nelsonted1
New member
"Don't Shoot the Horns!" That was me talking to myself as I pulled the trigger.
=============
This is an email description of the day I shot my little buck with big horns. It was a few moments without end.
In 2001 I hurt myself under a wood chipper and have been disabled with constant pain. Making myself do things has been a constant struggle-quitting is always in the front of my brain. Pain shouts at me to not to do things. When one stops one thing because it hurts, then it's the next and pretty soon you're a brokedick with no life except eating and crybabying about being a loser. I dread being a crybaby brokedick loser so push myself hard. This is me pushing myself as hard as I can.
The afternoon started out with me sitting on my ground-pad, reading a book, playing with the horses that kept coming around pestering me, watching nature happen in every direction- a beautiful day in spite of the world being completely saturated after a week of heavy rain. The rain would start up again in a downpour just after I shot the buck. I had hoped he'd jump the fence so I could shoot him on my side but he spotted me when he was on his knees with his head near the ground looking for a gap to slide under.
Several times I had to lay down with my back spasming. That sucked since the rain was pouring down on my face and the ground was wet- obviously- and I had no one around to see me and get a good laugh. I have one guiding focus in my life- when I do something outrageous I hope it is seen and not wasted.
So here goes:
I shot an eight pointer today!
I set up at Jim's in the back corner of a pasture, in a fair spot. I knew a doe and two fawn went through there every day so I figured I'd "harvest" the doe. Harvest is the fashionable kill-a-deer term at the moment.
Anyway, I got there with my buffalo gun but without the magazine making it a single shot. The gun shoots so well I don't need more than one shot. I don't have a big freezer so don't need to shoot five deer like I did once in Minnesota. You remember that day with a tractor-loader packed with deer and their legs sticking out in every direction. We butchered deer until 3:30 am and I still made it to my 8:00 am class at St Paul campus. That was a very, very long day...
The buffalo gun, truly legal for buffalo, was on sale for $400, while they sell used for $800 so I bought it figuring I need one really outrageous gun in my life. Turns out it is phenomenally accurate and doesn't kick at all when I shoot small bullets going real slow. When I shoot big bullets with the right powder it throws flame three feet across, six feet forward and bellers like naval artillery. That's just for showing off. Cause it also kicks hard when I do that. The macho, tight-fisted guys I shoot with sure scream though. Even had one pull out his check book and beg me to sell it! I need to name the rifle. DoomClapper or something.
The rifle is an ingenious tool for deer hunting. It flings deer like a dishrag! I shot a buck a couple years ago when he was jumping a fence. He was snatched out of the air and stapled to the ground! I stood there stunned stupid. I've shot deer with it since and am always amazed at how it works. THe bullets going so slow don't damage the meat like a lot of fast, fancy calibers do- they inject blood and bone splinters through meat ruining a lot of it. This rifle is like a shotgun shooting slugs- you can eat right up to the hole.
So I was reading my book. Don't ever go hunting without a book or, in cold weather, a fire between your feet while you're sitting on a lawn chair. That's how Dad does it. That time we hunted in Nerstrand with snow pouring down so heavily we could just see a glimmer of orange coming from the guys across the valley. Dad lugged his lawn chair and a sack full of corn cobs. He told me he would not suffer when he hunts deer. He started his fire between his feet, pulled out his paperback and waited. Before long he leaped up and shot two deer running toward him full blast trying to flatten him! Later, he almost cried thinking of those poor souls suffering on the other hill without a chair, a fire or a book. I offered to drive around the valley but he told me not to overdo it.
Back to my buck.
I hear a noise, look up and a little buck with BIG HORNS! was moseying along horn-smashing trees as he walked. Kind of how Festus acts when he sees Rachael smile at him.
I had to make a snap decision since we were looking at each other. He looked pretty small, we only get one buck here so I wanted to save my "harvest" for a gigantuan, and besides, I wasn't feeling real well and didn't look forward to dragging a buck up a little hill and down a very long one. One year I followed a deer with my sights finally letting him go because I was still too hurt to deal with a downed deer. I couldn't even climb a barbed-wire fence that day. I was pretty bad then.
