KIDS HEAR THE DARNDEST THINGS

My kids know all about hunting, fishing and the outdoors.  They've grown up around it and participate right alongside me on many outings.  However, many of their neighborhood friends don't have a clue about hunting or fishing.  But the good news is they are curious and I take the opportunity to teach them a few things.  Most lessons are good, too.  Well, except for one little slip recently.   

For nearly two decades, every time I back my truck or boat into the driveway it's not uncommon to have kids ranging in age from 5-15 come over to poke around in my livewell or see what rode home in the back of the truck.  They're intrigued, fascinated and truly inquisitive about hunting and fishing and the resulting fish or game.  Childlike curiosity is entertaining, too, with questions that run the gamut.

"How did you kill it?"
"What part do you eat?"
"Do you eat the fins?"

Many of the neighbor kids are older now so my audience isn't as large.  But last weekend when I had a deer to get out of my truck my little neighbor girl, who is in 3rd grade, was playing in the leaves with a little boy who was her classmate and his 4th grade brother.  I was actually going to try to get it out without being noticed as she's quite the animal lover and I was concerned about her feelings.

But the boys saw me and said "Oh, he's got a coyote!" 

I told them it was actually a deer and drug it around to the back yard to hang it so I could process it.  I turned and saw three little faces peering through the fence between our yards.  I asked if they wanted to come see it and they hollered "YES!"

As they came through my garage I told the little girl I wanted to make sure she knew there was a dead deer laying there.  She said she knew and marched right up to it without a qualm or any hesitation.  They all started in with a barrage of questions.  After a few minutes, their curiosity quenched, they went back to playing in the leaves as I got busy with a knife skinning and quartering my deer.

I was in a hurry as my son wanted to go deer hunting that afternoon.  A careless slip of the knife and my pinkie finger was cut bad enough I knew it may require a trip to the ER for stitches.  It caught me by surprise and I hollered an expletive that would have made Charlie Sheen blush.  I dropped the knife and looked up just in time to see all three kids staring at me between our houses.

I took off for the sink and hollered at my wife.  As I washed my hands trying to assess the damage my wife starts freaking out as my blood trail was better than my deer that morning. 

"You need to go to the hospital!!!"  she screamed, a lot. 

I had to laugh as the scene reminded me of the one from Saturday Night Live where Dan Aykroyd portrayed Julia Childs cutting up chicken and she cut herself with the knife.  Google it if you haven't seen it (be forewarned...it's gross). 

Anyway, I told my wife I didn't have time to go to the ER and in all seriousness, it looked to be borderline stitch-needing.  In true, redneck style, I got some electrical tape and a paper towel and wrapped it tightly to stop the bleeding.  I did shove it in a latex rubber glove and went back outside to finish processing the deer. 

When I turned around I saw those three little faces at the fence again.

"I think I saw you cut yourself!" one little boy said.

"You did?" I responded.

"Yeah, I heard you holler, drop the knife and start jumping all over and then run inside," he said.

"Did you hear any bad words?" I quizzed.

All three heads shook back and forth and the response was in unison and not very truthful sounding...."uh,uh, noooo!"

Too bad kids hear the darndest things. 

 

BACK IN THE GAME

I fell in love with bowhunting when I was a senior at K-State.  So much so I likely skipped a few classes to head to the far reaches of Tuttle Creek Reservoir to sit in a treestand on a few mornings I should have been in Chemistry or Biology classes.  But I graduated with flying colors and a degree in Fisheries and Wildlife Biology so I must have made most of them.  However, the bad news is I never killed a deer with my bow!

To make matters worse, I wouldn't kill a deer until the end of my third season bowhunting.  I had taken a job with the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission and spent the first year there finding places to hunt.  Finally, I killed a small doe the second year and could finally consider myself a full-fledged bowhunter.

That first animal opened the flood gates and things got easier as I learned from my mistakes (I made my fair share and then some).   My interest in the sport escalated and I found myself traveling to the far reaches of Northern Quebec chasing caribou and to several Mountain and Midwestern states chasing elk and whitetails.  I was hooked on bowhunting in a big way and loved every minute of it.

But as happens, my interest waned a bit when I had kids and more responsibilities all the way around.  I just didn't have the time to get out as much as I used to and time in a tree was at a premium.  Add to this the fact I lost my two favorite spots to bowhunt and I've been a little off-track for the last few years. 

Don't get me wrong, there have been plenty of deer that died in front of me.  My twin boys have both killed several deer now and my daughter killed her first deer last month while home on fall break from college.  I've enjoyed that as much or even more than shooting one myself.  But solo time in a tree is almost therapeutic and I missed it.

A new-found friend turned me onto a spot to bowhunt and things were looking up.  I was more excited this fall about my bowhunting prospects than I had been for some time.  The first time in my new tree yielded several deer sightings and that warm, fuzzy, content feeling I get from watching the woods wake up was back.  It's a magical time.

The second time in that tree last weekend started off slow but then a fair-sized buck cruised through just out of range.   A short time later three generations of antlerless deer eased down a trail I was watching.  My Mathews came to it's old, familiar anchor point where it had been thousands of times over the years and I grunted to stop the biggest doe at 18 yards.  The shot was perfect as all three deer bolted.

As I walked up to the first deer I'd killed in a couple years I thought about how much I'd missed bowhunting and close encounters.  Even though only a doe it felt vaguely like the first one I worked so hard for years ago which was a huge trophy in my eyes.  It's a wonderful sense of accomplishment and I was grateful for the opportunity.  It feels good to be back in the game.