Many of y'all already saw the post about my Dad shooting his first deer last Saturday but this is my story submission for the Journal of the TTHA. Hopefully they'll publish it.
Spoiler… My 92-year-old dad, scratch that, my 92-year-young dad shot his first deer opening
morning this year.
I’ve invited Dad several times over the past few years to come hunt, but he wasn’t particularly
interested. Hosting two weekly church services in his barn and maintaining multiple rental
properties on his 4½ acre farmstead, he’s the busiest nonagenarian you’ll ever meet. If the
weather wasn’t idyllic or if he felt he couldn’t afford to get away for a few days, he wouldn’t
commit to the long drive.
I asked him if he had hunted as a young man and the only time he could recall was once around
1954. He was the driver and managed to chase a nice buck to the waiting hunters. That was as
close as he’d come to his own hunting success. Sometime in the late 70s a pastor friend of his
took him hunting in East Texas. He sat uncomfortably all day in a tree stand and decided “if that
was hunting, it wasn’t for him!” Around the same time in suburban Houston Dad found a deer
trapped and suffering in a field fence. The sheriff was called, and he agreed to let Dad take her.
I guess you could argue he’d “taken” a deer before but that hardly counts.
Growing up on a farm in South Dakota during the dust bowl years, he was well acquainted with
raising and slaughtering livestock, but killing for sport is anathema to his gentler sensibilities.
So, this year my invite took a different tact. Instead of asking if he wanted to come “hunt”, I
offered him an opportunity to come “harvest” some venison instead. And just for good measure I
suggested, “If that’s something on your ‘bucket list’ I’d like to get that done for you.” He
accepted tentatively at first, but the kernel once planted began to take root. Over the next
several weeks whenever we spoke on the phone, he made it clear he was planning on it. He
kept me updated me on his preparations like when he made the trip to Academy to get his
hunting license, or when he arranged for his generous lady friend to drive him up. I could tell he
was truly looking forward to it.
In order to make the experience as comfortable as possible, I picked up a little .308 Ruger and
quickly worked up a light recoiling load then fitted an extra soft butt pad.
On my 41-acre ranchette in southern Coleman County I have a semi-finished barndominium. A
couple years ago I installed a window upstairs in the sleeping loft then set up a corn feeder and
trail camera just inside the tree line about 100 yards away. Don’t judge me for my lazy man’s
deer blind, but to my way of thinking it’s not for hunting so much as just filling the freezer with
doe meat. Besides, who wouldn’t want to roll out of bed, grab a cup of coffee, and be on-stand
without so much as changing out of your pajamas?
Friday night we sat at that window, watched a couple deer casually feed, and rehearsed how the
morning’s hunt would. I got Dad settled behind the gun and carefully lined up the tripod rest in
the direction of the feeder. I showed him a video on the virtues of the high shoulder shot, and we
discussed at length where to aim. All we needed was a good night’s sleep and for the deer to
follow the script.
Dad’s friend joined us, and we settled in well before dawn. A muzzle brake inside the open
window could be deafening so we donned ear plugs, which for 92-year-old ears made any
further communication between us dicey at best. Legal shooting light had barely arrived when
Dad’s friend announced, “Here they come.” A doe/fawn pair were indeed headed toward the
feeder albeit not from the anticipated direction. Three of us crowded around one window meant
the deer were out of my sight until they advanced a bit further into the field. Dad quickly
readjusted the tripod so he could point in their direction, and I tried to tell him to wait for them to
come all the way into the feeder. Either he couldn’t hear me or was just too caught up in the
moment, but in the next instant he had already pulled the trigger. If you’ve ever been hunting
with an impatient kid, you’ll understand. I looked up just in time to see her jump 6 feet in the air
then quickly disappear into the nearby brush. The fawn who had entered the field with her didn’t
get the memo and just stood there looking around. Dad, not familiar with the bolt action, urgently
tried to get me to load another round in the gun so he could shoot it too! Who was this killer
sitting with me? I hesitated but being an obedient son, obliged. However, by the time we
managed to chamber another round it too had headed for cover.
He was positively giddy. Having seen her reaction to the shot, I thought it was very likely she
was hit hard and wouldn’t require tracking. So, we headed down to put our hands on her.
We found nothing. Not hair. Not blood. Nor the torn-up ground to indicate where she had
launched herself. I was still confident she hadn’t gone far and for the first half hour or so I
trudged between the prickly pear and mesquite thorns but found nothing.
I called for reinforcements and my buddy Mark who was hunting on the other end of the
property returned to help us search. We decided our best chance was to put him high up in the
bucket of the tractor so he could glass down into the scrub for any sign. He’d glass, then we’d
move the tractor a bit, then he’d climb in again to glass some more. Finally, while walking ahead
of the tractor, he spotted blood right in the middle of the path about 150 yards from where she’d
been shot. It was very sparce and not particularly encouraging, but with diligent searching we
eventually found her nearly 300 yards from where she started her final sprint.
Praise God, what a relief. We loaded her in the tractor bucket and met Dad back at the house
where I promptly “blooded him” then got the all-important trophy picture. I think the smile on his
face says it all.
We dropped the deer off for processing and found she weighed in at 92 pounds. That’s exactly
one pound for each of his 92 years. When we got back to town, he saw my wife and said, “You
can call me Nimrod, a mighty hunter before the Lord.” (Genesis 10:9)
Not sure I’ve turned him into a hunter, but once he gets all the breakfast sausage and jalapeno
cheese summer sausage back from the processor, he may decide “harvesting” venison IS for
him. Will we go again next year? I don’t know but I hope so. He says it fulfilled a bucket list item,
so maybe we need to up the ante next year and add a buck to the bucket list.
