bar in a punch bowl.

Craig got as red as a turkey's noggin in May and he began to sputter something about kicking my butt. Craig being 5'5" and about 125 pounds and me being 6'1" and 250, I began to laugh even harder. When Craig tried to boost himself up on the float and dunked his hip boots, only to fall his skinny rear end in the water, I, and my buddies began to just roar, a couple of fellows having to sit down from cramps.

The events of the prior evening were flashing through my mind and I realized, as did my friends that Craig had never heard the story of what had happened to me in the thick alders that night. I calmed Craig down and told him the story.

This was my 9th or 10th visit to Lynn Lake Fly-In Bear Camps. As usual I had a bunch of good guys with me, camping, catching big pike and walleyes and every evening taking our recurves or longbows to a bait site and trying to get a good Pope & Young bear. I had flown in to the remote lake a few days early and had set up baits, climbed trees to hook up stands, cleared the campsite and erected tents.

Worn out by the time my friends got there, I just hung around camp the first few days, cooking and helping drag out bears. Later in the week, I sat in a couple of stands and saw bears, but none that was a whopper.

By lunchtime the last day of the hunt I was the only one in camp who had not taken a bear. About the time we finished fried walleye filets, baked beans and lemonade, Craig motored up in one of the Lunds we had at the lake. With a big smile, he told me that the Secret Bait had finally been hit. To get there, you had to portage 400 yards around rapids and then travel 10 miles or so to the very end of another connecting lake. We had always seen huge scat there and a couple of years prior, I had a huge bear hang up at 40 yards, again, on the last day of that year's hunt. Hoping for a 7 foot bear, about 3:00 p.m. that afternoon, Craig and I set out, while the rest of the crew cleaned up the campsite and then just sat around the fire, recounting their various successes over brandy and cigars.

Craig dropped me off at the bait and I had a quiet 3 or 4 hours (It doesn't get dark until 11:00 or so). As is their habit, suddenly there was a bear just standing before me, black and glissening in the sun, about 30 yards to my right. Bears can be as quiet as blown smoke and this one had just materialized as if beamed in by Scotty.

He was a good one, not a giant, but just fine for the last day, more than 6' and at least 300 lbs. I'd take him if he presented a shot.

After 10 or so minutes of smelling around, clawing a tree or two and standing up on his hind feet a few times, the boar was only 16 yards from me, broadside with his head turned away. Remaining seated, I drew my 70# recurve and sent a Magnus broadhead on its way. The yellow fletching disappeared within an inch or two from where I was looking, maybe a little high, but I was sure of a good hit. I quietly climbed out of the stand and made my way to the edge of the lake and put up surveying tape as a signal for Craig.

Blood was everywhere. Only the bladed end of the ceder arrow was at the scene with the broadhead barely imbedded in a small branch. I pulled it out and placed the broken portion in my bow quiver. About that time, Craig showed up.

We began to follow the trail and were quite surprised when it petered out right at the stream that fed the lake. Suddenly, the bear sprang up about 40 yards from us and leaped into the rapidly flowing current. He swam about 20 yards up stream and climbed out on a rock. Even though it was close to 60 yards, I felt very confident and sent a broadhead towards the bear. It barely missed over it. The next arrow went through the forward third of the bear.

Craig and I watched as the bear jumped onto the opposite bank, stumbling as he did so. The alders there were about 10 feet high and very thick. We watched his progress for maybe ten yards into the brush by movement of the tops of the vegetation. Gradually, the movement slowed, would quit for a moment, begin again, then stop, each time seemingly more feeble.

Finally, all movement stopped about 20 yards in the wooly-bugger mess of alders, fallen trees and flotsom. We figured we had us a dead bear.

Craig and I went back to the boat, crossed over to the opposite bank and climbed a small hill that overlooked the site. We made a plan. I would go down in the alders to the spot we had marked and Craig would stay high. A portage trail
ran along the alders giving anyone up on the hill a clear look in case the bear wasn't dead and ran clear of the brushy creekside.

In the falling dusk I went down into the twisted mess and began to work my way, bow in hand, toward where I was sure a dead bear lay.

Dead... I wish! About ten yards in that crap, I came face to face with a thoroughly pissed off animal. He was quartering toward me at about 7 yards, looking right at me. His right shoulder protected his vitals so I leaned to my left as far as I could and sent a broadhead as close to the shoulder blade as I dared, trying to get into at least one lung and the liver.

