Memories of long past hunts

Midnight coon hunt
About 1AM actually, I awoke to the sounds of scrambling about out on the deck of the camp. Laying there a bit, I figured it had to be a coon trying to get the coolers open. We had only a tiny Servel gas fridge and that's just not enough for eight guys, so a lot of our food stuff was in coolers. Deer camp bears are mostly asleep.

So out I go and off runs the coon. I go lay down again, but not before finding the 30-30, and a bunch of home cast lead rounds I had. Previous experience said it would be back.
True to form, just as soon as I lay down on the bunk, I heard the same noises.

This time I do a stealth approach out the front door of the camp and around the side. Just as I peeked around the corner, I saw it run around the next corner. I hurried down there, but the coon was no where to be seen. I stood there a moment, and then heard a small noise up the small maple just outside the door.

Shining my little AA mag light up there I can see the coon wedged in the crotch about twenty feet up.

So, up with the rifle. This is where I first found out how totally useless peep sights are at night.

seven shots later, there was a thud, and the coon fell dead at my feet.

This all took place just off the porch five feet from the front door. I expected an uproar over the shooting, but nothing but snoring greeted my ears when I went in.

Well, holy F! Hmmm.

So, I grab a thin rope, and throw it over the meat pole, dragging the coon up there beside 4 deer that were hanging.

My wife is giggling right now, as she was the only other one awake at the time.

Next morning, the camp awakes as usual, and the guys slowly make there way to the outhouse for morning business.

Nothing.

Last one out of the fart sack is Big John. The old boy has a habit of standing in the damned doorway, and this morning was no exception.

After about 2 minutes I heard him roar. Which one of you F'ers has been screwing around!

So, the entire camp had to march out and look in disbelief at what transpired while they snored.
 
Here's a few of my wilder shots. Ethical? Probably wouldn't try the deer today.

My first was in BC, out at my brother in laws ranch. There were three wild dogs in chasing the sheep. I had the old 30-30, but at 300 yards, I figured no way, and I waited for my brother in law with his Beretta 30-06 to shoot. But then, he got a jam, and it seemed to be giving him trouble, so, off the top of a fence post, with the original sights, I gave it a go, guessing the hold over, fully expecting to maybe scare them by getting somewhere close. I was blown away, when the dog fell over. That was a very long time ago. I think they were Imperial KKSP 150's but I could be wrong. When the 1st dog fell, the rest took off.

The other 'circus shot' was from the camp. We were in for lunch when a deer stepped out on a point in the lake, about 300 yards away. Three of us went out, two guys with scopes tried it first, but failed. They were leaning against trees. Now to be fair, I had been practicing at 400 with the old Gustaf 6.5X55 at the time, but still, it was pretty amazing when I laid down in the grass with issue sights, and that deer fell over to the first shot. Had the entire camp for witness. Do it again? Ha not likely.
 
22 November 2005. Cold Lake Petroleum Oilfields area.
Been practicing all summer weekends just the previous summer outdoor rifle range on mostly metal gongs. I had planned on using a Canadian Centenial M94 Winchester 30-30 with the long 26 inch barrel.
However the stamped steel shell lifter broke so my father's 1956 built M94 carbine was my back up piece.
I had hunted this area previously and was well aware it was a popular spot for WT deer crossing the goat trail to a field of winter wheat.
I built a small ground blind on a tiny rise with a background of two year old planted blue fir trees at my back.
Was a quiet morning. Just like clockwork a cross fox appeared to my east and promptly say down middle of the trail kind of looking in my direction. Just to his north in the taller spruce trees about forty feet up a bald eagle settled on its branches. Seemingly taking the foxes que to watch the show.
You ever get a cramp in a confined space? As if my muscle reflex without meaning to, my left leg extended outwards out of the blind. Making a noise disturbing the bed of dry dead leaves.
Curses! Immediately I hear something on four legs flee back into the dense forest to my left to the north!
I figured I am pooched here. Maybe go for a walk in the direction I seen at dawn a doe passing to the south her tail tucked down. As if fleeing a wandering buck.
I cross the field of winter wheat but cannot locate her tracks hereabouts. Well at least the wind more in my favour now.
I look up see a big buck just as he sees me.
He's frozen still, three quarters on to me.
There's no good spot for a prone shot! The winter wheat also just to high for a kneeling shot! Has to be off hand unsupported. I held for his white throat patch, no discernable wind on my cheek, I knew at this estimated distance my 150 grain Silvertip could land in his boiler room. I took the shot. He attempted one step immediately staggered and fell right there. About nine seconds from mutual discovery until the one shot.
I reloaded without taking my eyes of him. Started advancing through the field of stunted wheat. 260 long strides. He was dead as a door nail. What was surprising was the extensive damage to his heart (pulverized) one lung smashed the other partially perforated.
Was a good day.
 
