By Robert Lane

Bob Lane is a Licensed Master Maine Guide and photographer. He has also guided Caribou Hunters and Fishermen on float trips in Southwest Alaska.

July’s warm, sunny weather doesn’t provide much incentive to think about deer hunting to outdoorsmen who are trolling for deep swimming salmon and togue, whipping out the fly line during the drake hatch, or pursuing numerous other activities in the Maine woods this time of year.

This time of year I find myself occupied with trying to decide where I’m going to fish during the week and on the weekends, and trying to fit the kayaking and photography in to boot. Being an avid outdoorsman is no easy task. With the expanded archery season opening in September, rifle season for the elusive whitetail opening in November, now is the time to begin preparation to increase your odds for a successful hunting season. Rifles need to be sighted in, bows and arrows need to be tuned, and shooting practice begun in earnest, and, if you hunt from a climbing tree stand, it needs to be inspected and readied for the upcoming days afield.

Over the last 10 seasons, I’ve shot nine deer from my portable climber and I swear by the method. I’d no more go out without it than I would without my favorite rifle. However, I find that the tree stand is the most overlooked piece of equipment in the hunter’s arsenal. Its usually hung in the garage, or tucked away in the cellar and forgotten about until a few days before the season opens. That’s no time to discover a problem that may require a repair or replacement part. Now is the time get it ready for archery and rifle season.

First and foremost is to go over the stand and check the welds. Make sure that they are still solid. I had a crack in one on a stand a few years ago. Luckily I caught it before I went out. It was a simple matter to get it repaired.

If your stand attaches to the tree by cables, check these carefully for fraying and general wear. Any doubt about their integrity is reason enough to replace both of them. If one is bad, most likely the other one will be too. Most manufacturers sell these and a variety of replacement parts for their climbing and stationary stands.

If yours is an older climber and made of steel, attach it to a tree and get in it. Stand up, sit down, twist, and turn and listen for any creaking noises, squeaks etc. Nothing will alert a deer to your presence more than a noisy stand. I lost a shot at a nice buck years back because of it. This is critical if you are a bow hunter and are shooting at close range. The deer that busted me was almost 40 yards away when my stand creaked.

Noise isn’t such a problem with the new aluminum models. I have one of these, but I still get in it just to be sure. I have found that birch trees combined with a climbing stand will make noise even after the stand has been secured in place. Most noise can be cured by tightening a loose part and making sure that it is snug against the tree when reach the desired height.

On steel stands rust can be a factor. It gives off odor that an animal can detect. Ask any fox or coyote trapper about rust. They dye and wax their traps to keep them from oxidizing and emitting a smell. Just because you’re 15 feet off the ground doesn’t mean scent from you and your equipment will go undetected by a deer. A number of variables such as temperature, wind, air density will affect how scent is carried to the nose of a wary whitetail. Any rust should be removed with a wire brush and the area repainted to prevent further rusting during the season when the stand is exposed to the elements. Doing so will also increase the life of the stand.

Once I’m up in my stand I stay all day, and that requires that I be comfortable. Cushions will wear out and the covering will deteriorate over time making them uncomfortable, or unusable. Sitting over a prime trail or feeding area is no place to be moving around in a tree stand trying to get comfortable. Check those seats early in the season and if they aren’t up to the job, repair or replace them. Again most manufacturers carry these and other replacement parts.

I always go over my safety harness at the end of each season and again in the summer, and check for fraying and other wear. Most harnesses have a special tacking on the tether strap that connects from the back of the harness to the tree, and is designed to lessen the shock of a fall. Most of these are designed to be used only once. Check yours to be sure this tacking is still intact. If it isn’t, consult the manufacturer before you use it.

I keep two four point harnesses in my truck at all times in case one becomes unserviceable. If you forget yours, either go back home and get it, or hunt from the ground. The records of injuries incurred as a result of falls from trees stands are grim. Many a hunter has been crippled for life and others have been killed from falls from as low as ten feet up.
Under no circumstances should you use anything but a four point harness when hunting from a tree stand. The old type that consisted of a belt around the waste could cause a hunter to hang doubled at the waist, or inflict serious internal injuries. Last year I saw a guy in a stand with a hank of tow rope under his shoulders attached to the tree by two half-hitches with about two feet of slack in the tether rope. It was a recipe for disaster if I ever saw one.

My harness is on and attached to the tree as soon as I’m in the stand, and before I start climbing, as the majority of falls occur when ascending and descending the tree. Once I’m up in position I take all of the slack out of the tether. This pretty much eliminates any shock when the harness fetches up should I fall. The shock of a two hundred pound body falling a foot or even six inches and then being suddenly fetched up is painful at best and could result in injury. No slack in my tether also allows me to use it as a stabilizer and lean out over the stand when bow hunting.

Always carry a cell phone and let someone know where you are and when you expect to be out of the woods when hunting from a tree stand. I have several emergency numbers pre-programmed into mine. My phone has a lanyard on it that is looped through the buttonhole in the flap of my shirt pocket, eliminating the possibility of dropping it. If you should have a mishap and are unable to climb back down the tree, the phone could mean the difference between a long stint and possibly an overnight hanging in your harness. Your chances of hanging up-right and being able to call someone on the cell phone are better if you are strapped into nothing less than a four-point safety harness. Over the last couple of years I’ve seen several devices on the market that are designed to assist hunters in getting back to the ground after they have fallen and are hanging in a safety harness. These can be found with a little searching on the web. Summit is a major manufacturer of tree stands, harnesses, and accessories. I’ve had good luck with their products. Check them out at www.summitstands.com

Tree stand inspections and proper safety procedures don’t take a lot of time or effort, or even cost much for that matter. They can save a day’s hunt or even a life. While not all falls are fatal, many, hunters have seen an abrupt end to their hunting days due to crippling injuries resulting from a fall from a tree stand that hasn’t been properly maintained, or used in conjunction with a safe, four-point harness.

