Memories of long past hunts

[Eagleye]

This one does not involve a dead deer, but illustrates how sensitive the hearing of a deer is.
I had hiked in to a favorite logged off area that had yielded Mule deer in the past.

I found a big fir stump at the edge of a ridge with a shallow gully about 200 meters wide below me.
I sat down with the stump at my back so I could lean back on it. My position allowed quite a wide
viewing area, and the breeze was favorable as well.

After about ½ an hour, I was getting restless, and was just about ready to move when a mule deer
doe [not open at the time] came into view about 100 meters up the gully. She walked slowly through
the gully, and up the far side. I not sat tight, thinking a buck might possibly show.

No buck came, but the doe decided to have a nap, so she lay down almost at the crest of the far side
of the gully, about 140-150 meters away. She laid her head on her front legs and it appeared she went
to sleep.

I thought to myself: "I wonder how sound she is actually sleeping, and how well she might hear a foreign
sound?" I dug 3 - 25 cent coins [quarters] out of a pocket, and holding the one coin between the two others
in my fingers, I pulled the one quarter out from between the others, creating a metallic "click" [not loud at all
I thought.]

Immediately her head came up, and she looked directly at where I was sitting. I stayed absolutely still and
waited. After about 5 minutes, she laid her head back down. I waited another 5 minutes or so, and then
repeated the "click"

That was it! She got up and moved off fairly quickly, looking over her shoulder nervously. I am convinced
that had another human been at her location, they would not have heard that noise, but that doe sure
did, and she knew exactly the location it came from as well.

From personal experience, moose are just as sensitive. However, elk are noisy by nature when moving about,
and I believe they may not pay quite as much attention to a person in the woods. Dave.

 

[hunter7mmRM]

Guys, thank you for sharing stories. As a father of three young boys it’s a reminder to me to do what matters in life; spending time with them, carrying on the excitement of pursuing game in the great outdoors

 

[John Y Cannuck]

Guys, thank you for sharing stories. As a father of three young boys it’s a reminder to me to do what matters in life; spending time with them, carrying on the excitement of pursuing game in the great outdoors

On behalf of all the contributors to this thread, thank you. If this thread does that for folks, it's well worth stirring the old memories.

 

[John Y Cannuck]

Eagleye's memory of his hearing test, brought this one back.

Hunting on a tall ridge, open hardwoods except the very top, where thin soils meant only stunted oaks lived.

I was on a ledge just below the top, looking down a hillside towards the lake. It was very unusual in the country I was hunting to be able to see beyond 50 yards, but here, the trees were large, and well spaced, and I could see an easy 300 yards, almost to the shore.

I knew however, that the terrain itself meant that deer could easy go by me unseen. Many humps and hollows filled that hillside.

We had come over by boat that day, dropping the dogger and his dogs down the ridge, then going back for the rest of the troops, and ferrying us far down the long skinny lake. The old boat, with it's ancient 40hp gehl attached were tied off to a small tree on the steep bank. Today, nobody got soaked coming out of it.

The boys climbed the steep bank, each taking a spot in a line that cut off the hillside. I went all the way to the top, then forward towards the approach of the dogs, to cut off another escape route.

It had been a wonderful morning, warm, sunny, and a light breeze. I had removed my coat, and stood with just the required vest and a T shirt on. (yes, I had pants too)

After the waiting period had expired, (we had agreed the dogger would wait to give us time to get in position, and for things to settle down) I immediately heard the dogs start.

Beagles typically run about 20 minutes, a chase would put them across our line in less than five. (assuming the chase came our way, as it often did not) You really have to be alert and have your witts about you.

I watched, paying closer attention to the direction of the chase, but fully aware that things sometimes don't go as expected.

A sudden noise made me look down and back. Here comes a nice six point, up the hill running angle wise away from our line, rather towards the advancing dogs. I watched him come. at about 120 yards I yelled at him, loud as I could. WOE! he ran on oblivious. I tried again, and again. Only on the fourth yell, did he finally stop, at about 70 yards, where he died with a 170 grain cast bullet out of the old 30-30 through his lungs. He was DRT.

