I seem to spend a lot of time going through old hunting pics that make me smile, even if I look at them at least once a week. Usually it is the experience of that hunt, the people involved, or something strange that happened on that trip.
I am sure all of you have some hunt that is remarkable in your mind, even if it wasn't the big trophy you shot. Would love to hear of yours and/or see any pictures of those favorite hunts.
Here is my version of that.
Date: November, 1997 - Central Montana.
Earlier that season I was hunting whitetail does and filling tags in quick order. I take aim at the last "doe" standing about 200 yards out. One shot and end of story.
Somewhere between when I left my position and my arrival to this doe, she grew 6" spikes that were well disguised by the ears. So, my buck tag got punched and my season was done the first week. Not the end of the world, but I was just getting the hang of this Montana whitetail thing figured out and had made some really good friendships with landowners.
Fast forward about two weeks. A friend calls and reminds me of the comment I had made earlier in the summer, that I will shoot as many does as I can get tags for. Only problem was that I had no remaining doe tags. But Mrs. Fin had a couple.
So, we pack the truck and drive for a few hours and arrive a while after daylight, with our seven year-old son in tow. He is sporting a great smile of missing teeth, as is the case with most kids that age. The landowner friend finds it very funny and spends a good while making fun of this toothless situation.
By mid-morning, the landowner has directed us to an area that he promises would be filled with at least fifty deer. He was not exaggerating.
Within short order, Mrs. Fin is notching her tag on a fat doe, while I take care of the task at hand. The landowner tells me not to worry about dragging deer, but to come back and get him, or a vehicle for retrieval.
We start back to the ranch house, thinking we will fill the other doe tags on our way. Probably could have, but the noise of a million questions that a seven year-old can ask are probably enough to put even a rut-crazed buck on notice that danger is near.
Upon arriving back at the ranch house, the manager tells me to take the old white Ford back down the pasture road and load the doe. I do that. Mrs. Fin and son riding shotgun......or .270 in this case. Before leaving, he stops us and said Mrs. Fin could shoot a buck, being she was smoking does for their favor, and the outfitter was pretty much wrapped up for the year.
What? Did I hear that right? Ain't no one shot bucks on this ranch for years, according to what they had told me. And here I am, with my buck tag around the antlers of some spike whose head is now in the local dump.
Oh well, such is life.
We get through the first gate and deer are bounding around like rabbits in your headlights. At the second gate I notice a really nice doe down in the cottonwoods and tell Mrs. Fin she ought to fill her other doe tag.
Before I can finish, she is headed down the bank across a little opening and leaning on a fence post. Knowing she means business, I grab Junior and follow as quick as I can. The snow has now made everything a wet mess, but it sure is easy to see these brown deer.
As I walk up behind Mrs. Fin, I see she is sighted about 30 degrees NW of the angle needed to shoot this doe who is now squatting to make her calls of love more noticeable to passing bucks. I start to tell her that she is aiming way off, and I hear the .270 boom.
Almost scared the "you know what" out of me. I watch the doe ramble off.
I tell wife that she missed by about 80 yards. She looks at me like I am an idiot, which at times would be the proper assessment.
She proclaims she shot a nice buck. Yeah, sure, whatever. I didn't see a damn thing. She states that it bounded down into the cottonwoods and fell over. I did wear glasses at that time, but I was not quite that blind.
Junior starts on me about how it was a big buck, a real lunker (a term he picked up from spending entire summers in the walleye boat). Now I am questioning myself.
I tell them to wait and send me on a line to where they last saw the deer. I walk out 175 yards and they tell me to stop. I start looking around and see some scuff marks in the fresh snow. I look a little further back and find a lot of hair, some blood, and evidence that Mrs. Fin had "Knocked a lung loose."
I followed the red spray about fifty yards further down into the cottonwoods. There, piled up along side a downed cottonwood, is a really nice buck. Oh oh. Time to eat some crow. I am so excited, I really don't care at this time.
