Labor Tribune Reporter Takes First Deer

By KEVIN P. MADDEN

After years of hunting an area of southern Missouri that has an under-abundance of deer - and coming home with neither meat nor success stories - I now can hold my head at any gathering of real deer hunters.

Of course, I won't tell them about the time I drew down on a big, plump doe and pulled the trigger - and nothing happened . (I forgot to remove a safety cap from my percussion rifle and, by the time I managed to remove the stubborn cap, the doe had wandered into the next county).

And I won't tell about the time a buddy on the ground saw a deer within easy shooting range of my tree stand and wondered why I didn't shoot it. (I couldn't: The sandman got to me before the deer did).

But all that's behind me now.

My fortunes changed the Saturday before Christmas when  I hunted with a friend in a new area - northeastern Missouri.

After sitting more than an hour in a tree stand 15 feet in the air,  Isaw two does in a snowy field to my left. I was excited - although I didn't freeze up and my hands didn't sweat and shake.

But I knew: This was it!

I cocked the hammer of my .54-caliber percussion muzzle-loader just as the bigger deer began trotting off to my left toward a clump of woods.

I followed the moving doe with my iron sights, aiming just behind her left shoulder - and pulled the trigger. The shot was loud and the air filled with thick blackpowder smoke.

But the doe didn't collapse, jump in the air or jerk violently to one side. Instead, she reversed course, running at top speed to the other end of the field and disappearing in the woods.

Oh, no! Did I completely miss?

Although my stomach didn't churn with disappointment as I climbed down the tree- stand ladder and reloaded the rifle, I was more than a little anxious that I find some blood on the snowy ground.

Almost 70 yards from the tree stand, I saw one of the most beautiful sights I ever beheld: Several square feet of snow highlighted in scarlet, as if a brush dipped in red paint had sprayed the white ground.

My friend and I looked in the woods for more blood before he found the lifeless brown body of the doe laying in the middle of a nearby field.

My friend - a veteran hunter who later would bring down a deer with his .50-caliber percussion muleloader at a range of 150 yards - stood over my doe.

The deer laid motionless on its right side, exposing the entry hole my round ball had made in the middle of its left side just behind the shoulder.

"Look at that," my friend said. "A perfect shot!"

He didn't have to repeat himself. I knew those words would sing in my ears for years to come. I also knew I probably would never again make that kind of picture-perfect shot on a moving target. I would cherish this moment.

During the past 20 minutes, I had experienced surprise, excitement, disappointment. anxiety, elation, pride and thanksgiving.

Now I was free to relax - and reflect on what I had accomplished: I had shot a three-year-old, 120-pound doe - a moving target - at 70 yards from a tree stand with a primitive blackpowder percussion rifle.

I thanked Almighty God so many times that He probably got tired of hearing about it.

That night, the motel clerk asked how I did, and I was more than happy to relate my story. Then she proudly trumped me with two photos of her grandson posed with a 15-point buck he had just bagged on his first time out.

For a moment, I felt like ice cream under a sun lamp. But it didn't last. I had recently turned 60 - and I cannot recall having so much fun or being so thrilled since I was 6.

And to this day, the thrill still hasn't worn off.