Any number of "categories" might be shared:

* Unexpected bullet/cartridge performance

* Unusual animal activity/response to hunters

* Stupidest thing a hunting buddy has done

* Best practical joke on a hunting buddy

You get the idea. I've worked too long and am a bit bored at the moment. Looking forward to the fall seasons!

Briefly, I'll share the story of my grandpa and the cherry tree:

Sometime back in the 70's, when Wisconsin had a strict buck-only season and mature bucks were a rare sight, grandpa Herb organized a drive.

As grandpa was a county surveyor, he naturally knew all the good spots, and he also assumed that he had permission to hunt anyone's property. This particular drive, of course, was on a neighbor's parcell who hadn't given him permission, but what's a small matter like that among acquaintances?

While everyone was setting up for the drive, my grandfather said to his step-son, Mike: "Go about 100 yards uphill till you get to the cherry tree and stand there. And make sure you shoot anything that comes by - horns or not!"

Sure enough, the drive begins, and it's not long before "a whole G-da*&^%$ flock of does" goes running by Mike. "I had my gun up," he recalls, "but not a blessed antler in the whole frickin' bunch."

Moments later, Mike hears the report of grandpa's 30-06. Bang; Bang; Bang. Mike walks over to find three does all dead within 20 feet of each other.

"Why the hell didn't you shoot?" asks grandpa. "They had to have gone right by you!!"

"Deer? What deer?" says Mike.

We have Mike tell that story at least once every season; only the story about the dogsh*t is better

So, let's hear yours!

Thanks,

friar

My grandfather ,on a warm day, had fallen asleep as he sat on a trail.He was rudely awakened by being run over by a deer !
Another hunter , asleep in a tree stand , awoke to find a deer just below him. Knowing that he would make too much noise getting his gun in frustration he threw his thermos and hit the deer !

quote:

Knowing that he would make too much noise getting his gun in frustration he threw his thermos and hit the deer !

I can see it in my mind's eye now!

One season my uncle was out making some last minute touch-ups to his stand. He stumbled upon a nice doe, scaring both of them half to death.

The doe bolted and ran head-long into a tree, knocking herself silly. My uncle walked up with the axe and smacked her on the head, breaking the handle, but filling his tag (albeit a little too early).

That broken axe handle now resides above the wetbar, cradled by the does forelegs.

friar

One funny that happened about 25 yrs ago, a buddy of mine was in box blind about 8 ft up an old oak tree in the Tx hill county and he was looking out one of the windows, then a squirrel jumped right in his face. I heard him scream 200 yards away!!

Another buddy of mine was hunting with a friend of his that wasn't much of a deer hunter and on opening morning just a breaking light someone shot across the fence on the next ranch. About five mins later his buddy comes walking up and yells out 'WHAT DID YA GET." My bud was pissed.
JC

A former hunting partner, a friend of his and myself were up at the 180 acre place I used to hunt in Montague(it is pronounced Montage here in Texas) county.

The place is just south of the Red River/Oklahoma border by maybe 1/2 mile.
This was on a Saturday night, after hunting all day.

None of us had seen anything, so we had rendezvoused back at camp and started fixing supper.

After supper was finished we were setting around the camp fire, it was one of those odd times here in Texas when a camp fire was really more of a necessity than just a social focal point.

We were all wrapped up with our favorite beverages and just BS'ing about anything in general, and about 9 p.m. or so, nature finally caught up with me and I had to go unload my bladder.

I grabbed a flashlight and started out of camp and just as I went around the corner of one of the vehicles, I picked up this pair of eyes and a vague shape of someting out in the brush about 20 yards or so away from me/camp, that were there in the dark, just watching camp.

I went back and grabbed a rifle and started back out that way, as I really thought it was either a coyote or bobcat.

When the guys in camp saw me grab the gun, they got up and followed me out that way.

I got closer to the eyes, and it turned out to be someones old coon hound that had got lost.

I hollered at it and it took off and the guys went back to the campfire.

I got thru with my business and walked back into camp, set down the gun and flashlight and picked back up with the beer and BS'ing.

For some reason, not sure if it was the beer or the cool night, as I was setting there, a thought ran thru my mind and I set the beer down and went to laughing so damn hard I was crying.

I could not get my breath.

The other two gents were setting there sort of smiling at me and kind of laughing but with confused looks on their faces, looking at me and then each other.

They started asking what was sooo damn funny .