I screwed up and hit the shoulder. The arrow hit with a giant "whack" and penetrated about an inch. On impact, the bear took two lunges and stopped, now only 10 feet from me. I looked down at my bow quiver and realized that I didn't just screw up, I royally screwed up... One arrow from the stand.. One over his back in the river... one through him in the river and one now sticking in his shoulder almost in arms reach. I now only had a judo point tipped arrow in my quiver along with the broken result of the first shot. (A judo point is a blunt head with little springs on it that is designed not to penetrate but to "shock" small game.)

I looked at the bear, at my (for all pratical purposes) empty quiver, back at the bear, back at the quiver... and took a deep breath.

I reached in my pocket, took out my cigar lighter and grabbed the broken arrow. I melted the wax holding the broadhead and removed it. I then did the same with the judo point. The bear, obviously sick, but still on his feet and only a few feet away, stood there, eyes like tiny pieces of coal. I didn't think he liked me.

With very shaking hands, I pressed the broadhead on the shaft formerly holding the judo point and nocked the arrow. This time I leaned so hard to the left I was almost 45 degrees from vertical when I drew and shot. The newly broadhead-equipted shaft vanished just behind the shoulder and the bear lunged forward, right toward me.

I hollered, "Don't you come at me you son-of-a-bitch!" about as loud as I could muster with my gonads up around my throat. The bear literally died on my feet. I was so tangled in the alders, if he had lived just a moment more, there was not a darn thing I could have done to fend him off.

I shouted for Craig to come on down and help with the bear, not even noticing his sulleness due to the emotion of my exciting (to say the least) moment.

Neither of us said much all the way back to camp and when we arrived, Craig started immediately to to silently skin the bear. Since I had always given him a big tip for so doing, and since I needed a stiff drink, I thought nothing of his lack of conversation.

My friends and I sat up until the sun came up again about 3:00 a.m that morning before going to sleep, everyone, including me, re-telling the story of their bear kill, mine getting the most hee-haws and hoots. Craig, meanwhile, unnoticed by me, had quickly finished his task and was asleep, paying us no attention at all.

So, back to the struggling guide, now wet as a drowned hen, face red as a beet, seething, but now listening to me. When I got to the part of the story about the bear coming at me and me not having anything I could do about it but call it a son-of-a-bitch, Craig turned even redder.

The gentleman he is, realizing his mistake, he stuck out his hand, shook mine, went to the beach, emptied his hip boots, watched us climb into the air plane and then getting up to push us off, finally said all he had to say.... "See you back next year, Ernest!" ... and we became hunting buddies again.

[ 02-07-2003, 07:49: Message edited by: judgeg ]

