PROUD POT HUNTER

My grandfather didn't hunt. He'd stopped the practice long before I was born. As we both butchered up the townsfolk's deer when I was a kid, I asked him why he no longer hunted? He said that when he was young he had to hunt to eat. Born in 1900 and growing up along the Wallkill River in Montgomery, game was scarce. Centuries of unregulated subsistence hunting, the clear cutting of woodlots for farms had decimated the wild game population. Even in my youth in the 1950's turkey, bear, coyote and deer were almost non-existent in Orange County. To see a Canadian goose was a rarity. There were rabbits, squirrels, ducks and stocked pheasants. That's what we hunted. If one wanted to hunt deer you came to the mountains of Sullivan County. So, in response to my query my grandfather put it simply, "It's no fun hunting on an empty stomach." By the time he no longer had to worry about where his next meal was coming from he'd lost the killer instinct. He fished, loved to watch birds, and joined my father and his buddies at deer camp as chief cook and bottle washer. The only mammals I knew him to kill were contracted livestock in his role as butcher. 

Since I shot that little buck I've been trying to put a doe on the ground. The past few years have been so lean, that this year I resolved to get meat....become a pot hunter. The term, like "Jersey hunter" (sorry Mr. C and nephew Waders), was always used by my old man as a pejorative. "Jersey hunters" wore bright orange, lived anywhere south of Orange County and shot any thing that moved. We avoided them at all costs. To be a "pot hunter" was also looked down on by the "buck hunters." They were the hillbilly meat hunters. I never saw it that way. Of course the term doesn't have the hipster cache of "field to fork" but it means exactly the same thing. Pot hunters hunt for the freezer, not the living room wall.

This morning I hit the woods at 6:30 am hoping for a clean shot at a doe. Because of crazy DEC regs. I was forced to hunt 3M. I can't tell you where. Facing east I watched the sunrise. By 7:00 am it was light enough to shoot. No wind and temps around 24 degrees made for a loud, crunchy entree to the stand. Within minutes I thought I caught sight of movement off to my right, but nothing materialized. Then, about 7:30 am I saw a doe feeding about 50 yards to my left. I pulled up the gun. Then it stepped behind some thick branches and disappeared. I kicked myself for not taking the shot. About 5 mins. later a heard a branch snap. The deer had worked her way through the thicket and was now closer, moving behind my stand. I swung my leg and she caught me. I froze. The standoff didn't last long. When she lowered her head and presented me with a clear broadside shot. I settled the crosshairs behind her shoulder and fired. She dropped.

The many thanks I uttered were tempered when I turned her over and saw testicles. It was a button buck, not even sporting spikes, only two little bumps under scalp hair.  He was medium size for a "doe" and because he had no horns, completely legal. I rejoiced at the prospect of more meat. I've planned a big venison dinner for the congregation this Sat. and was hoping my freezer would not be emptied by my largess. This little buck will help with the larder. The challenge of hunting a big mature buck will always be part of the deal. There's nothing that can compare to hunting a wise old deer with a big rack and actually succeeding in harvesting him. But, the older I get the less I need that adrenalin boost. To drop a deer with a clean shot, drag it out of the woods, butcher it up, cook it and share it with the community is just as good as dropping a slammer these days. Thank the LGM. I'm a proud pot hunter.