brotherjack
11-06-2007, 02:50 PM
This morning I climbed a mountain. A pretty big mountain. Packing my 12lb 303 British because The Wife(tm) is packing the Kimber down around on the low side of the same mountain. Took me almost an hour, and hurt me pretty good getting up it. Fifteen minutes after making the summit, I finally stopped sweating enough so that I could put my glasses back on for a few seconds at a time without them fogging. Oh look - mule deer, about 300 yards out. Five minutes later when I could actually get my binoculars and my glasses both fog-free at the same time for 5 or 10 seconds, I'm 99% sure that one of them is a smallish 4x4. Heck, I ain't proud - I'm hungry - smallish is just fine - the stalk is on.
I slipped back over the ridgeline so they couldn't see me, and made my way as close as I could get before having to break cover. I creeped around the edge of the ridge I was hiding behind, and all the mule deer are staring me down. After some more frustrations with fogging glasses, I finally get the bino's on him and yep, I'm sure enough he's a four point to kill him. I guesimtated the range as about 200 yards (in hindsight, I think the wide open spaces deceived me, and it was more like 300). Well I thought to myself, that's a long ways, but I've practiced this shot enough to feel good about it. And since they're all wide-eyed and staring me down, I figure I'm probably not going to be able to get any closer. So I find an old stump for a rest, dial the scope on the trusty old Enfield up to 9, and center the crosshairs on his chest.
I took my time, and got real comfortable and steady, and gently squeezed the trigger. Recovering from the recoil, I found him in the scope again, unmoved - but now with his head down. I figure I must have hit him, but was afraid it wasn't a good hit. Worried, I lined up on him again and touched another one off. He was still standing there, so I did it again. As the rifle drops back down on to the rest the third time, I notice dust settling to the ground near the buck. Oh, you have to be kidding me I scream to myself - I've done 200 meters/218 yards at the range with a solid rest like this enough times to know I ain't off by more than maybe 2 inches tops. Even if you add in some excitement and whatnot, there's still no way I should be kicking up dust and not hitting this buck. I think my scope is off - *&^%.
At this point, the buck and his companions started walking slowly off towards the timber, which was about 500 yards away. I held my breath, and sure enough, they ducked up an old skid trail on the way to the timber that put them on the other side of a small ridge of ground and out of my sight - and more importantly, me out of theirs. I came down from my high perch at as close to a dead run as I could manage on the steep slope, and headed for a spot I figured I could get within about 30 yards of where they should come out into the clear again. They were just walking, so I thought my chances were pretty good I could get close enough that my scope being off a bit wouldn't matter (and I was still open to the possibility that my shooting under pressure had been that bad).
I made it to where I thought I should be to intercept them, and started looking around. Stupid glasses fogging up again, and so were the binoculars. A few swipes at the lenses later, I could see just well enough to see the buck about 30 yards out walking slowly away from me. Scrambling uphill in search of a better angle, I was rewarded when he turned broadside and stared at me. Quick as a flash, I found a stump for a rest (he may have only been 30 yards, but I was huffing and puffing like a freight train at this point from all the running - a rest was definitely in order). Crosshairs on his vitals, and I squeezed the trigger. He reacted by hunching up, which wasn't what I was hoping for, so I ran another round into the chamber and shot him again. He reacted again, but I wasn't seeing that 'heart-shot kick' I was hoping for, so I ran my last round into the chamber and this time I put the crosshairs just ahead of his front shoulders. I said a silent prayer as I touched it off. At the third shot, he bolted hard uphill and made about 40 yards before he went down in in a pile.
I made my way cautiously up towards where he had fallen. He looked down and dead - his head tilted over and laying on the ground, but no sooner had I relaxed my guard and started towards him at a more normal pace, and he jumped to his feet and bolted dowhill. 30 yards into his second frantic flight, he went down again and didn't get up. I waited a few minutes this time befofe I headed over towards him. Just as I did, the buck raised his head up, groaned, and then tipped over backwards and did a couple of summersaults down the slope (did I mention all this was happening on the side of a mountain with about a 45 degree slope?). After he came to a stop, it was obvious he was dead. I walked over and poked him in the eye to be sure.
And just like that, my hunting season is over (well, except for maybe some coyotes or sumpthin). I called The Wife(tm) on the radio and told her to come find me, as we had work to do. Lots of work - it was about a mile and 1,000 vertical feet back to the truck.
Here's the pic, after I had already dragged him half way down the mountain.
http://xjack.org/hunting/amd01-07.jpg
Footnotes – during the post mortem, I have decided I don’t like the Sierra 180 grain bullets I’ve hand loaded in my 303. The exit wounds only slightly larger than entrance wounds, and the lungs had holes in them, but were still mainly intact. The Winchester PowerPoint’s I used to use would typically turn the lungs into jello. Also, I think I was right - the gun must be off a bit, since even at 30 or 40 yards, all of the hits were a few inches to the right of where I was trying to put them. Sigh… I am getting REALLY sick and tired of gun problems. Seems like it's been one after another this year.