Thinking over what had happened I came to realize that he was making so much noise himself running in dry leaves, the wind in his ears from that run, along with the distraction of the distant dogs, that he didn't hear me at first. Surprising given their incredible hearing, but since that time, the experience has explained other behaviors.

 

[Doug]

OK time to stop reading and start typing...so many possible stories and I am a two finger typist....

A couple lads in Edmonton invited another Ontario lad and myself to go out for a deer hunt, around '93 or '94. We jumped at the opportunity, met the guys in Edmonton, and drove to Whitecourt, a couple hours or so to the northwest, where they had a friend who owned a ranch. The friend had also asked some neighbours for permission for us to hunt a bunch of adjoining property. We got up there after dark, but did a recce anyway. At some places we were careening across snow-covered fields in a Ford Bronco or similar type vehicle (two bench seats and a back cargo area, all enclosed, like today's SUV but boxier). We bounced a bunch of deer, and picked out our spots for the morning hunt. And we dropped in on the friend and confirmed that all was good to go.

The next morning, fortified with some coffee, we drove back to our spots and set up. The two Alberta fellows had never cleaned a large game animal, so I told them if they shot a deer, leave it be until I could give them a hand and talk them through it. As light came up, I saw that my spot was pretty hopeless - the wind was wrong, and any deer would see me long before I could shoot. AND there were two more hunters in the field across the road from me, who did not return my wave. Anyways, after the agreed time had elapsed, the other Ontario guy came and picked me up with a borrowed vehicle, and we went back to meet the other two. Both of them had shot a deer.

So the one guy shot his deer pretty close to the friend's house. After the shot, the friend's wife came out of the house, madder than a hornet, screaming at him for killing her pet deer. This went on for a while, and finally she went back into the house. I did not see any of that part, but when I got there, it looked like a bomb had gone off inside the deer. There were bits of deer guts, blood, and gore in about a ten yard circle, nothing over five or six inches long. The guy had about a foot long Bowie knife, was blood up to his elbows, and had been hacking bits out of the deer and throwing them willy-nilly onto the snow. And he wasn't done yet! Meanwhile, out came the friend's dog, who proceeded to eat various bits and pieces of the guts.

The other lad had left his deer for me. He was armed with a big boomer, maybe a 7 mm Rem Mag, I no longer recall, but he had emptied the rifle at the deer and probably hit it with every round. It was a mess. That was the only time in my life that I cut my KNIFE hand cleaning a deer. There were splintered bones everywhere inside that carcass.

Both deer went into the back of the Bronco, and I suggested we should go to town for a bite, which we did. After brunch, we went back to the friend's house, which I thought was not a good idea, but I was a guest here, so went where I was taken. The wife went upstairs and slammed a door when we arrived, and we had a tense coffee with the friend. At this point his dog had been outside, and he let him in. I told him I did not think that was a good idea, because the dog had been eating a lot of deer guts. No worries, says the guy, and off went the dog upstairs to see the missus. Very shortly thereafter, the dog puked up half of her pet deer all over her bedroom. "GET THAT F***ING DOG OUT OF THIS HOUSE" screams the lady. Out went the dog and I hauled my buddies out of there at the same time.

That wasn't the end of the adventure, but I need to give my fingers a break before they are worn down to nubbins.

Doug

 

[Doug]

So taking up from the last bit, up around Whitecourt, AB, two Ontario guys and two Albertans. The Albertans were pretty green hunters, as I mentioned, but they did LIVE there and had some experiences with the land. We were going to another spot, across country again, and there is a deer standing in the field, completely unconcerned. I told the driver to stop, and I got out of the vehicle, got my rifle out of the case, and loaded it. I was shooting A BLR in .308 Winchester, with 180 grain Nosler Partitions, and I was sighted in for zero at a hundred yards. Now this deer looked to me to be about a hundred yards away on a bare flat field covered with snow, no reference points for me to judge distance but hell, I can judge distance, right! The one Alberta fellow says to me that this is quite a long shot I am taking. HA! What does he know! So I took a rest across the hood of the vehicle, and fired. The deer flinched. "I got him" says I. "I saw the bullet hit under him" says my host. "Impossible" says I. So I took a second shot, and I saw the bullet hit the snow under the deer, who decided at that point to get the hell out of Dodge. Turns out it was about 400 yards, and probably a bigger deer than I am used to seeing.

