Hunting stories or jokes!

BUTCHJESSOP

BUTCHJESSOP

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Just wanting to hear a few of the old timers stories or good jokes. My grandfather was listening to a few young guys braging about how far they shot deer. When asked ,Whats the farthest shot you ever pulled off in your years of hunting? He started off with welllllllllll must have been over a mile maybe farther ,had to be farther because the shot was so far i strained my barrel.lol And he said it with such a straight face he had the young guys thinking so bad and you can see there heads smoking.Untill he couldnt hold it any longer and what a laugh we had. Really miss the old timers stories. Lets hear some.
 
Well, I'm far from an "old timer', but here goes...

My buddy and I were out partridge and rabbit hunting last fall. We hadn't gone more than 100 steps when a partridge decided to make its presence known. A quick shot made short work of it and upon retrieval, it turned out that it was big enough to make a nice roasting bird. Most of the time I simply breast them as soon as they're harvested and use a zip-lock bag that I keep in my hunting vest for such an occasion. But, as this was a bigger bird, I decided to keep it whole so I could pluck and gut it later like a chicken.

Seeing as we had just started hunting, and not wanting to carry it with me for the hour or so walk we had planned, I set the bird up on a fallen tree that we would pass again when we returned. I figured, as it was a cool fall day, that it would be fine.

Well, it probably would have been had it not been for the coyote that had a free lunch that day. We returned, as planned, about an hour later and there was nothing left but huge mess of feathers.

mmatt
 
I shot what appeared to be a stupider than usual grouse over on saltspring when I was about 12...
Walkin up an old road, and I see a grouse standing off to the side of the road about 30' ahead of me. Up with the old steven's single shot, and boom, dead grouse! I unloaded, and walked up to it...I'd blown the head right off it! But wait...why was it so light??
Some one shot a grouse, did the step on the wings method of cleaning it, then propped the carcass up with a stick and a couple rocks on the side of the road.
I was pretty upset then, but saw the humour in it eventually.
 
A friend (name withheld) and I were bow hunting Stone Sheep in northern BC. This was our first hunt together. We were supposed to have checked our gear before beginning our hike to make sure we were not "doubling up" on anything. We each carried our own food and clothes, but were sharing camping gear, tent, stove, fuel, etc. We had about a 14 hour drive to get there and had gone over our pack contents a couple of times from memory, so when we hit our starting point, we made some adjustments to contents and off we went.

Well the hike UP was brutal. My friend had been advised by a co-worker that we should be in 'sheep country' within 4 hours. 8 hours later we had yet to break treeline, so we made camp. A couple more hours in the morning and we were up on the plateau where the sheep lived. We were hurting pretty bad from the climb, and both decided we needed to invest in lighter gear if we were to do this again.

We set camp (took us a couple more hours to find a flat spot big enough for the tent) and proceeded to begin our 8 day hunt. Our 'camp' was pretty sparse with no pads to sit on, but there was a bit of a shallow dip in the ground that allowed me to lay on my side fairly comfortably (rocks everywhere) except for a small pointed stone in the lowest spot. One evening after a yummy freeze dried dinner, that pointy rock was pissing me off, so using another stone I started scraping away at the ground around it, seeing if I could dig it out.

After about 1/2 an hour of scratching at the hard ground, and my friend quietly watching me, I blurted out a few expletives and stated that the point was probably part of the bedrock and I was giving up. At that point my friend states:

"Do you want a shovel to dig that out?"

"A shovel?!? What kind of shovel *friend*?"

"Oh, I have one of those folding surplus shovels."

My eyes bugged out and mouth hung open: "You brought a shovel sheep hunting?!!? Wow. Why?"

"I thought we might need to scrape out a flat spot for the tent."

"Holy sh!t *friend*, it's sheep hunting! You sleep where you can!"

I did not want to insult my new hunting partner, and seeing *friend*'s expression change and since we had never hunted together before I was not sure how he would take what I wanted to say, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. So we talked for a couple minutes about how heavy are packs were coming up, but I could not help but shake my head every couple of minutes or so as I tried to comprehend the shovel. The rest of the evening was very quiet.

The next day at lunch, we are on a hill watching some Stones and enjoying a cup of tea. My friend suddenly turns and looks at me with a really serious expression, and says:

"You know,........... I'm pretty fu%king stupid."

