Have you ever hunted right up next to the Pacific Ocean, well most of my hunting while I lived in Oregon, was at the ocean or within sight of it. I always wanted to hunt from a Forest Service outhouse out on the dunes. Prop the door open, sit on the can, and stay out of the rain. Yes rain. Over 85% of my black tail deer hunting was done in the rain. Hunting in Coos Bay was good jungle warfare training, but a good hunter could score if he was not afraid to enter the jungle. I found myself crawling on hands and knees under blackberry bushes more than once. Sometimes among black bear spore. It could be a hair-raising experience. I took three or four bucks that I can remember. The one that is in the picture died of heart failure, after having his mind set on a nice young doe. Do you remember that very first story about my first Buck? Remember I was using deer scent in that story. Some guys never give up, and yes it still stinks.

I fired again, and he made a left hand turn and ran into a stand of Alder trees. I thought crap.....I missed. About 10 seconds later he came out of the trees about 100 yards down at a dead run on my right. He was running parallel with the trail. Up came the 06 and I fired three more times as he ran through the tall ferns and brush, then he was gone. I stood shaking, wondering what the heck. I reloaded the clip, picked up my empty casings and started down into the clear cut. Just beyond my sight from the trail the buck lay dead. While dressing the dear, I kept looking for the bullet entry hole but didn't see any. The heart and liver went into a zip lock bag, and I started the long drag out. After hanging the buck in my garage, I continued to examine the hide for the bullet hole, without success. I let the deer hang two days and started to butcher on the third. Upon skinning the hide off, I noticed four or five very little blood marks on the deer. After probing with the point of my knife I found little pieces of lead. I went back in the house and looked closer at the deer's heart. There was a small speck of bloodied tissue on the heart. I found a small piece of lead there as well. One of the bullets must have hit a rock and came apart and several fragments hit the deer like buckshot. That's what killed the deer. You talk about bad luck, this deer had it, and all he wanted to do was socialize.

Hunting near the ocean makes one subject to fast weather changes. One minute its raining and windy, another foggy and still. I remember one morning I was hunting and again near the same clear cut, when I spotted a nice buck standing on a knoll. I brought the gun up just as a wisp of fog moved in. I held the gun up as long as I could. Having brought the gun back down the fog cleared, I brought the gun up and the fog moved in again. The buck was still there eating some grass. I went through this process for about thirty minutes and couldn't get a good shot. My arms were weak. After a short rest. I tried again and fired when I had a short clear spell. I marked the spot in my mind of where I was and where the deer was. Would you believe I looked for that deer for three hours, sometimes on my hands and knees. Ferns turn red in the fall, its hard to find blood spatter on them. You have to wipe them with your hand until you find blood. The fog got denser, but I finally found a blood trail and the buck. I'm glad that I didn't give up. I have confidence in my shot, and I knew I hit him.

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For those who don't know what a clear cut is, out West here, they cut blocks of timber, leaving only stumps and debris. Most clear cuts are replanted and after four or five years are prime blacktail habitat.

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I took Jonathan my son hunting with me one morning. Again I chose to hunt some nearby clear cuts. It was going to have to be a short hunt as my father-in-law was coming to visit and was due about noon. Jon and I found a spot and sat down on a stump that overlooked a steep ravine, about 60% slope. There were deer trails on the facing slope, about 100 yards across the way. We hadn't been there ten minutes when I looked across and a buck was working his way up the slope. The sight I had was like looking down on his back. He was making good progress and if I didn't shoot soon he would be in the brush at the top. I hoped that he would drop and stay put. No such luck. I hit him through the back and into the heart. He slid more that half way back down the slope. I've never shot anything that I didn't intend to get out. But I slapped myself in the head after this one. Jon and I slid down the slope on our side and into a ravine. Looking up the other slope was like looking straight up. The only way we could advance was by grabbing grass and bushes and pulling our selves up. Sometimes we lost our hold and slid back down. After getting to the deer I wondered how I was going to dress it out without it sliding back down the hill. After some thought I tied a rope to the deer's antlers and climbed up the slope to the brush and tied the other end around a bush. I went back down and dressed the deer the best I could. I had Jon push from below and I went up and pulled the rope, the deer didn't move. I had to go down and pull the deer by the antlers, foot by foot up the hill to the brush. Now a new problem was encountered. The route to the top and my pickup was blocked by a good stand of black berry bushes. The only route was under and through the bushes. You talk about thorns. My clothes were half torn off and I was bleeding more that the deer by the time I got to the top. In was a deer well earned, and it taught my son a lesson about not shooting unless you intend to finish the job, and never waste game. He chose later in life not to hunt however, and that's alright to............................