The Deer Hunt, 2010

Finding time away from the responsibilities of family is always a major part of our deer hunting tradition. This year was no exception. We almost went hunting four or five times before escaping last Friday for a day-hunt.

“We have only three bullets, so we don’t shoot anything but trophies.” My son warned me.

This season was a bit different. We signed up for a wildlife management program, an oxymoron if I ever heard one. Anyhoo, it is a good cause. The idea is to improve the Whitetail Deer population and hunting at the same time. All we must do is target only fully mature buck deer and ignore the scrawny adolescence. It sounded like a piece of cake.

We examined the photos of “fully mature bucks” before setting out. The program requires that we not shoot any buck under the age of 4 years of age. The photo of the four-year-old deer bore a disturbing resemblance to King Kong with antlers, at least in the area of general mass and scariness. When I saw the photo of the typical five-year-old buck, I realized it might be better not to risk angering him with a rifle shot.

I have never seen a Whitetail Deer so large and angry looking as these examples. I figured we were safe. There was an outside chance we might mistakenly shoot an elk wandering through my pasture. Nothing like that has ever happened, either.

We climbed into our stands late in the morning. The Bosque County air was crisp and the wind was high. We gazed at the surrounding two-mile radius for any sign of game, but in an hour or so, nothing volunteered for shooting. We quit.

On our way to the truck, my son mentioned he needed some firewood. Insects devoured the wood he cut last year. It burned like large match heads in the fireplace. Were it not for the tiny insect screams, it would provide no entertainment at all.

We have a live oak tree near the gate on our property. It has eight trunks and it likely over two-hundred years old. It is dying. My son selected this tree for firewood. Whipping out his spiffy residential grade chainsaw, he attacked the two-foot thick oak with a vengeance. Wood chips flew for several minutes. Then, having cut through the bark, progress slowed. Smoke began to billow from the cut and I began to wonder how we could extinguish a fire, if one really started.

I need not have worried. The smoke was from the melting steel of the chainsaw blade, not the wood. I give him credit, though. He did not give up until the blade was useless. The trunk still stood.

During a lull in the action, I retold the story of the USS Constitution and how she earned the name “Old Ironsides” because live oak timbers used in her frame. Frankly, I do not think he fully appreciated the story.

When the chainsaw died (fried) and my strong son quiet, I leaned on the old trunk. Slowly but surely I increased my effort. Eventually, a sharp “CRACK” sounded deep in the wood and the trunk toppled to the ground. We both felt a real sense of accomplishment.

Now, all my son needs to do is chop up a thirty-foot by twenty-four inch diameter slab of the toughest wood known to man into four-inch diameter by two foot long fireplace logs. When finished, he will be the proud owner of about four tons of firewood. Should make quite a trophy.

He had better hurry, too. In three or four years, the ants will have eaten most of it.