When opening day rolls around, I want to be up in my favorite tree at daybreak, watching the shadows give way to the day, and listening to the sounds of the woods waking up. I’ll watch the edge growth, the hardwoods, and the thickets, confidently focusing on the hunt, knowing that my stand is secure and my harness safe, because I took the time to go over my gear well before the onset of the best season of the year.

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By Denny L. Vasquez

© Copyrighted

“Are you gonna make it?” my guide whispered in my right ear. I didn’t even make an effort to turn toward him, but just gave a slight nod of my head in response. I snickered to myself’ “Are you gonna make it?” he asks. Hmph, I thought! a fine time to ask me that seemingly senseless question now.

We were almost to the trailhead, and it didn’t matter that I was gulping air as if it were some type of coolant that could soothe the fire in my lungs or that my body felt like rubber from running across the face of this hell that he called a mountain. At that moment I couldn’t have held still for a steady shot if my life depended on it. And to top it off, we were up at a minimum of 10,000 feet in elevation; but it was probably closer to 11,000.

Now to some of you I am sure that 10,000 or 11,000 feet doesn’t seem like much. But it is a bit much for a flatlander whose usual habitat is 50 feet above sea level, even if he has exercised for six months prior to the hunt. (One thing I had learned on this hunt is that you are never fully prepared, no matter how much you exercise. Not when you go from 50 feet above sea level to 10,000 above sea level.)

“What”, some of you ask, “hunting Angora goats in the Rocky Mountains? Isn’t that what we used to have on the ranch when I was a kid?” Well, yes it is in one sense, but in another sense, it also isn’t. Let me back up a bit and explain how I got to be in this peculiar predicament.

During the summer of 1993 I received a call from an outfitter friend of mine inviting me to come hunt elk and mule deer with him on a Colorado ranch which he was considering purchasing. If things worked out, then he would be adding this ranch to his list of ranches that he has to offer his clients. Knowing how much I love to hunt, it didn’t really take very much to twist my arm into adding another hunting trip into my busy fall schedule.The ranch is located in the Grand Mesa region near Colbran, Colorado.

The area of the Grand Mesa’s northern slope, where we would be spending 10 days trying to find a good bull elk, is called Storm King Mountain. Even though most of the lower slopes of the mountain and the top of the mesa have fairly good roads, you must still do a lot of walking if you want to find the best game. During my stay not only would we use four wheel drive trucks and horses to get around over most of the mountain’s side in our hunting area, we would also use a lot of foot power to make our way through the aspen groves and oak brush.

The topography for this region is typical of that found in mountainous areas in that part of the country. The lower slopes have tall prairie grasses, conifers, aspens and oak brush while on top of most of the ridgelines you only had the clinging oak brush that is about knee high. This brush is so thick in some places that you have to detour around it, which adds to your time allotted for walking from place to place. Several times this thick brush made stalks, on unsuspecting game, impractical. On top of the mesa are stands of conifers and aspen mixed in with smaller oaks. Up here the oak brush doesn’t seem to be as thick, so walking is easier and quieter.

I first spotted the tiny white dots on the higher slopes of Storm King while we were chasing the illusive elk bull that we just couldn’t seem to find. When we stopped to rest in our search, I asked my guide what they white spots were, I thought that they might have been mountain goats but I wasn’t sure as I didn’t think that there were any of these high country dwellers this far south. He informed me that they were feral Angora goats and that the part ofthe ranch that we were now on was part of the previous owner’s exotic hunting park. He had stocked these goats and other animals here to be hunted, much like the exotic game ranches do in Texas.

It was perfect terrain for goats, steep, heavily covered in the ever-present clinging oak brush and rocky to the extent that the footing was iffy at best. My guide went on to inform me that like most animals, for example feral hogs, once these domesticated animals were turned loose, they reverted back to a totally wild state. I was intrigued, but we were after elk, so I forgot about them for the time being.

It wasn’t until we were enjoying a liquid beverage on the front porch of the ranch’s lodge later that evening in celebration of the good bull elk that I had taken earlier in the day, when these wandering rock climbers came back to my attention. I glanced up at the ridgeline over looking the valley in whichthe ranch headquarters is located and in the setting sun I saw those elusive tiny white dots once again. After I called everyone else’s attention to them, we dove into a discussion concerning these wary little animals.

My guide informed us that hunting them wouldn’t be that much different than hunting a true mountain goat. They liked the high, rocky and inaccessible places near the summit of the mountains and ridgelines of the surrounding country. Being hardy little creatures, they can withstand the ice and snow that hits the high country with the onset of a full blown rocky mountain winter. Consequently, with the help of their thick winter fur coats, there is very little winter die off among these animals. At this point the conversation took a turn toward the usual friendly banter that is found in hunting camps around the globe and I couldn’t resist my guide’s proposition that we once again mount the slopes of Storm King in pursuit of another of the area’s challenging wild inhabitants.