I held my hands up and tried to signal them to give me a minute to try and get myself under control and then I would tell them what had me so tickled.

I finally caught my breath, and explained that after the incident with the hound, I got to thinking about what would have happened/could have happened that if myself or either of them, had woke up say at 3 a.m. needing to take a crap and were out there in the pasture getting good and comfortable and ready to let the load go, and about that time that old dog would have walked up and stuck his cold nose right in your butt crack.

The thoughts of the persons reaction flashed thru my mind and I completely lost it.

I mean there the person would be, drawers around their knees, squatted down, in the dark, in the low 30's temps, no light, ready to give birth, and an icy cold nose socks into your butt crack.

Couple the reactions of the person getting nosed, with the reactions of the rest of the sleeping folks in camp when they heard the commotion and dove for cover, and in my mind it became one of those Kodak Moments to hear about but not be directly involved in.

I had a grandfather that was tighter than bark on a tree when it came to spending a dime if he didn't have to.

One year when I was about 15 or so, we were hunting mule deer at our favorite spot, just north of Rifle, Colorado. Grandpa didn't walk too good in those days, so we dropped him off to watch a place where 2 trails joined in the middle of a pretty good sized stand of trees. And I told him I would be about a half a mile away still hunting a ridge and that when I got to the end, I'd be in sight of him. The plan was, if he got anything, he'd wave me down to help with the deer. After all, he was in his late 70's at the time.

I got done with my little hunt and looked towards Grandpa and saw him waving me down. Problem was, I had not heard a single shot anywhere near me. I thought maybe he had a problem or was hurt and I hustled over as quick as I could.

When I got up to him, he said he needed me to field dress and drag out a buck for him. I looked at him and asked how he could have a buck down since I never heard him shoot. He then told me one of the wildest things I've ever heard.

According to him, he was standing next to a big pine tree and saw a nice 3x3 muliey walking down one of the trails towards him. He wanted to make sure of the shot, because he didn't want to waste the bullet since they cost a few bucks. He stepped behind the tree and let the buck keep coming. As it got closer and closer, he began to think maybe he could fill his tag and save the cost of a bullet.

Grandpa always carried an old hatchet to split the brisket and pelvis. Even though I had done the field dressing for him on the last couple deer he had taken, he still packed the hatchet. As the deer kept coming, pe pulled the hatchet and got ready.

When I got to the buck, there lying in the pine needles was a nice mule deer buck with a great big slash across the top of its head. Deader than hell, dropped by a 70 year old man with a single blow from an old hatchet. Not a bullet hole one to be found.

I'd have never believed it if I hadn't seen it myself.

quote:

When I got to the buck, there lying in the pine needles was a nice mule deer buck with a great big slash across the top of its head. Deader than hell, dropped by a 70 year old man with a single blow from an old hatchet. Not a bullet hole one to be found.

Pity the fool stupid enough to break into his home!

Crazyhorses' story of the dog's cold, wet snout is a good seque to one of my favorites...

Uncle Mike (see above) had a couple of deer strung up by the evening of opening day, and damned if his dogs were always under those deer, lapping up blood and tallow.

Mike decided to celebrate that night with a few extra brandy manhattans. The dogs, underfoot as always, proceeded to flop down on the floor of his bedroom as uncle Mike pillowed his head and drifted off to a sleep of peaceful bliss.

The next morning about 8 uncle Mike, still bleary-eyed from the evening's revere, swung his feet out of bed and hopped down - straight into two piles of slimey dogshit! As the cold, wet mass oozed up between his toes, he jumped and started cussing (insert explitive of choice). Those poor muts had messed the whole bedroom floor, and uncle Mike, God bless him, never heard their mournful whines.

You can picture what happened next...uncle tippy-toeing as fast as he can through the carpeted living room to the bathroom, mostly naked, swearing to make a sailor blush.

Camp cleared out fast that morning, and poor uncle Mike spent the better part of the day scrubbing carpets and washing floors!

But best of all, Mike doesn't mind telling that story every opening night at dinner, embellishing as only the true author can.

friar

I am sure I have related this story at least once on here but it’s been a while and it’s still funny.

About 12 years ago I was hunting with my Dad, my brother and my cousin in a unit that we had not hunted in for a couple years. Here in Western Oregon, they shut deer season down in some units for a week during elk season, but there are units farther west where buck deer hunting is allowed.

