Rimrock
New member
An extremely rare pre-moustache photo! Up above the Beartrap, back in ~'77?
Throwback Thursday
- Thread starter Ben Lamb
- Start date
DRAFTSTUD
Well-known member
OK, Something is just wrong when Throw Back Thursday just goes to the year 2000! Mtmiller!!!!!! LOL John
Seems like yesterday, one of those hunts that sticks in your brain, 1991, skipped work, bow killed buck at first light on my way to my treestand, then while hanging him I heard a flock of geese fly over the garage and go down in a nearby creek, so I went and wacked 2 of those quick, and still took the wife Christmas shopping for the day. (which she thought was the intent of skipping work 
)
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stillkickin
Well-known member
Based on my foggy recollections of Friday nights working in the frozen Northwest, I believe it is Rainier beer........
2rocky
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This is the classic grip and grin....
Hair. You want hair? Here you go. 1978, age 14. Gotta love those big stylin' shades, too.
On the left is my younger brother, Jason. All of seven years old at time. To the right is his running buddy, Davey Rissanen, another good Finlander kid.
These grouse were pecking a meal in the middle of an old skid trail across from Rockstad's homestead, eating on a very small patch of newly-sprouted clover. The October morning frost was still thick as we walked around the corner, spying this clustered hatch pecking food as the sun was coming up. I could hardly believe my eyes.
I shouldered my gat. Dad grabbed my arm and put his index finger over his lips. He motioned me to move forward about ten yards, putting me a perfect 25 paces from this huddle of unsuspecting treats.
For background, where I come from, partridge (northern MN term for ruffed grouse) get shot on the ground, from stumps, or while sitting in Jackpines. There is no bashfulness about doing such. These are "chickens for the pot," and only an idiot would flush one and expose to the risk of missing, which is a huge waste of precious ammo, or worse yet, hitting one and ruining some meat. If you are offended by that, I suggest you not hunt the partridge paradise of Koochiching County, Minnesota.
The preferred gun of choice is a Remington 870 Wingmaster 12 gauge, with a 28-30" barrel, sporting a full choke. My Dad was an exception to that, preferring his old Stevens double barrel with modified chokes.
Ammo was always the old red/yellow box of Federal Express, usually in high base #6. As season progressed and the birds got educated, a switch to #4s would allow a guy to peel off a birds head at 40 yards, leaving the breast and legs unscathed.
Back to the story.
I have never seen birds as tightly wadded as they were in this instance. Before sending me forward, Dad gave me his 12 gauge SxS and instructed I draw down on the middle of the covey. Theory being, his modified chokes would cast a wider pattern and two rounds could be sent downrange before the birds knew what happened.
He was right. Two volleys broke the morning silence. A cloud of feathers hung in the damp air. What had been the unique grousing sound of feeding birds was now ringing in my ears, augmented by the thrashing of wings in the dirt and brush. My limit of partridge was flopping on the deck.
Many more suffered collateral damage from this 2 3/4" ordinance. I turned to my Dad in panic.
Dead was my limit, and part of his. Many cripples to be recovered. Dad quickly dispatched the remainder of his limit from the cripples. Some were still taking refuge in the thick ferns growing among the old Jackpine slash. They purred back and forth to each other, trying to locate their broodmates.
Dad instructed me to stay there and keep tabs on the stragglers. Most on the ground were incapable of escape. A few had flushed to the trees, making cantaloupe-sized outlines against the orange glow of the rising sun.
I wanted to finish them all, right then and there. As a young hunter, I was suffering as much as they were.
About a half hour later, Dad returned with Danny, a local kid a year older than me who had lost his father when our rental house burned down. Also in tow was Danny's mom, Marilyn.
The struggles of the injured came to a terminal end. If I recall correctly, the end toll, once we collected those in the limbs above and ambushed another smaller flock, was 18 for that morning.
Half way through the guttin' and gillin', Marillyn brought out her Polaroid camera. Dad instructed us to grab the remaining birds and pose. Danny had already left, so it was me, sporting my cool 'do," and the two young kids who thought they were in the company of the world's greatest partridge hunters.
Dad kept that pic in his flannel shirt pocket, right behind his Old Gold cigs, for many years. He proudly showed it and te-told the story hundreds of times; almost to the point of being a nuisance to locals who tired of hearing the story. When his house burned down (yeah, house fires are an epidemic where I lived), it was one of the objects that could be recovered, albeit with significant heat damage.
A long story for a short hour of ground slooshin'.
I have about three years where every pic has this hair style. In spite of the comments and ridicule, I was undettered; certain that Daisy Duke would like it, if she ever came to Big Falls.
On the left is my younger brother, Jason. All of seven years old at time. To the right is his running buddy, Davey Rissanen, another good Finlander kid.
These grouse were pecking a meal in the middle of an old skid trail across from Rockstad's homestead, eating on a very small patch of newly-sprouted clover. The October morning frost was still thick as we walked around the corner, spying this clustered hatch pecking food as the sun was coming up. I could hardly believe my eyes.
I shouldered my gat. Dad grabbed my arm and put his index finger over his lips. He motioned me to move forward about ten yards, putting me a perfect 25 paces from this huddle of unsuspecting treats.
