First hunting season, trip memorable for 12-year-old

Ever since man was civilized enough to pick up a stick, or a stone, or anything that he could use as a weapon, he was civilized enough to hunt.

That first prehistoric rabbit he smashed started an irreversible trait in man thereafter. We now live in an age of “thank God for Safeway,” but man (real men anyway) still has not lost that instinct to hunt.

That was the case with me, being the manly man that I most certainly am, when it came time for my first hunting season. It was the early fall of my 12th year.

It was not long after I passed the hunter’s safety course that the most sacred of rituals took place. My father gave me my first gun. I am not quite sure if that rifle was given to me or merely loaned, but it made no difference, the symbolism remained the same. It was his father’s gun, one he cherished, and Iwas in a state of

I was radiant with pride as I whipped out my hunter’s safety card and showed it to the drug-store clerk. He took a quick glance and with a short smile began to fill out the necessary paperwork to sell me a hunting license. Although the license would set me back four weeks allowance, I was not at all upset. The tag was another two weeks allowance.

I was in a state of awe as we crammed into our four-wheel drive Blazer a couple of days before hunting season. The trailer was hitched, groceries stored and I prayed as we reached 200 miles away from home, that my shells were in my rifle case. I decided that God was out hunting a bit early this year, because apparently he hadn’t heard my prayer. I was very lucky that the first town we stopped at, Wagontire, Oregon, had shells. They were about three times the price of ammunition anywhere in the civilized world (or seven weeks allowance in my terms) but what the heck, I was on vacation.

My excitement grew as we pulled up an old deserted dirt road. I imagined it was probably one the settlers used to cross the mountains on the Oregon Trail. We unhitched our trailer in an isolated little flat nestled between two large stands of timber. I figured we wouldn’t even have to leave camp to spot deer; this had to be along forgotten deer refuge — everything was perfect.

We got up early Thursday morning, ate and were out scouting the area by noon. All good hunters must get to their area three days before the season so that they can set up camp one day and scout the next two. The purpose for scouting is clear; we all know the anticipation is the best part of anything and the two days before the season all the deer show their stuff.

After two long days of peering through binoculars and driving down game trails, we diagrammed our opening hunt. We had strayed into a small canyon where no one had ever gone before. Here three large bucks, the kind whose pictures they put in the encyclopedia, were sunning themselves just outside a small clump of bushes. The instructions were clear. I would begin on the south wall of the canyon and work my way down the cliff face. My father, grandfather, Roger and Harry would be stationed equal distances apart on the northern crest of the canyon.

I was extremely impressed because they gave me the best position ... I suppose because it was my first hunt. I said, unwisely, “It looks like a lot of walking to me Dad, why don’t we hunt from the pickup, you know drive around and stuff.”

He wasted no time in reprimanding me. “That, Son, is not only unethical, but also ineffective. You have to go in and get the deer.”

Opening morning came quickly, too quickly by about three hours. I was tired but allowed my newly gained manhood strength to pull me out of my sleeping bag and tie the boots I wore to bed. I was ready in every sense of the word. I said a small prayer to God to give us his blessing, protection, and me, personally guidance — to a large buck that I could kill. I felt very confident now and wasted no time eating my breakfast.

My father’s last words as he let me out of the truck were “loud, Kevin, be loud. If the deer thinks your trying to sneak up on him he’ll be gone, just like that.” I took heed of what he said and thought of several catchy songs I could sing as I waited for the rest of the party to take their undesirable positions. I stumbled down the south bluff, only humming, knowing no deer would be up here. After about 20 minutes I reached the bottom and began the Star Spangled banner.

Soon I began hurling rocks in every direction. I still saw no deer. I finally came to the bushes and fired my rocks into and over the barrier in front of me. After my third stone hit I heard a loud, “Who in the hell’s throwing rocks over there?” The voice was unfamiliar.

I dropped the rest of my rocks and worked my way through the small brush patch. I came upon a small camp trailer and an old man next to a lawn chair skinning out my encyclopedia buck.

“Hi son. Boy you really missed the boat. Three big bucks went like a dickens out of this patch. I picked this one. He was the biggest.”

My mouth hung open in admiration; here was a seasoned hunter who really knew how to take a trophy. I walked silently the rest of the way up the north face of the canyon and collapsed quietly into the Blazer. My father said undazed, “Oh, well nothing ventured, nothing gained.” They all agreed and we planned our next hunt.

After an entire day of hunting, we returned to camp. I still had enough energy to be neighborly, so I went to talk to the hunters in the campground.

“Have any luck?” I asked friendly, expecting their disappointed reply.

“Sure did. Why we all killed our bucks and those folks over there did too,” they said cheerfully. “We took our trucks around some of these dirt roads and the kids took those mopeds; why these woods are crawlin’ with deer.”

“Yeah”, I said disheartedly.

My father continued to design brilliant hunts each day, and we must have walked miles. We saw a few small deer, fawns, does and yearlings but the herds we had hoped for must not have been around. Then just as hopes were failing, the last day brought success.

Finally the sweet melody of a gunshot rang out. I rushed in its general direction and came to Roger’s stand. He had dropped a nice big three point. I was surprised at it at first. It seemed to be a fairly robust and healthy deer. I thought for sure it would have some identifiable malady and with it a need to be managed from the herd.

After being split four ways, the deer did little to fill our half empty freezer when we returned home.

My father, excitedly related stories of the twisting of my ankle and its swelling up the size of a basketball and the stories of him falling part way in the frozen creek and nearly getting frostbite. He impressed mom and grandma with the mileage he figured we (I use this term loosely) had walked. I showed Mom the bruises I got from falling partway down a canyon wall and grandpa threw in the story of the truck breaking down in Bly and having to wait three hours to have it fixed.

We told them about our pesky, unethical and unfortunately successful neighbors and about the mosquitoes that left welts the size of a quarter.

My mom, tired of this excited talk broke in mockingly, “So did you have a good time?”

My father and I replied sincerely, “The best time of our lives.”

(This article appears in the September edition of Umpqua Adventures)