So we have two deer in the back of the Bronco, and the windows are fogging up and the inside is all condensation from the warm carcasses. Hmmm. We hunted until dark, then went back to the hotel where we were staying. And the hotel had a BAR downstairs, yeehaw! After a fair bit of celebrating, I suggested that we really should clean the insides of those deer, both of which had guts and such inside them, plus blood etc. So first of all, we thought we could take them up the back stairs and give them a rinse in the bath tub. But rigor mortis had set in, and the deer were not all that easy to man-handle, and somebody pointed out that we could be seen from the bar going up the stairs. So this might be a Very Bad Idea. Give that guy credit. So we started bringing buckets of water down in the little garbage can from the room, and sopping out the carcasses with a washcloth from the room. All of this in the parking lot of course. And along comes a couple RCMP officers, who were understandably curious about what four less than sober fellows were doing in a dark parking lot. After some scrutiny and a good chat, they were satisfied that we were not DRIVING, and let us be.

We drove back to Edmonton the next day. As you can imagine, the frozen deer that had been stuffed into the back of the Bronco did not exactly hang straight on the gambrels...... But we had a nice garage to hang them, and a day later they were sufficiently thawed that we could butcher them.

And when my share of the meat arrived back in Ontario (by air), buddy had packed it into a cardboard box with NO paper, or anything else. It was a thawed, bloody mess, and I lost about half the meat. I was invited to go back out there the next deer season, but declined.

Doug

 

[New Camper]

I looked forward to that day arriving and it did not fail to impress a multitude of memories in my mind. It's a long trip which we did pretty much non stop so the fun mostly started on the ferry, particularly as I woke to the change in engine tone nearing Port aux Basques: gazing out the portal I was greeted by the rising sun in a sky clouding over. Roused my friend to enjoy the greeting and shortly thereafter the announcement to prepare for disembarking was heard on the tannoy so we met up with the other guys at the truck. The next greeting on the Rock before the sky clouded in rain was a rainbow with the southern Long Range mountains as a backdrop. At a couple thousand feet ASL, oddly the tops were white from the snow falling: I was to spend time walking up and down the range though we were fortunate to be spared a lasting snow fall, being blessed with fine weather.

Day one of the hunt was a long boat ride and walk up a river bed and while we saw no moose I was already in love with the place.

Day two was unpleasant weather wise but I did see a fine bull with no appropriate chance for a shot. Walking that day, I was up a long valley with the guide carrying too much stuff but I persevered. One point I stepped onto a river bed and the position placed a waterfall half mile away perfectly framed between two fir trees yet still visible in the moving clouds and fog. I almost wept at the beauty.

Day three a few things changed (my pack wasn't so full): it started with low overcast but early I was following two other guys behind the guide when we jumped a young bull at a bend in the trail. They were abreast the moose about 15y and I quartered at a few more: I can replay the moments like it was yesterday... unsling rifle, flip up lens covers, cycle bolt and aim... quite fluid, so standing I'm noticing the young fellow struggle to get his rifle loaded afflicted by the fever. Watching them figure it and finally... mashing the trigger with the safety on, them looking over at me wondering, me looking back nodding as to say "c'mon, I'm not going to shoot unless you miss or it starts to flee". He got it... paced off to about 10y. No sooner are we done and ready to carry on hear three shots: turns out my friend just bagged the biggest moose he'd ever got (and of our trip) only a mile away. Guide carries on with me in tow but at the altitude we couldn't see anything but passing terrain in a sea of white so turn back and return to hunt elsewhere 2/4.

