Deer, Deer Everywhere – except in my freezers
Deer season has ended and for the first time in 50 years, I did not kill a deer. I did shoot one but did not find it. I should have trained Lili, my German shorthaired pointer, to follow a blood trail but I didn’t. Anyway, there was no blood trail to follow. There was some blood where it was shot but no more. I could have sworn that it was a righteous shot taken at 75 yards. The deer went out of sight down a ridgeline and I followed the scuff marks to the creek. The deer then went into the creek – a ruse to hide its scent from trailing dogs – and I could not find where it emerged. So I checked my gun and found it was off 4 inches at 50 yards. How the scope got knocked off is one of life’s mysteries. That means the deer was gut shot and became coyote food rather than Harold food. I was going to look again the next day but it rained all night erasing all possible sign. I don’t think I slept well for another couple of days. I told my other half (who said maybe I was just getting old) that if I could not shoot better than that I would give up hunting.
As to the deer, I was overrun with deer during bow season. I took pictures of 67 deer and probably saw a dozen more. But for the first time there was not a single buck over 6 points. Only does and fawns. I only saw immature deer and momma does with fawns. I don’t break up family units. When gun season came, the does chase away the little ones so I usually will take adult does and mature bucks. Only this year, I did not see a single buck – even during the rut – and saw only smallish deer without antlers. What happened to the big does? I almost took a shot at what at first looked like a large doe, but it turned out to be a button buck. I passed.
I was hoping for a great year. During the off season, I kept a feeder full of protein and corn to attract and keep the deer on property. Perhaps it was a bad omen because of the 800+ photos taken on a trail camera, all the pictures of bucks were taken after dark. Only does, squirrels and turkey were seen during the day. As usual my food plots were a total failure. I don’t understand how my grandfather grew such beautiful and bountiful crops in that red Georgia clay using a single blade plow and a mule. My mother also had the touch. I can’t grow weeds. But my other half says I look good on my Kubota tractor so I keep trying. I have had the soil tested, added lime and fertilizer to no avail. I think its because I have a brown thumb. My neighbor told me that the deer love hostas. My vet says that he tried to grow radishes but the deer cleaned him out. Maybe I will try growing hostas and radishes in the spring. But given my luck, they will all fail to grow.
I once told the local ranger about my bad year and he said “Shoot the does – even the small ones.” Georgia’s limit is 10 does and two antlered bucks. By my not shooting the does he said that I simply have too many small deer on my property. Since venison is the only red meat I eat and I feed it to Lili, we will go without until next season. The last time I ran out of venison, I gave lean ground chuck to my dogs and they wouldn’t eat it. I don’t intend to run out again. So no more Mr. Nice Guy. Starting in bow season this next time, I will shoot does – even if they have fawns. The fawns are weaned by this time and can survive without their mother. I am going to put aside my previous standards in order to thin out the herd and fill my freezer. I still won’t take immature bucks but hopefully the big ones will decide to stop by.
Again, I get no greater pleasure than being able to feed myself from the land of my ancestors. I have not eaten beef or pork since 1971 and don’t intend to start now. I feel no guilt being at the top of the food chain. It takes some skill and a bit of luck to successfully hunt. When my mother was alive and I would come back empty handed, she would ask didn’t I see anything. When I said yes, but I let them walk, she would ridicule me saying that I might as well stayed home. I would answer that yes my odds of killing a big deer were only slightly greater if I went in the woods rather than staying in the living room reading a book. But I would miss all the pleasure I derived from being in the woods. She never understood being from a time and a culture where they would kill all the rabbits, squirrels, possums and racoons they could in order to help them survive. I remember having squirrel in gravy with biscuits but never cultivated a taste for possum stew (which my grandfather loved). Deer were rare and there were no turkeys in those days. In truth, mother was pleased that we had progressed to where we did not have to kill everything I saw in order to not go hungry. It was progress, much like her grandmother living with them at the farm and marveling at how far they have come. Her grandmother was a slave. Still I miss my mother’s ridiculing me.
haroldblackphd.com 