It was back in 1977. My folks got me the 50 cal. Thompson flintlock muzzy kit for Christmas. By spring I had it stained and browned. I spent all summer shooting that thing in anticipation of taking my deer with it. Patch and ball. Iron sights, Old school. I couldn’t have acted like Ralphie and his Red Ryder much more…
In those days, Ashtabula County was swarmed with carloads of guys from Cleveland, Road hunting block by country block. Posted property made no difference. Drop a carload of guys and push the block. After block. After block. The first few days of gun sounded like a war zone. Harvest counts were only at 23,000 so people would empty a gun in an effort to kill a deer. The state would let you use a muzzy for the week of gun but other than that it was shot gun. Smooth bore, lead pumpkin ball slugs.
I was 16. Gramp had taught me the most basic of hunting but most information was learned from deer hunting magazines. I would subscribe to 3-4 mags a year, reading of the tactics used by the authors. No one had trail cams, computers or anywhere near the data at your fingertips you have 45 years later…
Anyway, I was ready. I had “found” wood scraps from Dads out building and made a tree stand 200 yards off a back road in the corner of the woods over looking a corn field. As I sat in my stand with every piece of hunting equipment I had, (just in case), I watched a lone buck run into the field. He milled a round and finally started to come my way. I got ready…annnnd a was still ready what seemed like a hour later. Hands numb from unknowingly squeezing the gun in anticipation of my first deer kill. Finally, he came into range, nervous from shooting a block to the east. He turned giving me the 1/4ing away shot and I took it at about 50 yards. I was amazed how fast he turned and took off. Waiting the hour was an eternity but I did it. I had killed my first deer. I climbed down and started my blood trail. He had gone the 200 yards and crossed the dirt road into a overgrown field/ young woods. I was no further than a little ways in when I saw the 5 guys in orange huddled around talking. As I got up to them, I saw my 6 point laying there dead. Nervisly I said “ thanks for marking my dead deer guys”…
“Your deer ? That's not your deer boy. We shot that deer boy”.
“O common man You can see the tracks came from across the road. You guys haven’t fired a shot!!!”
“That’s our deer kid. What you going ta do about it? “( laughter)
I left. I wanted to scream, cry and get revenge. By the time I walked home and called the game warden and went back, they were gone. Just a cold gut pile an a drag trail to the roads edge. It would be several years after that before I was able to tag a deer.
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