Day four: outfitter is up on the highest peak spotting while I'm with the guide tromping through new growth following a bull track. Lost trail but upon returning learn two moose were spotted half a mile west. In that vicinity, overlooking a couple ponds in a huge bog two guides and two hunters sit on a knoll calling, glassing. Guides begin chatting about next course of action when I noticed a new and large black stump that wasn't there before across the large pond and nod to the guide. I had indicated I wanted to shoot a bull but if a few days in I'd rather go home with a bunch of meat rather than just the lost hope of meat and rack. This was a small bull so off we go, I'm excited but oddly while I get buck fever a bit still never got moose fever. Hurrying to intercept where moose might go, guide stops and turns to right, I stop and Mr. Moose is standing ~125y to the right... it's phenomenal how tall and fast they move: he closed four times the distance we did. Steady on the standing bipod and a frontal shot I squeeze the trigger on my 70 and the 30-06 reports: I knew it was a good shot but the guide only saw the leg move and says "shoot im agin"... I calmly wait, moose turns away I'm still lined up and a few yards the drunk walk begins and over he falls 3/4. I can only imagine what the guides and outfitters talk about at Christmas dinners... "yeah we had this one robot guy shoots once, ingrown toenail, tall as the moose, must crawl through brush but still has an insatiable appetite to keep walking." They get all sorts of guys... full on yahoos that can't shoot well, to the "unsporting sniper" (as they described the guy who just wanted to shoot them long distance with his 338LM) He didn't know if I was the first character type or not or had just bolloxed a shot: they don't want to chase wounded animals any more than I want to avoid making swiss cheese of meat.

The next day in the morning we saw more moose and the last tag got filled on the bog I sat on day one: The last one was the sort of presentation an outfitter uses for their info videos. Aggressive moose enters the scene to calls, hunter shoots it ~180y: it was the second largest of our four moose, the small two were a couple years old spikes. I went on a "just because" walk up the mountains with one of the guides after that and secured some fine photographs and enjoyed talking with him while resting and glassing at the top. Saw lots of moose that day all over the mountains and valley. Probably walked six/seven miles that day from pushing brush to that bog then up the mountains back to camp but even without my rifle, I enjoyed that (and the light travel, despite that ingrown toenail I drained every night) immensely. Met new people that I wish to see again. Saw a part of the world that tempts me to sell all then disappear into. I loved it there.

Not to make things political but I did talk politics with the fellows I met and it's grieving to see the division across the country. They think like I do and aren't Lieberal butt holes just because they live in the east. I'm not a Lieberal butt hole for living in Onterrible and guys out west aren't NDP butt holes because BC tends to elect that. We are guys stuck in areas of a country being poisoned by the choices of population masses that have no concept of life outside their idealistic world of teddy bears, climate controlled structures and everyone elses money. I learned a lot about Nfld politics just by asking.

 

[rar]

this one was when I was on a mule deer hunt . I got to my spot early in the morning and decided to hike up this old skid trail up the mnt. there is this big rock up there the size of a small car. the sun was out so I decided to sit against this rock and start glassing . I was there for maybe less than an hour. then to my right walks out this bear cub. comes right out in front of me starts a little bawling noise.so then I grab a couple of small rocks and chuck them at it . It startled looks at me and stops this bawling noise. then I here this woff noise on the other side of the rock. oh boy, I raised my rifle as I knew mama bear was there and she ain't happy. the cub took off .thank goodness. I stayed up by that rock for another hour before making my way down. the ridge.

 

[MD]

October 1970.

I was with my dad on northern Vancouver Island. We drove up a logging road about 9 miles and he parked his old pickup at a lake he liked to hunt at and we used his hidden rowboat to cross the lake and hunt the alpine-like meadows on the other side.

We split up and in mid-morning I shot a 4x5 blacktail with my iron-sighted Ross. He came and found me and we dragged it to the boat, crossed the lake, unloaded it, hid the boat and dragged the deer up to the road. The deer was laying there beside the truck and some guys came along and got out and were standing around my dad and he related this long story about seeing a deer and stalking up on it and then when he was just about to shoot, it stepped out of sight and got away.

"Oh," they said. I still remember one guy's name, it was Waye Fox. "Who shot this deer then?"

My dad pointed to me, a long-haired hippie-looking kid with hair way past my shoulders, a substantial beard, sitting on a log 20 feet away, rolling a cigarette. "My son there, he did."

I could see the jaws visibly drop.

