Pennsylvania Game News - December 2011 - 17

around camp. Sunday dawned cold and perfect for a leisurely 20-minute ride along the maze of slick hardscrabble logging roads that led to where we would spend opening day. The smell of campfires scented the air and the number of tents, campers, vans and covered truck beds we saw on the relatively short trip amazed me. Many of these vehicles had out-of-state license plates. My grandfather had hunted this spot deep in the Yellowhammer section of the ANF for more than 50 years — nearly every one successful. We spent a good hour walking to our position, and eventually cleaned out a deep indentation beside a pair of old oaks in the middle of the hillside. Clumps of tangled vines dotted the landscape, along with assorted blowdowns and boulders still green with moss. With two of us, we would have every angle covered. Hunters walking the plateau above would push deer down to us, while anybody below would drive them uphill our way. We returned to camp tired and hungry, yet anxious for the next day. We sighted in our guns, and it took me more than a dozen shots to feel comfortable with the Remington .30-06 I would use. My grandfather took just one shot, a bullseye, with the only firearm I’d ever seen in his gun cabinet — a Winchester Model 70 Featherweight .308.

Without a word he put the caps back on the fixed power Bushnell Sportview scope, and slid the gun back into its ageless red and black vinyl case. A World War II veteran recognized for his marksmanship, he was ready. On Monday morning we awoke before daylight, foggy from restless slumber. Eggs, bacon and strong coffee fortified us as we followed the same route as the previous day. Flashlights guided us to our makeshift stand. We sat in the crisp November morning air, waiting for first light. The first audible shot echoed in the distance, and I looked at my watch — 6:50. Three long hours later I broke down and started digging in my food bag. I was in the middle of unwrapping a granola bar when I spotted movement down the hill. My heart instinctively pounded when I spotted a buck with eight symmetrical points traveling with a doe. The pair walked up the hill as I fixed my scope on the buck’s shoulder. Every few steps they lowered their heads to the ground and fed. I waited, and as the deer appeared from behind a small tangle of vines, I put my crosshairs behind the buck’s shoulder and pulled the trigger. It was my first attempt at killing a deer. At the shot both deer ran up the hill. My grandfather fired and, like me, he missed. “First miss in 25 years,” he grumbled, and my disappointment registered immediately. Deep down I knew if he had shot first, I would have spent the evening helping him butcher a deer in his garage. Instead, those were the only deer we saw. We drove home quietly and I offered only cursory glances at the bucks hanging from cabin porches along the way.
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DECEMBER 2011

Pennsylvania Game News - December 2011

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