Wheelgun Whitetail
The rhythmic echo of hooves striking the paved asphalt is hypnotic and calming as I pass the numerous horse drawn buggies the closer I get to Grandma’s house. Absorbing the brilliant splendor of fall, I’m relaxed and excited, as tomorrow is the opening day of buck season.
The aroma of pan seared pork chops, baked potatoes, and rolls, mixed in a waft of hot air hits my face as I open the door. I observe a pot of farm fresh sweet corn on the stovetop, slathered in butter and garlic. Grandma is in her flowery apron, beads of perspiration on her brow, as I give her a big hug and kiss as I have always done since I was a kid. This is my traditional Sunday night dinner before buck season, one that my Pap enjoyed, before he died.
I stow my gear in the guest room and sit to eat as I catch up with Grandma. It’s great to be here. After supper, I always go downstairs to the cellar to look at Pap’s “stuff.” His black and red Woolrich coat hangs from a wood peg on the wall, his last hunting license still pinned on back. The wool smells musty from being in the damp basement. My eyes focus on a torn pocket caused by Pap holding my hand in his, inside the pocket, to keep me warm, as we would walk to his stand when I was a kid.
His Savage Model 99 is lifted from the gun cabinet as I run my fingers across the stock and barrel, thinking of all the miles Pap has carried it while hunting deer, caribou, mule deer, and antelope in far away places that Pap loved to hunt. The stock is practically down to bare wood. The bluing is black, worn, with calico patches of silver from age, sweat, and years of hard use in harsh weather. I work the lever a few times and then oil the gun out of habit, keeping it slick and rust free as I peer through the scope at imaginary deer on the far wall.
I read through the dank, slightly moldy stack of decades old PA Game News magazines and re-read the stories I’ve read for the past 16 years. Before I know it, it’s time for bed. Sleep doesn’t come easy, it never does, as I toss and turn from anticipation of opening day. I finally doze off….
The Day
I’m fortunate to be able to hunt my family’s 5th generation, 600 acre dairy farm. As the sun starts filtering through the clouds, I’m leaning against a ginormous Hemlock tree, one so huge, its circumference easily conceals my girth. I’ve hunted this spot for years. The area was timbered-out about 15 years ago and has a lot of primary, and secondary growth of thumb sized saplings of striped maple and oak — perfect sixgun country.
For this hunt, I’m carrying my Ruger Bisley Hunter in .45 Colt. The load I’m using is from a special box of shells I loaded 2 years ago when I was preparing for a handgun hunt for elk with Dick Thompson in Idaho. The load consisted of Elmer’s finest 454424 260-grain, .45 slug, loaded over 20 of 2400, sparked by a large pistol primer. I got my elk in Idaho, followed by two deer in MD last year. I have 16 rounds left and may just save them for special hunts. I’ll definitely be stingy using them.
At 1100 am, I get my chance. About 50 yards down to my left, I can see three deer exploding through the brush, cracking and snapping those same saplings I mentioned. I scan ahead of them, looking for an opening. The lead deer is a buck and I can see he is a legal.
My hand finds my Bisley Hunter as I wrap my fingers around the stocks. A good, firm grip established, I bring the gun up to my line of sight as I cock the hammer smoothly. Once good sight alignment is established, I get on the buck and swing past him, to the closest shooting lane and wait. When his nose breaks the plane of the shooting lane, I bleat — loud! Damn! He stops on cue. While establishing good sight alignment, I progress to sight picture, pushing the front sight through Mr. Bucks near shoulder as I subconsciously start the trigger squeeze. It’s good when the explosion of the round startles you, and it does.
The Keith slug strikes the buck just above the knuckle of the near shoulder while punching thru the off shoulder. The slug may still be zinging through the forest. The buck lurches forward, falls on his nose, and does the rear leg, chest plow, as he pushes himself 20 yards across the leaves before dying.
The Meeting Spot
It’s a great day, finished by going to my cousin’s make-shift “Butcher shop” on his farm. It’s an old out building, complete with homemade wood stove as the heat source. There, deer are skinned, quartered, loins cut out, some fried right away, and beverages consumed at this impromptu meeting place. As hunters have before us, stories start spewing out, loved ones are remembered, and young ones with their first deer are treated as royalty, and welcomed to the tradition as they get their first shot at the age-old tradition of story telling about their hunt. The elders smile and listen attentively, remembering their first hunt and wondering where time has gone?
For a short time, all is well with the world, and everything seems just right, as I stick my hand in my torn wool hunting coat pocket.