I whipped the rifle up and blasted him saying to myself "NOT THE HORNS!" when I shot. (He only had a head and neck showing). Got him through the neck. Down he went. I sat there for the longest time wondering how stupid I really was looking at the poor fella.
Finally, I got up and walked over, climbed the fence and squatted down on my heels looking him over wondering if it was going to be worth it.
I couldn't drag him to the fence since the fence was too low to get his horns under and too tall to get him over. I walked up the hill and down a step or two and found a likely spot. Only I couldn't even pull him or move him (a little heavier than I thought). I finally got him to the fence but couldn't even get his shoulders off the ground. DRAT.
I walked all the way back to Jim's (he's in Ohio so he is no help) and got a pulley system he had hanging on the wall waiting for me to borrow. Walk back to the buck. Set it way up on a branch, hooked it on a horn. Couldn't lift the shoulders off the ground. DRAT!!!
I finally hooked it to the bottom of the fence and dragged it up high enough to get the head under. It was an old hog-type fence with the squares. I dragged and pulled until he went under. Nearly had a seizure. I even had to lay down awhile. The hill I needed to climb was only 25 feet high but was so steep it scared me. How, when I can't even drag him over a fence, was I going to get him back to Jim's?
I put the ropes and the pulley system in my back pack and tried to move him. Dang. He wasn't moving, not an inch. So I figured I had to gut him right there. Innards in an animal are at least 30% of the animal's weight so if I was going to have any hope of getting him back I had to do it right then. The reason I didn't want to gut him there was I didn't want a stinky gutpile scaring off my doe.
The hole holding his vitals was so deep it scared me, it was like gutting an aircraft carrier. And almost made me curse. I did have gutting-gloves so I stayed clean. Took a long time, though. One thing good about the deer gutting process- your hands are warm. I liked warm hands right then.
He almost killed me backing up the hill. After a lifetime I crested the hill not even realizing I had since I was struggling so hard with my head down. Going down the other side didn’t help much. I had to stop every fifteen or twenty feet and catch my breath. Laid down in the mud a couple times to stop the twitching and jerking in my back. I caught myself staring up at the clouds while the rain was splashing on my face [insert your thoughts here].
If I had to work like that on a job I'd tell them I hurt myself a while back and just quit. I wouldn't do it or more like I couldn't do it. The only thing was I couldn't leave the deer lay there just because I was sore. So I kept going. I'd get these wild ideas like "I'm not a kid anymore." "I could have a heart attack." "People have heart attacks when they calm down so it could hit me an hour from now" "He probably was a baby at some time so I'm a bambi killer"...
The mud was so bad that I couldn't use Jim's loader tractor even if I had the key. I'd have hot-wired it if it wasn't so wet. I could see it down there as I was going along. Like a drunk looking in a saloon window at the revelers having fun I looked at the big Case backhoe tractor just made for little eight pointers. I hated that tractor right then.
I finally got it down to the fence and across Jim's yard. The poor horses, Jorge especially, since he's stupider, were snuffling and snorting at the bloody piled-up deer. That was funny. Reminded me of the Old Senator and Old Governor (in their 70s) from Idaho that killed an elk. They were loading the quartered elk on the family pet- the twenty year old mule that had never done anything outrageous in his entire life, pet. He kicked the senator in the head and rolled the governor in a ravine. The governor got hisself back up the hill and saw his best friend laying there head-kicked and just knew he'd died. Eventually he got the senator up on the trembling mule and into a hospital and they were both fine. So was the mule. Really happened. Could have happened to me if I used Jorge to get my bloody little buck back except I wouldn't have been able to get him off the ground.
Got a small red wagon to haul him into the barn except I couldn't lift him into the wagon. I tipped the wagon on end and tried to get the buck on end so I could tip the cart down with the little buck in it. Wouldn't work. Nothing worked. If someone could tape me when I'm having one of these stupid-spells we could all be rich.
I eventually got him into the wagon, into the barn, onto a table covered with plastic (that part is for Jim's benefit in case he reads this) and quartered him. I have a lot of meat. I gave some to Kim and all since Rachael loves venison so much. Plus I don't have a lot of room in my refrigerator-freezer combo. And I need to shoot the doe tomorrow if she hasn't shied from the gut pile in her way too much.