To make the event even more challenging I decided to use my in-line action muzzleloading rifle in .50 caliber which I had topped off with a compact riflescope. Along with some Buffalo Bullets and Pyrodex RS, I knew that if given the chance, this compact little rifle could be counted on to make a clean kill on one of these high country loving goats.

Now before we start our tale of the hunt, let me give you a little background on these feisty little white goats. The angoras belong to the conic horned game category. A trophy-sized billy, as recognized by the Trophy Game Records of the World, will have wide flaring triangular horns with a slight curl in excess of 30 inches, with a basal measurement of 8-9 inches and a spread of 30 plus inches from tip to tip. A mature billy will weigh from 75 to 100 pounds and stand around 25 to 26 inches at the front shoulder. The nannies will have about the same height, but usually weight 5-15 pounds lighter. The wool of both the billy and the nanny will be coarse and somewhat curly with a length of 1 1/2 to 3 1/2 inches. The coloration of an angora is usually snowy white, though other coloration variants have been noted from time to time. The last major physical characteristic of a billy is the long thick beard coming off of the lower jaw and hanging down 8-11 inches. The hide quality is very good with thick curly hair, while the meat quality of a mature billy is quite poor. Now on withthe hunt!

Before light the next morning, we saddled our horses and started up the steep mountain trail once again. The light snow of the previous day had turned the trail into a quagmire of mud and mush and I wasn’t looking forward to hiking around the mountain in this muck when we tied off the horses to the brush later. I was hoping that my boots with their hard rubber knobby sole would hold out as well as they had during the dry part ofthe hunt.

Most of the morning was spent hiking across the face of the mountain, as our little “walk” took us through aspen groves, brush covered slopes, mountain meadows, rock slides and around frozen beaver ponds. But as usual, these animals were in the most inaccessible place on the mountain’s face. The area in which we eventually found them was almost all rockslides and small trails in the loose talus that over looked drop-offs of several hundred feet. It wasn’t my choice of an ideal place to hunt, especially since my hunt for elk had taken place on the gentler slopes of the mountain.

As we carefully choose each spot in which we put our feet while traversing a rockslide, my guide commented that several of these small white dots were only about a mile and a half away and 600 or so feet above us, up the rock slide. He asked me if I were up to the climb. After glassing them through his binoculars, he felt that two of the billys might have trophy potential and be worth a closer look. So after discussing our approach route, we decided to attempt a stalk. But to do so meant that we had to descend back into the aspens so that our approach wouldn’t be seen.

We were able to close the distance to about half a mile before our cover played out. Then after carefully glassing the goats again, we confirmed that one of the goats was definitely worth a trip up the mountain. My guide thought that he might even be in the top 10 of all angoras taken with a muzzleloading firearm, as per the records maintained by the record keeping system, Trophy Game Records of the World.

Upon glassing the surrounding terrain, we decided that I could approach to within 200 yards of him by doing a duck walk and belly crawl up a small ravine that ran next to the ridgeline that he was on. After my crawl, I would have to ease out on to a trail that we could see running up through the rock slide, as it made its way in his general direction. If I was careful, I should be able to sneak close enough to get a shot at him. This is also provided that none of the other goats in his area gave the alarm which would cause the whole group to go racing off across the steep face of the mountain and that I didn’t misplace a step which would result in me sliding down the mountainside with all of the other rocks and clods of dirt.

As I mentioned earlier, we had been racing against time and had literally run across the last mile or so of our stalk through the trees to get to our lookout position as the horses had been left behind earlier. So, when my legs and arms quit shaking and I could breath without trying to inhale the clouds, I eased into the gully to start my slow climb, after securing my rifle and shooting bag to my back with a couple of leather thongs.

The crawl up the ravine was not a major obstacle it was just time consuming. However, once I reached the trail that ran out across the face of the rockslide, I realized that we had made a bad error in judgment. What had appeared to be a trail from down below, turned out to be a thin, 2 1/2 foot wide, ledge that followed the contours of the face of the rock slide. As I slowly stood up, behind a large boulder, it also became apparent that the goats could not see me here. I glanced down at my guide and by prearranged signals he was indicating that the goats were still in the general vicinity of where we had seen them earlier.

I looked out at the trail and decided, “What the heck. I had come this far to get a goat and can’t stop now.” So I checked to make sure that my rifle and shooting bag were still secured to my back and then I eased out onto the trail.

I was able to control my forward motion by using my left hand to hang onto the roots and limbs that protruded through the rockslide. I only looked down the rockslide once and that was all it took to convince me that I didn’t want to do that again. It appeared that I was several hundred feet up and that it would be a long drop or roll down the face of the slide. I definitely didn’t want to slip and end up on the rocks below so I slowed my progress down in order to carefully place my feet on firmer footing while trying to locate the goats before they either saw or heard me.

I had made it about 150 yards out onto the trail and so far so good. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw a white rock roll across the face of the rockslide. But wait that isn’t a white rock, it’s a goat, and it’s coming my way. I froze and tried to be still as the ground on which I stood. Soon several more goats appeared in front of me as I wondered what it was that they found so attractive about the solitude of the rockslide.