I run back to them, get them through the fence and lead them to the downed buck. At this time, neither of us have shot a whitetail buck of any size, so this seems like a monster. I am babbling and rambling, Junior is pulling on the antlers and alternating with poking the deer's eye with a stick to make sure it is dead (for about the tenth time).
All the while, Mrs. Fin is looking at me with the "What did you think I was aiming at" look. Rather smug and bordering on arrogant for such a normally modest woman. I am in no position to disagree with her final product on this day.
We drag the deer up on a bench and take a ton of picture with a junkie camera - the best we can afford. I shimmy back through the fence and get the old Ford and drive it as close as we can get.
I drag the buck the couple hundred yards to the truck while Mrs. Fin escorts her son through brush. I am pretty jazzed about this day. It is further spiced up as Mrs. Fin fills her last doe tag later that day.
I would say this is the one hunt where we decided that this family would use hunting as an opportunity to enjoy our times together. The hunt where my son got to give input on strategy and plans, making him feel very involved. Where there were enough deer that I felt no pressure that we make the most of every situation. If a chance was blown, or a shot would have been missed, it would have been no biggie - more deer were around and we were mostly there to gather groceries. And where my wife got the greatest of laughs by showing me she really didn't need my advice, but was willing to oblige my male ego and act as though she did.
It is easy to get caught up in the excitement of the hunt, and at times I think I added too much pressure to the situation on some previous hunts. I could be so worried about tagging a critter that at times I did not take the time to really enjoy what was going on.
This day was different and it made me realize just how much fun it was to be there teaching your son the joys found in the woods, and spending quality time with your family. The hunting part eventually will take care of itself. From that hunt forward, our hunts were far more relaxed, more engaging for my son, and many fold more enjoyable for me (and I think for them, also).
For whatever reason, of the hundreds of days I have spent hunting, this is one that sticks in my mind as much as any of them. Glad we had a camera with us this day, as bad as it was.
A trophy of the greatest proportions in our minds.
The picture says it all, for me.
I am sure all of you have some hunt that is remarkable in your mind, even if it wasn't the big trophy you shot. Would love to hear of yours and/or see any pictures of those favorite hunts.
Here is my version of that.
Date: November, 1997 - Central Montana.
Earlier that season I was hunting whitetail does and filling tags in quick order. I take aim at the last "doe" standing about 200 yards out. One shot and end of story.
Somewhere between when I left my position and my arrival to this doe, she grew 6" spikes that were well disguised by the ears. So, my buck tag got punched and my season was done the first week. Not the end of the world, but I was just getting the hang of this Montana whitetail thing figured out and had made some really good friendships with landowners.
Fast forward about two weeks. A friend calls and reminds me of the comment I had made earlier in the summer, that I will shoot as many does as I can get tags for. Only problem was that I had no remaining doe tags. But Mrs. Fin had a couple.
So, we pack the truck and drive for a few hours and arrive a while after daylight, with our seven year-old son in tow. He is sporting a great smile of missing teeth, as is the case with most kids that age. The landowner friend finds it very funny and spends a good while making fun of this toothless situation.
By mid-morning, the landowner has directed us to an area that he promises would be filled with at least fifty deer. He was not exaggerating.
Within short order, Mrs. Fin is notching her tag on a fat doe, while I take care of the task at hand. The landowner tells me not to worry about dragging deer, but to come back and get him, or a vehicle for retrieval.
We start back to the ranch house, thinking we will fill the other doe tags on our way. Probably could have, but the noise of a million questions that a seven year-old can ask are probably enough to put even a rut-crazed buck on notice that danger is near.
Upon arriving back at the ranch house, the manager tells me to take the old white Ford back down the pasture road and load the doe. I do that. Mrs. Fin and son riding shotgun......or .270 in this case. Before leaving, he stops us and said Mrs. Fin could shoot a buck, being she was smoking does for their favor, and the outfitter was pretty much wrapped up for the year.
