Well, maybe not a miracle, but a nice fat doe that sure felt like a miracle after days of hard hunting in the rain over Thanksgiving break.  I was on the stand at 6:30 A.M. the first day of my Christmas vacation and I shot this porky deer at 6:55 A.M.  She weighed around 100 pounds, and thanks to Uncle Gary and Cousin Tim, it was a happy holiday.

Taking a pass, letting one walk; these are euphemisms for making a conscious decision not to take an animal that should be yours dead to rights.  As a confirmed “meat hunter” I have not had much occasion to use such phrases in the past.  A unique set of circumstances on a 2008 Tennessee deer hunt gave me new insight into the decision not to drop the hammer.

My wife’s uncle Gary has been managing his land for deer for the past few years.  A fire set by a neighbor burned a large portion of the timber on the property, so in some sense, he began his whitetail project with a clean slate.  Comparing the racks of two bucks similar in other respects but taken three years apart suggests that he is having some success in bettering the overall condition of his deer herd.  I was therefore quite excited by Gary’s invitation to hunt this property over the Thanksgiving holiday.  It was the first time I’d ever hunted there, so I was also keen to know Gary’s expectations as to my conduct while hunting.  I learned from talking to Gary that due to some bad experiences in the past, I would be one of only a handful of people allowed access to over 200 acres.  Some nimrod who was to kill a few does to reduce the population took two button bucks instead, thereby ending his hunting career on the place.  Gary had a ladder stand hung for me to use, and although he graciously offered for me to kill anything I chose, I was determined not to wear out my welcome.

The first afternoon I hunted on the property, a young buck of no more than 140 pounds came strolling within 40 yards of the stand.  I mistook him for a spike at first, but on closer inspection I discovered that both antlers forked just at the tips.  His rack was well inside his ears, and if he had any brow tines, I couldn’t make them out even through my scope.  Whatever standards Gary had in mind, I knew neither an immature 4-point nor a basket-rack 6 would fit the bill.  My .270 remained silent, and the young buck kept walking.

The next morning, I had two does playing and eating acorns under my stand.  One urinated not ten feet in front of the ladder.  Ordinarily either of them would have been fair game, but after a long and confusing review of the Tennessee regulations I had concluded that I could not legally take a doe.  There was no “quota” hunt for does listed in “Unit L” where I was hunting.  As it turns out, I could not have legally taken either doe, but only because I had not purchased a “non-quota” tag for the princely sum of $12.  Unit L has no doe hunt because you can kill does there.  Makes sense, right?  I literally had to call a state wildlife office to understand it, and I have been practicing law for 16 years.  But then again, what do you expect from a state that has three deer hunting units and labels them A, B, and L?

I forked over the dough the next day and got my permit, and this of course guaranteed that I would not get an opportunity to shoot a doe again for the duration of the trip.  The same two came by the stand again in search of more acorns, but this time they were skittish because a young spike was worrying them.  He sniffed the spot where one had urinated the day before and then went back to dogged pursuit.  What he lacked in technique, he was trying to make up in enthusiasm. The ladies, unimpressed, soon left the area.  I would have been upset had the little buck not reminded me so much of myself during my college years.

I didn’t manage to take a deer off the Tennessee property that first year, but the last weekend of the Alabama season, I got this nice consolation prize.

The 2009 season yielded a nice Tennessee doe as pictured in an earlier post, but there was no real story.  I don’t have notes from that hunt, but if I did, they would read something like, “Deer walked by stand; shot deer.  Field dressed and took to processor.  Drank beer.  Slept well.”  Ted Trueblood it ain’t, folks.

This year as the Alabama season is winding down, I find myself without a deer for the first time in several seasons.  It does not help my feelings that another blog (yeah, it was Field and Stream) just pointed out that the average Alabama deer hunter takes just over two deer per year.  Well at least I ain’t average!

I saw some true monsters in Kansas while bird hunting, but I was armed with handloads of nickel plated #5s.  They are pure poison on pheasants, but they would not make a dent in the 200 pound 12 or 14 point I had at a dead stop 35 yards away.  It’s certainly not that I didn’t see deer in Tennessee this year either.  I saw many more than normal, but every one of them could have been the same deer.  This year’s doe, just out of spots, about 40 pounds.  I had the crosshairs on more deer this year than I ever have, and I almost took one just to continue my streak, but the Sporting Wife said, “Don’t go out there and kill an animal that is less than what you want just to preserve some stupid streak.  That would not make me happy.”  She is annoying like that, with the moral compass bit.

Jimbo Fishman was good enough to listen to my tale of woe and offer that those deer had better be glad they didn’t walk out in front of him.  He said at that size they are easy to tote, easy to skin out, and they taste great.  He’s right on all three counts, but I still think all that bowhunting has affected his brain.  Streaks must come to an end I suppose.  Heck, look at Brett Favre.  Well maybe don’t look, but remember better days.

