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On the first day of buck season there was a steady, miserable drizzle. The fog hung so heavily over the valley that from the tree stand placed high on the bluff, it looked like gray cotton balls soft enough to leap into. Don shrugged his collar higher around his neck and shook the rain from his orange cap. Nobody in their right mind (human or deer) should be out wandering in this nasty weather. This was one lousy opening day.
Boredom set in. Don lit a cigarette and shifted back and forth from his real leg to his prosthetic leg. Who the heck cared? He could smoke and dance all he wanted to, there were no doggone deer to be seen for miles anyway. He wondered how many deer his brother, Walzie, was seeing across the adjacent field – probably none. No shots fired.
Whatever made him glance up, he didn’t know; but the slightest glimpse of movement sent his heart to pounding. With its head down low, the biggest rack buck Don had ever seen was silently sneaking through the brush about 75 yards in front of him. Slowly, he shouldered his rifle. Unnoticed, the rifle butt crushed the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He watched the buck through the scope. It was a beauty. Don drew a deep breath; the buck’s shoulder entered the crosshairs; BAM! The deer dropped in its tracks.
Every experienced hunter knows to sit tight for a few minutes and let the animal lay before approaching it. Don shivered. Was that the excitement of the kill or just plain cold wetness? Whichever, didn’t matter, his “real” foot was falling asleep; he needed to move. Leaving his rifle and fanny pack in the tree stand, he carefully picked his way down the ladder, slipping now and then on his “wooden” leg. Finally, he shuffled toward the downed deer. He couldn’t see the bullet’s entry wound, but the deer looked dead alright. He picked up its head, proudly counted each of the ten points, and whistled at the rack on that bad boy. Old Walzie’s gonna eat his heart out with jealousy!
He dropped the deer’s head with a thud and went back to the tree stand to get his gun and fanny pack that had the gutting knife. That’s when he heard a snort. Quickly he turned. The ten-point was trotting away like nobody’s business.
At the top of the rise that dropped into the fog-shrouded valley below, Don saw the deer disappear over the edge. That rotten bugger knew where he was going – down the side of the mountain into the fog. Well, yes sir, two can play this game.
Don grabbed his rifle, leaped over the rise, and bounded down the mountainside chasing after the deer. He could see it meandering along the trail just ahead of him. Suddenly, his boot caught on a root and he fell forward. With a pop, the suction let loose that held the wooden leg onto his thigh. Ever heard the saying, “busy as a one legged man in a butt kicking contest”? That’s exactly how busy Don was trying to keep upright on that steep Billy-goat trail. He hobbled, wobbled, and then tumbled down the mountainside like a tractor tire with a lopsided blow-out. The entire road that skirts the Little Juniata is usually a dry cinder path, except for one sloppy mud hole that Don found to be mighty cold and deep.
As he wiped the mud from his eyes, he realized the buck was standing just fifty yards ahead of him on the road. (Probably laughing like a Tickle-me Elmo.) He leaped to his one leg, stood stork-like, and aimed. Ever try to balance on one leg and shoot a rifle? Not a good idea. The crosshairs seemed to be weaving in wide circles. Don shot.
When he picked himself back up out of the puddle, the deer was gone and so was what little adrenalin he had left. Now he had to crawl like a drenched, one-legged mountain goat back up that ungodly steep hill to retrieve his leg.
Suddenly, Don heard a whistle. At the top of the hill stood Walzie waving his brother’s long lost leg.
“Hey, brother,” he shouted. “Lose something?”
“Shoot! Bring my leg here, would ya’?”
Walzie joined his brother on the side of the mountain. As Don put himself back together he told Walzie the big buck story.
“Yeah, right,” Walzie chided. “Sounds like a redneck story to me. Let’s go home for supper. Venison steak was going to be my choice … hope you like fried grease, dead-eye!”
Boredom set in. Don lit a cigarette and shifted back and forth from his real leg to his prosthetic leg. Who the heck cared? He could smoke and dance all he wanted to, there were no doggone deer to be seen for miles anyway. He wondered how many deer his brother, Walzie, was seeing across the adjacent field – probably none. No shots fired.
Whatever made him glance up, he didn’t know; but the slightest glimpse of movement sent his heart to pounding. With its head down low, the biggest rack buck Don had ever seen was silently sneaking through the brush about 75 yards in front of him. Slowly, he shouldered his rifle. Unnoticed, the rifle butt crushed the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He watched the buck through the scope. It was a beauty. Don drew a deep breath; the buck’s shoulder entered the crosshairs; BAM! The deer dropped in its tracks.
Every experienced hunter knows to sit tight for a few minutes and let the animal lay before approaching it. Don shivered. Was that the excitement of the kill or just plain cold wetness? Whichever, didn’t matter, his “real” foot was falling asleep; he needed to move. Leaving his rifle and fanny pack in the tree stand, he carefully picked his way down the ladder, slipping now and then on his “wooden” leg. Finally, he shuffled toward the downed deer. He couldn’t see the bullet’s entry wound, but the deer looked dead alright. He picked up its head, proudly counted each of the ten points, and whistled at the rack on that bad boy. Old Walzie’s gonna eat his heart out with jealousy!
He dropped the deer’s head with a thud and went back to the tree stand to get his gun and fanny pack that had the gutting knife. That’s when he heard a snort. Quickly he turned. The ten-point was trotting away like nobody’s business.
At the top of the rise that dropped into the fog-shrouded valley below, Don saw the deer disappear over the edge. That rotten bugger knew where he was going – down the side of the mountain into the fog. Well, yes sir, two can play this game.
Don grabbed his rifle, leaped over the rise, and bounded down the mountainside chasing after the deer. He could see it meandering along the trail just ahead of him. Suddenly, his boot caught on a root and he fell forward. With a pop, the suction let loose that held the wooden leg onto his thigh. Ever heard the saying, “busy as a one legged man in a butt kicking contest”? That’s exactly how busy Don was trying to keep upright on that steep Billy-goat trail. He hobbled, wobbled, and then tumbled down the mountainside like a tractor tire with a lopsided blow-out. The entire road that skirts the Little Juniata is usually a dry cinder path, except for one sloppy mud hole that Don found to be mighty cold and deep.
As he wiped the mud from his eyes, he realized the buck was standing just fifty yards ahead of him on the road. (Probably laughing like a Tickle-me Elmo.) He leaped to his one leg, stood stork-like, and aimed. Ever try to balance on one leg and shoot a rifle? Not a good idea. The crosshairs seemed to be weaving in wide circles. Don shot.
When he picked himself back up out of the puddle, the deer was gone and so was what little adrenalin he had left. Now he had to crawl like a drenched, one-legged mountain goat back up that ungodly steep hill to retrieve his leg.
Suddenly, Don heard a whistle. At the top of the hill stood Walzie waving his brother’s long lost leg.
“Hey, brother,” he shouted. “Lose something?”
“Shoot! Bring my leg here, would ya’?”
Walzie joined his brother on the side of the mountain. As Don put himself back together he told Walzie the big buck story.
“Yeah, right,” Walzie chided. “Sounds like a redneck story to me. Let’s go home for supper. Venison steak was going to be my choice … hope you like fried grease, dead-eye!”
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