My eyes aren't what they used to be.
On opening day of the modern gun deer season, a buck came out just before sundown 180 yards away.
The soft, rich light of dusk illuminated his tawny body so bright and gold that it looked like he was on fire. His antlers were tall and wide, with long, sweeping points, but I saw only four. No matter the angle, I could not find the third point on either beam that would make him legal.
After a quick snack, the buck ducked back into the thicket from which he came, and I ended the day with all of my deer tags intact.
I heard from my host on that hunt the other day. The buck was legal after all.
Another hunter killed it at a much closer range that allowed him to distinguish a small kicker point.
It was a very old buck, my host said. Its few remaining teeth were worn down even to the gum line.
That buck was probably 8 or 9 years old, at least. He had long ago made his genetic contributions to the herd, and he had fulfilled all of his reproductive potential. That's the definition of a "management" buck.
His antlers, though stately, were a whisper of what they had been in his prime. I'll bet they were magnificent.
Dog memories
Andrew McKean, editor-in-chief for Outdoor Life, led his Facebook followers on his final pheasant hunting tour with Willow, his aged Labrador retriever.
Willow's enthusiasm remained youthful, but her body was elderly. Her ability could no longer keep pace with her desire.
She died on her final hunt, pursuing a rooster onto the ice of a frozen South Dakota slough. McKean wrote that he heard the ice break and waited for the familiar sound of Willow clawing herself back onto the ice. Instead, he heard a plaintive whimper.
McKean went after her, but it was slow going because rain had filled the slough deeper than normal. It was chest deep, and by the time McKean reached Willow, she had perished.
It makes me remember and appreciate the fine dogs I've known that have passed in recent years. When I began hunting with Alan Thomas of Russellville in 2005, his beloved chocolate lab Grace was in her prime. Then came her daughter Ruth, who gave Al some great seasons until she died earlier this year.
Sheffield Nelson's black lab Moses was another great one. He was a laid back, stately family pet under a roof, but he was all business around water. Grace was the best I ever saw for finding dead ducks, but only because she honed her skills in the rough environments Al hunts. When pressed, Moses was near her equal.
Then there was Moxie The Great, a wirehaired fox terrier owned by Warren Montague of Waldron. Moxie was Jeanne Montague's pet for most of the year, but when bird seasons came around, Moxie and Warren were inseparable.
Montague conditioned her to quail scent by driving around the backroads of the Ouachita National Forest near Waldron, where wild bobwhites abound. Moxie rode on Montague's lap with her head out the window, and Montague gave her treats when she scented quail around logging decks and ditches.
He conditioned her to gunfire by taking her to the U.S. Forest Service shooting range at Brushy Hollow. Montague gave Moxie a treat every time a gun fired.
With her short, stubby legs, Moxie couldn't run with the hard-charging, rangy pointers and setters that his partners took afield. Instead, Moxie worked close and found birds that the other dogs missed, which were many.
Montague stands more than 6-feet tall. When hunting heavy cover like CRP fields, Montague carried Moxie on his shoulder. From this high promontory she could scan the cover and catch rising and drifting scent. Longtime hunting partners called her the Moxie Cam.
When she smelled scent, Moxie's stubby little tail went into action, at which time Montague put her on the ground and let her work. She never got more than a few yards from Montague, and pheasants go only as fast as they are pushed. When Moxie finally flushed a rooster, it was usually a very close shot.
For finding dead birds, Moxie was peerless. During a quail and pheasant hunt in Kansas, I wounded a bobwhite that vanished. Moxie found it burrowed under a clump of bluestem. She retrieved many a bird from spoil piles.
During breaks, we'd all lay our birds on the ground, and Moxie guarded them jealously. If a pointer or setter got close, she'd usher it away with an ominous growl or, if necessary, a bite.
It's funny how many hunts I remember most for the dogs.
Sports on 12/08/2016