Although I enjoy a hunting or fishing outing regardless of whether I take any game, it’s always nice to feel I’m doing something besides nature watching.  When someone catches the first fish, I always say, “The skunk is out of the boat.”  With that in mind, after Thanksgiving in Tennessee, my deer season is officially deskunkified.

Cousin Tim looks pretty excited, and who wouldn’t be with a nice 8-point on the front rack?

There’s nothing better than seeing the next generation coming along behind us.  The young sportsman is Tim’s son Garrett.

I took a nanny-head for the freezer, but hey, that’s why they call me the Slayer.  I let several immature bucks ease on by to get a shot at her.  She should be clean, because we had to drag her across a creek.

Tim and I actually put our deer on the ground at the same time from different stands.  We called in Uncle Gary for reinforcement.  Not to be left out of the story, he culled this big-bodied 3-pointer the next morning.

The skunk is definitely out of the stand, so we can all relax and enjoy the rest of the season.

A frequent contributor to the site sent me this picture close to the end of deer season. He offered that he was not too proud of this one, and he apologized for his “late season heavy finger.” In fact, he let me publish these photos only on condition of anonymity. As I appreciate anyone’s contribution to the site, and I am true to my word, I even distorted the license plate when I was resizing the photos. All of this started me thinking about whether the emphasis on big racks and genetic freak “super-deer” has taken some of the fun out of deer hunting. Should Mr. Anonymous have let this buck “go to grow,” as he said in his e-mail to me?

When I was learning to deer hunt as a teenager in Tennessee, whitetails were not nearly as plentiful as they are now. With a buck-only gun season, a successful deer hunt was any trip that ended with field dressing. Sure, we liked to see big racks, but the mark of a hardcore hunter was whether you had meat every season. Deer hunters who had not seen each other in a while met with the question, “Did you get your deer yet this year?”

Take a closer look at this buck:

Any one of those 8 points is big enough to hang a ring on, and that was the test back when Boone and Crockett were just folks we read about in Tennessee History class. By the gray on his muzzle and around his eyes, I don’t believe he had much more growing to do, but I’m no wildlife biologist. He may be past his prime and therefore a perfect deer to take even for those obsessed with the “management” aspect of hunting. What do you think? Our knowledge of whitetail deer has increased vastly since the old days, but I can’t help but echo the sentiments of an older gentleman who advised my nameless friend, “You can boil the horns all day long and they will never get soft enough to eat.”

I get cold just looking at the picture. Jon Smith killed this deer in Illinois the weekend before Christmas. He said he didn’t get the “sure enough biggun” he was after in November, but he managed to get an arrow into this one. Jon wasn’t completely satisfied with the shot; he felt he’d hit the deer a little too far back in the body. He decided to leave the deer overnight and search for him in daylight. He found him all right, frozen solid in the creek where he died. The temperature got down to zero during the night, and the wind chill was around minus 20. That’s cold, y’all, and Jon said it was even colder when he was chopping the deer out of the frozen creek. The buck was solid to the eyeballs.

If Jon didn’t look so tired in the photo, I’d say he bought that deer out of a walk-in freezer. Mr. President, you earned that one!

Scott Overman harvested this deer on New Year’s Eve while participating in a quota hunt in south Georgia. The rack, a main frame 8 with a kicker on the G2 to make him a nine point, will score over 130. He was very old, with an estimated age of over 5.5 years, and he may have been as old as 7.5 years. Way to go, Scott! Now somebody tell me what a “G2″ is. It sounds like a new model number for a street bike.

Lee in Pensacola is wearing out the trail cam again. In this sequence, a young rival appears to be still hanging around with a seasoned vet. When the rut kicks into high gear and both are running does, I’ll bet the old boy serves him some “shut up juice” unless Lee takes the better deer out of the picture. Let us know how it goes, Lee. We’d like to see that nice deer on the back of a four wheeler.

Antioch Hunt Club

The first deer camp I ever knew was the Antioch Hunt Club in Ramer, TN. Calling it a club is really elevating it, much like calling Ramer a town. It was near the end of a dirt road that began behind the Antioch Church of Christ, hence the name. My friend Trevor’s dad Houston was the “hunt master,” and when we were old enough, Trevor and I were invited to go along with the men. I didn’t have my driver’s license yet when we first started going down there to hunt, and I hunted there through my college years.

The cabin was an old three-room shack the guys had moved onto the property. It had once been someone’s home, but it didn’t have running water or indoor plumbing. There was a sink in the kitchen that drained straight onto the ground outside, and we hauled water from “town” and boiled it to wash dishes. The bathroom was either a rock that sat by the front porch, or the woods behind the back porch for jobs requiring paperwork.

