Justin Black
Member
- Location
- Grande Prairie, Alberta
Monday November 15th, 2010
WMU 527 Northwest of Manning Alberta
I woke up this morning to the first snow of the year. Not enough to make walking difficult, but more than enough to track sleepy Deer to their beds. It has come late this year but is most welcome as Deer season is almost over and my freezer is still empty.
I quickly dress and head for the door. But instead of picking up my Recurve I grab my Grandfathers 93 year old .303. Over the years I haven't shot it much, but I remember well Grandpa's stories of the Wolves, Bears, and Moose that have fallen before it. More of a tool than a weapon it has earned the name "O'l Crowbar" from the family it provided for. It has never killed a Deer. Deer were rare back when Grandpa first homesteaded the home quarter. Moose were not. Now the roles have reversed.
I step out into the cold morning air and head West. As I do, what I hope is the last of the "Road Warriors" drives past my Grandfather’s house heading East. Every morning and evening a steady procession of these "hunters" drive the borders of my Grandfathers fields. Their antics have driven most of the local Deer nocturnal. But since I hunt on foot, I will at least have the bush (and most of the Deer) to myself.
It takes me about twenty minutes to reach Grandfather's West field. As expected there are no Deer to be seen. Having been shot at for many a season, they now know to head for the trees when the "Road Warriors" come calling.
I head for the fields Northern edge. Here Grandpa's field meets crown land. On the way I cross countless sets of last night’s Deer tracks. One in particular catches my eye. The tracks are of good size but more importantly they are alone. Perhaps made by a Buck or dry Doe? Either one will do.
I follow the tracks through the field and into the woods. Besides a few instances where the track crossed paths with others, it remains alone. I take my time and maintain a constant lookout for the Deer I know must be somewhere ahead.
Its eleven by the time I reach the tall grass of the first Beaver slough. That means two hours have past and still no sign of the Deer I am following. But the slough is in the open, so I lift my binoculars and begin to search. You can imagine my surprise when the first things I see are the tips of antlers poking out of the grass less than 50 yards ahead!
I load a round into O’l Crowbar while keeping my eye on where the bedded Buck lay. But something isn’t right. The round fed but the bolt didn’t ####! I try again with the same result. This can’t be happening! In desperation I try one more time. Finally!!! But is the rifle safe? Will it fire? I ask myself these questions as I shoulder O’l Crowbar and take another step towards the Buck.
He must have known I was there the whole time. No doubt laying as still as could be, waiting, hoping, I would not notice. But my last step was one step too many, and the Buck tore from his bed and headed for the cover of the forest. I don’t remember aiming or touching off, just the report of the rifle and a last look as the Deer dove into the nearest patch of Spruce. I stood still for a few minutes, letting my excitement settle. I follow the tracks to the Buck’s bed and from there to where he disappeared.
I am ten steps into the Spruce before I see the blood. Lots of blood. Thus encouraged I continue with eyes glued ahead. I don't have to wait long. My Buck lay just ahead, no more than 100 steps from where he bedded. I tag him and set about gutting, noting with gratification that the 180 grain had hit the Buck in the heart.
It is a long drag, about 300 meters to the nearest spot I could reach him with Grandpa’s quad. By the time I get back to the farmhouse it is just after three. I am tired and bloody but happy. I just wish I could describe to you the look on Grandpa’s face when I told him "I killed a Buck with O'l Crowbar".
WMU 527 Northwest of Manning Alberta
I woke up this morning to the first snow of the year. Not enough to make walking difficult, but more than enough to track sleepy Deer to their beds. It has come late this year but is most welcome as Deer season is almost over and my freezer is still empty.
I quickly dress and head for the door. But instead of picking up my Recurve I grab my Grandfathers 93 year old .303. Over the years I haven't shot it much, but I remember well Grandpa's stories of the Wolves, Bears, and Moose that have fallen before it. More of a tool than a weapon it has earned the name "O'l Crowbar" from the family it provided for. It has never killed a Deer. Deer were rare back when Grandpa first homesteaded the home quarter. Moose were not. Now the roles have reversed.
I step out into the cold morning air and head West. As I do, what I hope is the last of the "Road Warriors" drives past my Grandfather’s house heading East. Every morning and evening a steady procession of these "hunters" drive the borders of my Grandfathers fields. Their antics have driven most of the local Deer nocturnal. But since I hunt on foot, I will at least have the bush (and most of the Deer) to myself.
It takes me about twenty minutes to reach Grandfather's West field. As expected there are no Deer to be seen. Having been shot at for many a season, they now know to head for the trees when the "Road Warriors" come calling.
I head for the fields Northern edge. Here Grandpa's field meets crown land. On the way I cross countless sets of last night’s Deer tracks. One in particular catches my eye. The tracks are of good size but more importantly they are alone. Perhaps made by a Buck or dry Doe? Either one will do.
I follow the tracks through the field and into the woods. Besides a few instances where the track crossed paths with others, it remains alone. I take my time and maintain a constant lookout for the Deer I know must be somewhere ahead.
Its eleven by the time I reach the tall grass of the first Beaver slough. That means two hours have past and still no sign of the Deer I am following. But the slough is in the open, so I lift my binoculars and begin to search. You can imagine my surprise when the first things I see are the tips of antlers poking out of the grass less than 50 yards ahead!
I load a round into O’l Crowbar while keeping my eye on where the bedded Buck lay. But something isn’t right. The round fed but the bolt didn’t ####! I try again with the same result. This can’t be happening! In desperation I try one more time. Finally!!! But is the rifle safe? Will it fire? I ask myself these questions as I shoulder O’l Crowbar and take another step towards the Buck.
He must have known I was there the whole time. No doubt laying as still as could be, waiting, hoping, I would not notice. But my last step was one step too many, and the Buck tore from his bed and headed for the cover of the forest. I don’t remember aiming or touching off, just the report of the rifle and a last look as the Deer dove into the nearest patch of Spruce. I stood still for a few minutes, letting my excitement settle. I follow the tracks to the Buck’s bed and from there to where he disappeared.
I am ten steps into the Spruce before I see the blood. Lots of blood. Thus encouraged I continue with eyes glued ahead. I don't have to wait long. My Buck lay just ahead, no more than 100 steps from where he bedded. I tag him and set about gutting, noting with gratification that the 180 grain had hit the Buck in the heart.
It is a long drag, about 300 meters to the nearest spot I could reach him with Grandpa’s quad. By the time I get back to the farmhouse it is just after three. I am tired and bloody but happy. I just wish I could describe to you the look on Grandpa’s face when I told him "I killed a Buck with O'l Crowbar".
