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You hear that?

  • Blog Post by: Karl Seckinger
  • November 13, 2012 - 7:36 AM

He tells us of a day long ago, of his first hunt, how his mother bought white thin coveralls and then died them red so he and his father could deer hunt and with one gun between them, things would be tricky. But they needed the meat. Needed to be legal and he may have thought the tag back then was two dollars and fifty cents but it was so long ago now he wasn’t sure. He was sure he would never forget how much wool itches, how old men could snore so loud that he didn’t sleep all night and what one rifle shot, he never remembers hearing, landed him the biggest buck of his life. He recalls clearly where he was siting, watching the set of horns come into view, and how his dad gave him the rifle to use on the first day. A dad that hunted hard for over fifty years and never shot one deer. She abruptly says, while the six of us our playing cribbage, and listening to the old gent, did you guys just hear that rifle shot, and we said yes, we heard the gun shot. She said, she was one of those, and we all agreed when she shot her deer she was one of those, gun shots, heard by us, deer hunting. She couldn’t remember the sound of her shot either. The he said, making sure we came back around to his story he hadn’t quite finished, I was one of those once, and in 1956 I shot a big old buck. The seven guys he was hunting with heard the lone shot, wondered if he had a buck or a doe and in unison because they all decided earlier if someone shot, to go help drag out the deer together. That meat meant a great deal back then, who shot one wasn’t a big deal, that they shot one was food. When the assembled crew all arrived it was a massive whitetail deer and once back at the lodge for the night, the owners asked if they could hang and display the dressed deer to all the visiting hunters. Hunters who paid ten dollars a day and in 1956 which back then for a working man was about a king’s ransom for an endless breakfast, a boxed lunch, and at days end a hot dinner and a warm bunk. They all slept on straw ticks in a converted logging camp bunk house with the promise of one deer after another to choose from. Turns out that was the only deer ever shot, the deer camp couldn’t afford to stay open and closed after only one deer season and one deer shot. The trout whisperer

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