 

[Brutus]

The farmer wanted them all gone. A rural farm/ranch north of Regina and just south west of Southey.
Mitchell and I both had our game bird licences but this was to be a full on rabbit hunt of snowshoehares. Twenty two rifles only. Overlooks a gentle slope right down to the river just north of us. Intermittent stands of hardwood. Surprisingly few for trees. Wow, was an easy hunt because the nieghbouring farm was disused and the farmers barn was literally infested with snowshoehares eating everything for his livestock.
Effing hell! Mitchell and myself kept shooting and shooting, and he refused to stop and gut only because that farmer was going to visit family in Manitoba tomorrow and didn't want us in the property when he was gone, we barely knew him. He got in contact with us through a cousin of his in Baildon.
Every time we stopped to shoot more we had to put down our bundle of dead hares in our hands. My small canvas bag was full of bunnies. I had 23 and I think my buddy shot 25. Surely some got away too.
Eventually we were done in the early evening. We trudged uphill like soldiers burdened to my 94 Saturn.
It was just after sunset we arrived him and his wife's apartment block.
We slaved for three hours cleaning bunnies his apartment. His wife was unimpressed and took some younger relatives to a dinner and movie.
My hands and elbows were literally sore for three days.
That effing smell of gutted rabbits!
I left there before his wife returned.
Mitchell was in the dog house for a bit.

 

[John Y Cannuck]

Geeze, and I thought our guys had some screwed up hunts. Some doozies in this thread.

Most of our screw ups have been guys in the wrong place etc. Without exception that resulted in a missed opportunity. (or so the guy out of place was told)

We had a young lad with us one year, he was there to bring his grandad to camp, and stayed for the hunt. He had never hunted anything, or shot anything in his life, but, for his grandad, he got his license.

Day one, we put him on a beaver dam. I was on the next watch, and it was really close, just over the rise watching the next gully. Maybe 60 yards. All was silent, a dead calm morning. Then I heard some movement between us, soft rustling. Then the crunch of breaking ice, and a big splash. No shots fired from the little Mosberg 30-30 he carried.

Time passes, and we go for lunch. I see the young lad come down the trail. He's soaked from the waist down. He fell in the pond!!

Later in the week, one of the guys finds him sound asleep on his watch. I can visualize the big grin on his face, as he came up behind the lad and fired his 270. But the lad did not stir.
Then, as he walked forward, the lad wakes up. Never heard a thing! (should have taken his rifle)

Finally, we found a fawn that someone had shot. They'd gutted it out, and left it in the bush. It was obvious that it had been recently shot too. We figured they had decided not to use their doe tag on it. So, we took the fawn, and with the young lads agreement, told the lads grandpa that he'd shot it (called it a button buck). We had lots of tags that year, and the old man was quite happy he had "spawned a new hunter". It was the last year the old man hunted, and he did manage to shoot a spike horn himself that year. He was 93 or 94 years old that year. I spoke at his funeral. I'll never make it that far.

The young lad never hunted again to my knowledge, he enlisted and is I think an electronics tech.

 

[John Y Cannuck]

Ski hunt rabbits
I was out by myself, I was quite young, had just acquired my first small game license and was using a Cooey model 60. It had a cracked stock, and a nail through the stock in just the right place to make the tube mag operate properly, as it was broken under the receiver.

I set out across a friends place on down hill skis with cross country boots. One ski pole, and the rifle. I was working fence lines. I remember it being a very bright sunny day, with a foot or so of snow on the ground. There was a gradual hill that allowed me to coast along the fence line without much effort. The wind was bitter, and it was drifting. Hard to see the drifts with the glare.

Out pops a Jack! I hurried to try and get him. Fired off a quick shot while coasting, and he switched to running dead ahead of me. I dropped the pole and reloaded with the usual heavy bolt working of that rifle, and tried once more, aiming just over his ears. He rolled! My first Jack rabbit!

 

[John Y Cannuck]

One of the things I loved most about camp was listening to the BS that the guys would come out with, and the pranks that I pulled, and the ones pulled on me.

We had a guy that claimed he was better at dogging than the rest of us. Now results is what shows that, and his were no better than anyone else. He claimed that there was no corner of any of our runs he didn't visit. That brought a few laughs, as we were certain he'd never set foot in the thick swampy regions. He claimed all the deer were to be found in the high country under the oaks. That's true enough, when the hunting pressure is low, but when every camp in the area is running dogs, and pushing the same ground, the deer find holes to hide in.