Spoiler… My 92-year-old dad, scratch that, my 92-year-young dad shot his first deer opening
morning this year.
I’ve invited Dad several times over the past few years to come hunt, but he wasn’t particularly
interested. Hosting two weekly church services in his barn and maintaining multiple rental
properties on his 4½ acre farmstead, he’s the busiest nonagenarian you’ll ever meet. If the
weather wasn’t idyllic or if he felt he couldn’t afford to get away for a few days, he wouldn’t
commit to the long drive.
I asked him if he had hunted as a young man and the only time he could recall was once around
1954. He was the driver and managed to chase a nice buck to the waiting hunters. That was as
close as he’d come to his own hunting success. Sometime in the late 70s a pastor friend of his
took him hunting in East Texas. He sat uncomfortably all day in a tree stand and decided “if that
was hunting, it wasn’t for him!” Around the same time in suburban Houston Dad found a deer
trapped and suffering in a field fence. The sheriff was called, and he agreed to let Dad take her.
I guess you could argue he’d “taken” a deer before but that hardly counts.
Growing up on a farm in South Dakota during the dust bowl years, he was well acquainted with
raising and slaughtering livestock, but killing for sport is anathema to his gentler sensibilities.
So, this year my invite took a different tact. Instead of asking if he wanted to come “hunt”, I
offered him an opportunity to come “harvest” some venison instead. And just for good measure I
suggested, “If that’s something on your ‘bucket list’ I’d like to get that done for you.” He
accepted tentatively at first, but the kernel once planted began to take root. Over the next
several weeks whenever we spoke on the phone, he made it clear he was planning on it. He
kept me updated me on his preparations like when he made the trip to Academy to get his
hunting license, or when he arranged for his generous lady friend to drive him up. I could tell he
was truly looking forward to it.
In order to make the experience as comfortable as possible, I picked up a little .308 Ruger and
quickly worked up a light recoiling load then fitted an extra soft butt pad.
On my 41-acre ranchette in southern Coleman County I have a semi-finished barndominium. A
couple years ago I installed a window upstairs in the sleeping loft then set up a corn feeder and
trail camera just inside the tree line about 100 yards away. Don’t judge me for my lazy man’s
deer blind, but to my way of thinking it’s not for hunting so much as just filling the freezer with
doe meat. Besides, who wouldn’t want to roll out of bed, grab a cup of coffee, and be on-stand
without so much as changing out of your pajamas?
Friday night we sat at that window, watched a couple deer casually feed, and rehearsed how the
morning’s hunt would. I got Dad settled behind the gun and carefully lined up the tripod rest in
the direction of the feeder. I showed him a video on the virtues of the high shoulder shot, and we
discussed at length where to aim. All we needed was a good night’s sleep and for the deer to
follow the script.
Dad’s friend joined us, and we settled in well before dawn. A muzzle brake inside the open
window could be deafening so we donned ear plugs, which for 92-year-old ears made any
further communication between us dicey at best. Legal shooting light had barely arrived when
Dad’s friend announced, “Here they come.” A doe/fawn pair were indeed headed toward the
feeder albeit not from the anticipated direction. Three of us crowded around one window meant
the deer were out of my sight until they advanced a bit further into the field. Dad quickly
readjusted the tripod so he could point in their direction, and I tried to tell him to wait for them to
come all the way into the feeder. Either he couldn’t hear me or was just too caught up in the
moment, but in the next instant he had already pulled the trigger. If you’ve ever been hunting
with an impatient kid, you’ll understand. I looked up just in time to see her jump 6 feet in the air
then quickly disappear into the nearby brush. The fawn who had entered the field with her didn’t
get the memo and just stood there looking around. Dad, not familiar with the bolt action, urgently
tried to get me to load another round in the gun so he could shoot it too! Who was this killer
sitting with me? I hesitated but being an obedient son, obliged. However, by the time we
managed to chamber another round it too had headed for cover.
He was positively giddy. Having seen her reaction to the shot, I thought it was very likely she
was hit hard and wouldn’t require tracking. So, we headed down to put our hands on her.
We found nothing. Not hair. Not blood. Nor the torn-up ground to indicate where she had
launched herself. I was still confident she hadn’t gone far and for the first half hour or so I
trudged between the prickly pear and mesquite thorns but found nothing.
I called for reinforcements and my buddy Mark who was hunting on the other end of the
property returned to help us search. We decided our best chance was to put him high up in the
bucket of the tractor so he could glass down into the scrub for any sign. He’d glass, then we’d
move the tractor a bit, then he’d climb in again to glass some more. Finally, while walking ahead
of the tractor, he spotted blood right in the middle of the path about 150 yards from where she’d
been shot. It was very sparce and not particularly encouraging, but with diligent searching we
eventually found her nearly 300 yards from where she started her final sprint.
Praise God, what a relief. We loaded her in the tractor bucket and met Dad back at the house
where I promptly “blooded him” then got the all-important trophy picture. I think the smile on his
face says it all.
We dropped the deer off for processing and found she weighed in at 92 pounds. That’s exactly
one pound for each of his 92 years. When we got back to town, he saw my wife and said, “You
can call me Nimrod, a mighty hunter before the Lord.” (Genesis 10:9)
Not sure I’ve turned him into a hunter, but once he gets all the breakfast sausage and jalapeno
cheese summer sausage back from the processor, he may decide “harvesting” venison IS for
him. Will we go again next year? I don’t know but I hope so. He says it fulfilled a bucket list item,
so maybe we need to up the ante next year and add a buck to the bucket list.
Comment