We were finished with the first morning push and decided to look around for some likely areas to find an animal when my Dad decide it was time for his morning “constitutional.” He grabbed a roll of “mountain money” (tp) and excused himself to go look for a likely spot. The rest of us split up for awhile to go look around for sign.

When I got back to where the other two were, I looked around and asked where Dad was. They said he hadn’t come back yet. Quite a bit of time had passed since Dad took off. He is known to find sign and start looking around, so no worries.

After several more minutes, I decided to wander off in the general location he had gone to meet up with him. Just about the same time we see him walking up the road and he is laughing and shaking his head.

He had found an old trail and took it off the road a ways when he found this little mashed down area in the middle of some briars. Having “pressing business” to attend to, he laid his sidearm (Dan Wesson 357) down next to him and, well you know…

No sooner had he begun when he heard the brush crunching about 30 yards away. At first he thought it might be a deer, so he was quiet. As the sound approached, he thought it might be one of us because it was more like crashing through brush, not deer-like.

At the same time, he noticed the “briars” he was squatting in the middle of was a patch of old blackberries and that sound was more than likely a bear, not a deer and he was smack-dab in the middle of it's territory. He reached for his gun about the same time the noise was on him. As he strained to reach his gun, the last push of his reason for being there came arushin’ and he said it was accompanied by a loud report, and knowing Dad, a particularly foul aroma.

The crashing stopped abruptly. After a second of dead silence, Dad said the bear let out a loud “woof” and took off in the opposite direction crashing and banging. He said he stayed there for several minutes, dead quiet with his pistol in his hand just listening. Dad finished up and walked back all the while thinking that his “extra foulness” probably had that bear thinking that he was an even bigger, nastier bear.

We still laugh about this and every once in a while one of us will call the other or leave a VM, and just say, “WOOF.”

quote:

Originally posted by Crazyhorseconsulting:
...and about that time that old dog would have walked up and stuck his cold nose right in your butt crack...

Having dogs all my life, I can picture this in my mind.

In my mid-teens some local men took me under their wing and often took me hunting with them. Guess I was the 'token kid'. We were duck hunting on a good size pond that provided fast action when ducks came off the area lakes looking for a place to lager up for the evening. This particular pond was 90% on property we had permission to be on. A fence cut off a small portion of the pond on somebody else's property.

Early on one afternoon one of the men had the call of nature and hunkered down in some bushes near the fence. He sensed something odd and looked over his shoulder, to see another man on the other side of the fence 'watching' him do his business. This disturbed him a great deal, as who wants to watch that?

Being so distracted caused him some problems and he managed to poop into his drawn down waders and all over the shoulder straps. The rest of us became aware of the problem 'cuz he was soon hollering and splashing around in the pond cleaning himself and shouting challenges to the guy who had been watching him.

The other hunter on the other property was glimpsed leaving the scene in haste!

Somehow, the best stories all seem to gravitate towards the most basic of functions, in one way or another!

Many thanks fellas!

friar

My kin folks hunted with dogs in Miss.that year we talked Great Uncle (KUZZY) in to standing not far from his house.Well it was about the crack of dawn when we heard 3 shots from his stand.we waited till the dogs were penned then went to ckeck on him.He was't there we called and looked but he was gone.So we went to his house to see if someone else picked him up.He was sitting on his porch like nothing was the matter.He asked my dad to go where he was sitting on his stool and look for a big doe and take care of her for him.At this time does were not leagle and he was worried about a ticket.When my dad got back he called everyone to his truck to see the deer.My Uncle was turning red.Well in the truck was a big 8 pt buck with 3 shot holes in the brisket.When asked about it my Uncle said he tooked his old glasses with him that morning and they were cracked and all he saw was horns.We all had a good laugh at that.It was the last hunt he went on.OH he was 85 years old and walked real slow with a cane.Thinking of him walking about a 1/4 mile with his stool,shotgun makes you wonder how he made it so fast.Good Luck

quote:

quote:

Originally posted by Crazyhorseconsulting:
...and about that time that old dog would have walked up and stuck his cold nose right in your butt crack...

Having dogs all my life, I can picture this in my mind.

I have an unpleasant memory relating to a dog's cold nose... it ain't a hunting story but it was about working on my 4x4 to go hunting so I guess it counts... I'm one of those guys that likes prepping everything before I go somewhere.
Change all the fluids, grease the suspension and U-joints, repack the wheelbearings and check the front hub nuts.... you know 4x4 require just as much care and attention as a horse, it's just different care....

