dads deer

                                            Dad’s Deer

Down from Alaska into the state of Idaho, I had traveled to meet up with friends and family for their annual whitetail deer hunt.

 I was just a tag along, help out where needed guy on this trip. I did not have a deer tag or carry a gun.
Hunting whitetail deer is quite a challenge. I watch the hunting channel where the stars sit for endless days in tree stands waiting for some unsuspecting deer to walk the trail below so they can shoot. That is definitely not the way we hunt here in Idaho. Can you spell Boring with a capital B?
We get out and hunt hard in Idaho, sneaking along ridge tops or into the deep dark forested canyons hoping to catch a glimpse of the deer before they hear, see, or smell you. It is one of the greatest rewards in hunting to know you have hunted well enough to sneak up on a monster whitetail buck.
The challenge this year was to see if we could get my 93 year old Dad a nice deer.
 Mom’s instructions when we were leaving was, “Now, don’t you go and shoot a rank old rutting buck that is not fit to eat! We want a young, good eating deer to fill the freezer.”
The hunter in me finds that hard to abide by. I am always looking for the biggest deer with the largest antlers.
Dad and I hunted hard for a couple days, but came up empty. I am still amazed at how far Dad walked on some of those hunts.  I would get back to the truck tired and ready for the hot fire and big meal. At 93 he just seems unstoppable.  
Snow is a key component on this hunt and so far nothing had hit the ground but the liquid kind… Rain.
 On the third day we finally saw some snow hit the ground the deer seemed to be moving a bit more. They were not responding to rattling horns or grunting on our calls. It looked like just spotting one was the way to hunt this year.
We were driving along a little logging road chatting and have a good time. I looked over and spotted deer ears peaking above a log off to the side.
 I stopped the truck and asked Dad to hop out, never mentioning that I had spotted a deer. I wanted to keep him as calm as possible.
Dad clamored out of the truck and I followed out his side with his shooting sticks. I know he is a good enough shot, even at 93, to shoot without the stick but that is the sure way to get a solid rest.
 I walk dad around the truck to the side of the road, still not telling him that there was a deer laying in the brush just a ways away.
I had him kneel in the snow and then set up his sticks. With gun in place I pointed out the still bedded deer. Dad was locked on. I could see the gun weaving from side to side, and even though the deer was close a head shot is never easy.
 Just as he was about to shoot, a nice young doe stands up right beside the bedded deer.
“There’s the one you want to shoot,” I whispered in Dad’s ear. I slowly swung his gun to the right so he could pick up the deer in his scope.
“Are you on it?” I whispered.
“Yeah, I am right on it,” he responded, and I could see he was much steadier on this deer.
“Shoot when ready,”
 I watched through binoculars as he squeezed of his shot.  Perfect. The deer went down.
 No sooner had that deer gone down then two more stood up. Dad levered in another shell thinking he had missed.
“Don’t shoot!” I said, “You’ve got yours down.”
 Dad took the live round out of his gun then aimed at the still standing deer and said, “Pow.  You’re dead.”
We walked over to claim his prize deer. A very nice young doe, just what Mom had ordered.
At  camp everyone was very proud of a 93 year old being able to harvest yet another deer. I was so thankful for being with him when he accomplished such a feat.
Good shooting Dad.