2008 Woodie Awards
Humor: My Idahoan Deer adventure
Danny Harry
Issue date: 2/2/05 Section: Opinion
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I have a picture of a British Colombian deer on my computer's desktop, so I'll tell you a deer story. The facts are, I'm born and raised a rural Idahoan.
My grandpa took me hunting when I was fourteen, a year after I passed Hunter's Education, the same thing every boy and some girls in Salmon did. His '77' Bronco crawled slowly between trees after we merged off the main Fenster Creek road. He liked to park in our spot hidden away from the main road.
New sunlight began filtering through tree limbs. He shut the engine off and 100 yards in front of us stood a deer. "There's your deer!" He shouted, more excited than me. My heart erupted into a chorus of drums, and I fumbled with the old 30.30 lever action. Chambering a round, I raised the gun to my shoulder and fired. The deer fell to the ground.
"Great shot!" grandpa encouraged. To my dismay, the wounded deer suddenly leapt up and ran. I didn't see it for two hours, during which time my grandpa taught me how to think like a deer and track a faint blood trail. I fired the last shot on the spike buck and had my first deer, relieved at not leaving a wounded animal in the woods. I shared several first experiences with my grandpa. About a year before, I sat in his Dodge pickup as we drove up William's Creek Summit to our firewood spot. As was custom, he had two chain saws, just in case one didn't work. After parking, I gassed up one chainsaw as he had taught me. Then he set the other chainsaw next to me. "After you gas this one up, head over there and start. I'll be over here," he said. To a thirteen year old, this show of trust, to let me operate my own chainsaw, most surely meant I was finally a man. He must have interpreted my joyfully surprised expression as confusion. "Remember how to start it?" he asked.
"Of course!" I thought, my mind reviewing the countless times I watched each step, his thumb flipping the on switch, fingers squeezing the throttle, other hand pushing the compression release peg in, and then adjusting the choke on the shiny red Craftsman.
My grandpa took me hunting when I was fourteen, a year after I passed Hunter's Education, the same thing every boy and some girls in Salmon did. His '77' Bronco crawled slowly between trees after we merged off the main Fenster Creek road. He liked to park in our spot hidden away from the main road.
New sunlight began filtering through tree limbs. He shut the engine off and 100 yards in front of us stood a deer. "There's your deer!" He shouted, more excited than me. My heart erupted into a chorus of drums, and I fumbled with the old 30.30 lever action. Chambering a round, I raised the gun to my shoulder and fired. The deer fell to the ground.
"Great shot!" grandpa encouraged. To my dismay, the wounded deer suddenly leapt up and ran. I didn't see it for two hours, during which time my grandpa taught me how to think like a deer and track a faint blood trail. I fired the last shot on the spike buck and had my first deer, relieved at not leaving a wounded animal in the woods. I shared several first experiences with my grandpa. About a year before, I sat in his Dodge pickup as we drove up William's Creek Summit to our firewood spot. As was custom, he had two chain saws, just in case one didn't work. After parking, I gassed up one chainsaw as he had taught me. Then he set the other chainsaw next to me. "After you gas this one up, head over there and start. I'll be over here," he said. To a thirteen year old, this show of trust, to let me operate my own chainsaw, most surely meant I was finally a man. He must have interpreted my joyfully surprised expression as confusion. "Remember how to start it?" he asked.
"Of course!" I thought, my mind reviewing the countless times I watched each step, his thumb flipping the on switch, fingers squeezing the throttle, other hand pushing the compression release peg in, and then adjusting the choke on the shiny red Craftsman.