Deer Hunting
by Captain Perry Wrinkle
It’s getting to be that time of year and the early morning chills tell me that fall is fast approaching. Years ago, when I was young, I got more excited over the turning of the leaves than anything else, even Xmas. It meant hunting season was coming and that’s what I lived for. I could hardly wait to hear the thunder of a partridge bursting from cover or the crash of a big buck jumping through the frosty leaves.
It’s amazing how things have changed over the years. I now hate to see the summer ending, how I enjoy the long sunny days on a calm ocean. In September, I start seeing all these guys dressed like soldiers and carrying a bag of arrows on their backs. At first I thought they were some kind of Indian Paramilitary group, special forces or something. Come to find out they are deer hunters. The state has arranged it so they can hunt for about three months and kill a bunch of deer as long as they do it with a bow and arrow and don’t disturb any transplant treehuggers. I can’t get “Old Betsy” down off the gunrack until November, and even then I have to go in the woods disguised as “the great Pumpkin” and can’t get within a nautical mile of a house.
When I was a kid we grew up on deer meat, everyone knew it was good anytime after the 4th of July. I came from a big family and I think we would have gone hungry a lot if not for deer meat. During the “war years,” the game wardens tended to turn a blind eye toward poachers who were trying to feed their family. Beef steak was rationed and most stores had nothing but hamburger. In 1943, the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) approved horse meat for sale. Weren’t bad. Back then the neighbors would tell you they had a couple deer feeding in their garden and if you got one you saw to getting them a hind quarter.
My youngest son is really into this bow hunting. He gets all dressed up like a tree and even colors his face and hands. He got his older brother into it until Al fell out of a tree and damn near killed himself. He even got me fired up on the idea. He showed up at the house with his bow and arrows and a practice target that looked like a big buck. He told me of all the deer he had been seeing and how exciting it all is. My days of playing Indian came flooding back to me. I remembered making a bow out of one of the old man’s spruce trap bows and whittling out arrows from cedar laths. It worked pretty well until I put an empty rifle shell on the end of one of my arrows and broke my mother’s kitchen window with it. I remember that, my arse remembers even better!
He finally got me outside and set up his deer target.
“Now” says he, “there’s nothing to it”. He got his bow out of the car and it looked like a mini scallop dragger. There were strings and pulleys running everywhere on it. He pulled it back a few times to show me how easy it was and said to aim right at the target. I pulled her back as far as I could and let it fly! “Twang!” The arrow fell on my feet and about a pound of flesh came peeling off my forearm.
He said, “You didn’t release it right.”
I said, “Get it out of here before I cut it up with the axe.”
“But you will get onto it” he said.
I said, “If I ever need a deer that bad I will shoot it with my gun and that’s all I want to hear about it.” I’m waiting till November now so I can dress up like the “great Pumpkin”
Good Fishing