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The tow truck driver
New guy in camp, and yes, he drove a tow truck. But not to camp.
He was a young fella, about my age at that time, and this is the story of his first deer.
He was armed with a 99 Savage in 300 Savage, it was scoped.
Being new, and an extra man for the run we had planned that day, old John decided he'd cover a deer run that hadn't been used in years, and stuck him there.
The run was on the opposite side of the trail from where we were doing the run, and he stood half way up a hill, just below a low cliff looking out over an old farm field across the trail. "Old farm field" in that area means a small clearing with little to tell it was ever farmed save a stone wall made from cleared rocks.

I was running the dogs that day, and had started up at the base of a concrete dam way back in the bush. Still don't know what it's original purpose was. Anyway, the dogs took a chase the wrong way, as often happens, and I ended up sitting on my butt for a bit at the edge of a big beaver meadow. Bang, Bang, Bang. Silence. I knew immediately who had fired and waited even further to see if any deer came my way. I stood up, took a step, and promptly slid on my ass down the side of the hill towards the water. FFS! As I struggled to get back up, a big buck and a doe stood up and ran off. They had been there the entire time in the long grass out in the beaver meadow. Just then, the dogs re-appeared, and the chase was immediately on. Seconds later, more firing, but in the wrong direction.
I really wish I knew how many deer my dogs took out to other camps.

Anyway, eventually, I made my way with the dogs out to the far end of the run, and we loaded up to go around and pick up the new guy with the trucks.
When we arrived at his location, there he was, knife in hand, standing over not one, but two deer. Standing there and shaking, he hadn't touched either one, he was so excited he didn't know what to do.

Old John walks up to him and says "gimme that, before you hurt yerself" and took his knife. Then he said "grab a smoke and watch" both of them were smokers. John gave a very detailed lesson on gutting deer, and the lad was a good student, never had the problem again.

He'd been standing watch, listening to the dogs etc, when two other hunters walked by on the trail, and vanished around the corner. Next he "heard hooves on rocks" or so he said, and the two deer, a decent buck, and a doe, came down the hill from behind him. He shot them at about 15 feet.
 
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Moose calling
Many many moons ago, there were three of us hunting north of Swift Current. The country was a series of low ridges separated by long narrow swamps or valleys that generally had some sort of water in them. The bush was a mix of north country hardwoods, and black spruce.

It was the first year we had hunted from this camp, and the first time that we had not hunted by canoe.

We had a guy in camp who's moose calling ability was simply amazing. In the off season I'd seen him 'talk' to moose. It was a bit intimidating to us young fellows, and we generally let him do the calling.

So, early one morning I set out, I had picked a spot the previous day, where I could see a few hundred yards down a wet beaver mash with dead trees sticking up here and there. I was well situated on a small point near the middle, and could see both ways well.

Here I sat, all morning I watched as mergansers came and went, the odd beaver splashed, and muskrat played in the water. Noon came and went, I ate my sandwich, and finished my coffee. The afternoon was warm, and I felt my head nod a few times. A few more birds passed, but little else of note, and dusk was beginning to fall.

