HuntingStories5

This story takes place in the late 1980's. I was looking forward to the upcoming weekend as it would be my only chance to participate in the antlerless season as I was still in school and couldn't take off during the week. I laid out my gear and strategy for the next day and went to bed. The next morning, I woke up and had my ritualistic coffee and quick breakfast and headed out to our neighboring property. The morning was perfect. It was cold, in the mid 30's, no wind and a light frost on the ground all under a cloudless sky. My hunting position or stand, though I was on the ground, was at a location we've dubbed Chuck's Point after our good friend Chuck O'Bannon who had hunted the point fairly often. Typically, the deer would move out of the
bottoms of a morning, from a night of feeding, and up to the brushy ridgetops to bed for the day, but only after crossing a stretch of open area about 200 yards. It was here in this open band that I planned to take my shot, about 250 yards, no problem for my Winchester Model 70 30-06. As I settled into my position, I kept a close eye out as the sun was coming up. When the sun comes up, the deer tend to light up like neon signs and since it was to my back it would make the deer hard to see me, yet another reason why I picked the spot. As I scanned with my bino's, I heard this rumbling sound in the distance, kind of like a cross between a steam
engine and a pop can full of rocks rolling down a sidewalk. When I looked around it was the infamous Meeks' Mobile. A friend of the family, Gerald Meeks, was the pilot of this modern marvel of mechanical engineering that had been pieced together from parts from nearly every major automotive manufacturer in the continental United States. Originally a Ford Blazer, it had a Chevy engine, Dodge tailgate and God only know's what other parts "custom fit" into the body of the decrepit metal beast. It rumbled down the higher adjacent ridge behind me and came to a less than smooth halt on the face of the point. About 300 or more yards and a small wooded hill separated us so I wasn't overly concerned about Gerald ruining my chances. Besides, Gerald wasn't much for humping out into the wilds. Arthritis and a bad case of hemhorrhoids kept him close to home or the Meeks' Mobile so I respected his choice of hunting technique - though anyone else I probably would have bitch-slapped and called them lazy. As the sun came up, I started seeing deer coming out of the bottoms - does, just what I was looking for. As they continued on their way up the opposite ridge, they decided to take the right side of the ravine instead of the left. This put them out of range for me when they crossed the open stretch. Not so for Gerald! Unfortunately for the deer, Gerald was toting his semi-automatic 30-06. The beat up firearm streamed a barrage of lead into the hillside. It sounded like a line of British infantryman fighting the colonists in the Revolutionary War! Dirt and does were flying everywhere, completely unscathed. Sure enough though
I saw one of them hunker down and crash into the ravine, Gerald had drawn blood - which was quite a feat,
considering the source of the bullet. You see, Gerald wasn't exactly what I'd call an expert marksman. In
addition to his arthritis and hemhorrhoids, Gerald also had poor sight. If the bullet wasn't finding it's mark,
then it HAD to be the gun's fault, at which point Gerald would turn the windage and elevation screws on his scope much like Dale Earnhardt would turn his racecar's steering wheel on a NASCAR circuit track. Even if the gun WAS sighted in perfectly, the backbreaking suspension, or rather LACK of suspension, in the Meeks' Mobile would throw the gun out of sight about 30 ft. out the driveway as Gerald preferred to keep his gun close at hand and not keep it in a case. Added with the fact that if the gun was jammed, he would periodically place 10W30 motor oil down the barrell to "lube it up" it was the sheer grace of the hunting gods that Gerald's bullet had connected with the deer. I kept looking for deer to come my way, but to no avail, probably due to the battle going on between Gerald and the deer. I then heard the all too familiar roar of the Meeks' Mobile fire up and rumble towards the unlucky victim. I saw Gerald's metal beast rumble up the opposite ridge spewing white smoke, then black, then white again as it labored up the steep terrain. Gerald's ForDodgrolet (Ford, Dodge, Chevrolet) came to a exhausted stop not far from the ravine where his quarry lie. Gerald stepped out with his 10W30-06 at the ready and scanned for the deer but was obviously having trouble. It was at this point that I decided my hunt was over with all the commotion and that I should help him recover his deer before I had to recover Gerald from a stroke or something. I went down into the bottoms and up the ridge, but when I arrived at the Meeks' Mobile, Gerald wasn't anywhere to be found. I yelled, "Hey Meeksy!" "Meeksy" was Gerald's nickname that Dad had dubbed on him and I myself had adopted. "O'er heeyah" he replied. I then made my way down to where I heard the unmistakeable voice and when I arrived, Gerald was sitting by his prize. "What' ya up to this mornin?" inquired Gerald. "Well, I saw you hit that deer and I thought you may need my help to find it," I said. "NAH, I found the old skinhead." ("Skinhead" means "doe" in the Meeksinese dialect) As we exchanged greetings I couldn't help but notice an unusual amount of steam coming out of the bullet hole. I didn't think much of it, after all it was freezing and as we talked steam rolled out of our mouths. "Where'd ya hit her?" I asked. "Right up there behind 'er shoulder, I cut loose on 'er and GOD DAMN, she took off like a scalded hound, piled up down here in this shit. I though she may get away but I froze her piss!" I was still
looking at the steam and bent down to examine the shot Gerald was explaining when the smell of burnt hair hit
my nostrils. "Damn Gerald, what in the hell did you shoot this deer with?" "Well I shot 'er with this old
ironstick, what else?" Gerald exclaimed as he proudly pointed to his 10W30-06. "No, I mean what bullet did
you use?" I asked. "Oh yeah, well I got me some'in new 'his year" Gerald took his wrinkled hand out of his
gloves and reached down into his coat pocket and pulled out one of his "new" cartridges and handed it to me. I looked at it and couldn't believe it - it was a damn tracer round! You know the ones that the military uses to shoot with at night! Apparently the white phosphorous had burnt the hair and tissue of the wound and was the source of the burnt odor I had caught a whiff of. I looked back at the smoking deer and said, "Gerald, you know your deer is on fire because of these tracers don't you?" He just simply replied with a sly grin "Well yeah, I like it! Them smoked deer are the best and this way you ain't got to cook them as long!" We both kind of laughed. I guess that is Gerald's version of smoked venison!