How [not] to Rope a Deer

Ron in Arizona sent me the following story. He suggested I might have written it. After reading, I realized I might have. But I didn't. There but for the grace of God...


Here's the story.
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I had this idea that I was going to rope a deer, put it in a stall, feed it up on corn for a couple of weeks, then kill it and eat it.

The first step in this adventure was getting a deer. I figured that, since they congregate at my cattle feeder and do not seem to have much fear of me when we are there (a bold one will sometimes come right up and sniff at the bags of feed while I am in the back of the truck not 4 feet away), it should not be difficult to rope one, get up to it and toss a bag over its head (to calm it down) then hog tie it and transport it home.

I filled the cattle feeder then hid down at the end with my rope.

The cattle, having seen the roping thing before, stayed well back. They were not having any of it.

After about 20 minutes, my deer showed up -- three of them. I picked out a likely looking one, stepped out from the end of the feeder, and threw my rope. The deer just stood there and stared at me.

I wrapped the rope around my waist and twisted the end so I would have a good hold. The deer still just stood and stared at me, but you could tell it was mildly concerned about the whole rope situation.

I took a step towards it...it took a step away. I put a little tension on the rope and then received an education.

The first thing that I learned is that, while a deer may just stand there looking at you funny while you rope it; they are spurred to action when you start pulling on that rope.

That deer EXPLODED.

The second thing I learned is that pound for pound, a deer is a LOT stronger than a cow or a colt. A cow or a colt in that weight range I could fight down with a rope and with some dignity.

A deer-- no chance.

That thing ran and bucked and twisted and pulled. There was no controlling it and certainly no getting close to it. As it jerked me off my feet and started dragging me across the ground, it occurred to me that having a deer on a rope was not nearly as good an idea as I had originally imagined.

The only upside is that they do not have as much stamina as many other animals.

A brief 10 minutes later, the deer was tired and not nearly as quick to jerk me off my feet and drag me when I managed to get up. It took me a few minutes to realize this, since I was mostly blinded by the blood flowing out of the big gash in my head. At that point, I had lost my taste for corn-fed venison. I just wanted to get that devil creature off the end of that rope.

I figured if I just let it go with the rope hanging around its neck, it would likely die slow and painfully somewhere.

At the time, there was no love at all between me and that deer. At that moment, I hated the thing, and I would venture a guess that the feeling was mutual.

Despite the gash in my head and the several large knots where I had cleverly arrested the deer's momentum by bracing my head against various large rocks as it dragged me across the ground, I could still think clearly enough to recognize that there was a small chance that I shared some tiny amount of responsibility for the situation we were in, so I didn't want the deer to have it suffer a slow death, so I managed to get it lined back up in between my truck and the feeder - a little trap I had set before hand, kind of like a squeeze chute.

I got it to back in there and I started moving up so I could get my rope back.

Did you know that deer bite? They do! I never in a million years would have thought that a deer would bite somebody, so I was very surprised when I reached up there to grab that rope and the deer grabbed hold of my wrist.

Now, when a deer bites you, it is not like being bit by a horse where they just bite you and then let go. A deer bites you and shakes its head --almost like a pit bull. They bite HARD and it hurts.

The proper thing to do when a deer bites you is probably to freeze and draw back slowly. I tried screaming and shaking instead. My method was ineffective.

It seems like the deer was biting and shaking for several minutes, but it was likely only several seconds.

I, being smarter than a deer (though you may be questioning that claim by now) tricked it.

While I kept it busy tearing the bejesus out of my right arm, I reached up with my left hand and pulled that rope loose. That was when I got my final lesson in deer behavior for the day.

Deer will strike at you with their front feet. They rear right up on their back feet and strike right about head and shoulder level, and their hooves are surprisingly sharp.

I learned a long time ago that, when an animal -- like a horse--strikes at you with their hooves and you can't get away easily, the best thing to do is try to make a loud noise and make an aggressive move towards the animal. This will usually cause them to back down a bit so you can escape.

This was not a horse. This was a deer, so obviously such trickery would not work. In the course of a millisecond, I devised a different strategy.