At this point I had no idea how I was going to position myself in order to able to make a steady shot. The ledge wasn’t wide enough for me to turn and face the goats, in a classical freehand position, nor could I kneel to attempt a shot. I quickly turned to survey the surrounding area, trying to find a solution to my problem, and noticed a small tree about five feet in front of me. I quickly determined that its overhanging limbs could serve as both a rest and provide a little cover for me to hide behind, so I eased slowly forward hoping that my actions wouldn’t be seen by the sharp eyes of the goats coming my way.

After moving in behind the little tree, I found that I would have to lay my rifle across the fork in a limb and brace myself against the rocky wall of the ledge in order to maintain my position for a shot. It wasn’t the most comfortable spot that I have ever been in, but it would have to work. Recapping my rifle, I settled it in the crotch of the fork as I prepared to take my chances with the hand that the god’s of hunting had dealt me.

Now as I turned my attention back to the goats, I couldn’t locate the big billy that we had picked out from down below but there were several groups of nannies and kids moving across the face of the rockslide now. I saw only one small, solitary billy as I continued to scan the area of the rockslide where we had previously spotted the group of larger billys.

At first I didn’t see a sign of them and then I noticed a little gray rock that was swaying back in forth. The rock turned out to be the horns on a billy that had lain down among the rocks. Upon looking closer, I could just make out the heads of several more billys in the same area. They appeared to be about 125 yards of so away. As I continued watching the nannies and kids move slowly in my direction, I wondered if they would spook before I had a chance to take a shot at one of the mature billys.

After about 15 minutes of watching, the older billys decided that it was time to join the rest of the group. They started a slow movement down the face of the rockslide after the rest of the herd. When I was able to determine that this movement would take them across my field of fire, I knew that I still had a chance to take a good specimen. So I lowered my body into a squatting position in order to elevate the angle of my barrel and waited for my chance.

The first couple groups of nannies and kids passed by above me before the first mature billy came in to my field of fire. I let him pass by unmolested at about 50 yards. The third billy in the group looked to be the best of the bunch, so I decided to try for him. Slowly, another group of nannies and kids passed by further up the slope. This group was about 75 yards away and I had to be really still so that they wouldn’t spook. Then the second and third billys stepped over the rocks and their full bodies came into view.

As they trotted to catch up with the first billy, I knew that I couldn’t make a clean shot as I wouldn’t be able to move to keep up with them and remain undetected. Then I heard a snort or bleat behind me and I froze. It was clear that some of the goats had come up behind me and had blown my cover.

As I watched, the two billys above me also froze and seemed to be watching something on the slope behind me. It was now or never. I put the cross hairs of my compact scope on the larger billy’s shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
At my shot, a thousand things happened all at once. First, the mountainside exploded with goats and I couldn’t see the billy that I had shot because of all the smoke. Then, the sudden mad exodus of the local goat population created a minor rockslide as pebbles and stones slid down the face of the rockslide after being dislodged. I was kept busy trying to protect my firearm from the falling debris while not letting go of the root that I had grabbed as a tether with my left hand. Somehow, it wasn’t as serious as it seemed at the moment and I didn’t take a final plunge down the mountain.

After the dust and smoke cleared, I looked around for my goat, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. My heart dropped like a stone at the thought of having missed my one and only chance. When further searching from my perch proved fruitless, I decided to head back to the edge of the rockslide. Maybe, with my guide’s help I should be able to locate my billy. I knew in my heart that the shot had been good. I had even heard the ‘whomp’ of the bullet as it had found its mark. So I felt certain that it would just be a matter of some good old fashion footwork now.

As I rounded the last bend in the trail before I got back to the ravine, I heard my guide yelling something at me. I looked down in his direction and saw that he was trying to get me to look up the rockslide above me. When I turned to look I saw my billy. He was about 25 yards out upon the rockslide and about 40 yards above the end of the trail. It was a small matter to attach a rope to his horns and drag him to a safer area. It was a fitting end to a very good hunt. After all, I had taken elk, mule deer and now a wild angora goat this trip.

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By Bob Lane

Robert LaneIn many hunting families, guns are handed down from generation to generation. When a family member no longer desires to, is unable to hunt, or is deceased, the rifles, pistols, and shotguns are often passed on to the hunting offspring or grandchildren of the former hunter. The sentimental value and memories attached to the firearms often far outweigh the monetary value of the guns themselves.

My earliest hunting experiences consisted of tagging along with my father when I was around 5 years old. I’d sneak slowly behind him, emulating his stopping and scanning, until we got to an old stump that he liked to sit on at the edge of a swale that bordered Grant Brook. That jumbo sized base had once held what must have been a magnificent Hemlock tree. It had been harvested by the local paper company long before I had been thought of, perhaps before the bombing of Pearl Harbor, fourteen years prior to my appearance in the little town of Millinocket, Maine.

There was room on that old stump for three men and a boy, and once we got to it we’d sit on there until dark, watching the thickets that bordered the swamp. Dad would lay his old 8 MM Mauser across his knees, and I’d look on intently, looking forward to the fireworks the that was a sure bet when that “Big Old Baster” of a buck that Dad had been talking about, came huffing up from the swamp.

That Mauser was a bogtrotter’s dream. It was light enough to be carried all day through blow downs, thickets, swamps and every other Hell hole the Maine woods could throw up, and Dad hunted them all with that rifle in hand. Whenever I laid eyes on it, I pictured him prowling the perimeter of some swamp, or sitting in a stand of hardwoods as the sun rose and back-lit his breath on a blistering cold morning in November, while he “waited ‘em out” as he liked to say.