F'n calf tag is all we had that year. Not fond of shooting calves, but it's either that or stay home, so here we are.

Well, about time to think about packing up and climbing back over the ridge. Hm, I wonder what would happen if I tried a grunt like that guy on TV did? Cupping my hands, and holding my nose, I made an effort at a very crappy grunt. CRASH, not 100 yards away, the bush parted and a young bull hit the water, coming up the side of the swail towards me fast.

OOPS! I looked about at the spindly black spruce. No escape there. FFS. F'n calf tags! I then stepped out in the clear, the bull was very close. I held my arms and rifle high and yelled HEY!. He stopped, and looked at me. Then he turned broadside and looked at me again. (FFS, why don't you stick your tongue out too!). Then he slowly walked out across the bog.

As he got further out, I got braver, and tried another grunt. Damned if he didn't stop again, and once again turn broadside to me, before wandering further off. I stopped him several more times before he crashed off into the bush on the other side.

I am told that I am a lot better at calling now, but that experience tells me it doesn't matter much.
 
Always nice to reminisce about past hunts... particularly as we age, some of the friends and partners are no longer with us... many of them were real characters.
 
I really wish I knew how many deer my dogs took out to other camps.

Well if you hunted around Haliburton in the area of Little Green Canoe Lake, LOTS of them. ;)

What a great thread, and thanks to my buddy Crashman for telling me about it. I have a few tales to add, as might be expected.

Doug
 
hoytcanon said:
Always nice to reminisce about past hunts... particularly as we age, some of the friends and partners are no longer with us... many of them were real characters.
Click to expand...


Of my original deer camp, they are all gone now, but me, even my dad's camp, there are but two of us left.
They live in my memory, larger than life to be sure. Far more colorful than I can describe.
 
Doug said:
I really wish I knew how many deer my dogs took out to other camps.

Well if you hunted around Haliburton in the area of Little Green Canoe Lake, LOTS of them. ;)

What a great thread, and thanks to my buddy Crashman for telling me about it. I have a few tales to add, as might be expected.

Doug
Click to expand...


Looking forward to that. Takes a bit sometimes for the shadows to clear, and the cobwebs to be pushed aside on old memories, but I have enjoyed bringing them back. There are many more. I just have to string the bits together and remember how they came down.
 
The crap watch
I called it that because the censor won't let me call it the #### watch.

The #### watch, purportedly was named because someone had taken a dump back there. It was the end watch on an ancient logging road. The road was so old, that only someone who knew it could follow it with any degree of ease.

That day, it was cold, damp, and rainy. Only two of us were determined enough to leave the camp. I think there were only three that knew where the watch was. Anyway, a machinist friend of mine was the other lad hunting with me that day, and he took the watch, while I took the 'mud watch' that was about half way back up the road.

It was a gloomy day, and neither of those watches were well lit that day, as the spruce and poplar were growing up fairly thick. Deer I had shot at the mud watch were all inside 25 yards. His watch was similar. Long about mid morning, I heard his old 270 bark. There was no whistle afterwards? Maybe he forgot it? Well, he has to walk by me on the way out, so I'll find out eventually.

I was listening to some noise down near the end of the beaver pond, just out of sight below me, when I heard a much louder snap to my right. I turned just in time to see a big buck and doe jump the opening. Gone in the blink of an eye, I heard them hit the pond. Damn, I was on the wrong spot today, they'd have run me over if I'd taken the watch next to me.

So, around about 11 or so, out pops my friend, wandering up the trail. Not dragging anything ?? "OK, lets hear it"

He says he was sitting there looking over the only side where you can actually see very far, when he heard a rustling behind him. He turned to find a very large bear looking at him from 15 feet of so. He'd never seen a bear in the wild before, and admitted the bear scared the crap out of him. He told me he took the safety off, and turned, but fired way before the rifle even came around to the bear. He'd squeezed the trigger in his panic, and the bear of course took off.

