Of strange shots and cell phones - Campfire Tales

My invincible period was a wonderful time of life. Weather had no effect in those days, not the stifling humidity of the summer, nor the brutality of winter, though I did not realize it at the time. We were young, and as long as we had time off from school the thermometer had no effect on the enjoyment we could have. My how times have changed! My comfortable threshold now seems to be no lower than 60 nor higher than 70 degrees, so when I found myself hunting in the bitter cold of southern Colorado, I was definitely looking for a way to spend more time by the fire.

"I saw several trophy-size bucks here last week, and my friend took a 36 incher off this same ranch last year" were the encouraging words spoken by my friend Tedd, who had scouted the ranch in beautiful weather the week before the season opened. However, as the first day passed without any of us seeing a single deer of any kind, let alone a buck, it started to sound more like the proverbial "You should've been here last week" that accompanies so many fish stories.

It was now late afternoon of the first day, and we had four-wheeled down deep into a canyon just north of the New Mexico border. That's when the snow hit. By the time we got back to the top -- barely making it I might add -- it was a genuine white-out. The weather had turned so quickly that the other party could not get their truck out and wound up spending several hours walking to the top. Along with the snow came the bitter cold, and we were more than happy for a hot meal and a warm bed.

The next morning dawned cold, at 20 below zero. Some folks may enjoy such weather, but my only thought was that I could somehow find a good shootable buck and be able to spend the next day by the fire. But the second day was a repeat of the first... until just before dark.

There he was at the edge of the trees. He was nowhere near Boone & Crockett, but he was shootable, even respectable. And he was within range, around 125 yards and slightly uphill.

I had a good rest with my 6.5 JDJ Thompson/Center Contender. I fired, and I saw the buck stiffen as they often do, unable to move. He was still standing, but I knew he was dead on his feet. My guide wanted me to shoot him again just to be sure. I couldn't convince him that the 6.5 was about as sure a kill as one can get. But if I was wrong, I certainly did not want the buck to take off for the trees, and then spend the cold snowy night looking for him.

The crosshairs went on him the second time. I fired and down he went. Fast. In fact, it looked too fast. The guide, Tedd and myself jumped in the truck and headed up to him. Tedd got in the bed of the truck and was looking over the cab as we pulled up to the deer.

Now I must explain something here. Tedd is known far and wide, amongst both his friends and his hunting companions, as one who is notorious for shooting the antlers off deer. And believe me, we never let him forget it. As I piled out of the front of the truck, I could hear him yelling "Yes! Yes! Yes!" His source of joy was my mule deer buck lying on the ground with one antler shot off!

I knew exactly what happened but I will never con-vince him, It is obvious to me that just as I fired the second shot, that old mulie decided to fall, and the 120 grain Speer JSP bullet took one antler dead center. I could not have pulled off that shot had I been trying. At least it gives Tedd some arguable breathing room, and that shot got me out of the cold weather as I spent the next day feeding wood into the fire while the rest of the hunting parties spent a fruitless time looking for bucks that no longer existed in that hunting area.

At the opposite end of the weather spectrum, another strange shot occurred while battling 100 degree weather while hunting Ibex in Texas. Frank Pulkrabek, who was my guide, also arranged my trip to Africa the following year. This trip I wanted an Ibex, and he had put us on a herd of large Ibex-Goat crossbreeds. Frank stayed at the Jeep, while I worked my way through the brush, and into the trees were I could get a solid rest. I picked out one of the big goats with large horns and a black ring around his neck, steadied the .375 JDJ Contender on a limb and fired. The gun came back down out of recoil, the herd was still there, and my black collared goat was still standing. "How in the world did I miss a 140 yard shot?" was whispered, as I tried to calm myself down before firing the second shot.

The next shot performed perfectly, I saw my Ibex go down this time, and the rest of the herd ran off. I fired three shots to Frank to let him know I had one down and he was to bring the Jeep up. We had the necessary congratulations, took a few pictures, and then Frank said, "Look over there!"

I had, in fact, not missed on my first shot, and there 20 yards away was my first Ibex. Frank muttered something about the fact that I should know when I pull the trigger and that I should also be confident enough to know that I am going to connect; however, I was just thankful that these were not high dollar trophy animals. Everything turned out just fine and both of them are now mounted and hanging above my workbench where they can look down at me when I am reloading.