Hunting and Learning

A Never Ending Process

Earlier this year Montana – my oldest daughter – met me in Africa for her first safari. She took a gemsbok, a wildebeest, and a zebra, all with one shot each, at distances between 200 and 300 yards. I think Africa, just like it most often does with everyone, changed her life.

It’s not that Montana had never hunted before. Inspired by her mother’s and brother’s love for hunting, in 2015 at age 11 she took her first deer. It was a doe taken during an early antlerless season and she shot it perfectly with a compact little lever action rifle chambered for the 327 Federal Magnum. Since then, Montana and I have spent the first day of every deer season on stand, and a hunter could not have had worse luck.

Once a six point slipped up on us at about 30 yards and spooked before Montana could get her rifle on him. A four point came by the next year and stopped behind a limb that was covering his vitals. And then of course there were the long hours spent on stand where we saw nothing. Last year we spent opening morning on stand and saw a few doe and a spike. Montana did not want to shoot a spike. A few days later I pulled the card from a trail camera on a feeder that was about 100 yards away to find a big 10-point had been that close to us for more than an hour!

On opening morning this year, we had deer all around us. Montana had the same rifle she’d used in Africa, but it had a new stock from OutKast Arms that fit her better and a shorter barrel. A spike came in early, and a six point appeared out of nowhere and ran him off. Shortly after that a nice 8 point walked in and stood behind a tree for about 5 minutes. Ultimately, a doe got our wind, and blew, and the buck ran off.

That evening we were back on stand and at about 4:30 the 8 point came back, stopped behind the same tree and was feeding. His butt was sticking out one side of the tree, and his head was sticking out the other. There was a young raccoon on the feeder throwing out feed to the deer. This went on for about 20 minutes. Then, something spooked the buck, and he stepped out, quartering away at 69 yards.

Montana’s the rifle was supported by the Mr G Clamp which was attached to the safety rail on the tree stand. Montana didn’t even need to pick the rifle up, the Mr G Clamp had the rifle supported perfectly for her to take the shot. And, when I told her to shoot, she did.

The buck mule kicked and ran in a small circle about 40 yards to the right and stopped on the ridge. I was watching him through the binoculars, and he began that drunk hobo wobble, his rear end hit the ground, and he flipped over on his back. The buck kicked for a few seconds and then all was still. I watched him through the binoculars for another minute or two and then, smiling, turned and gave Montana a fist bump, and told her to call her brother to come and take pictures.

We climbed down and walked the 100 yards to where the buck had gone down, but when we got there all we found was a wallowed spot in the leaves and a lot of blood. I thought, OK, this happens sometimes. In the throes of death a deer will find its legs again and make it a few more yards. I could clearly see where he went over the little razorback ridge and figured he was just, right there, out of sight.

Nope, he wasn’t just right there.

But the hill was very steep, and it was easy to see where he had stumbled and bled so I figured he’d be piled up somewhere between where we were and the creek at the bottom.

Nope.