Well, to be sure, we went back, and he went through the whole story again, with me acting the bear, to find the track. His shot missed by at least ten feet.
We've all had our embarrassing moments.
 
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East Kootenays hunt again [Elkford/Sparwood] After elk. Tough hunting, since it was dry and noisy. Hunted hard for 4 days without
any success.... Talked to a conservation officer, and he had a couple of suggestions, but nothing I had not already tried.

Found an older logged off flat with a fair amount of newer spruce growing in it. Public land, so no issues to hunt it. First day was
basically a familiarizing day, and I went to bed a bit more optimistic.

Woke up early, and looked outside....wow! 4 inches of fresh, dry snow, and still snowing lightly. Grabbed a sandwich and my thermos
and headed out. As I carefully sneaked through the flat, I cut several elk tracks, but by the snow in them, they had been made earlier.

I was still hunting. [walk a dozen steps, then stand still for 5-10 minutes and carefully observe everything around] More tracks, but
so far, no elk standing in them. Played my game till about 10:30 AM, and was ready to pack it in until the evening, but decided to go till
11:00 AM. Good thing, too.

On the second "stop and observe" after my decision to go on, I saw just the slightest movement under one of the Spruce trees. [They had
green branches almost to the ground] Slowly brought my binoculars to my eyes to get a better look. [Don't let anyone ever tell you that
binoculars are not a necessary part of your gear.] What should become visible? A 5x6 Bull Elk, asleep under that spruce, 75 yards away.

Needless to say, I did not look this gift horse (elk) in the mouth, lol. I slowly moved into a better shooting position, and disengaged the
safety on my 308 Norma Mag. A low "pssssttt", his head came up, and a 200 Partition gave him the permanent sleep.

The good part was how close I could get with my pickup.....about 120 yards.
That part of BC filled my freezer with elk on numerous occasions. Many fond memories. Dave.

FWIW, in the many years I have hunted, I have shot 4 animals as they lay in their bed. This elk, a cow moose and 2 mule deer bucks..
 
Back to the Salmon Arm area, and mule deer hunting. A couple of buddies and myself were on the "Yankee Flats" area where we had the cabin mentioned earlier.
We were hunting a sloping area that faced south. It had some monster fir trees growing there, with open areas with plenty of browse.

I was walking the area slowly, keeping an eye out for game, when a spooked mule deer buck went by, running quite hard. He was roughly 100 yards away, and I really
had no time to take a poke at him until he was out of sight. I have no idea what he was running from, but it was to no avail anyway.

Less than 20 seconds after the buck disappeared, I heard Marv's 38-55 bark, once, twice, then silence. I headed over his way, and just got into view of him approaching
the "dead" buck, piled up at the base of a big fir. When my buddy grabbed a leg to move the deer, a hind foot of that deer came up and took a swipe at Marv
partly severing his right ear from his face. He jumped back, grabbed that old Winchester, and made good and sure that deer was dead. [He was bleeding pretty
hard from his ear]

We patched Marv up [He was a pretty tough lad] and carried on with out weekend hunt. Doc said we did a good job of dressing that wound, lol.

There is a lesson here. Always make sure your "downed" animal is dead before you try to dress it. The lesson I learned that day has served me well. Dave.
 
This hunt reinforces why I am not in the habit of taking "low percentage" shots at game. [head or neck shots]
I was hunting moose with a friend in North Central BC. I had a limited entry for an antlerless moose that ran
well into December. My friend was just along to help with dressing, packing, etc.

I had delayed the hunt, due to many commitments, and it was now very cold out [c -40ºC] This usually
lends to plenty of game movement, but is bitterly cold to be hunting.

Driving into a prime area, we spotted 3 moose about ¾ of a mile away, in a patch of thick willow/elder brush.
We drove in to within 600 yards, and decided to stalk a bit closer by foot, so as not to spook these animals.

