BREAKIN' IN THE .243
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| I finally broke my five year dry spell - shot a button buck opening day gun season... |
I'd about given up after five disappointing years of no game to my credit. I ached to break in the .243 my husband had given me for Christmas last year. So we got up at four a.m. for the one and a half hour drive to our Truman Lake spot.
Walking in, a young man met me on the path up the hill, sweaty and smiling and out of breath. Told me if I was lookin’ for the 8 point that he shot it. But I had no way of 'lookin' for that buck he referred to since my husband and I had arrived only a few minutes ago, Mr. Ed was surely half-mile deep in the timber ahead of me by now, as usual, confident that I'd find my own special spot. Puzzled or amused, I must have looked as though I wanted the story, the young man bursting at the seams to tell the first person who'd stand still to listen. Rare on the first day of deer rifle season, but I did, his adrenaline was pumped, his exuberance infectious.
“It’s dead”, he said with triumph. His camo pants covered in buck-weed and splashes of, he boasted "that big 8 damn near ran over top of me chasing a doe! But I held mah 30.06 ready, like a cat after a mouse, took aim and fired at that buck-a-galloping.Yehp, he's deader'n dead."
I had heard the shot as I fumbled getting my gear out of the Jeep so I smiled akin to awe, knowing full well he's a darn good shot, much better than me to kill a running deer with one bullet. I have not mastered that feat in spite of numerous tries. I miss every time, Ed being the ol' reliable hunter, shooting the deer mid-jump, playing cleanup or simply showing off.
His story told, one for the books then griping how he's forced to drag his deer out of the marsh most of half mile "through the shit, pardon the French ma'am". I chuckled out loud at his rough politeness. He hoisted up his blood-stained, baggy pants, rifle in one hand and wished me luck waving the 30.06 like a flag bearing conqueror. He grinned widely as I congratulated him ... he tipped his cap and hustled his pace for the parking lot down the way.
My hope spurred by his success, I grasped my rifle and hastened my own stride up the hill heading to the fields and forest between me and the lake. The timber had since calmed down but I was still alert to any deer spooked from other hunters on the property across the road. I walked down a path along the treeline skirting the lake, scanning the distant weedy shore-full of deer beds, feeling deer-fever rise in my innards. Then I backtracked into the woods next to the first open field. I was very glad I had opted not to haul in my own tree stand. I've always preferred still hunting, my husband says I'm like an Indian huntin' so quiet. He also calls me a buck magnet from previous encounters, so I was primed to see deer anywhere, anytime.
Picked out a big tree overlooking a wide creek bottom, I could easily see across the width of the ditch, about 150 yards of sparse timber and berry brush. I set the scope to close-range. The smooth, black .243 fit in my arms like a tender puppy. And beautiful as a leather glove. The field I had crossed earlier also was within my view to my right but much thicker greenery dividing the timber and the deep grass, even in mid-November. I anxiously settled onto my camo cushion for a long wait. Feeling tired from lack of sleep but optimistic, I prayed for God to bless our hunt and give me a chance...
For a few minutes, I listened to my breathing and the winter birds above the bare branches. Silently I turned my head to the field and gasped! Deer. Shocked it was so close -- about 70 yards at the edge of the field. I could see its head and ears – those big ears! My heart skipped and pounded so hard my ears rang. I tried to swallow but my tongue was stuck to my teeth. My eyes glued to the deer, I stood up carefully as quietly as I could -- not to make any noise or step on a stick or bump my gun on the tree. I could barely stand up steady, my knees shook. I slid behind the tree to use it as a brace for the rifle. I anchored the black stock into my shoulder, pinned the barrel against the tree bark in a death grip, trying to breathe like Ed taught me.
