By Wilson Love
Somewhere in my antler collection is a pretty good seven point rack. The memory of taking that particular buck has impacted my every hunt since then.
Seasons ago, on the first Saturday of December, my friend Thurman Pickett and I hunted up a mountain branch called Laurel Jog off Newberry Creek in McDowell County. The trail up Laurel Jog had been neglected. It was brushy, steep, and apparently hunted very little. We separated and took up stands in the rocky laurels. A half hour later, I heard and saw a deer trotting steadily through the low cover. It stopped at the edge of the green clumps and I fired.
We field dressed it and hung it in a little sourwood tree. As we roped up the buck, we saw a bearded hunter appear above us, having crossed over the western ridge into our hollow. He said he’d shot a spike on the ridge above and trailed it to the laurels where we were. Well, we just set out to help him and in short order we found it. Then we watched bearded Bill drag his prize off down the hollow toward Newberry Creek.
Right here is where we made our bother. Here is where my story starts to go wrong. We weren’t as smart as Bill. We didn’t quit while we were ahead. No, we didn’t take our winnings and leave. What were we thinking?
It was only middle of the morning. We sat and ate dried fruit and crackers and chocolate. We caught ice water pouring over a flat rock and drank it. We contemplated the nature of things. Thurman allowed there had to be more than those two bucks up there. I had to agree and Thurman said, “You want to lay with it for a while?” I said, “If you do.” It must have been one of my greedy days.
We agreed to meet back at that spot when shooting light was gone, around five o’clock. Shooting light? Isn’t that the same as walking light and deer dragging light? The rest of the day passed and neither of us saw a squirrel or a snowbird or anything else. Now it was time to get out of there and go home to our sweethearts, hot food and a crackling fire.
I tied a drag rope to the buck’s antlers. Thurman took my gun, pulled out a flashlight and down the slope we went. That is, down the slope HE went. Thurman is older than me, but he is one of those hard-nosed coon hunters who will go to a dog that’s treed a mile away and never stop walking. The truth is, I love to hunt and I love those hounds, but I just never enjoyed picking through the woods AT NIGHT. There’s something about getting poked in the eye or slapped in the mouth by a limb or briar at night. When that happens in the daytime, you can turn on that wicked protrusion and break it off and kill it so that it cannot ever hurt another human being. At night, you never know what hit you or from whence it came. At night, all you can do is hurt. I couldn’t keep up with him now and he caught on quickly.
A hundred yards down the trail my coat came off. In the next three hours I wished a hundred times we’d left the mountain sooner. All the excitement and satisfaction of the hunt turned into a blind, sweaty tug-o-war with a dead deer whose only mission in death was to stay put.
The creek crossings were funny unless you happened to be a participant. Thurman hopped across dry. My trophy and I sloshed through with all the grace and dignity of mud wrestlers. The bushes ate my cap and one of my gloves. I tied my flannel shirt around my waist by the sleeves. The sweat pouring off my head stung my eyes so I peeled off my long undershirt for a towel. My friend offered several times and would have relieved me. I declined each time. It wasn’t pride; more like determination or even self-imposed punishment that kept me going. I scolded myself for not having thought this through. Hadn’t I hunted enough to know better?
At long last, we bottomed out and I could see the red pickup through the trees in the moonlight. I fell down and stretched out and looked up at heaven and thanked God for getting us there. The thing I remember most is how good those dry leaves felt on my back. And there were wispy little clouds floating over just before my eyes closed. I was out just that quick, like a baby full of mother’s milk. Thurman didn’t let me sleep long. Yes, that was a handsome buck, except for those hairless patches that scrubbed every inch of Laurel Jog.
Hanging the deer up in the garage took my last bit of strength. No supper. No bath. My last thought before going into the house: don’t crash on her new couch if you plan to go on living here.
Twenty-five years later the values that grew out of these events live on. Success for the sportsman is not measured by pounds or numbers, but by the quality of his companions, the excellence of his experiences, and wisdom gained.
Wilson Love is Owner/Operator of The Practical Outdoorsman, a retail and consignment store.