So, thinking about this at home one winter, I elected to get him down in the thick stuff. It was early days for the internet back then, but i did manage to find a picture of an old outhouse, with the door hanging off it that looked like it could be in the thick stuff.

I got that printed off on photographic paper, and took it to camp. "Remember last year I told you about the outhouse down in the swamp?" I said. "There ain't no outhouse in there" says he. So I out with the picture. He stared at it in disbelief. He fell for it.

Later one of the guys claimed to have taken a dump in it. He could not find it.

Made him a better dogger, even if he was looking for a crapper instead of deer.

Whatever you do in your hunting, be sure you have fun.

 

[John Y Cannuck]

This post will be a bit of camp life. Not all one year, just a conglomeration.

I awoke one night to voices in the other room. The old boys in camp were up. WTF? it's about 1:30am... They are all veterans, and are talking war stories. Not of actual battle, but other memories. They had the coffee going and gradually, the whole camp was up.
Do you remember ______ damned she was hot. Followed by some rather explicit descriptions of the goings on in Italian pleasure palaces. etc.

Two of them were stationed in Italy across the road from each other for a time, so they knew each other way back then.
Then they talked about the food. "I never want to see another hunk of mutton as long as I live" and of course hunting in the Italian hills for game, dealing with the locals for chickens, or any sort of meat other than the meat the "limeys" served up.
Apparently the Americans ate like kings, and they were quite happy when the occasion arose for one to visit one of the American camps.

A discussion of war stories would not be complete without my uncle bringing up his brother, the uncle I never met. He was killed in northern Italy.

My father talking about flying "paper planes at 50 below" (Anson Dive bomber) looking for Japanese balloon bombs in the Yukon.

-------------------------------------------------

The camp initiation was to walk down the incredibly steep hill from camp, get two cream cans full of water from the lake and haul them back up without stopping. Some bastard would always be there when you got to the top to engage you in polite conversation while you were gasping for breath and trying your best not to show it. Those damned heavy when empty steel cream cans were so long, anyone shorter than 6'3 would have difficulty keeping them from dragging, and they held 5 gallons, not the 20 liters of today's pipsqueak cans.
I distinctly remember falling on my face half way up, only to have to go all the way back down for more. Those days you could drink that lake water, and we did. Not today. That once bush lake, is now surrounded by cottages.

_________________________________----------

The cabin itself was built at the top of the rise, overlooking the lake. The view was wonderful, looking across the water at the stone ridge on the other side. It was a traditional summer cottage. No insulation, in fact no wall boards, just bare studs, and no ceiling either. Siding and roofing over the bare cabin frame. There were two bedrooms inside, sleeping for eight, when one guy slept on the couch in the main room.
My spot was top bunk, in an old military style folding bunk bed that was held up by the walls of the room, otherwise the latches would have folded, and it would have collapsed on the guy below.
Mice? holy hell yes, tons of them. Two guys were playing Crib one night with a big salad bowl of peanuts between them along with a few beers. In the morning, the nuts were all gone. Did you guys really eat all those nuts? it was a huge bag. They denied it.
Come time to leave, we found the boots (up on a board in the rafters of the place) of one guy, were filled to the brim with nuts! I guess we have a packrat!
Then there was the night we awoke to a yell from out front when the guy on the couch felt a mouse on his face.

The place was heated by an old wood cook stove. Old meaning ancient here, the top was cracked, the lids had shrunk, and the flames licked out through the top freely. It didn't draw worth a dam when cold, so every morning it filled the cabin with smoke. Backup to that was a small oil stove, that one of our guys had donated to the rented cabin. Feeble warmth it provided, but warmth anyway. It had a small tank on the back we had to fill with stove oil regularly, as the carburetor was always set to high. It had a long list of problems, and a history of having it's various parts strewn across the camp table to be 'fixed' One such fix, was to rub soap into the hole in the bottom of the fuel tank so it didn't drip.

There was a propane cook stove as well, and two 100lb tanks outside that were always empty when we came to camp. Thankfully, it was cheap in that era to fill, even if we did have to drive 30 miles to get it done. Regulators that froze, stuck etc. bore the marks of being hammered on, and taken apart.