I choked some tea OUT my nose, and then, in my most serious voice possible asked:

"Why's that *friend*?"

"Well,.......... I cut my tooth brush handle in half to save on weight, then I pack a fu%king shovel up here." Shakes his head.

Well, at that point I could not hold it in any more, and started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to black out. That's when I learned that my new hunting partner was a great guy who could take a good ribbing when he does something "stupid".

I have a cartoon that another friend drew for me after I told him that story. If I find it I will post it.
 
My first time hunting was with my dad after I had gone through basic training. Throughout the weapons classes, we were always told "Shoot center of mass". So off we are, going down a logging road, when we see a grouse. It hops off the road into the brush on the side. Being my first hunt, I'm the one who will sneak up on the grouse over a leafy road. I get within 5 feet of where the bird went into the bush. I couldn't see anything...

Suddenly, it starts to make noise and flap its wings. I instantly shoulder the shotgun, point it at the bird, and pull the trigger.

POOF!!!!

Spray of feathers everywhere. Despite my dad saying about 90 gazillion times "Aim for the head", I managed to hit the bird squarely in the center of mass. All that was left was part of one of the breasts and a wing. Needless to say, I have NEVER made the same mistake again.
 
I have a Buddy that snuck into a small lake one evening to call some Moose.
He made sure that he got in early and circled to his spot with the wind.
He suddenly realized that Nature was calling and decided to get down to business before getting settled in to call. He promptly leaned his gun about 25 feet away on a fallen log to avoid any shrapnel. (Wiskey and chilli from the night before really keeps you loose) So he drops trow and in the process of grunting and farting, He hears something in the nearby willows at the lakeshore. Suddenly A nice bull tears out of the willows across the lake, clearly from the aromatic sent that my buddy was emmitting, So buddy sees him nearing the far shore and makes a dash for his now distant rifle. Sensing the urgency that this moose is about to dissapear, he quickly shuffles over to his gun and with his manhood dangling in the breeze and pants around his ankles he lays two rounds into that bull dropping him in the lake. He is now known at camp by his Indian name "Shoots with pant's down":D
 
Okay, here is another one:

This one involves my dad, my uncle, and a long time friend of theirs. They have been hunting together for more then 40 years and have been through a lot together.

So a couple years ago my uncle shoots a bull on the last day of their hunt; the first shot is good but the bull takes of running so he puts two more into him. On the third shot the bull jumps into an adjacent beaver pond and promptly turns tits up.

So my uncle heads back to camp and gets my dad and his friend. Now my dad and I are a lot alike, in that if there is work that needs doing, we get it done. But my dad is always impatient and wanting to get home as fast as possible from a trip, so without anyone asking him he gives the others hell for 1. letting the bull end up in the pond, and 2. for wasting time getting him out of the pond.

Next thing my uncle knows, my dad is shedding his clothes and within a few minutes is swimming out to the moose in his tighty whitey's. After trying to throw just the rope to my dad, they quickly realize it is too far, so my uncle and his friend look for something to tie to the rope. They end up tying on a fairly good chunk of beaver wood (no not that kind!). Noting the pointed ends of the small log he is about to launch into the pond, my uncle tells my dad to NOT try to catch it.

So my dad is perched on a floating bull moose in the middle of a pond, looking (as my uncle said) like Gollum, and my uncle is swinging a pointed log from a rope around his head. So my uncle lets fly, and my dad being, well, my dad just has to try and catch it.

So after they got the moose in the truck and camp tore down and loaded, they made a stop at the emergency ward in Quesnel so dad could have a half dozen stitches put in his forehead over his eye.

Of course I never heard a peep about this until I talked to my uncle. When my dad showed up almost 6 weeks after their trip, he still had a black eye.

Okay, you might be asking "how is this funny", well, in my family that sh%t is classic!
 
This is a second hand story so bear with me.

When my Dad first joined his hunt camp, he was the young guy (20's) to all the old hands, pushing 50, with years of experience behind them. They'd turned their yearly trip into a fine art; but with one exception - to a man they didn't like to gut their kills. So for the very first trip, Dad was put through every initiation you can imagine, up to and including being the Gut Man for the entire camp - 20 guys, each with a tag to fill, and they usually all did. After the first trip, he burned all the clothes he took because he couldn't get the blood out.

