It had been a long day. Enjoyable, yes. But long. I trudged back to camp just ahead of the approaching marine layer. Heaters on. A quick wet-wipe "shower." Fresh clothes and a cold beer. Ahh...
The radio cracked to life, "Bro, got a copy?"
I knew what this meant. I put the beer back on ice as I confirmed, "Roger."
"Pop has one down. Out past the Old Elk Camp."
So long fresh clothes.
I had just finished changing, again, when Pop arrived. His grin touched both ears.
"I did just what you told me to do. I killed him, gutted him, and came to get you boys to yard him out!"
I love it when a plan comes together.
Some 25 or 30 years ago, Pop took care of my first deer for me. He of course made me "help." Glad he's patient.
While I don't see it fully, I know he feels time slowly arresting his outdoor pace. Year after year, it is my great joy to join him, and Aaron, at blacktail camp. Aaron and I were blunt in our request, "Kill it. Gut it. Tell us where to find it. We'll take care of the rest."
And he did.
We met at the turn-out and hiked in. Head lamps and trekking poles. Empty packs and high spirits.
At the first big saddle, Pop pointed to where he lay, "There he is. Just a fork."
I protested, "But, Pop, look how big his body is!"
In Oregon, we can send a tooth into the Department of Fish and Wildlife to precisely age a deer. This fork horn was five.
Photos. Skinning. Quartering. More hiking. And at last, fresh clothes and a cold beer. Perfect.
The season was waning quickly. Two more days for Aaron and me. But, the calendar was good. This year, the last day was Nov 7th. Each day closer to the rut held increased promise.
Pop tended to his winter dinners while Bro and I continued our pursuit.
The eve before the last day, Bro and I discussed our strategies. Independently, we had both arrived at the same conclusion. Time to change it up. Go fast. Cover ground. Be loud.
I set out the final morning with my rattling antlers around my neck. I used them often and used them aggressively. It felt like September elk hunting. Sun out. Temperature high. Fast pace. Sound off and wait. Move on. Repeat.
Probably ought have stayed longer on each set-up. Just to be sure. But I was having fun. And I like to smile, so, onward.
I paused to refuel. Rattle, eat, rattle. Only because I didn't know what was there, I moved forward around a small knob. Rattle. And crash, crash, crash!
The buck was on top of me before I could set down the rattling antlers! So, staring at the buck, I just dropped them. And now, the buck was staring at me..
He was small. Young. Just a little fork. Then he turned his head. A small three point! Good enough.
Bang! Flop. And crash, crash, crash! Back down the steep Oregon hillside..
And.... Ground shrinkage. And tine loss, apparently. Whether an unfortunate angle with his opposing side, or a misunderstood bit a brush, his small 3x3 frame had shrunk to a petite 2x2.
<sigh>
One pause for thanks, and another to notch the tag.
Initial disappointment? Yes. Lingering? No. A full freezer means a happy me. And I like to smile.
Photos. Skinning. Quartering. More hiking. What a sweet, great, painful, wonderful sequence.
And how the heck did that little deer get so heavy! Not entirely sure that I had heavier pack-outs with our September elk!
That day Bro passed on two deer using the same aggressive approach. He stuck to his plan. He hunted out of his comfort zone, set his standard for acceptability, and stuck to it. And also went home happy for it. Smiling.
And so, in the end, we were three happy hunters. Each in their own way. And each different in their joy for the other.
Thanks Pop. Thanks Bro.
Cheers,
-c2
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