When we were inside of 200 yards, I decided we could take one from there, but they were all behind considerable
brush, so not wise to take a shot yet. They were moving slowly in a direction that would take them out of that
cover, se we waited for them to move into the open.

15-20 minutes later, the lead cow was right at the edge of the brush, with her head and neck clear. By now we were
a bit cold [understatement] so our patience was getting low. With that cow held up at the edge of the brush, I
decided to take the shot. I had a nice berm of gravel, covered with a small amount of snow, so I could get a good
steady rest. I knew exactly where my 308 Norma Mag was shooting, so I centered the crosshairs on her neck, and
squeezed the trigger.

As I recovered from recoil, I saw her drop like a stone, the other 2 cows milled about, but were in no hurry to leave.
I barely got another round in the chamber, when that cow jumped up from the ground, and started legging it out, up
the hill angling away from us. I swung my rifle and picked a spot on her chest that looked good, and swinging with her,
touched off another shot. Fortunately, it was good, and she made about 3 more steps and expired.

On autopsy later, the first shot had hit true. middle of the neck, but missed both the spine and the jugular. I believe
she may have died later, but after considerable suffering, and possibly a long way away.

A shot through the lungs, and it is all over but the work. This is my choice, and I firmly believe it is the best one. Dave.
 
When I was about 15 or 16, I stayed overnight at my friend's place and we got rousted out of bed really early by his Dad. We headed out to a little pothole and waited for the ducks to come in. Well, come in they did! We started blazing away at them, and they just kept coming. My friend's golden Lab was in the water retrieving ducks and the ducks were landing all around him! What an experience for me! As a kid, I did a bit of jump shooting in little sloughs, but had never set up like this before. When we got back to the car, my friend's Dad was leaning against the front fender, with a young hawk sitting on the fender! It looked like they were chatting and would look at each other.
 
The troop of wild boar were walking single file on the snowy hillside. Intermitent hardwood provide some cover but damn it was a cold morning!
Seen the biggest leading the pack and almost as if it could read my mind it sped up as I tried to get into position for a shot. He's quickly behind cover now and mister number two right on his heels!
Okay. Now I am right beside a substantial tree partially covered from my prey.
Number three will not escape.
I bring up my Ithaca. Yeah looks to be about 75 yards. I feel confident because I practiced out to 100 with these iron sights. Figured it's going to drop some so I give it about six inches extra elevation.
The male boar stopped for whatever reason. Same as rest of this group following him
On the shot the rest scatter to the four winds.
But it is kind of knocked to its side. Rolls over its four feet pinwheel the air as if it thought it could flee the danger. Didn't even get one death squeel out of it. For about fifteen seconds it's kicking the air trying to get a breath. Then it stops.
Couldn't even find the slug because it whistled right through that pig smashing his heart. The exit hole one ragged inch diameter. 150 pounds of the best leanest pork I ever had. When I got back home I marinaded the ribs two days in the fridge a Mediterranean recipe.
BBQ ribs, turnips, mashed potatoes gravy and Two Oceans merlot. A meal fit for a king.
 
John Y Cannuck said:
Of my original deer camp, they are all gone now, but me, even my dad's camp, there are but two of us left.
They live in my memory, larger than life to be sure. Far more colorful than I can describe.
Click to expand...