Oh well – it’s said and done now. Life is good, the beast is dead, the freezer is (about to be) pretty much full, and that is the end of that.
I slipped back over the ridgeline so they couldn't see me, and made my way as close as I could get before having to break cover. I creeped around the edge of the ridge I was hiding behind, and all the mule deer are staring me down. After some more frustrations with fogging glasses, I finally get the bino's on him and yep, I'm sure enough he's a four point to kill him. I guesimtated the range as about 200 yards (in hindsight, I think the wide open spaces deceived me, and it was more like 300). Well I thought to myself, that's a long ways, but I've practiced this shot enough to feel good about it. And since they're all wide-eyed and staring me down, I figure I'm probably not going to be able to get any closer. So I find an old stump for a rest, dial the scope on the trusty old Enfield up to 9, and center the crosshairs on his chest.
I took my time, and got real comfortable and steady, and gently squeezed the trigger. Recovering from the recoil, I found him in the scope again, unmoved - but now with his head down. I figure I must have hit him, but was afraid it wasn't a good hit. Worried, I lined up on him again and touched another one off. He was still standing there, so I did it again. As the rifle drops back down on to the rest the third time, I notice dust settling to the ground near the buck. Oh, you have to be kidding me I scream to myself - I've done 200 meters/218 yards at the range with a solid rest like this enough times to know I ain't off by more than maybe 2 inches tops. Even if you add in some excitement and whatnot, there's still no way I should be kicking up dust and not hitting this buck. I think my scope is off - *&^%.
At this point, the buck and his companions started walking slowly off towards the timber, which was about 500 yards away. I held my breath, and sure enough, they ducked up an old skid trail on the way to the timber that put them on the other side of a small ridge of ground and out of my sight - and more importantly, me out of theirs. I came down from my high perch at as close to a dead run as I could manage on the steep slope, and headed for a spot I figured I could get within about 30 yards of where they should come out into the clear again. They were just walking, so I thought my chances were pretty good I could get close enough that my scope being off a bit wouldn't matter (and I was still open to the possibility that my shooting under pressure had been that bad).
I made it to where I thought I should be to intercept them, and started looking around. Stupid glasses fogging up again, and so were the binoculars. A few swipes at the lenses later, I could see just well enough to see the buck about 30 yards out walking slowly away from me. Scrambling uphill in search of a better angle, I was rewarded when he turned broadside and stared at me. Quick as a flash, I found a stump for a rest (he may have only been 30 yards, but I was huffing and puffing like a freight train at this point from all the running - a rest was definitely in order). Crosshairs on his vitals, and I squeezed the trigger. He reacted by hunching up, which wasn't what I was hoping for, so I ran another round into the chamber and shot him again. He reacted again, but I wasn't seeing that 'heart-shot kick' I was hoping for, so I ran my last round into the chamber and this time I put the crosshairs just ahead of his front shoulders. I said a silent prayer as I touched it off. At the third shot, he bolted hard uphill and made about 40 yards before he went down in in a pile.
I made my way cautiously up towards where he had fallen. He looked down and dead - his head tilted over and laying on the ground, but no sooner had I relaxed my guard and started towards him at a more normal pace, and he jumped to his feet and bolted dowhill. 30 yards into his second frantic flight, he went down again and didn't get up. I waited a few minutes this time befofe I headed over towards him. Just as I did, the buck raised his head up, groaned, and then tipped over backwards and did a couple of summersaults down the slope (did I mention all this was happening on the side of a mountain with about a 45 degree slope?). After he came to a stop, it was obvious he was dead. I walked over and poked him in the eye to be sure.
And just like that, my hunting season is over (well, except for maybe some coyotes or sumpthin). I called The Wife(tm) on the radio and told her to come find me, as we had work to do. Lots of work - it was about a mile and 1,000 vertical feet back to the truck.
Here's the pic, after I had already dragged him half way down the mountain.
http://xjack.org/hunting/amd01-07.jpg
Footnotes – during the post mortem, I have decided I don’t like the Sierra 180 grain bullets I’ve hand loaded in my 303. The exit wounds only slightly larger than entrance wounds, and the lungs had holes in them, but were still mainly intact. The Winchester PowerPoint’s I used to use would typically turn the lungs into jello. Also, I think I was right - the gun must be off a bit, since even at 30 or 40 yards, all of the hits were a few inches to the right of where I was trying to put them. Sigh… I am getting REALLY sick and tired of gun problems. Seems like it's been one after another this year.
Oh well – it’s said and done now. Life is good, the beast is dead, the freezer is (about to be) pretty much full, and that is the end of that.