The evening had been perfect as my brother Brad and I had shared a tree for four hours watching numerous whitetails including a very mature 4x5 buck that kept us entertained for two of those hours. Unfortunately, when darkness stole the day, not an arrow had been flung.

We had a mere 600 yard walk back to his house which included a small stream crossing. As I hopped from one side to the small little sofa sized island in the middle of the flowing water something caused me to tumble forward and down into the deeply eroded creek. Turning away from the tree stand hanging from my left side, my right shoulder smashed into a large rock at the stream’s base. I hit with authority and great force.

As Brad hustled back to me, I very nonchalantly looked up at him and with cold spring water flowing over my body stated, “I just dislocated my shoulder.” Somehow I just knew what damage I had done even though I had thankfully never experienced the numbing sensation throughout my right shoulder.

Since my now damaged shoulder was under me, I was stranded in the stream and could not get up. Turning to Brad I informed him that he was going to have to pull me out which took everything he had to get me out of the eroded cut.

Standing, I grabbed the right shoulder with my left hand which confirmed my earlier diagnosis. My right arm was not located in its proper location as the clavicle just ended the shoulder and a soft mushy pile of tissue remained.

Turning to Brad, I said, “I am going to try and put it back in place,” as I grabbed the arm and began to rotate it upward and back toward the shoulder joint. The pain was manageable as the numbing sensation was still in effect, but as soon as I felt the head of the humerus grinding against something, I knew the injury was beyond my capabilities to repair.

As we made the short walk back to his house, the annoying numbing was being rapidly replaced with sharp and extreme pain. The fifteen minute drive to Milbank’s emergency room was brutal as the only relief I could get was to lean forward and allow the arm to hand down into the void between the dash and the seat. I also called Carla to inform her as to what had happened. But the relief was basically gone when we pulled up to the hospital’s ER.

Asking Brad to grab my billfold, I made my way to the door hoping that the increasing pain would soon have some relief. It took a full five minutes to finally get into the ER room even though Brad had called ahead to let them know we were coming.

Once inside, the paper work began as the pain continued to increase. When the nurse asked where my pain was on a 1-10 scale, I grunted out “an eight” as it was now getting very painful, almost as if a knife was being ground into the joint. I pride myself on my ability to handle pain, but this was getting beyond what I would describe as discomfort.

Finally, after waiting for an excruciating 20 minutes, the doctor finally arrived. He asked me to rotate my right hand up hoping the ball of the humerus would go back into the socket, but it was unsuccessful.

I was then informed that before he could work on getting it back to its normal position, a few x-rays had to be taken as he did not want to pull on the arm in case there were also any broken bones. This, unfortunately, required more time as the x-ray tech had to be called into the hospital. Thirty very painful and uncomfortable minutes later, she finally walked into the ER. Even the process of taking the x-rays was excruciating as by now every step I took just about caused my knees to buckle.

Finally after over an hour and a half since the accident, the doctor informed me that we could begin the process of getting it back in place which was music to my ears as I was just about to the end of my pain tolerance.

Placing a port into the vein of my hand, I was given a dose of morphine. The doctor informed me that I would be feeling the effects immediately and would begin to get drowsy and my speech would slur. But, after waiting five minutes without the drug’s effects materializing, I was informed that we needed to begin the procedure as the doctor was positive the morphine effects were seconds away.

Even the simple process of lying down on my back pushed me past any pain I have experienced in this lifetime, and I knew what the next few minutes would bear more pain than I thought possible to endure. But by this point, I just wanted the damn thing in place so the pain would begin to subside. I considered the pain a challenge that needed to be met and conquered in order to make my shoulder whole again.

However, and I say this with no pride, when the doctor lifted my arm back over my head, the pain skyrocketed to a level that I did not think was possible. Between grunts, groans and gnashing of my teeth, I informed the doctor and two nurses that I may soon pass out. He uncaringly responded, “Go ahead.”

For five minutes he pulled and twisted the arm doing his best to find the proper angle necessary for it to pop back in place. During that entire time, my mind spun as the pain took me to a place I never want to go back to again. Honestly, if a baseball bat had been available I would have knocked myself out.

As he placed my still disconnected arm down along my side, he informed the nurse to give me a second shot of morphine as he needed me to relax my muscles which I am sure were fighting his efforts. The doctor informed me that the second the morphine hit, I would be out as no one could take that much morphine and remain conscious. I was so ready for the pain to end. However, just like before, the morphine had no effect at all.

For the second time he began to crank and twist on my limb as I went back to the place of pain and darkness. They even wrapped a sheet around my body as the nurses pulled one direction as the doctor pulled the other. In my mind, I was just begging for it to end. But, unfortunately, after five more minutes of hell, I was informed that they were going to call in the anesthesiologist and put me under. To say I was ready for this to happen would be the understatement of the century as it had now been more then two hours since the accident and the pain had spiked to a level that was difficult to tolerate. Holding my arm in the most comfortable position possible, we waited twenty more minutes waiting for the anesthesiologist to arrive. I was at the very end of my rope…in fact, I think my “rope” had been extended many times and I was rapidly reaching the end of the extensions.

I was the happiest person on the planet when she arrived and I finally passed out complements of the drugs. However, through the fog of the drugs, I remembered being in an ambulance, heading, I somehow knew, to Watertown where I woke up a couple hours later with Carla standing by my side.