This camp also had the policy that if you wing or outright miss your target - you get tossed in the lake. Early November in the 1970s, with Global Warming not being what it is today, that was a pretty frosty proposal. So if the rest of the guys heard a shot from your neck of the woods, and you didn't bring home the venison, you'd better hope somebody had the campfire running hot and high for when you ran your ass back out of the water. On the same first trip, Dad caught sight of what he says (I take his word for it) was an 8 point buck. He let him have it with one round of .30-06 and the buck takes off like a shot. Immediately, images of the inch-thick crust of ice waiting for him back at the lake began to conjure in Dad's mind, so he jumped out of the blind and headed over to where the buck had been.
Some blood, easy enough to spot with recent snow, so off he goes tracking.

3 miles later he reaches the base of a hill, and lo and behold, the buck is standing at the top, upwind of Dad and twitchy as all hell, thanks to some new but minor ventilation in his upper hip. Dad can immediately tell this guy tops out somewhere over 250lbs. He's now about 5 miles from camp, and back in the day, these guys didn't have ATVs, there weren't roads in this area to bring in trucks, and all the old farts at the camp began to complain and clutch at their chests if they had to walk a mile outside of their blinds, much less haul anything. He can pretty much feel that icy water already, kill or no kill.

Still, he's downwind, and that buck's already hurting. This time he takes his time, and puts one right in the boiler room. The deer folds up into the rest his frantic 3 mile run earned him. Dad dresses him out then and there and tries to drag him. No chance. He doesnt have anything to use as a pack to take quarters so that's out too. Meanwhile, its getting dark. What to do.

Three hours later, night's fallen and all the older guys have long since locked up their guns and gotten out the Labatt's. They're trying to enjoy themselves but they can't help but look at their watches and the darkening horizon and wonder horrible thing ate the new guy and how they're going to explain to his wife. A few of them are joking about how they're going to get to 'baptize' the greenhorn, and that he's too chicken to come in from the woods, knowing the dunking he's earned.
Out of the darkness like some kind of native demon legend, Dad walks into camp, blood head to toe and thumps the deer's heart down on the dinner table in front of every pair of wide eyes.
"If you think you bastards are going to throw me in the lake, you better be ready to end up like this guy. Jesus Christ I need a beer."
 
Not a funny story, but odd. Two of my school buddies and I were out walking a ravine one nice fall day in 1964 or thereabouts. We were looking for chicken, bush partridge, and/or Huns. Lo, a flock of Huns got up and flew away. All but one, that is. Although we were primed and ready to fire, we didn't need to. One Hun fell out of the air and landed, dead as a doornail. We cleaned it and couldn't find a thing wrong with it!!:p:p
 
As a late teen, I hunted pheasant a lot with two regular partners, and we were in a couple of grainfields that we had access to. One of the fields was a relatively small opening in the woods that had been cultivated and seeded with oats. It was completely enclosed by a 5 strand barb wire fence, and we entered through the gate at one end. Two of us then headed into this field with the dog. Just about the middle of the field, and the dog starts acting goofy, not on point, but he definitely was onto something. We readied our 12 guages, and sent the dog in. To our surprise, up jumped a nice 4x4 Muley buck that had been hunkered down in the tall oats. The deer is in a big hurry to leave, and he was going flat out when he hit that fence. Whether he din't see it or whatever, but he nailed it straight on. The fence "squawked" and the deer bounced back about 10 feet, right on it's a**, floundered around for a couple of seconds, got up in a cloud of dust and cleared that fence by about 3 feet! By this time my hunting partner and I were laughing so hard that if a pheasant had flown, we would have not even tried a shot. I can still see that deer in my minds eye and get a fresh laugh every time I am reminded of the incident, even though it was 46 years ago. Regards, Eagleye.
 
My Brother's story, and confirmed by his partner. Hunting with a .303 Jungle Carbine, and a box of shells in two magazines. When the buck jumped up, the shooting started. Time to reload with the second mag, and the buck is still running. With his friend spotting, and the hold over getting more, the final shot nailed the buck. Paced it off at 650 yards. Shot in the back of the head. Reverse round count: two left in the magazine.
 
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