I screamed like a woman and tried to turn and run.

The reason I had always been told NOT to try to turn and run from a horse that paws at you is that there is a good chance that it will hit you in the back of the head.

Deer may not be so different from horses after all, besides being twice as strong and 3 times as evil, because the second I turned to run, it hit me right in the back of the head and knocked me down.

Now, when a deer paws at you and knocks you down, it does not immediately leave. I suspect it does not recognize that the danger has passed. What they do instead is paw your back and jump up and down on you while you are laying there crying like a little girl and covering your head.

I finally managed to crawl under the truck and the deer went away.

So now I know why when people go deer hunting they bring a rifle with a scope so that they can be somewhat equal to the Prey. Never underestimate Bambi.

The House Guest

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My son, his wife, children and the au pair headed to Florida last week. The only family member who did not make the trip was Remus, the family dog.

“What happened to Remus,” I hear you ask.

My telephone rang last Wednesday. It was my son. He explained they were going to Florida on Friday and asked if I could keep the dog.

“What if I can’t?”

“Then, I will have to start looking for a place to board her.” He replied.

I suppose the place would charge money and might not give Remus the personal attention she might expect from family. I considered the problem for a moment and agreed to board the dog free while everyone else enjoyed time in the sun.  They should enjoy guilt, too.

Remus is a sweet spirit. Half Border Collie, she is intelligent. Half Great Pyrenees, she is large. I think she weighs about 70 pounds, but I lack the curiosity to weigh her. I am willing to take my word for it. Besides, she is a good watchdog. When she hears any suspicious noise, she makes a loud, ferocious sounding bark. At the same time, she finds a hiding place behind something or under something else. She is a devout coward.

Son Ben called again on Thursday to say they were leaving early Friday. He asked if they might deliver Remus that afternoon. “Sure,” I said. In ten minutes, they arrived with the dog, her kennel and a bag of kibble. Remus is not fond of changes of scenery. She practically erected the kennel herself and climbed inside, where she sank into a deep funk.

She seemed to say, “Go ahead and enjoy your vacation. I’ll be happy to lie here until I am dead, no matter how long it might take.”

Who could imagine a dog working in guilt? Not I, at least until now.

In the fullness of time, Remus decided to leave her box and take sustenance in the kitchen. “I hope I choke,” she thought.

Shortly after she ate, Mother Nature called. I watched her suffer, legs crossed, for a half an hour before she would admit she needed to go out. She walked grudgingly to the backdoor and stood looking at me over her shoulder. I opened the door, all the while making encouraging noises. “Gooood dawg!” I crooned.

It was then I noticed one of the squirrels that frequent my bird feeders chowing-down on seeds. In the spirit of good fun, I pointed to the squirrel and said “Sic em, Remus!” I had no reason to believe she knew what “Sic em” meant. To my complete surprise, she turned in the direction I pointed and trotted between two palms, directly toward the squirrel.

I might mention the squirrels who frequent my feeders are a brazen lot, not given to panic. They are also obese and a sad sight when seen waddling up and down tree trunks. Still, the sight of a large, flouncing dog crashing through the palms riveted the squirrel’s attention. It stood stock still atop the feeder, hoping to pass unnoticed. It worked for a few seconds.

Clear of the plants, Remus stopped within two feet of the squirrel and surveyed her surroundings. It was then she noticed the squirrel. Did I mention Remus has long fur like a collie? She also has large, floppy ears and a bushy tail. When she left the ground, all her fur, her ears and tail were flying in the breeze. She looked a bit like a dragon. The squirrel’s fur was short, but its tail stood straight up, brush-like. Both animals’ eyes seemed to bulge in surprise.

The squirrel made a desperate leap for safety atop the fence. Terrified, Remus pivoted 180 degrees in mid-air and seemed to fly back in the direction from which she came, landing precisely at the back door.

“Oh my God, did you see that? It was horrible!” She seemed to plead.

Me? I laughed until I was weak. Yes, I should be ashamed. No, I am not, really.

Remus is back in her kennel now. I do not know if she will ever come out.