My first words I remember were something to the effect of “is it back in place?” My confused mind knew I was in Watertown’s emergency room, but I wanted to make sure the ordeal was over. Carla assured me it was back in place as I glanced over to the restraint around my waist and arm. My shoulder had been dislocated for over four hours.

A week later South Dakota’s “West River” deer season would begin as my mind processed just how I could possibly hunt with a rifle. This yearly hunt is very important to me as it is the one time of year I get together with an old college buddy, his son and brother.

With the orthopedic surgeon’s reluctant approval, six days later I was making the uncomfortable 240 mile drive to meet my buddies. The doctor has set some guidelines that I had to follow. First and most obvious was the use of a low recoil rifle which dictated my .223 Remington. I also had to shoot left handed (I am right handed) or use the right shoulder and left hand as I had to wear an immobilizing sling which locked my right arm in place. Sitting shooting sticks would stabilize the rifle’s forearm.

Saturday was a bust as an almost all day sit provided no shot. Sunday morning found me in a new location that quickly became active at sunrise when I spotted a buck break the skyline to my south. Two killing shots at 217 yards dropped the deer. The little Barnes’ bullets did their jobs. I was pumped. For the first time in my life someone else had to field dress and drag my deer to the vehicles.

A week later, our “East River” season was in progress as I graduated from the immobilizing sling to a regular sling per Doctor’s orders. Unfortunately it was far too small to fit over the needed clothing for our much colder weather. Being creative, I cut up an old white sheet and fashioned a crude sling.

Three days of sitting finally gave me an opportunity when the buck below stopped long enough for me to stand, place the .243 Winchester over the standing shooting sticks and place a 100 grain bullet through its vitals.

A little humility from the injury had redefined for me exactly what a trophy deer truly is. Although I am currently sitting in another sling complements of the surgery required on Friday from the November injury’s damage, it got me thinking that I could respectfully remind all of us on why we truly hunt. By the way, our turkey season will be starting at about the time my current sling will be discarded----left handed gobbler???? I will be trying……

SDSpink,

Gawd! I was grimacing all through you description of the pain. You write a good story. Glad to see you got your deer regardless of the adversity and I get what you mean about a "trophy".

Mark

Great trophies!

Great write up, but I think you owe at least a few words of gratitude to your friend for getting you out of there and to a hospital...

Great story, Many Thanks for sharing.

quote:

Originally posted by Kamo Gari:
Great write up, but I think you owe at least a few words of gratitude to your friend for getting you out of there and to a hospital...

It was my brother who was with me when the original injury occurred. And he has been thanked many times for his help--after all, he's my brother.

YOU are a tough guy. Having dislocated a shoulder in s weight lifting contest about 15 years ago, sounding like about the same severity. No way could I have been out hunting within 6 months of the accident. Especially shooting a rifle. Definitely Trophy deer!

Great trophies are more about the hunt then the size to many.

quote:

Originally posted by just-a-hunter:
Nice bucks! I wonder what your blood pressure was through all that pain and I can hear the nurse now, "Do you always have high blood pressure?"

Thanks for sharing,

Todd

Funny you should mention the blood pressure as it brought back a memory from that night. My blood pressure is very consistent usually right at 117/78. I wish I could remember what the numbers were the night of the injury,but I clearly remembering the nurse reading off very high numbers.

Congrats on not giving up on deer season.

An ole time turkey hunter advised me to always take a couple of practice shots left handed. He said you never know when and ole longbeard will sneak in on the wrong side. I have killed two birds that would have otherwise gotten away. Closing your right eye just takes a little getting used too.

There is more to a trophy than a tape measure.

A trophy where I hunt Whitetail is a 150 B&C and you get one of those off the ranch about every 10 years is my best guess..

A Trophy on another ranch I hunt would be a 70 lb. Texas whitetail that would score 110..

A coues deer on the Rosillas Ranch in far west texas would go 112 to 115 I suppose and be in the record book and the heaviest I have seen was 121 lbs live weight.

200 hundred miles South in the Golden Triangle of South Texas a trophy deer can go way past 200 and weigh 200 plus pounds..

All this in one state...

The hunter that bothers me the most is the guy that packs a tape in his pocket and all he wants is the biggest animal in the world, and he could care less how he gets it..He wants nothing more than bragging rights.

The hunter I like best is the guy that hunts his butt off, passes up some good bucks,and gets a great trophy or goes home empty but happy.

The other hunter I like is the guy that hunts for the love of the hunt and is satisfied with whatever buck he gets, and considers his memories of the hunt his trophy..

Ive been fortunate in that I have shot my fair share of trophy animals and feel no need for more and it seem only fair that I pass on the really big ones or let my hunting partner shoot them or some kid that would really appreciate a big deer..

Im more than happy with a fork horned muly and my cow elk each year, as I have to eat them all year, and the circumstances of the hunt will be my trophy of the year. I enjoy it more and more as I age. I might still hunt a trophy Mule deer if I draw behind my house, usually for about 2 days then I shoot the next legal deer I see on day 3, I think I just do this to liven things up for awhile. I also like to loaf hunt with my old 25-35 carbine, that's when I see the biggest bucks, but they are always too far away to shoot, Murphy and the deer know what gun im packing!!

Guess it takes all kinds.