Dad shot a lot of deer with that old rifle. A lot more than I’ll ever shoot, and probably more than most people will ever see. He had it outfitted with a receiver sight that he removed the aperture from. It had the original, famed, German Mauser action. The stock had a very thin forearm, a low comb, and a slight cheek piece. In his hands it was a tack driver. I remember him shooting a huge buck one early fall morning with that rifle when I was just a kid. We were sneaking along the edge of the West Branch of the Penobscot River through an old burn when he turned to me and said “Don’t’ move”. I froze and watched as he pulled up, fitted the stock to his cheek, closed one eye, and settled in, taking his time for the shot as he was want to do. The scene was majestic. The newly risen sun cast a purple hue over Mt. Katahdin and softly illuminated the conifers and hardwoods that stretched from the cedar and alder lined edge of the river, to the base of the eminent peak.

Dad squeezed the trigger, and the Mauser roared, followed by the sound of slamming steel as he worked the bolt to drive another round into the chamber with the rifle still at his cheek. All was quiet again while he looked up over the barrel. He turned to me and said “Let’s go” I never saw that deer and didn’t believe he had either, until we got to it, dead in its tracks, 256 paces away.

Over the years the barrel on that rifle began to wear and the bullets were tumbling in flight. Dad finally retired it and returned it to his uncle Henry, who was the actual owner of it. He replaced that beloved gun with the first new firearm he had ever owned, a Model 100, 308 Winchester semi-automatic. Dad went on to kill many a lot more deer over the next 35 years, with that .308, enjoying many more hunts and several trips to Ungava Bay to hunt Caribou. It soon became as much a part of him as had the old Mauser.

My father bought me my first rifle in 1967, a Model 70, 270 Winchester. I became attached to that .270 in much the same way he bonded with his. I shot my first deer in 1968 with it. Over the last forty years I’ve killed moose, deer, coyotes, and caribou, and have taken the heads off more than a few partridge using that treasured piece. I’ve maintained it meticulously as Dad taught me to do. Despite a couple of hard, wet Alaskan hunts, and a few Maine snowstorms that froze the bolt action, it still looks close to new, shoots a quarter sized group at 200 yards, and probably tighter in the hands of real marksman. I would no sooner part with that rifle than I would my right arm.

As I got older, I preferred to hunt solo. I would leave home long before daylight, my rucksack filled with food, matches, a flashlight and a good hank of dragging rope, just in case. As with Dad, I didn’t care whether it rained, shined, or snowed. The colder and grayer it was, the better I liked it. Even in their forlorn state of leafless trees, the fall woods are always beautiful to me. On those days my rifle and I were one with nature. Lunch time in late November, a ritual that Dad and I shared early on, consisted of hot tea boiled in a coffee can with a coat hanger for a handle, and a steak fried in a cast iron skillet over an open fire, my Model 70 laying handsomely across a log, always within arms reach.

There’s a sense of independence and spirit that comes from
being in the wilds with a favorite rifle, hunting for game in minimalist style, and completely on one’s own in nature. It goes back to our ancestors who hunted for their food with clubs and spears. They pitted themselves against the land and the elements with nothing more than their skill and ingenuity.

Some hunters experience a spiritual connection to the wilds and the game they pursue. We’ve all read of the spirituality of American Indians around hunting, and their respect for the animals they killed for food. Some of them believed that game would present itself to the hunter, and he would be successful if he conducted him self magnanimously in his affairs prior to the hunt. Upon killing an animal the hunter would thank it, and the whatever deity was in charge at the time.

In the last two hundred years hunting has evolved in stages from being a means to obtain food, to socially recognized sport, although today that acceptance is questionable at best in some circles. Hunting allows us to recreate and simplify ourselves, albeit briefly, to a more primordial state, and escape from an unbearable society that provides us with far more than we need in terms of creature comforts, and endless gadgets that fulfill nothing more than chic status quo.

In today’s hollow culture we can watch countless pieces of televised refuse, engage in text messaging and multiple social networking websites where people can broadcast their idiocy to the world. We can talk on a cell phone and simultaneously gaze upon the screen of automotive GPS systems as we careen down modern roads, barely cognizant of, and often caring less, about the several tons of lethal machinery being driven at irresponsible speeds. All this for the sake of a conversation and a diversion, that are secondary at best, to the responsibility at hand, and more often than not, as useless as teats on a sneaker.

Hunting equipment and methods have seen great change over the years as well, complete with loads of accessories that are of the same questionable practicality of the above mentioned junk, that for the most part, isn’t worth the power to blow it to Hell. Hunters in particular are bombarded with an inordinate amount of gadgets, and new, must have rifles in a variety of new calibers reminiscent of the Wildcat era. Self styled experts pontificate the need to have one for each species of game that is to be hunted.

I’ve always been able to hunt with only one firearm at a time, and try as I might, I just bring one of those new, purple, multi holed stock, laser sighted, short magnums up to my left shoulder, and simultaneously hoist my Model 70 up to my right, take aim and fire. So I’ve just had to settle on one rifle that would do it all, much like Dad did with his beloved Mauser and the Model 100.