What? Did I hear that right? Ain't no one shot bucks on this ranch for years, according to what they had told me. And here I am, with my buck tag around the antlers of some spike whose head is now in the local dump.
Oh well, such is life.
We get through the first gate and deer are bounding around like rabbits in your headlights. At the second gate I notice a really nice doe down in the cottonwoods and tell Mrs. Fin she ought to fill her other doe tag.
Before I can finish, she is headed down the bank across a little opening and leaning on a fence post. Knowing she means business, I grab Junior and follow as quick as I can. The snow has now made everything a wet mess, but it sure is easy to see these brown deer.
As I walk up behind Mrs. Fin, I see she is sighted about 30 degrees NW of the angle needed to shoot this doe who is now squatting to make her calls of love more noticeable to passing bucks. I start to tell her that she is aiming way off, and I hear the .270 boom.
Almost scared the "you know what" out of me. I watch the doe ramble off.
I tell wife that she missed by about 80 yards. She looks at me like I am an idiot, which at times would be the proper assessment.
She proclaims she shot a nice buck. Yeah, sure, whatever. I didn't see a damn thing. She states that it bounded down into the cottonwoods and fell over. I did wear glasses at that time, but I was not quite that blind.
Junior starts on me about how it was a big buck, a real lunker (a term he picked up from spending entire summers in the walleye boat). Now I am questioning myself.
I tell them to wait and send me on a line to where they last saw the deer. I walk out 175 yards and they tell me to stop. I start looking around and see some scuff marks in the fresh snow. I look a little further back and find a lot of hair, some blood, and evidence that Mrs. Fin had "Knocked a lung loose."
I followed the red spray about fifty yards further down into the cottonwoods. There, piled up along side a downed cottonwood, is a really nice buck. Oh oh. Time to eat some crow. I am so excited, I really don't care at this time.
I run back to them, get them through the fence and lead them to the downed buck. At this time, neither of us have shot a whitetail buck of any size, so this seems like a monster. I am babbling and rambling, Junior is pulling on the antlers and alternating with poking the deer's eye with a stick to make sure it is dead (for about the tenth time).
All the while, Mrs. Fin is looking at me with the "What did you think I was aiming at" look. Rather smug and bordering on arrogant for such a normally modest woman. I am in no position to disagree with her final product on this day.
We drag the deer up on a bench and take a ton of picture with a junkie camera - the best we can afford. I shimmy back through the fence and get the old Ford and drive it as close as we can get.
I drag the buck the couple hundred yards to the truck while Mrs. Fin escorts her son through brush. I am pretty jazzed about this day. It is further spiced up as Mrs. Fin fills her last doe tag later that day.
I would say this is the one hunt where we decided that this family would use hunting as an opportunity to enjoy our times together. The hunt where my son got to give input on strategy and plans, making him feel very involved. Where there were enough deer that I felt no pressure that we make the most of every situation. If a chance was blown, or a shot would have been missed, it would have been no biggie - more deer were around and we were mostly there to gather groceries. And where my wife got the greatest of laughs by showing me she really didn't need my advice, but was willing to oblige my male ego and act as though she did.
It is easy to get caught up in the excitement of the hunt, and at times I think I added too much pressure to the situation on some previous hunts. I could be so worried about tagging a critter that at times I did not take the time to really enjoy what was going on.
This day was different and it made me realize just how much fun it was to be there teaching your son the joys found in the woods, and spending quality time with your family. The hunting part eventually will take care of itself. From that hunt forward, our hunts were far more relaxed, more engaging for my son, and many fold more enjoyable for me (and I think for them, also).
For whatever reason, of the hundreds of days I have spent hunting, this is one that sticks in my mind as much as any of them. Glad we had a camera with us this day, as bad as it was.
A trophy of the greatest proportions in our minds.
The picture says it all, for me.
