I started hunting in an established camp... older mentors of my fathers... next to me, and my father the youngest hunter was north of seven decades. The oldest was a fiesty, jolly, shrivelled gentleman... he hunted deer with a beat up old Winchester and at this stage, couldn't hit a garbage truck, let alone a deer... on one evening hunt he was sitting in the V of an old rail fence while I and a couple others pushed a cedar swamp... all of a sudden, five deer burst from cover and ran toward the old fella, as the hooves beat down on him the first deer leaped straight over the old fella who fell backward onto his back with his old Winchester in his hands, one by one, the deer jumped directly over him... as the last deer leaped into the air, he squeezed the trigger on his rifle straight up... as it turned out, the bullet went straight up through the brisket, heart and into the spine... the deer, a nice thick eight pointer (eastern count) cartwheeled to the ground behind the fence.
Lots of back slapping and salutes and laughs ensued. Namen passed away the following spring, that turned out to be his last hunt and last deer... if I could be in his boots at 92, I would be thankful for a great life.