Anyway I'm laying under my truck and I'm wearing a jacket that's a little short
Thus one I don't care about getting dirty/greasy/torn working on the truck and
I'm damn near done greasing the last driveshaft U-joint when I feel this sudden "cold nose" sensation in the small of my back...

I musta jumped a bit hard because I don't remember anything of the next bit of time...
I wanged my head against the frame and cut my scalp on a bracket and woke up about 20minutes later with a cold Daschund curled up under my chin... and my right eye glued sht with dried blood it was the neighbors dog that once again was wandering loose (she always thought she was my dog for some reason and would actually bark when her owner came to get her...)

Anyway after I managed to crawl out from under the truck pick up the dog and stagger inside and look in the mirror (EHHHH!!!) I called the neigbor to come and pick up her dog and bring a suture kit (The neigbor is a surgeon)

While self-anesthetizing with some very old single malt irish whisky (Frankly I still needed the Lidocaine) and getting my head sewn back together I told the neighbor that it was all the dog's fault... that badly timed cold wet nose...

The problem was that the little Daschund was too small to wear the training collar for the "invisible fence" that kept their other dog at home...

ANYWAY... I bought a little bell and wired it to the Daschunds collar.
It's always the small detail that'll get you even if it's only a cold nose in the small of your back instead of a bite on the ass...

AD

quote:

Anyway after I managed to crawl out from under the truck pick up the dog and stagger inside and look in the mirror (EHHHH!!!) I called the neigbor to come and pick up her dog and bring a suture kit (The neigbor is a surgeon)

Can't say that I have any fondness for dachunds, but at least the mut had the good sense to stay with you till you woke up. Good thing you didn't have to sit in the emergency room all afternoon; besides, there the anesthetic isn't quite so "palatable."

In the first parish I served, one of the docs - a urologist - was cutting up a deer in his garage. I had come over for moral support and whatnot, and was having a cup of coffee in the kitchen with his wife, when he walked throught holding his hand.

His wife looks up and asks "did you hurt yourself?" "No, not really, he says."

I found out the next day that he had stuck the point of a fillet knife under the nail of his middle finger! Yikes!

friar

I was stationed with the Coast Guard in Kodiak AK. Anyone familiar with brown bears and Kodiak knows they go hand in hand. I thought before I transferred up there that I wouldn't be interested in bear hunting. All the Discovery Channel and Animal Planet documentaries had led me believe that I could simply walk up to the salmon stream of my choice and shoot any bear I wanted. Most of those documentaries are filmed in National Parks where the animals are both protected and accustomed to seeing a large number of people.

After spending two years in Kodiak and using most of my leisure time to hunt, hike, fish and 4 wheel as far off the beaten path as I could get, I had only seen one bear in the wild. I reckoned properly that bears were a worthy adversary.

I bought a Remington model 7600 pump rifle in 35 Whelen. I handloaded some stout 225 gr Trophy Bonded bullets and had shot the rifle enough to be quite comfortable with it. I liked the fast follow-up shot the pump action afforded.

I had scouted an area that was on Coast Guard property. There are a couple small streams that flow into the western end of Buskin Lake. One of them always had fresh bear tracks leading along the edge of the lake to the mouth of the stream. The silver salmon spawned in the stream and were a higly prized delicacy for the bears. The bear's protein rich salmon diet contributes heavily to their incredible size. Having talked to some of those who know and having done some independent research on brown bears, I had a strong suspicion that one of the sets of tracks belonged to a bear that would top 1000 pounds. Most of us would consider a 150 pound rottwieler a formidable foe. An animal 7-8 times that big, with senses much more keen, a bad attitude and a tenacity for life that is unmatched in the wild, commands every bit of your attention. This is an animal that can quickly, and without your knowledge or permission switch roles with you and make you the hunted. There are tales of big brown bears soaking up a half dozen lethal bullet hits before settling a hunter's hash.

I awakened before dark on the cold, still Kodiak morning. I drove my truck to the Coast Guard golf course parking lot near the edge of Buskin Lake. My plan was to quietly walk along the bank of the lake well before first light and set up a natural blind near the intersection of the lake and the stream. I figured the bear would walk along the edge of the lake and walk up the stream to the feeding grounds. The stream made a gentle bend and my blind would have the feeding area about 30 feet behind me, but partially obscured from my view by a combination of neck high grass and dense alders. As mother nature often does in Kodiak, she confounded matters a bit. On this morning there would be a steady mist and an increasingly thick fog.