Dad’s hunting days are over now due to the onset of Alzheimer’s. He still talks about his days in the Maine woods The other day he told me that he’d been seeing saw a lot of deer tracks “Up on the edge of the river”. I told him that I knew the spot and he answered in his usual style, “We’ll sneak in there some morning and you might get a crack at that big buck that’s got ‘er all tore up near the big bog”. I told him “We’d “hit ‘er”, at the first snow.

I recently inherited Dad’s guns. It is a small but practical collection, his Model 100, .308, and a .22 revolver that he carried into the woods with him year round. I shot the Hell out of that pistol as a kid, and I made my first kill with it when I was nine years old. Dad pointed out a rabbit sitting on a log while we were deer hunting one cold, dark November day, and asked me if I wanted to shoot it. He handed the revolver over to me and I took my first, of what was to become a long string of wild game in the following years. I carried that cottontail all day until we got back to the car. I think he was as excited as I was. In later years that handgun was part of my trapping wangan. I will always have a special affinity with that pistol.

There is also a .22 magnum and .410 over and under that I shot my first partridge with, and an old 12 gauge Remington Wingmaster in mint condition.

The .308 needed some work. It hadn’t been fired or cleaned in awhile, and the gas port, which is no longer made, and scarcer than a virgin, was gone. Fortunately a gunsmith friend of mine had one and I was in business. Dad had a Bushnell scope on the rifle. That particular scope model is longer in production as well. It has a luminescent red dot in the crosshairs that comes on with the flip of a switch which he swore by.

I hunted with that rifle all fall. It felt strange out in the autumn woods not toting my .270. However, carrying that .308 made it seemed like Dad was there with me, just like in the old days when we hunted together. I hoped some of his prowess as the marksman and the great hunter he was, would rub off on me.

In November I shot a nice 10 point buck with that rifle. The animal presented itself broadside to me. I instinctively pulled up in the same deliberate manner that Dad did when I watched him shoot that big buck many years ago one morning, on the West Branch of the Penobscot River. I took my time and settled in for the shot, just like he had taught me when I was coming up as a kid. I can still hear him telling me “If that rifle is dead on and you’ve got brown in the crosshairs, you’ve got him.” He’s been right every year.

This year’s deer was of my best bucks, certainly one that Dad would have been proud to take, like many of the trophies that he’s shot in his day. I recently hung a framed photo of it, complete with me and his rifle, on the wall of his room at the nursing home where he now resides. When he saw the photo he said “That’s a good one.” When I said “I shot it with your rifle”, he smiled.

It was good year for us both. Dad still has the capacity to appreciate the things he loves, and I’m happy to still be a part of them, albeit as limited as they may be, compared to our days in the woods together, year ago.

The .308 has been meticulously cleaned, oiled and put back in the hard case that Dad bought for it many years ago. I’ll hunt with it again next fall, at the end of the season I’ll clean, polish and put it away with special reverence out of respect for its real owner. That Winchester, which will always be “Dad’s rifle, is now as much a part of me as he is.

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By A. Sayward Lamb

One night, during September of 1986, Mrs. Irene Stevens heard a loud commotion in the front yard of her home. Mrs. Stevens, a lady of small stature, lived on the former Greenwood Town Farm, located on the Patch Mountain Road, in Greenwood City, Maine. Checking out the noise, Mrs. Stevens discovered a very large black bear had just attacked and killed her pet goat, which had been sleeping underneath the front porch of her farmhouse.

She looked outside just in time to see the bear dragging the goat carcass across her dooryard, headed towards the woods. By this time Mrs. Stevens was very upset, so she went into her house, got her broom, then took afterthe bear! Her efforts proved successful, because the bear dropped the goat and climbed up a nearby tree! Mrs. Stevens
returned to her home, where she telephoned her neighbor, Albert Silver, asking him if he would come to her house and shoot the bear? Albert advised her to call the local game warden.

Mrs. Stevens placed the call to the game warden, who told her he would be down in the morning. Wanting no part of that suggestion, Mrs. Stevens requested his badge number, and the telephone number of his Supervisor. Confronted with her determined efforts, the warden decided it might be better if he came right down. Upon his arrival, Mrs. Stevens escorted the officer to the spot where she had “treed”the bear. They soon discovered the bear nearby, back down on the ground, with the goat. She kept urging the
warden to shoot the bear with his revolver. Upon seeing the huge size of the black bear, the warden wanted no part of that suggestion.!

He decided it would be better to retreat from the site and make a telephone call to Tim Farrar, of West Paris, and have him come over with his bear hounds, to track, and dispatch the bear. As soon as Tim arrived, the hounds were released in Mrs. Stevens dooryard. The dogs immediately caught scent of the bear and headed for the woods, with Mrs. Stevens and the others, close behind. Upon arriving at the scene, where the bear had last been seen, they discovered the bear had taken refuge in the very same tree that it had gone up when Mrs. Stevens had “treed” it with the broom! Tim dispatched the bear with a carefully placed bullet from his gun, to end the fracas. When the bear was weighed, it tipped the scales and well over three hundred pounds.

This true tale was told to me by a close friend, Milt Inman, who lives in Greenwood City. Milt heard the gunshot that night from his home, located just across the outlet of Hicks Pond, not too far from Mrs. Stevens home Some people, whom I have talked with regarding this incident, believe Mrs. Stevens was very fortunate thatthe bear did not attack her, especially while it had the goat in its possession. No doubt, that bear must have been some surprised to find it was being chased by a “broom totin’ woman who was as mad as could be! No wonder it dropped the goat and climbed up the tree!