We young bucks didn’t sleep in the cabin proper, but in an old Falstaff beer trailer off to one side that had been converted into a six bed bunkhouse. There was an old white van that had made its last run to Colorado for elk hunting and been put out to pasture, a cinder block pit in which someone had reputedly barbecued a bobcat, and a barrel for burning trash. The burning barrel had holes in the side from where someone cleaning out the cabin had accidentally scooped up some live rounds. From time to time, pine trees would blow over onto the wire that carried our power, and the whole compound would have no electricity. In short, it was paradise.

There was a massive old wood stove in the front room that was made from a heavy metal cylinder, possibly a propane storage tank. It drafted like a steam train and it would run you out of the cabin on the coldest night if you stoked the fire properly. More than one of us melted the soles of our boots by resting them too long on its surface. In a pinch, we’d put aluminum foil on top and toast bread. In the evenings, the fire would warm the hundreds of wasps that nested in the ceiling, and they’d start working their way through the crevices and come down to join us. We considered it very manly to kill one of the still groggy wasps with your knife rather than making a big fuss and swatting it. Occasionally you’d get one that was a little too fresh, and then you’d have your hands full.

Rules of civilized conduct and decorum were relaxed at the deer camp. Swearing, dipping, smoking, and drinking beer were not encouraged for the younger folks, but were at least tolerated. We’d have ribeye steaks cooked on the grill with potatoes and onions individually wrapped in foil and baked in the coals. The younger folks would usually then play German spotlight while the grown men played poker. For the uninitiated, German spotlight is a game in which one person counts with eyes closed to about a hundred while the others disperse through the dark woods. The person who is “it” has a flashlight, and the other players see how close they can get before the player with the flashlight can trap them in the beam and call them by name. The first identified is the new “it” and the game begins again. It is absolutely spooky how close the players can get if they time their movements properly and use camouflage. We would often switch hats or clothes to make the final identification more difficult. Of course, while one player is in the light, the others are all advancing.

We had a jam box in the beer trailer, and we would listen to Motley Crue or Iron Maiden and tell stories about girls we wanted to be with. We read Metal Edge magazine and Petersen’s Hunting. We’d have our own poker games, usually for toothpicks or if we were feeling particularly reckless, pennies. One night we were awakened by Bobby, who had done so well in the real poker game that he marched through the camp singing “Bringing in the Sheaves” at full throat. He was obviously in the Spirit. I still think of Bobby every time I hear that hymn. In the mornings, one of the older guys liked to wake up about 4:00 and cut our power when it was twenty degrees outside. This was supposed to motivate us to get up and get in the woods, but all it ever did for me was make me dig deeper into my sleeping bag.

There were a couple of three-wheelers down there, and Trevor’s cousin Keith could do just about anything on a Honda 200X. It had a clutch like a motorcycle, and it scared the living dickens out of me. It was cold-shouldered, and to start out in first, you had to rev it up and dump the clutch so hard that you popped an involuntary wheelie. There was a more mild-mannered 200S that I nonetheless managed to roll over on my friend Colby and myself trying to climb a rocky, near-vertical hill.

We hunted from ladder stands like the Oil Can Stand, named because the trail to it was marked with a discarded oil can, and Uncle Blackie’s Stand, named of course for Uncle Blackie. Colby killed a nice seven-point out of the Oil Can Stand, and I made the longest shot I’ve ever made on a whitetail deer out of Uncle Blackie’s Stand after Uncle Blackie was getting on in years and didn’t hunt from a tree anymore. Houston had a stand in the crotch of a tree that was nearly thirty feet high, and Trevor once awoke from a sound sleep to shoot two deer practically straight under the tree. If there is any such thing as luck, Trevor has his own share and mine.

We were woods hunters, because this predated green fields and shooting houses. The tractor would not become a deer hunting implement for several years. We’d hang a stand over a likely trail and wait. I still like to hunt that way. The “long” shot I mentioned was stepped off at 163 paces, and was only possible because a bachelor group of bucks ran noisily through an opening on the opposite ridge. One stooped for just a moment to see what could be making that sharp whistling noise, and I dropped him with a Remington Bronze Point from my .270.

As older members quit hunting or passed away, we were eventually promoted to sleeping in the cabin. I’ve always had trouble falling asleep, so I took the top bunk in the front room where the poker game would often go on into the small hours. My appreciation for the game comes from watching the older gentlemen playing. From my vantage point, I could see some of the players’ hands, and I had to remain stone-faced and silent to avoid giving away any information. In one night, I saw more than a thousand dollars change hands over that table, and that was more money than I could even imagine back then.

Trevor’s uncle and Keith’s father Wayne was our camp cook. We boys all called him Uncle Wayne, and the other men called him Big Wayne. I’d hazard a guess that Uncle Wayne went over five hundred pounds, and he snored like nothing I’ve ever heard in my life. Needless to say, he could cook, and he sometimes withheld our breakfast until we younger fellows cleaned out the cabin or washed dishes. I guess my folks had enough of chores when they were growing up on the farm, so I didn’t have many at home. I’m pretty sure the first time my hands ever touched dishwater was at that camp.