Squinting, I peeked above the scope, watched eagerly through the spindly trees and bramble brush as the deer ate leaves from the bushes. All I could see was its head – I did not want a neck shot. I aligned the cross-hairs on the deer's shoulder. My lips barely moved, “just one more”. I steadied the scope onto the vitals. For a second I thought it saw me -- I froze. It showed no alarm, then it took that step. I hugged the rifle and whispered, “there”.
The crack and power of the rifle blast made my heart jump -- then it pounded! Adrenaline pumped! I had barely heard my finger click the safety. I waited for a moment, then realized the shot was good, the deer was down. I grabbed the empty shell casing off the ground and clicked the gun safety back on and headed for the dead deer's spot. Stepping over briars and fallen dead branches lying about, I worked my way out of the timber’s edge.
The .243's impact had thrown it only twenty feet, there lay my deer in the sun. I bent down to assure it was dead; touching its dense, tawny coat I found the bullet hole, my fingers shaking. Swiped my blaze orange cap to the ground, I gazed at this animal, I gently laid my rifle on the ground next to its fluffy, white tail. Even dead, the deer's beauty and strength consumed my thoughts as I admired him, sitting next to it in the sun cross-legged, in the brown prairie grass.
Thoughts of the eight point, then my deer lying there dead as I sat next to him, like I lay claim to my kill in some ancient tribal hunt all brought tears to my eyes -- I felt deeply humbled, grateful, my body still on an adrenaline high, trembled. I choked up as I thanked the Lord; He answered my prayer. "You will be many meals fella --so beautiful." Gently resting my palm on his side, there was no chest movement. The only noise, the dry grass crunching under my boots as I got up. Spurred into action, "Alright woman, tag him and get him back to the vehicle. Gotta get him out of this warm sun."
Gutting it, I learned the shot was perfect – straight through the heart. My husband can take credit for teaching me to shoot a rifle well and I know the Lord gave me a steady hand and good eye to make that one shot count. Give credit where it’s due. I truly felt our day was blessed.
Being nearly a mile deeper in the forest, my husband also had shot a button buck within fifteen minutes of mine. He teases that now the 243 isn't a “virgin” any more. That's how it goes. All before nine a.m.. We had food and together time…a great day.
#Marlin243Winchester, #ozarksdeerhunt
Walking in, a young man met me on the path up the hill, sweaty and smiling and out of breath. Told me if I was lookin’ for the 8 point that he shot it. But I had no way of 'lookin' for that buck he referred to since my husband and I had arrived only a few minutes ago, Mr. Ed was surely half-mile deep in the timber ahead of me by now, as usual, confident that I'd find my own special spot. Puzzled or amused, I must have looked as though I wanted the story, the young man bursting at the seams to tell the first person who'd stand still to listen. Rare on the first day of deer rifle season, but I did, his adrenaline was pumped, his exuberance infectious.
“It’s dead”, he said with triumph. His camo pants covered in buck-weed and splashes of, he boasted "that big 8 damn near ran over top of me chasing a doe! But I held mah 30.06 ready, like a cat after a mouse, took aim and fired at that buck-a-galloping.Yehp, he's deader'n dead."
I had heard the shot as I fumbled getting my gear out of the Jeep so I smiled akin to awe, knowing full well he's a darn good shot, much better than me to kill a running deer with one bullet. I have not mastered that feat in spite of numerous tries. I miss every time, Ed being the ol' reliable hunter, shooting the deer mid-jump, playing cleanup or simply showing off.
His story told, one for the books then griping how he's forced to drag his deer out of the marsh most of half mile "through the shit, pardon the French ma'am". I chuckled out loud at his rough politeness. He hoisted up his blood-stained, baggy pants, rifle in one hand and wished me luck waving the 30.06 like a flag bearing conqueror. He grinned widely as I congratulated him ... he tipped his cap and hustled his pace for the parking lot down the way.