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by Denny L. Vasquez

As the old cliché goes, the look of pure joy on David’s face as he held his buck for pictures was priceless. For the first time in his 44 years he had finally been given the opportunity to hunt a trophy whitetail buck that scored higher than 100 B & C. To say the least, he was a very happy man!

Living in east Texas most of his adult life had restricted the potential of the bucks that David could hunt on his father-in-law’s or uncle’s farms. The area of the Lone Star state around Crockett and Kenard just isn’t known as an area for consistently producing large mature deer. Because of the higher than normal hunting pressure, year round poaching problems and the small acreage of most properties in the area, any type of quality deer management program is all but impossible to implement, except in a high fence situation. Because of these and other factors, most hunters in the area have the attitude of “if it is brown it dies”, which eliminates the chances of most bucks surviving long enough to reach trophy status. So just where did David take his trophy buck, you are probably asking by now?

David and I have been hosting youth/women/minority shooting and hunting events together much longer than either of us can remember. While hosting these events we have been able to observe some pretty impressive animals over the years. However, because we agreed years ago that we would never shoot an animal while hosting one these events as we were there for the benefit of the participants and not ourselves, David has passed on several opportunities to harvest mature animals. So when Barry Smith of Antler Adventures in Kerrville, TX (830-285-0229) called and offered me the chance to harvest both a mature trophy and a cull buck on one of the ranches owned by Charlie Whelan, I knew just who was going to hunt the mature buck. And based upon the reputation of both Barry and Charlie I knew that there was a good chance that David would have the opportunity to take a really impressive trophy.

The Sunday after Christmas 2004 found us on our way to Kerrville, TX. Now for those of you who do not know Kerrville is the center of one the better known hunting regions in central Texas. Not only are the hills for miles around surrounded with an abundance of native game such as whitetail deer, turkey, feral hogs and various varmints; it is also the Mecca of the exotic wildlife hunting industry in the southern US. Consequently, I love to hunt this region because you never know just what you might come across. For example on my last hunt there on Thanksgiving I had whitetail, coyote, axis, fallow, sika, red deer, blackbuck, elk, eland, zebra, feral rams and a small heard of aoudad cross the wide valley my stand overlooked. And this was on a low fenced ranch!

Of the various Whelan ranch properties, we were scheduled to hunt the home place. Ironically the western edge of this property is now the eastern boundary of the Kerrville city limits. It wasn’t always so, but progress moves on they tell me.

You enter the ranch along a well manicured drive that leads to a beautiful hill country white, limestone rock house that sits on a ledge overlooking a small, deep blue lake. Our first view of this vista was the reflection of a fiery orange sunset that reflected off of the lake and lit up the house as though with a rosy glow. Across the lake was the two story barn/hunter’s quarters made of the same limestone and rustic cedar.

To say that we were impressed by the accommodations would be an understatement. Let’s just say that Charlie has taken every step possible to make sure his hunters are comfortable. Heck, the place is nicer than many every day homes that I have seen. There are two bedrooms, a complete kitchen, den with a large screen TV and a large bathroom with an oversized shower stall, which is nice for those of us that are a bit bigger than most. All of this is furnished in the old west motif.

If you have ever been to this region of the state then you know that it enjoys a very dense deer population. It is not unusual to have 15-30+ deer coming into your hunting area at a time. Such a large herd can take its toll on the countryside, so a well managed ranch will have a herd management program in place to maintain the herd numbers at a level that the vegetation can easily sustain. The Whelan ranches are such an operation. Through selective herd culling, the introduction of new bloodlines and other sound management practices, only the best of the bucks are allowed to pass on their genes to the next generation. After many years of this type of management, the Whelan ranch deer herd offers the hunter a fine selection of trophy bucks to pursue.

The buzzing of the alarm clock came all too early the next morning, 5:00 am to be exact. David and I were greeted by a brisk morning breeze blowing around the hills in the 30+ degree temperatures, so we dressed in our warm clothes and ventured out to meet Barry.

Barry had chosen a rather secluded box stand for us to hunt this morning. It sits just off the road on the highest hill on the ranch. It was a perfect location, if seclusion was what we were seeking. The only negatives were that the roadway offered a very limited view of the surrounding area while its funneling effect seemed to amplify the force of the breezes blowing over the hilltop by a factor of 10.

As is a standard practice throughout this part of the state, Barry had corned the road we were watching on our way in to the stand. If he had not done so then it is unlikely that we could have gotten the deer to stop long enough for us to get a good look at them in the confined area we watching.

Right at grey up the first doe appeared in the early morning fog. Her silent appearance in the middle of the road helped us to understand why the whitetail family has earned the nickname of the “grey ghost”. One moment the road was empty the next moment a full grown doe was standing there eating corn. And I swear we were all awake and watching the road when it happened.

Within fifteen more minutes there were 31 deer standing in the road from within 35 to 90 yards of our hiding spot, several of them were respectable bucks, just not the type we were after. About 30 minutes later, just as the sun appeared in all of his glory, the object of our hunt made a partial appearance, of sorts. I say partial appearance because all we could see was his head, neck and antlers. But it was enough to wake us all up with the sudden rush of adrenaline.