I loved that old camp, don't get me wrong, but it sure had it's issues. You could see through the walls in a few places, and snow drifted in the corners inside. It had an old Sedore fridge inside. Yes, the type that later killed an entire camp with it's fumes. No problem for us there, as the inside of that camp was little different than outside as to fresh air.

Being as the fridge was small, the beer had a "cold room" we pulled an old cupboard out from the wall, wedged a hunk of plywood across between in and the wall in one corner of the cabin, and hung an old blanket in front. Inside that the beer was nicely chilled.

Originally, the place had been lit with coal oil lamps, but as time went on, they were replaced with pump up white gas lamps, and then finally, the camp bought a set of propane gas lamps. BTW inside a cabin, those white gas lamps suck the air dry so you go hoarse playing cards.

 

[John Y Cannuck]

Things were different, and ideas of what folks considered hunting were on display regularly.
I remember driving Hwy 503 near Gooderham, and seeing a guy with a lawn chair and a cooler sitting on a rocky ridge above the road. He was dressed in red plaid, most of us were back then, and he sat in that chair, facing the road, every day of the hunt that we drove down that way.
Yes, facing the road. He was watching for deer crossing the highway. Not today of course, this was late 1960's. His chair would have been maybe fifteen feet back from the rock cut the highway passed through. I wonder what kind of stories he tells today about his glorious hunting adventures?

Pretty easy to judge other folks though. He may not have been able to hunt any other way. I remember one guy that hunted out of a van. His leg was in a cast from the hip down. Someone must have driven it there for him, I can't see how he could have driven. He parked the van on an old logging road just off the main road, and sat on the edge of the double doors of that old VW Vanagon with his rifle. He left before the end of the season, so we figured he was successful too. IRC he had a 284 Winchester in an 88.

 

[Eenie]

Things were different, and ideas of what folks considered hunting were on display regularly.
I remember driving Hwy 503 near Gooderham, and seeing a guy with a lawn chair and a cooler sitting on a rocky ridge above the road. He was dressed in red plaid, most of us were back then, and he sat in that chair, facing the road, every day of the hunt that we drove down that way.
Yes, facing the road. He was watching for deer crossing the highway. Not today of course, this was late 1960's. His chair would have been maybe fifteen feet back from the rock cut the highway passed through. I wonder what kind of stories he tells today about his glorious hunting adventures?

Pretty easy to judge other folks though. He may not have been able to hunt any other way. I remember one guy that hunted out of a van. His leg was in a cast from the hip down. Someone must have driven it there for him, I can't see how he could have driven. He parked the van on an old logging road just off the main road, and sat on the edge of the double doors of that old VW Vanagon with his rifle. He left before the end of the season, so we figured he was successful too. IRC he had a 284 Winchester in an 88.

Different rules up there in "Better Pork"!

 

[John Y Cannuck]

This one is a little more recent, maybe ten years back.
There were three of us hunting second week that year. As in a lot of the local camps, only the serious people hunt the second week. The rest are afraid of snow and cold.
It had been a very hard year, and not one deer had been seen first week. It had snowed early in the second week, and that only showed us that there were very few tracks about.
We had no dogs that year, and with just three hunters, we decided to spread out and see what we could find.

My wife took one of the guys with her down to the other side of the lake, and dropped him off before picking a spot for herself. She had dropped me off on the way, at a spot we had not hunted at all first week, and I just wanted to check it out.

I walked a high ridge far above the lake in to a beaver dam. I sat there, probably 50 feet up from the water, watching a trail along the far side of the dam.

Along about 11am along comes a nice doe, all alone wandering down the far side.

It was damned cold that morning. I shouldered the 88 and click.
WTF? The doe was unperturbed, so having given it a few seconds I cranked in a new round and let fly this time with a resounding crack from the 308. A branch drifted down from above. The doe walked off rapidly tail down. Well ####.

Now I have to go down there and check. This is the spot where a few years before I'd ended up doing a face plant in the pond with my rifle, and now the cliff side was ice and snow.
But, somehow I did get down there and across the dam.

Walking to where she'd been, sure enough there was blood, and I started to track. I don't think I'd gone ten yards before I saw her lift her head and I put a bullet in it.