When I started hunting, it was with a crew where the youngest member, other than my father, was 60 years my senior, and the oldest was 77 years older than myself. Our families all owned adjacent properties, this was back in the days of communal barn raisings. I grew up around these old timers and I sat around many campfires and listened to their tales of lumber camps and prospecting and trapping and hunting camps... to say I respected them was putting it mildly. As a kid I was desperate to be a part of that camaraderie and story telling. I worked and worked, when my friends (their grandkids and great grandkids) were off playing, I was hammer in hand, pounding nails and running errands and carrying lumber, anything to prove myself worthy of the respect of these giants (in my young eyes). The deer hunt was a cooperative affair, with traditional fixed stands and drives that crossed our respective property lines. I was chomping at the bit for years to start hunting with this crew. When the day finally arrived, they placed "the kid" on the swamp corner, where the deer traditionally jumped a rail fence to escape into a swamp. Everyone was on stand well before first light, the morning drive was not scheduled to start until 9 am. Twenty minutes into the drive I heard a deer running my way, I was holding my grandfather's M94 and I fired as the doe jumped the fence. She stumbled when she landed and then recovered and disappeared into a thicket. As the sound of the shot faded, I heard more running deer and two emerged to jump the fence in the same location, I worked the lever fast and fired at both deer, one of which fell straight down and lay unmoving while the other ran off down the same trail the first doe had taken. I was pretty jacked and shaking with excitement, I had just started to walk toward the fallen deer when more breaking brush got my attention and three more deer broke cover... I emptied the rifle at about 30 yards and two deer dropped, one on each side of the fence with the final of the trio doubling back the way it had come. I had to sit down to reload the rifle as I was shaking so bad, and could hardly believe how fast the action had been. I stayed right there until the three of the good ole' boys arrived. They all thought I had lost my nerve and gotten buck fever. When they asked what had happened, I pointed to a small six point buck laying 20 yards away. They all said "Hey!" and slapped my back before I could get the story out. I finally told them that I had shot two more on the other side of the fence, they were incredulous as I walked them over to where a nice eight point and doe lay on the other side of the fence... more whooping and back slapping. I finally told the whole story and said that I had shot at more deer earlier that had run off. A quick search showed a blood trail, 50 yards intro the brush lay the first doe, and 100 yards beyond was another six point. In all the years they had hunted this land nobody had ever shot five deer from a single stand. That day was pure joy, as we dressed and dragged out the deer and hung them on the meat pole at the camp. In all of the years of dreaming about hunting this land with these great old fellas, I had never dared to imagine this scenario. That night I had arrived, I was in, I was one of the good old boys at the ripe old age of 15. They are all long gone now, they all fell off, one by one over the next dozen years or so. I still hunt the same land, more than four decades later. I shot a buck this past fall a short distance from where I shot my first deer at the fence crossing and I don't know how many more in the intervening four decades. I was standing at the crossing on November 17, 2020 when I was notified that my father had died in his sleep at 82 years of age, and I remembered that day 43 years earlier, when he strode out of the bush, one of the three old fellas that had slapped my back as we stood over those downed deer and I could again feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder.
 
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My dad's last deer.

At this point in his life, my father could no longer climb the big hill to where the watches for the camp's most productive run were. He was 73, and carried a nitro spray that he used with increasing regularity, even on the fairly level walk to the base of the hill.

That summer, I had scoped out a spot for him, so he could hunt that run, without the climb.

This run was a typical two hour watch, there were no tree stands, all our hunts back then were crown land. Mostly we just stood and waited for the dogs to come through. This run was open hardwoods, Oak beech and maple. Most spots you could see 50 - 60 yards. Limited by terrain, not just the trees, the ground was rocky, and lumpy. The guys stood with their backs to a 50' sheer drop, but most of them didn't even know it was there, as it was about 100 to 200 yards behind them, and they were mostly city men, who depended on others to get them in and out of the woods.

It was about a half mile from where the boys parked the trucks to the base of the hill. Here I had my dad break off and walk down to the edge of the beaver pond that ran the length of the cliff behind the others. It was really tight in there. you couldn't see well, or far. He said you'd be almost as well armed with a knife, as the deer would have to pass close.

So, I was the dog that day, and the dogs and I went on past the others, driving the length of an old farm field, through a stone fence, to park. Here, I had to walk down through a patch of tag alder to a beaver dam. There was no trail, you just had to know where the dam was, or get wet finding it.