My hope spurred by his success, I grasped my rifle and hastened my own stride up the hill heading to the fields and forest between me and the lake. The timber had since calmed down but I was still alert to any deer spooked from other hunters on the property across the road. I walked down a path along the treeline skirting the lake, scanning the distant weedy shore-full of deer beds, feeling deer-fever rise in my innards. Then I backtracked into the woods next to the first open field. I was very glad I had opted not to haul in my own tree stand. I've always preferred still hunting, my husband says I'm like an Indian huntin' so quiet. He also calls me a buck magnet from previous encounters, so I was primed to see deer anywhere, anytime.
Picked out a big tree overlooking a wide creek bottom, I could easily see across the width of the ditch, about 150 yards of sparse timber and berry brush. I set the scope to close-range. The smooth, black .243 fit in my arms like a tender puppy. And beautiful as a leather glove. The field I had crossed earlier also was within my view to my right but much thicker greenery dividing the timber and the deep grass, even in mid-November. I anxiously settled onto my camo cushion for a long wait. Feeling tired from lack of sleep but optimistic, I prayed for God to bless our hunt and give me a chance...
For a few minutes, I listened to my breathing and the winter birds above the bare branches. Silently I turned my head to the field and gasped! Deer. Shocked it was so close -- about 70 yards at the edge of the field. I could see its head and ears – those big ears! My heart skipped and pounded so hard my ears rang. I tried to swallow but my tongue was stuck to my teeth. My eyes glued to the deer, I stood up carefully as quietly as I could -- not to make any noise or step on a stick or bump my gun on the tree. I could barely stand up steady, my knees shook. I slid behind the tree to use it as a brace for the rifle. I anchored the black stock into my shoulder, pinned the barrel against the tree bark in a death grip, trying to breathe like Ed taught me.
Squinting, I peeked above the scope, watched eagerly through the spindly trees and bramble brush as the deer ate leaves from the bushes. All I could see was its head – I did not want a neck shot. I aligned the cross-hairs on the deer's shoulder. My lips barely moved, “just one more”. I steadied the scope onto the vitals. For a second I thought it saw me -- I froze. It showed no alarm, then it took that step. I hugged the rifle and whispered, “there”.
The crack and power of the rifle blast made my heart jump -- then it pounded! Adrenaline pumped! I had barely heard my finger click the safety. I waited for a moment, then realized the shot was good, the deer was down. I grabbed the empty shell casing off the ground and clicked the gun safety back on and headed for the dead deer's spot. Stepping over briars and fallen dead branches lying about, I worked my way out of the timber’s edge.
The .243's impact had thrown it only twenty feet, there lay my deer in the sun. I bent down to assure it was dead; touching its dense, tawny coat I found the bullet hole, my fingers shaking. Swiped my blaze orange cap to the ground, I gazed at this animal, I gently laid my rifle on the ground next to its fluffy, white tail. Even dead, the deer's beauty and strength consumed my thoughts as I admired him, sitting next to it in the sun cross-legged, in the brown prairie grass.
Thoughts of the eight point, then my deer lying there dead as I sat next to him, like I lay claim to my kill in some ancient tribal hunt all brought tears to my eyes -- I felt deeply humbled, grateful, my body still on an adrenaline high, trembled. I choked up as I thanked the Lord; He answered my prayer. "You will be many meals fella --so beautiful." Gently resting my palm on his side, there was no chest movement. The only noise, the dry grass crunching under my boots as I got up. Spurred into action, "Alright woman, tag him and get him back to the vehicle. Gotta get him out of this warm sun."
Gutting it, I learned the shot was perfect – straight through the heart. My husband can take credit for teaching me to shoot a rifle well and I know the Lord gave me a steady hand and good eye to make that one shot count. Give credit where it’s due. I truly felt our day was blessed.
Being nearly a mile deeper in the forest, my husband also had shot a button buck within fifteen minutes of mine. He teases that now the 243 isn't a “virgin” any more. That's how it goes. All before nine a.m.. We had food and together time…a great day.
#Marlin243Winchester, #ozarksdeerhunt