I Wish I could do That
JP was sitting in my office to discuss some issue related to his training plan. I notice his eyes looking behind me and they seem to be focused in one spot. I turned to look at what had caused him to have the dreamy look and looked into the face of my antelope hanging behind me. I turned to him and he asked what the story was and so I told him, while his gaze went from me to the goat. When I finished he looked at me and simply said, I WISH I COULD DO THAT with a lost feeling emitting from his voice. I looked into his eyes and simply said WHY NOT. He looked at me and frowned and said there��s just no way. His stare was directed more at himself than me because; the only movement in his body is his eyes and lips. You see JP has had MD since the age of 4 and has lived in a hospital or intensive care program for all his adult life. It has ravaged every part of his physical body completely, but his mind. He requires medical support 24 hours per day and lives in the local hospital. I told him that I felt that we could work it out and instructed him on what it would take to get a license and that we only have 5 days till they are do in Cheyenne WY G&F office. I also explained that he would have to apply for a handicap-shooting permit. JP was very unsure and said OK, but he still was wondering how he could go hunting and so was I. We got his application in the mail along with his handicap application. Three days later we received a call from the game and fish stating they would not allow him a permit because of his disability. This lights my fire and I call the G&F director and I ask him why they would turn down this person and he indicates it was a mistake and that it will be taken care of. Now we have to find a gun that can be operated by a puff and blow system. I start calling all over the country and get many helpful ideas and lots of it cannot be done. We finally find a device in Nebraska called an sr77 shooting rest that will hold a gun and can be operated by a joystick. Now we need to find some money for it and a gun that can be adapted to fit it. The local gun club puts up the $850 for the sr77 and a local gunsmith takes a 250-3000 and cuts the stock off to fit the device, at no charge. We have already received permission from a local ranch for access for his antelope hunt. The gun is modified and ready and yet we still have not had delivery of the rest and we are only 2 weeks till the season. JP is getting nervous and is starting to think that this was a bad idea. We finally get delivery 2 days before the season with a supper modified version of what we had hoped for. They could not make a puff and blow work so we ended up with a joystick and bight switch for firing. JP��s body would not stay erect well enough behind the scope so I held him in place while another guy ran the joystick. We went to the range to give it the test the morning of his hunt. It was about 40 degrees and foggy and we had JP rapped from top to bottom. I put up a paper antelope archery target and we got JP lined out, he gave us signals up/down and left/right and when he was lined up I handed him the switch to bight. He had never been close to any gun being fired, and the look on his face was of pure shock. When we looked at the target it was in the heart. He fired 2 more rounds and was ready to go. We were given a van to use by another disabled person and a hospital nurse went along to take care of him. We reached the ranch and met the manager Brad and headed to a part of the ranch that they had reserved for JP. The weather was rainy and overcast, which made it so muddy that it took all three of us to get his wheel chair in position. The wind blew 20+ all morning and we were able only to get within 300 yards. JP did try a shot but the wind made it to hard for him and us to stay still. We checked out several bucks and were just not having any luck. Late in the afternoon the wind died down and the sun started shining bright, which warmed our bodies and spirits. JP has limited endurance but was hanging in there, when he said a little prayer, just give me one good try and 20 minutes later we spotted a nice buck coming toward us. We get JP in position and the buck stops about 225 yards, and looks straight at us. JP starts giving the commands up/down/left/right and then says give me the switch, this ones going down. He bights the switch and the gun bucks and rocks in its mount and we see the antelope take off at a hard run low to the ground over the hill he was standing on. JP is having trouble getting enough air through his respirator and has to be suctioned before we can get him loaded and head to were the antelope went. He is bighting bullets all this time asking, do you think I got him and did I make a clean kill? We finally came over the hill and laying about 15 yards off the ranch road was JP��s goat, which turned out to be 14.5 inches. We almost needed to put sunglasses on because his smile was beaming so bright. Now we all know of being blooded and eating of the liver of your first kill, well I had a captive killer and I gave him a hard time and blooded his chin with the liver while pictures were being taken. Next we went to the taxidermist who had donated the mount for JP. Today his mount hangs in his hospital room, next to an 8x11 picture of himself taking a bite of the liver. He loves to say that it really grosses people out when they see the picture of him and the blood on his chin. JP success did not stop there though, because he can do more with his voice and a computer than most of us can even dream of. He now has a full time job as a programmer, owns his own van, loves traveling and enjoying life in person. SO IF SOMEONE SAYS I WISH I COULD DO THAT, STOP AND THINK WHY NOT.

I was wondering who was the lucky winner of the book. Thank You

Scratch

Gentlemen,

Please accept my sincere apologies. Someone is sleeping on the job

He is supposed to administer this site, but seems to prefer shooting instead.

The WINNER IS........

Safari-Hunt, with his kudu tale.

Safari-Hunt, congratulations.

May I have your mailing address please, and I will have the book off to immediately.

Safari-Hunt c/o Nickudu
666 Bloodyscam Drive
Seafood, New York

Nickudu,

I have emailed the book to the address you kindly gave me.

I hope you enjoy reading it before forwarding it to Safari-Hunt

Saeed:

I warned you! I was supposed to win the book. Now, I'll probably leave a big, mean, wounded-in-the-ass buffalo to get your Royal fanny. I'll even give him directions to the Moyowasi!

[ 03-03-2003, 20:59: Message edited by: JudgeG ]

Saeed

Safari_Hunt is just the perfect winner, a great story about his first buck and at this very moment he is taking his PH course.

I will email you his adress.

[ 03-03-2003, 01:18: Message edited by: cchunter ]

JudgeG,

I suspected you might get up to some mischief, and with this in mind, I have been doing my regular exercise of the treadmill.

I bet I can beat Walter at running! I bet also that the buffalo will mistake him for an overgrown warthog, and just run past him. As the buufalo makes that detour to void Walterhog, I will make sure he gets one of my specially made bullets.

I never mentioned this before, but we are getting a small CNC lathe, and hope to make some of our own bullets. I am hoping to try some of them on safari this year.

Cograts, Safari-Hunt.

Good story, and you deserved to win!

I hope you enjoy the book.

PS Nickudu, pass it on to me after you're done. I'll make sure it gets to Safari Hunt!