By this time, the dogs knew what they were about, and no coaxing was required to get them across the dam. I scrambled up the far bank into a nice hardwoods bush. This side was mostly Oak and beech also, but far more level than where the boys were situated. The idea was to push the deer over a low ridge. There were known crossing points on that ridge, and the boys were just the other side, so their scent would not interfere. That was true of all the men except the last. He was over the top, cutting off escape between a small lake, and the end of the ridge.

I loved that run, a gradual up slope walk through the woods, on my side of the ridge I could easy see 80 yards or so, the canopy keeping the undergrowth at bay. I zig zagged my way, making sure the dogs had the time, and the direction to search the entire area for fresh track, hitting both the oaks close to the ridge, and the cedars down near the water's of the swamp on the other side. Generally, one dog was my cold tracker, the other had a 'hot' nose. The cold tracker would busy herself constantly following any scent regardless of how faint, the hot nose or 'sight hound' would sniff and leave anything that was not dead hot. She would go over and check the cold tracker now and then, if the cold tracker sounded a bit excited.

Both dogs had their advantages, the cold tracker covered way more ground, digging in the deepest of thickets and rousting stuff out. The 'hot' hound was far more alert to movement ahead. We had a couple of 'starts' that morning. The dogs took off, but quickly returned, having lost the track. Many chases went towards the swamp at the edge of the pond, where it was easy to lose the deer in the water. It was all part of the game.

Bang! Bang Bang a distant series of shots told me the boys were in action, but not who, as the ridge muffled the shots, and even getting a direction on the shooting was iffy.

The dogs had not been 'on' that deer, and this was often the case, the deer was moving to avoid us, when it stepped over the ridge. Shortly the dogs took off in earnest, The cold tracker with her deep baritone howl, and the sight hound with her 'yipe' . Both were beagle mixes the cold tracker was a beagle - blue tick, the sight hound was her pup, the father was some sort of terrier mix that got to the mother dog in my back yard one night.

The chase was short, it ended at the gut pile. The dogs being occupied with that, I told the guys to give me a 20 minute start and then make their way out. I was going to walk down the narrow strip behind the guys and try to get down the ridge to dad in the back watch.

I had chosen an old Remington model ten for this run, with this little jaunt in mind. It was far from the best for the main run, but perfect for the thick cover I was in now. The cliff edge was just slash, tangled crap that had me wishing I'd never volunteered for this. Maybe ten minutes in, the dogs joined me, sailing by like there was no thick stuff at all. Seconds later, the yipe of the sight hound said the chase was on. She was fast for a small dog, and the boys knew if they heard that yipe to be ready. BANG, from far ahead and below. Could only be one guy, had to be dad's #4 303.

I hurried forward, and now looked at the cliff. scanning along it, there was a spot I could slide down to a lower spot where I thought I could get down. The side was a moss covered steep slope about ten feet or so. With a solid shelf at the bottom. As I slid carefully down it, I was bumped to the side and the shotgun touched down on the rock. I felt a hard tug on the shotgun. I hung on, and safely landed without issue, to me. The shotgun however, now sported a pinch at the muzzle. It looked like someone had hit it with a hammer right at the tip of the muzzle. I swore rather loudly.

My dad was very proud that day, shortest drag we'd ever done off that run. A big doe.

I still have that shotgun. I took a tube cutter to the old bastard, and shortened it, then got a set of sights mounted on it. Strangely, it shoots buckshot better now than it ever did, the pattern is tight to 40 yards, with no strays at all. The full choke it wore before always had strays. It never was good with slugs, and that did not change.

Father died in hospital a short few years later, after suffering a heart attack and a series of what they called mini strokes. He was 79 when he passed.
 
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^^^ after the fact, we found there were several easier ways down that ridge, and the run became a regular addition to our main chase.

I always bring a spare firearm, back then I had that old shotgun, and a '94 Winchester. Stuff happens when you are the dogger. The 94 has been re-stocked twice.
 
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