TED
Wait!
I like my rifle.
=============
This is an email description of the day I shot my little buck with big horns. It was a few moments without end.
In 2001 I hurt myself under a wood chipper and have been disabled with constant pain. Making myself do things has been a constant struggle-quitting is always in the front of my brain. Pain shouts at me to not to do things. When one stops one thing because it hurts, then it's the next and pretty soon you're a brokedick with no life except eating and crybabying about being a loser. I dread being a crybaby brokedick loser so push myself hard. This is me pushing myself as hard as I can.
The afternoon started out with me sitting on my ground-pad, reading a book, playing with the horses that kept coming around pestering me, watching nature happen in every direction- a beautiful day in spite of the world being completely saturated after a week of heavy rain. The rain would start up again in a downpour just after I shot the buck. I had hoped he'd jump the fence so I could shoot him on my side but he spotted me when he was on his knees with his head near the ground looking for a gap to slide under.
Several times I had to lay down with my back spasming. That sucked since the rain was pouring down on my face and the ground was wet- obviously- and I had no one around to see me and get a good laugh. I have one guiding focus in my life- when I do something outrageous I hope it is seen and not wasted.
So here goes:
I shot an eight pointer today!
I set up at Jim's in the back corner of a pasture, in a fair spot. I knew a doe and two fawn went through there every day so I figured I'd "harvest" the doe. Harvest is the fashionable kill-a-deer term at the moment.
Anyway, I got there with my buffalo gun but without the magazine making it a single shot. The gun shoots so well I don't need more than one shot. I don't have a big freezer so don't need to shoot five deer like I did once in Minnesota. You remember that day with a tractor-loader packed with deer and their legs sticking out in every direction. We butchered deer until 3:30 am and I still made it to my 8:00 am class at St Paul campus. That was a very, very long day...
The buffalo gun, truly legal for buffalo, was on sale for $400, while they sell used for $800 so I bought it figuring I need one really outrageous gun in my life. Turns out it is phenomenally accurate and doesn't kick at all when I shoot small bullets going real slow. When I shoot big bullets with the right powder it throws flame three feet across, six feet forward and bellers like naval artillery. That's just for showing off. Cause it also kicks hard when I do that. The macho, tight-fisted guys I shoot with sure scream though. Even had one pull out his check book and beg me to sell it! I need to name the rifle. DoomClapper or something.
The rifle is an ingenious tool for deer hunting. It flings deer like a dishrag! I shot a buck a couple years ago when he was jumping a fence. He was snatched out of the air and stapled to the ground! I stood there stunned stupid. I've shot deer with it since and am always amazed at how it works. THe bullets going so slow don't damage the meat like a lot of fast, fancy calibers do- they inject blood and bone splinters through meat ruining a lot of it. This rifle is like a shotgun shooting slugs- you can eat right up to the hole.
So I was reading my book. Don't ever go hunting without a book or, in cold weather, a fire between your feet while you're sitting on a lawn chair. That's how Dad does it. That time we hunted in Nerstrand with snow pouring down so heavily we could just see a glimmer of orange coming from the guys across the valley. Dad lugged his lawn chair and a sack full of corn cobs. He told me he would not suffer when he hunts deer. He started his fire between his feet, pulled out his paperback and waited. Before long he leaped up and shot two deer running toward him full blast trying to flatten him! Later, he almost cried thinking of those poor souls suffering on the other hill without a chair, a fire or a book. I offered to drive around the valley but he told me not to overdo it.
Back to my buck.
I hear a noise, look up and a little buck with BIG HORNS! was moseying along horn-smashing trees as he walked. Kind of how Festus acts when he sees Rachael smile at him.
I had to make a snap decision since we were looking at each other. He looked pretty small, we only get one buck here so I wanted to save my "harvest" for a gigantuan, and besides, I wasn't feeling real well and didn't look forward to dragging a buck up a little hill and down a very long one. One year I followed a deer with my sights finally letting him go because I was still too hurt to deal with a downed deer. I couldn't even climb a barbed-wire fence that day. I was pretty bad then.
I whipped the rifle up and blasted him saying to myself "NOT THE HORNS!" when I shot. (He only had a head and neck showing). Got him through the neck. Down he went. I sat there for the longest time wondering how stupid I really was looking at the poor fella.
