POST-SHOT FORENSICS

Hunting is not an art, nor a science. It's referred to as a "sport," but that doesn't do it justice either. It's not exactly sporting to kill (or wound) a non-threatening animal with a high-powered, scoped, rifle. Definitions aside, as a hunter the process is far from over with the trigger pull. 

The process I went through on Wed. had just begun, as the shot echoed down the mountain. As the buck bounded away, tail up, I thought I had missed. How? Then I found blood. Expecting to find a dead deer at any moment my spirits rose. Then the blood trail dried up and I found that little sliver of bone (see above). My first thought was I had shot low and hit the left front leg. But, the buck didn't stumble and the trail did not show obvious scuffing in the leaves. It wasn't until I conferred with Savage that I even considered I'd hit jawbone. There's quite a bit of real estate between the vitals and jaw. Again.....how? 

Thanksgiving morning I didn't hunt, but went back to the ridge at first light. Following Savage's advice - "He'll go to water." I started at the river and headed for a beaver pond straight down the ridge from where I had shot, looking for blood or a body. No luck. Then I criss-crossed the ridge in the opposite direction, heading straight up the mountain for the "crime scene." I had marked last blood. The leaves (and blood) now dry, I was able to pick up the trail again and immediately lost it once more. 

I scoured the woods until noon and then gave up, still not knowing exactly where I had hit the deer or where the bone came from. Thanksgiving was a chance to eat, get drunk, and try to forget the fact that I couldn't put a kill shot on a buck. I was torn up. If it was jaw, the deer will eventually starve. Leg would be better. The first deer I ever shot swam across Lake Otsego (twice) with a broken leg before I was able to kill him from a rowboat, in a snowstorm. True story. I hoped for the best.

Yesterday, I worked my way up the mountain again to hunt the same spot and hopefully lay eyes on the wounded six. I never got to my stand. From noon until 3pm I had deer in front of me. Setting up on the ground, I waited. Five does and a spike latter I caught movement of a deer coming towards me. It was a buck. It wasn't the six, but a smaller eight. I was a nervous wreck. The gun shook as I tried to settle myself. If I hadn't wounded the six I probably would've let this deer walk. But when it presented a quartering to, standing still shot, I settled the crosshairs on his shoulder and fired. He went down in a heap. I'm certain my "THANK YOUS!" could be heard across the county. I'm getting too old to be so selective in my racks. 

The drag down the mountain was assisted by Nickle. Good neighbors willing to help always make the hunt easier. The roller coaster of emotions continues. I'm on such a high today. But, I can't forget the wounded six. I want to do all I can to lay eyes on him again (as I hunt a doe) and assess the damage. This is part of the deal: look for buzzards or crows, just in case and try my damnedest not to screw up another shot..... given the opportunity. Wish me luck.