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A Peaceful Backyard Interlude

I bet you're wondering what the terror of Texas' back roads does on his day off.  Well, wonder no more.  Here's the skinny.

I began my day at the crack of nine.  Breakfast was Corn Chex and green tea.  Then, I launched an assault on three very ugly Cedars (Junipers, actually) in my backyard.  They've been on my hit list for several months.  Today, their numbers came up.  Two of them were easy.  They grew at the margin of my property and leaned toward the creek that crosses my property.  A little chainsaw persuasion and they took a dive into the chasm.  Now, they are God's problem. 

The next flood will recycle them, someplace.  The third was a struggle.  I got most of it chopped into manageable bits before I decided to call it a day.  No sense making a sickness of these chores, I always say.

Then, showered and re-dressed, I retired to my patio, camera in hand, to relax and refresh after an arduous morning.  While there, I noticed several critters that frequent my "Wild Kingdom Lunch Counter."  I experimented with photographing the little darlings and even made a video. It is below this post.

Check it out.  It is different from the pavement-melting motorcycle videos.  I guarantee four minutes of mind-numbing peace and tranquility.

Enjoy!

PS:  Let me know your preference.  Cute bunnies or Hell's Angel on Wheels.

A Peaceful Backyard Interlude

Riding the Twisted Sisters – Two

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You may be relieved to learn this will be the last motorcycle riding post for a while. These forays are a labor of love, but my bike and I are in need of a refit before we sally forth again. A thorough washing, oil change and new rubber fore and aft are high on the list. The bike probably needs something, too. So, if you enjoy these interludes, savor this one. If not, you can return the Dramamine to the medicine closet – after today. Everybody wins.

Second, the sound track on the video is not my first choice. It's not second or even third. Originally, I selected ABBA (Take a Chance on Me.) and The Grateful Dead (Truckin). The trouble began when I uploaded the video to YouTube. There, I ran afoul of the Global-Anal-Music Biz. They balk at folks sharing their music in public. Eventually, I selected something nondescript from the “Approved Music” list. [sigh]  I think it might be the soundtrack from a skin flick. Seems to work, tho.

The tour of the Twisted Sisters was five hours of what you see on the video. At the end of the ride, I was exhausted in the most wonderful way. (Still am.) I also had more than an hour of video from the trip. Funny, it took all weekend to find the ten minutes that seemed to capture the flavor of the country and the ride. It was good that I reviewed the video. Otherwise, I might never have seen the grandeur on the roadsides. On those twisty roads, a glance left or right at the wrong moment could result in my becoming part of the scenery. In some respects, you and I are seeing the country the same way.

After licking the apple strudel from my fingers in Medina, I found Ranch Road 337 and headed west.  The twisty roads showed up almost immediately.  Signs reading "Sharp Curves and Steep Grades Next 5 Miles" were stacked a hundred yards apart.  I recognised this as overkill, along with the sign that read "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here...".  The Texas Department of Transportation is well-known for its aversion to adventure on its highways.

Traffic was light to non-existent.  Many of the four-wheel vehicles are operated by locals accustomed to motorcycle traffic along these byways.  Accordingly, they drive on the shoulder to save the effort of moving over every two minutes to let the two-wheelers pass.  I consider their courtesy a good example for drivers everywhere.  There were more two-wheelers than cars and trucks on the road during my ride.  Harley-Davidsons, mostly, ridden by round-bellied, gray or balding men out to take the air.  Most of them were stopped or semi-stopped when I met or overtook them.  Still, it was comforting to be among "my own kind."  If you look close, you may see a bike or two in the video. Look quick.

Vanderpool was the first village I encountered west of Medina. I think I was in a state of shock when I arrived and may have failed to get even a snapshot of the place. No matter.  I'll get one next time.  Salivating heavily, I continued along 337 to Leaky, a village of 400 (mebbe) in Frio Canyon.  It is small, but pleasant and equipped with facilities for recreation, refreshment and shopping.  The "Hog Pen" appeared promising.