Finally, I got up and walked over, climbed the fence and squatted down on my heels looking him over wondering if it was going to be worth it.
I couldn't drag him to the fence since the fence was too low to get his horns under and too tall to get him over. I walked up the hill and down a step or two and found a likely spot. Only I couldn't even pull him or move him (a little heavier than I thought). I finally got him to the fence but couldn't even get his shoulders off the ground. DRAT.
I walked all the way back to Jim's (he's in Ohio so he is no help) and got a pulley system he had hanging on the wall waiting for me to borrow. Walk back to the buck. Set it way up on a branch, hooked it on a horn. Couldn't lift the shoulders off the ground. DRAT!!!
I finally hooked it to the bottom of the fence and dragged it up high enough to get the head under. It was an old hog-type fence with the squares. I dragged and pulled until he went under. Nearly had a seizure. I even had to lay down awhile. The hill I needed to climb was only 25 feet high but was so steep it scared me. How, when I can't even drag him over a fence, was I going to get him back to Jim's?
I put the ropes and the pulley system in my back pack and tried to move him. Dang. He wasn't moving, not an inch. So I figured I had to gut him right there. Innards in an animal are at least 30% of the animal's weight so if I was going to have any hope of getting him back I had to do it right then. The reason I didn't want to gut him there was I didn't want a stinky gutpile scaring off my doe.
The hole holding his vitals was so deep it scared me, it was like gutting an aircraft carrier. And almost made me curse. I did have gutting-gloves so I stayed clean. Took a long time, though. One thing good about the deer gutting process- your hands are warm. I liked warm hands right then.
He almost killed me backing up the hill. After a lifetime I crested the hill not even realizing I had since I was struggling so hard with my head down. Going down the other side didn’t help much. I had to stop every fifteen or twenty feet and catch my breath. Laid down in the mud a couple times to stop the twitching and jerking in my back. I caught myself staring up at the clouds while the rain was splashing on my face [insert your thoughts here].
If I had to work like that on a job I'd tell them I hurt myself a while back and just quit. I wouldn't do it or more like I couldn't do it. The only thing was I couldn't leave the deer lay there just because I was sore. So I kept going. I'd get these wild ideas like "I'm not a kid anymore." "I could have a heart attack." "People have heart attacks when they calm down so it could hit me an hour from now" "He probably was a baby at some time so I'm a bambi killer"...
The mud was so bad that I couldn't use Jim's loader tractor even if I had the key. I'd have hot-wired it if it wasn't so wet. I could see it down there as I was going along. Like a drunk looking in a saloon window at the revelers having fun I looked at the big Case backhoe tractor just made for little eight pointers. I hated that tractor right then.
I finally got it down to the fence and across Jim's yard. The poor horses, Jorge especially, since he's stupider, were snuffling and snorting at the bloody piled-up deer. That was funny. Reminded me of the Old Senator and Old Governor (in their 70s) from Idaho that killed an elk. They were loading the quartered elk on the family pet- the twenty year old mule that had never done anything outrageous in his entire life, pet. He kicked the senator in the head and rolled the governor in a ravine. The governor got hisself back up the hill and saw his best friend laying there head-kicked and just knew he'd died. Eventually he got the senator up on the trembling mule and into a hospital and they were both fine. So was the mule. Really happened. Could have happened to me if I used Jorge to get my bloody little buck back except I wouldn't have been able to get him off the ground.
Got a small red wagon to haul him into the barn except I couldn't lift him into the wagon. I tipped the wagon on end and tried to get the buck on end so I could tip the cart down with the little buck in it. Wouldn't work. Nothing worked. If someone could tape me when I'm having one of these stupid-spells we could all be rich.
I eventually got him into the wagon, into the barn, onto a table covered with plastic (that part is for Jim's benefit in case he reads this) and quartered him. I have a lot of meat. I gave some to Kim and all since Rachael loves venison so much. Plus I don't have a lot of room in my refrigerator-freezer combo. And I need to shoot the doe tomorrow if she hasn't shied from the gut pile in her way too much.
TED
Wait!
I like my rifle.