I imagine that there are places,
objects, songs, etc. that bring up memories associated with a day or
person or event for all of us. I finally remembered to take care of
our guns on Sunday, and as I inspected the wood and metal, a memory
or three came to the surface. I had started with my Ruger deer rifle
and for some reason, I remembered the day I bought it back in 1976
from Jeff Monsour - complete with scope, strap, case, and two boxes
of ammo $240. I see the rifle alone goes for nearly $600 today. (I
was so proud of that gun that one night when we had a false fire
threat in our apartment house, I grabbed it instead of our wedding
pictures when I headed down the steps!) My rifle has “Made in the
200th Year of American Liberty” stamped on the barrel
(today the stamp on the M77 says something like “CAUTION: Read All
Directions”). Anyway, as I swabbed out the barrel and cleaned up
the bolt, I was reminded of a frosty Thanksgiving morning back in
2001 when I took a stand up a logging road above our farm. We were
heading out for Cassville and a family turkey dinner in an hour, when
some guys pulled into the neighbors field way down on the bottom. I
could hear them talking and slamming doors. I was starting to step
toward the farm, when I heard something else, a crunch, and then I
saw it. I did not have my rifle up, but the buck had stopped and was
staring at me. I moved the gun to my shoulder in slow motion and as
I slipped the safety, the deer turned and started back the other way.
I got off a shot and the deer disappeared. After bolting home
another round, I stalked over that way to see if I might have hit the
deer. It was down right where I shot, steam coming from a bullet
hole in the ribs. I admired my kill for a moment and then went about
tagging and field dressing it. I walked back to the ranch. I
debated dragging the buck down straight the hill to the field - no
small task in the thick brush, or trying to get the Jeep close on the
logging road. I finally backed our Jeep Comanche up the logging
road, only knocking one mirror off and getting within maybe 30 yards
before being stymied by a bath tub-sized rock blocking the little
used road. I was able to drag the buck to the truck and use the
tailgate as a ramp to get it in the box. Ellen was back at the house
when I got back in. The night before I had commented that just once,
I'd like to get a wall hanger. When she saw the antlers rising up
out of the truck box, she said, “Well, you finally got your wall
mount.” What remains of the big 11-pointer keeps watch over our
family room. It was not the largest deer, but the morning, the
weather, the kill and retrieve, all come in clear as a bell.
I cleaned and oiled Ellen's .243
Winchester next. No doubt it would evoke many memories for her,
including some nice bucks and family hunts.
Then I cleaned up Wilma, my .10 gauge
turkey special single-shot shotgun. Over the years, I have taken
many turkeys with this cannon. One memory that came to mind as I
sprayed cleaner on the metal was of a hunt back in the 90's. I had
done my usual sip and sit by the truck before first light to listen
for a gobbler nearby. I marked a tom near the Oak Stand, so I high
tailed over there, as fast I high tail anyway. I had a makeshift
blind of piled brush along the field and the bird was announcing to
the world his intentions to get down from his tree and romance some
ladies just down the hill from it. I got comfortable, loaded Wilma
and waited a bit. Then I called quietly. That old boy came a
running, gobbling and making a racket in the brush. I was shaking.
The hair on my neck was standing up. I was trying not to breath as
he closed in. Then he quit. Right behind me. I could hear him
purring and grumbling a bit and taking a step at a time. He would
not walk out into the field. Perhaps he could see my truck nearly
half-a-mile away across the field, or maybe he just got old by being
cautious. Anyway, after a standoff of sorts, he started away down
the ridge gobbling and gobbling. I took out a call and started
clucking loudly and crazily. I had two calls going when I realized
he was coming back. I quit and he kept coming right past me through
the gate into the field. It was pretty easy after that. I used the
tailgate of the pickup as a tripod for my camera to take a timer
photo of me, Wilma, and the big tom. It weighed in at nearly 26
pounds with an 11-inch beard. I made it to work in De Soto on time,
after leaving the bird in the garage refrigerator.
When I swabbed out the barrels on my
Browning Citori, I had to smile remembering Scout over at the
Kickapoo Reserve area putting up pheasant after pheasant while Gregg
Sikora and I managed to shoot mostly holes in the air one morning
last year, and the great day this fall with Bud and Rick on the North
American Squirrel Association sponsored bird hunt up near Warrens.
I could go on, but you get the idea.
The meat in the freezer is good to eat but the memories of the
people, dogs, game, weather, places, and hunts are what lasts.
Until next time, get out: I think I
might go get my journal out and read some of the old ones for the fun
of it. Mountain Man Mark is in Japan, snowboarding on Mt. Hakuba.
His pictures and videos on Facebook of piles of deep powder in the
mountains and giant pillows of snow on the rooftops and amazingly
deep North Pole-like snow piles along the streets is making his
snowshoeing deprived mother so jealous (not me though.) Enjoy.
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