The visibility was such that I could see perhaps 50 yards through the dark misty fog ahead of me. By the time I had crept the half mile or so along the black sandy bank to my blind, the sky began to lighten ever so slightly. Unfortunately the fog thickened into a blanket through which I struggled to see 20 feet. Well, they say in Kodiak that if you don't like the weather, wait a few minutes it will change. I sat on a log facing the lake waiting for change. When the fog cleared I would be able to see and take a shot of considerable distance to either my right or left. I had alders directly behind me and in fact sat on the log beneath some low hanging alder branches. Having spent much of my life running boats I had seen some thick fog. This fog was different though. It was coupled with a powdery fine, steady mist that drifted slowly toward the ground. I looked at stumps and rocks on the bank. I struggled to see those just 15 feet in front of me.

I was feeling pretty nervous and was second guessing my decision to continue on with the hunt, but I didn't fancy the prospect of meeting a Kodiak brown bear face to face should I choose to retreat. I hunkered down and waited for the break that never came. After an hour or so, I thought I heard a faint crackle of a limb some 30 yards or so behind me to my right. That would put what ever it was on the opposite side of the stream that was a scant 10 feet wide by 1-2 feet deep. Despite their size and the appearance of a clumsy lumbering gait, brown bears can move exceptionally quietly through the thickest of terrain. Then there was an unmistakeable splash. I had previously heard some splashing in the stream, but could tell it was salmon working their way to the hallowed spawning grounds. This splash was different. Then all was quiet for a while. When your sense of sight is taken away, your other senses become much more keen. I was on high alert processing every cue as if my life depended on it. It did. Whats that smell? Dear God, I smell a bear. My heart started racing. Pounding so forcefully I could feel it in my ears. Gasploosh, gasploosh, gasploosh, swat. Then I heard a salmon flopping on the bank. The bear had been staking out a salmon, made a quick dash for it then swatted it up onto the bank of the stream.

Crunch, crunch, crunch, slurp. I could hear this brute snacking on the salmon. I could smell him. I could feel his presence. He was but 30 feet behind me and I couldn't see him. It's funny how quickly your mind cycles thoughts at a time like this. I recall thinking that I had never been so alert, so aware, so alive in all my life. At the same time I could have just as easily been ever so close to death. If the bear winded me from such a short distance he would not likely retreat, but rather go on the offensive to ward off the one who dared to venture into his sacred dominion.

I slowly spun on the log to where I was oriented toward the noise. If the bear decided to plow through the tangled hell between the two of us, he could cover the distance almost as fast as I could shoulder the gun which was beginning to look quite puny in my arms. An eternity passed before I heard another sound. Another gasploosh, gasploosh, swat. It took all the calm I could muster to keep from screaming, running or firing into the grey darkness before me. I wanted out. But at the same time I kept processing how alive I felt. This must have gone on for thirty minutes. I kept glancing back toward the bank of the lake to see if I could discern any measurable improvement in visisbility. No joy. Thankfully the air was absolutely still. I feared the slightest puff of wind from the wrong direction would send the bear into a territorial rage. I had no idea the human body could pump adrenaline at such levels over such a protracted period of time.

Splash, splash, crackle, grunt. The bear had crossed to my side of the stream and entered the thicket between us. He sensed something amiss and grunted at it. Eyes wide open, struggling to grasp every bit of available light, I peered into the blanket of fog, rifle shakily shouldered, trying to stiffle my heavy breathing, hoping to make out the ghostly silhouette of my quarry. Or was I his quarry? Another grunt and another crackle of a limb. He was cautiously advancing. I would soon be face to face with the most feared predator on the continent.

Not a sound, not a single clue as to what his location may be for another 15 minutes or so. A puff of wind hit me in the face. I no longer smelled him. I no longer sensed his presence. The misty fog that had enveloped me for the better part of two hours slowly dissipated. I could now make out the bank of the stream through the alder and grass thicket. I eased myself from beneath the alder and tried to stand. Knees too weak. I spent a couple of minutes regaining my composure then stood. I scanned the bank of the lake in the direction I wanted to go. All clear. With rifle at the ready, I retreated to the comfort and safety of my truck.

A couple weeks later I heard of a Boone and Crocket record book bear being killed in the area. I took a hike to investigate. Just a short distance upstream from my close encounter was the VW sized carcass of a bear that had been skinned out. I was felt an odd sense of sadness.

Great story PaulB! That will be a lifetime's memory.

Thanks for telling it.

friar