There was a cow skull hanging on either side of the front door, and a wooden sign read “YES, THERE IS A LOT OF DEER HUNTED AROUND HERE, BUT THE DEER ARE NOT AWARE OF IT.” A chain fastened to a nail in the door and looped around a nail behind one of the skulls was all we had or needed for security. Splitting firewood and tossing it onto the front porch one year, Troy threw a stick of stove wood through the front window, illustrating the futility of installing any sort of lock. I did spend some cold nights down there when the power went out after some scoundrel stole our wonderful stove. I’ve since been in more comfortable camps, but that one will always have my heart. I keep some spent orange “Hunter” 12 gauge shells in my reloading bench that I took from a shelf in the front room when we finally left the old place for the last time.

The Daniel Hill Sportsmen’s Society

After the Antioch property was sold, the club started hunting out of what had once been a Boy Scout camp in Bethel, TN. The cabin on this property stood before the Civil War, and was originally built without a single nail. Wooden pegs joined the ceiling beams, and some of the square-hewn logs in the walls were over two feet wide. Dogtrots separated the main cabin from two bunk houses. A renovation replaced the original chinking material with concrete and added electricity and running water. Beavers dammed a creek that ran beside the pump-house and flooded the well, so we still hauled drinking water, but we could take a shower or wash dishes with “beaver water.” The group changed its name to the “Daniel Hill Sportsmen’s Society” to honor the man who originally built the cabin. We kept the old sign.

I was out of law school, and I paid dues to help maintain the cabin and pay for luxuries like electricity and television. For the first time, I played with the older members in the poker games. We played dealer’s choice, with a $1 or $2 bet on each card except the last, when the limit jumped to $5. Follow the Queen was always a favorite. One year after subtracting my poker winnings, I paid $2 to hunt the whole season. All those late nights of quietly watching were obviously worthwhile. I was proud to be able to hold my own with these men I admired.

We hunted green fields on this property. I once shot a six-point just before dark from a metal folding chair at the edge of a field within sight of the cabin. I was hunting alone that weekend, so I walked back to the cabin. I used my Jeep to drag the deer down the road to the cabin where I field dressed it. I spread trash bags on the floor and pulled the buck into the kitchen to keep coyotes or wild dogs from finding it before I could return with my Papaw in his pickup.

Roger killed a fourteen-point with some freaky-looking palmate antlers that was one of the nicest bucks I’ve ever seen anywhere. Uncle Wayne hunted his last season from this camp. When he passed away, I looked around at the funeral and saw all the men with whom I’d hunted over the years. His grave site is within walking distance of my Mamaw and Papaw’s house, and when I walked home after the service, I remarked to my folks that it really made me think about the people with whom I spent my time. There aren’t any saints in this bunch, but a young man could do a lot worse for companions.

Another group bought the lease on this property, and that ended my TN hunting career.

Washington County

I didn’t hunt deer for many years, and then I started going with my friend Marty to the “camp-house” he shares with his brother Johnny Mack in Washingtom County, AL. The description is apt, as I’ve lived in many places that were not as nice. That’s the camp truck, “Skippy,” in the photo of me with the fat doe accompanying the “Who is the Armchair Outfitter?” piece. To say that the hunting is good over there would be a massive understatement. I had hunted out of that camp for exactly 28 minutes before that doe was lying dead 90 yards from a shooting house called Number 4. I killed one that could be her twin out of Old No. 7 the last weekend of the 2007-2008 season.

One reason I’m welcome there is that they are overrun with does, and I won’t hesitate to take one. Sure, I’ll wait for a buck, but only if there’s already a doe in the freezer. “Put the meat on the ground,” is my catchphrase, and it has earned me a nickname involving a slang term for either the female part of the anatomy or a cat and “slayer.” I’ve been called worse. I like to take a nice healthy animal, and the Sporting Wife and I can’t eat antlers. This year, Johnny Mack drove to Old No. 7 after hearing my shot, served me a beer out of his cooler and some peanuts, and threw the deer in the back of his truck! Johnny Mack’s son Garrett had taken a nice eight-point earlier the same afternoon. Combine that with poker and Sid or Marty’s cooking, and you can’t have a better deer camp experience.

He endured the rain the last weekend of the season and finally had a fatal encounter with the mature ten-point at about 9:00 A.M.

A Browning Stainless Stalker in .270 WSM topped with a 3.5 x 12 x 56 Kahles scope did the trick at 100 yards.

The buck had an 18″ inside spread, but was depleted to 130 pounds by the rut.

Yet another example of what chasing women will do to you!

Thanks for the great pics Lee. Keep your powder dry.