For background, where I come from, partridge (northern MN term for ruffed grouse) get shot on the ground, from stumps, or while sitting in Jackpines. There is no bashfulness about doing such. These are "chickens for the pot," and only an idiot would flush one and expose to the risk of missing, which is a huge waste of precious ammo, or worse yet, hitting one and ruining some meat. If you are offended by that, I suggest you not hunt the partridge paradise of Koochiching County, Minnesota.
The preferred gun of choice is a Remington 870 Wingmaster 12 gauge, with a 28-30" barrel, sporting a full choke. My Dad was an exception to that, preferring his old Stevens double barrel with modified chokes.
Ammo was always the old red/yellow box of Federal Express, usually in high base #6. As season progressed and the birds got educated, a switch to #4s would allow a guy to peel off a birds head at 40 yards, leaving the breast and legs unscathed.
Back to the story.
I have never seen birds as tightly wadded as they were in this instance. Before sending me forward, Dad gave me his 12 gauge SxS and instructed I draw down on the middle of the covey. Theory being, his modified chokes would cast a wider pattern and two rounds could be sent downrange before the birds knew what happened.
He was right. Two volleys broke the morning silence. A cloud of feathers hung in the damp air. What had been the unique grousing sound of feeding birds was now ringing in my ears, augmented by the thrashing of wings in the dirt and brush. My limit of partridge was flopping on the deck.
Many more suffered collateral damage from this 2 3/4" ordinance. I turned to my Dad in panic.
Dead was my limit, and part of his. Many cripples to be recovered. Dad quickly dispatched the remainder of his limit from the cripples. Some were still taking refuge in the thick ferns growing among the old Jackpine slash. They purred back and forth to each other, trying to locate their broodmates.
Dad instructed me to stay there and keep tabs on the stragglers. Most on the ground were incapable of escape. A few had flushed to the trees, making cantaloupe-sized outlines against the orange glow of the rising sun.
I wanted to finish them all, right then and there. As a young hunter, I was suffering as much as they were.
About a half hour later, Dad returned with Danny, a local kid a year older than me who had lost his father when our rental house burned down. Also in tow was Danny's mom, Marilyn.
The struggles of the injured came to a terminal end. If I recall correctly, the end toll, once we collected those in the limbs above and ambushed another smaller flock, was 18 for that morning.
Half way through the guttin' and gillin', Marillyn brought out her Polaroid camera. Dad instructed us to grab the remaining birds and pose. Danny had already left, so it was me, sporting my cool 'do," and the two young kids who thought they were in the company of the world's greatest partridge hunters.
Dad kept that pic in his flannel shirt pocket, right behind his Old Gold cigs, for many years. He proudly showed it and te-told the story hundreds of times; almost to the point of being a nuisance to locals who tired of hearing the story. When his house burned down (yeah, house fires are an epidemic where I lived), it was one of the objects that could be recovered, albeit with significant heat damage.
A long story for a short hour of ground slooshin'.
I have about three years where every pic has this hair style. In spite of the comments and ridicule, I was undettered; certain that Daisy Duke would like it, if she ever came to Big Falls.
2rocky
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- Messages
- 4,975
I think this was when I went on my first deer hunt
2rocky
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- Joined
- Jul 23, 2010
- Messages
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Once I became a "Seasoned Brush Runner"
OK, let's go back another 10 and add more hair.
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Bambistew
Well-known member
Never a doubt in my mind that Miller rocked a mullet... I'm surprised you cut it.
elkrchr
Well-known member
Randy, even though that photo was 28 years prior to the movie release, I think you deserve a cut of the Napoleon Dynamite profits. You would've been a perfect body double!
Bambistew
Well-known member
20 years ago this fall... hard to believe.
6th whitetail buck. 22" inside weighed 199lbs dressed. Took me 2 weeks of hunting him to finally connect.
6th whitetail buck. 22" inside weighed 199lbs dressed. Took me 2 weeks of hunting him to finally connect.
noharleyyet
Well-known member
20 years ago this fall... hard to believe.
6th whitetail buck. 22" inside weighed 199lbs dressed. Took me 2 weeks of hunting him to finally connect.
Big neck and dark coat...looks like an antlered wolf. Nice buck.
jryoung
Well-known member
Mullet, tank top and flannel, TRIFECTA!
L. I. Yankee
New member
Boy how time flies seems like 25 yrs ago was yesterday.....
I can't roll back the clock like some of you all can. Late 90's I think. Still the biggest bodied deer I have ever taken. He was a bruiser, broken up and funky drop tine on one side. It took me 2 years to get him, about 95% sure I had him come at dark on the last day of the previous season. I killed him from one of my favorite stands of all time, a few trees had blown down in a storm, making a great ambush point for the adjacent hillside, the picture is from a few years later, it has since grown back up and I can't hunt it anymore. I killed a few more nice bucks from there before it grew up though. I still scout for an ambush point like that but haven't found one like it since.
Late 90's I think. Still the biggest bodied deer I have ever taken. He was a bruiser, broken up and funky drop tine on one side. It took me 2 years to get him, about 95% sure I had him come at dark on the last day of the previous season. I killed him from one of my favorite stands of all time, a few trees had blown down in a storm, making a great ambush point for the adjacent hillside, the picture is from a few years later, it has since grown back up and I can't hunt it anymore. I killed a few more nice bucks from there before it grew up though. I still scout for an ambush point like that but haven't found one like it since.
L. I. Yankee
New member
Now lets try this again....cant really say where 25 yrs has gone but it went.....1987.....
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