She'd been gut shot. If memory serves me correctly this was the messiest gutting job I've ever done.

I got on the radio to tell the others I needed help. and of course, dead air. They were out of range.

So began a hell of a drag. I had to pull her up the side of the pond. Here the beaver had made nice spears to fall on, and the ground was slippery with snow and wet leaves. Tree tops had to be negotiated as well, and I was happy I had carried 15' of rope so I could throw it under at least some of the crap and pull her through.

About 1:30 or so I think, I was nearing the only spot where I thought I might be able to get the deer up the ridge alone. Then I heard voices. And the recall whistle code. I answered with the deer down code. Then I heard my wife Can't remember just exactly what the expletive was, she rarely swears, but it had something to do with me being at the bottom of the cliff with a deer while they were at the top.

She took the rifles, and the two of us dragged the deer to the base of the cliff. Here, we cheated. I used the Cherokee to pull the doe straight up the cliff side instead of my planned long and miserable drag the other way.

The 88 spent the night with the action open not too awful far from the wood stove that night.

Next day I went back to the same spot. Found my cartridge. It had a light strike on the primer. The rifle had been wet during a dogging session first week, and had froze up on me.

Taking down an Winchester 88 in camp is something I could have done, but didn't. It was fine for the rest of the hunt, and the slave pins got a work out when I got home.

 

[Eagleye]

Was on a late Bison Hunt in Northern BC It was bitterly cold, and the Bison were spooky, having been
chased around a fair bit. Got a glimpse of some a couple of time, but no chance for a shot.

Back at camp, we had to re-group. We decided to stay through Christmas and boxing day, rather
than heading for home. Well, it was a good decision, since practically all the Bison hunters left to be
home for the holiday.

Christmas day, we spotted a group of 12 animals down on the river flats. The river itself was frozen
solid, and was about 4-5 feet below the land level, so I posted my son where he could see me and
the bison, and proceeded to try to put a sneak on those Bison.

I got to where, once I climbed to the land level out of the river trough, I would hopefully be close
to those animals and could shoot one. Just as I got up high enough to get into position for a shot,
the wind betrayed me, swinging around to my rear and toward those Bison.

Within 2½ seconds, those Bison were on the run [You would not believe how fast they run] They ran
across the flat, down and across the river, and headed up a steep incline about 150 yards high.

They are now about 450 yards away, but I noted that just before each animal crested the top of the
ridge, it would pause for just a few seconds, then walk over out of sight. Got into a good steady
shooting position, and when a decent animal paused, I sent a 338, 210 Partition on the way. [338 Win Mag]

It was gratifying to see that Bison collapse, and then slide all the way down to the river, making recovery
a snap. We dressed the beast [a fair chore, I might add] and got him to camp.

At camp, there was a father and son pair, who had rifle troubles. They had seen a Bison in shooting range, but
when the trigger was pulled, no click, no bang, no Bison. Turns out they were from the sunshine coast of BC,
high humidity area, and the firing pin in that bolt was frozen. I pulled it apart for him, and we dried everything
out thoroughly.

Next day, they asked if I would come along for the day. I wanted them to score, particularly seeing how excited
his 15 YO son was about this hunt. Went quite well actually. He did not really trust his rifle, so when we saw a
group of 20 or so Bison, I handed him the 338 and said use this, it will do the job. 240 yard shot, 210 Partition
did it's job. I thought that young man was going to pee his pants, he was so thrilled. Made my day just seeing
the reaction.

So two hunting parties went home with Bison [frozen solid, of course] Great hunt, great eats later as well. Dave.

 

[Doug]

So two hunting parties went home with Bison [frozen solid, of course] Great hunt, great eats later as well

How on earth did you transport a frozen bison? I was supposed to do a Yukon bison hunt a couple years ago but covid squashed that idea....

Doug

 

[Eagleye]

So two hunting parties went home with Bison [frozen solid, of course] Great hunt, great eats later as well

How on earth did you transport a frozen bison? I was supposed to do a Yukon bison hunt a couple years ago but covid squashed that idea....

Doug

Each animal was cut into 4 quarters before it froze solid. You get a fair supply of edible meat from a mature bison. Dave.