After taking a few quick breaths, I continued toward Campwood.  That's where I discovered an oasis called "The Motorcycle Stop."  They sell everything the cyclist might need.  Beer, grub and any article of clothing you could possibly need, especially if you need it in black.  It's is part of the Harley thing.  Me?  I love black, but I attend few formal occasions these days.

  

The breezeway at The Stop provides a pleasant refuge from the road, even if you only stay long enough for a glass of tea.  As long as I was there, I purchased a couple of T-shirts testifying to my riding prowess.  I felt I earned a touch of badness.

Check out the view from the open air lounge.  I can imagine a very pleasant time, sipping a cold beer at the end of the day and watching the sun set behind the hills.  It was very civilized.  At left, two patrons wave friendly greeting.

The parking lot held a few bikes, taking refuge from the bright sun beneath a stand of oaks.  A couple mature looking bikers fussed about with them before strolling into the building.  Someone showed up in their Ferrari. Cool, eh?  I didn't hang around to find out who it was. Could it be Michael Schuhmacher?  Mebbe.

Finally, A picture of one of the tastefully decorated T-shirts I purchased to commemorate the occasion.  I hope you will scroll down to the Twisted Sister video, just beneath this post.  It is a little bit exciting, I think.  :)

Riding the Twisted Sisters - Two

Riding the Three Twisted Sisters - One

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Guadalupe River @ Llano, TX

I posted The Twisted Sister video here, directly beneath this story. It is not quite like being there. There is no way to record the heart-in-your-throat, falling elevator exhilaration of the real thing. Still, it is pleasant and I hope you enjoy it.

After months of frustration, the time was right for another assault on the infamous “Twisted Sisters” of the Texas Hill Country. Spanning two large west Texas counties, the “Sisters” are three innocent sounding Farm Roads numbered 335, 336 and 337. My last attempt was in September, just as global wetting arrived in Texas. Somehow, I felt unprepared for these challenging roads AND torrential rains at the same time, so I wussed-out.

Tuesday, last, I saddled-up and rode south. Everything in the state was beautiful, but I will not boor you with roads already travelled. The ride was a pleasure. Two-hundred miles out, I noticed I was achieving incredible gas mileage. My gauge showed almost half a tank. “Woo Hoo!” I thought. “I am doing great.” I drove another hundred miles and checked the gauge again. It showed the same fuel level. Hmm. I began to be suspicious.

“What on Earth could be going on?” I wondered aloud. I usually receive about 40 miles per gallon, more or less, but some simple mental arithmetic suggested I was getting well over that amount. I pondered this condition until I was almost to my destination.

It was then I realized I was looking at the wrong gauge. Anxiety gripped me as I located the real fuel gauge. The “Emergency Reserve” light was blinking frantically.

“I wonder how long that’s been going on.”

Reflexively, I squeezed the handlebar grips, attempting to squeeze every inch of distance from the remaining fumes. After what seemed an hour, I arrived at the outskirts of Kerrville. The first building in town was a gasoline station. I pulled in for blessed fuel. I had covered 315 miles on 7.2 gallons. 43.75 mpg is good. It is a personal best and I hope never to improve upon it. The tank holds 7.7 gallons.

After fuelling, I checked in at the motel, washed and dressed, visited the bar and then the restaurant. The salmon was delicious. Then, it was off to bed. I had an early date with Three Twisted Sisters and I wanted to be fully alert for the meeting.

I awoke just after dawn and enjoyed breakfast at the motel. Then, I suited up and launched my assault. My first objective was Medina, home of the finest Apple pie in the region. It was there I would pick up the first sister, 337. Riding along Texas 16 southbound, I passed dozens of fellow cyclists. Almost all were riding Harley’s, but what the heck, we are all family, right? Highway 16 is an interesting ride in itself, particularly from Kerrville to Medina. There are hills, turns, and gorgeous scenery to refresh the weary spirit all along the way.

In Medina, I treated myself to an apple strudel with a glass of milk. I felt fortified against whatever the day might bring. Now, it was time to get serious. I launched onto 337, westbound for the villages of Vanderpool, Leakey and Campwood.  The video shows a bit of it.  Turn it up. ;-)
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Twisted Sister 337.wmv