It was a cold mid-December afternoon. Well, it was 68 degrees, but that's pretty cold for a Central Florida late season deer hunt.
I had the perfect stand in mind for that afternoon hunt. It was tucked away inside a cypress head, and it looked out over a long narrow field, backed by a much larger cypress head.
I was hoping to spot a white tail moving between the two heads, or get an opportunity at a fall gobbler coming to feed in the fields.
I got to my stand at 3:30 pm and proceeded to get in. I wore a small daypack and slung my rifle on my shoulder. It was a strong ladder stand (or at least I thought it was). I had built it three seasons earlier.
I started my climb up the ladder and when I reached the top, I reached out for the 2x8 that made up the seat at the top of the platform. The seat came off in my hand and hit me in the head. It knocked me back and I landed standing up 10 feet below in a tangle of fallen cypress trees and cypress knees. I then fell flat on my back in the swamp and the cold swamp water covered my face.
When I sat up, I had a terrible pain in my left leg. I looked to see that my left foot was pointing due east; unfortunately, I was facing north. I sat up in the water and screamed out a couple of choice words.
The next thing I did was locate my rifle in the water. I checked the bore, and fired off two bursts of three shots each, hoping my hunting partner might hear my signal.
I was starting to feel cold, and realized I had better go to work on getting myself out of this situation.
I knew I could not go very far with my foot facing the wrong way, so I had to fix that first. I reached down to my foot and pulled straight down. I then gave it a twist to the left. The foot popped into place with several unique crunching noises, and one solid pop.
Next, I got off my daypack and got out my folding saw. I cut a cypress sapling in hopes of using it as a crutch to help me limp my way out. I got about three steps and my makeshift crutch sank into the mud and I tumbled down, landing with my full weight on my broken ankle and leg.
I thought up some new choice words and worked myself to my hands and knees. I now realized I would have to crawl out. I discarded my pack and slung my rifle over my shoulder so it hung down in front of me.
The rifle was under water and my chin was only about three inches from the water's surface. I kept the rifle handy, thinking that I might need to use it in case of an encounter with a water moccasin or alligator.
Next, I crawled the 150 yards out of the swamp up to higher ground and the path I had walked in on. This is where I decided to leave my rifle.
I looked down the path and knew that my truck was about a mile away. It had taken about 15 minutes to walk that distance earlier and I wondered how long it might take to crawl that same route.
I was beginning to get chills and I realized I needed to keep moving, so I started the long crawl back to my truck. I only crawled a few feet before I got very tired and needed a rest, so I decided to focus on a tree or bush up ahead of me and when I reached it, I would rest. After a short rest I would select another spot to work towards.
During my crawl I thought about hypothermia, shock and how just a broken leg could kill you when it occurs in the right (or wrong) place. I thought about my family and kept pushing myself to get to my truck.
After a two-hour crawl I reached my truck, and for the first time I was very sorry I had put those 35" tires on my old Bronco.
I managed to use the large tread patterns on the tire to pull myself up, and I climbed onto the hood of the truck. This was when I relaxed at least a little. I knew I had made it out of the worst part of my situation.
I climbed into the truck and that old '79 Bronco turned over like a champ. I leaned forward and kissed the steerling wheel. Men really do love their trucks.
My next problem was getting off the property to the hospital. I drove as close as I could to where my partner was hunting, and shopped; had it not been for a washed out creek bed, I probably could have driven right to him.
I leaned on my horn for five minutes straight, and he heard my signal. In about 20 minutes my partner came walking out of the field and we proceeded to the hospital.
The only route to the hospital was down the main street in town past the only shopping mall around. Since it was just before Christmas, the traffic was horrendous from holiday shoppers. I think I could have gotten out and crawled to the hospital faster. Christmas has gotten too commercial.
When I got to the emergency room, someone told me I looked pretty banged up. I was literally caked in an inch of mud and rotting leaves from my recent crawl through the swamp. I can only imagine from the expressions on the emergency room personnel that I probably smelled pretty bad too.
My boot was cut off and I was cleaned up and taken to surgery. The doctors emptied out one aisle of the local hardware store pinning and screwing my leg back together. Ten weeks later, I was recovering nicely. My therapist at the "Marquis de Sade" Rehabilitation Institute said I would be walking nicely in another six to nine months.
"What does not kill you makes you stronger". Well, I prefer, "What does not kill you makes you smarter".
Take it from someone who is lucky to be here today. I could just as easily have broken my neck as my leg. My fellow hunters, please be careful in the pursuit of our sport; if not for us, for the loved ones at home who give us the freedom to pursue this interest.