David slowly raised his rifle into shooting position as we watched for the next 10 minutes, hoping that the buck would finally step out in the road and provide him with a shot. As though it was reading our thoughts, the buck stepped into the road and turned broadside. David made ready to shoot while Barry and I watched through our binoculars. However, just as David began to let his breath out in preparation for the shot, a doe stepped in behind the buck. Not wanting to risk wounding her David decided wisely and held his shot.

When the doe had fed on by and the buck was broadside to us once again David raised his rifle and prepared to shoot just when a small fork horned buck stepped in front of the bigger buck. Again, David had to withhold his shot for fear of wounding the wrong animal. This cat and mouse game continued the rest of the morning as each time David prepared to shoot another deer would step into his line of fire. One of these times I swear David was so wrapped up in trying to weave his shot through the herd in front of us that I believe he actually quit breathing for a spell because when I tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention he exhaled so loudly that those deer closest to our stand heard him and shied off a short distance, snorting in alarm at the strange noise.

As luck would have it, all we could do is watch as the big boy finally moved off into the roadside brush without giving David an ethical shot. Somewhat disappointed we headed for the jeep while Barry suggested that he give us a tour of the ranch before heading into town for breakfast. At this point in time, none of us knew how significant this chance decision would be.

After riding up and down the hills that make up this portion of the ranch for about an hour or so, Barry and I both spotted the object of our hunt at the same time. He stood about 125 yards up the side of a fairly steep hill. In the recent past the hillside had been cleared of the cedar and underbrush that dominate the countryside so there was nothing between us and him to hide behind. However, I guess the buck thought that we couldn’t see him as he stood out in the open, just in front of the brush line. Another five yards back and the leaves and limbs would have protected him from our view.

Both of us yelled at David at the same time. It didn’t matter as David was already in the process of exiting the jeep. As Barry and I anxiously waited he leaned over the hood of the jeep trying to get a good resting place. Then shaking his head, David whispered I don’t have good rest and proceeded to walk toward a small oak tree about 20 yards away. My thought was, “well you’ve blown it now David, There is no way that buck is going to stand there and wait for you to reach that tree”. But you know what? That is exactly what that old denizen of the forest did. Through my binoculars I swear I could see the buck follow David’s progress toward the oak or so it almost seemed as he turned his head slightly to keep both David and the jeep in sight.

By the time David reached the tree and took a rest from which to make his shot both Barry and I were whispering under our breath, “Come on David! Hurry up! Don’t let him get away we might not see him again.”

The shot came as surprise to both of us. Luckily we still had our eyes on the buck with our binoculars and were able to see the pink cloud that David’s shot hitting home caused before the buck bolted up hill. The first words out of David’s mouth were, “Did I hit him? Did I hit him?” Barry replied that it looked like a good hit to him but that we had better get up hill to find out for sure.

As Barry is both younger and skinner then David or myself he made it up hill to the spot where the buck had been standing first. However, even though it had looked like a perfect heart/lung shot we couldn’t find any blood on the ground. David moaned in disappointment as we continued to scour the ground for some sign of his trophy buck.

It was at this time that I looked up hill in the direction the buck had taken when I saw him laying on the ground at the top of the clearing, about 80 yards away from us. I pointed up hill while asking Barry and David if they saw anything in that direction. Both replied in the negative and continued to search the surrounding area. Realizing that the situation presented me with the opportunity to play one of the many practical jokes on David as was our habit of doing over the years, I told them I was going to slowly climb the hill looking for some sort of sign. So I made my way up hill toward David’s buck stopping every few yards to look back at my hunting partners, neither of which glanced in my direction.

Soon I had reached the buck which lay on his belly with his head pointing up hill. All I could think was, “Man this buck is a lot bigger than the 140 B & C that Barry thought he was.” I just smiled, happy for my friend who had finally taken the buck of his dreams. I hollered back down to them and asked if they had found anything yet. Both replied in the negative so I responded that I was going to rest on this rock I was standing next to. They both glanced my way but neither mentioned that the rock looked out of place. So I sat down on the hindquarters of David’s deer and watched them at work. And watched them at work, and watched them at work and watched them at work for about another 30 to 45 minutes.

Then David made some kind of comment about his lazy friend not wanting to help him look for his deer as they had still not found any blood sign but weren’t willing to give up the task at hand. So I nonchalantly reached over and held his deer’s head up by the antlers and said something like, “You mean the friend who is too lazy to help you look for this?” I thought Barry and David both were going to beat the devil out of me.

Our conversation went something like this, “How long have you been sitting on him?” David asked as he ran up the hill to secure his prize. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe 30 minutes or so.” “You mean you knew where he was the whole time?” “Yep!” “Why you little @#&$, I ought to kick your behind!” as he playfully shoved me off of his deer. We both broke into teeth baring grins and I began pounding him on the back in congratulations. The look of joy on his face made the whole trip worthwhile. With Barry and Charlie’s help David’s dream of harvesting a mature trophy buck had finally come true.

David’s buck was tall nine-pointer in the 152+ gross B & C class. It has 6 inch bases, carried its mass all the way out and had very long tines all around. A great trophy for a great friend.

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It’s presently 3:25 a.m. The shuttle will be here in about an hour to whisk me away to Tampa International Airport. I’m headed for Maine for my annual deer hunting trip. I have scheduled so articles from the past, mostly all hunting stories, to get posted each day next week. I hope you enjoy them. When I get out of the woods next weekend, I’ll try to post up some pictures and stories. Until then!

Tom Remington

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