I wrote this for the Saugerties Fish & Game Club, of which I am the editor.
A good family friend has a hunting camp up north where each year he hosts a mixed crowd of hunters. The women, always in a minority, were resolute one year to compete with the men, dreaming of the big one that would give them bragging rights. The first morning we got about a foot of snow. Most of the determined feminists rolled over with a groan delaying their possible victory. I figured the deer were all laid up in the area they called the big pines, so I took the 4 wheeler and parked on the edge of a hay field, walking back down the trail I just came in on, and started hunting up the slope into the pines. Just as I rounded the corner a nice buck stepped out on the trail, about 30 yards away. I thought I had a good sight on him and pow! He reared up, tucked his tail and bounded off into the hedgerow down slope from the trail. I haven’t shot many deer, but this one acted like he was hit hard, so I arrogantly figured he was as good as mine. I went back to the 4 wheeler, poured a cup of coffee from my thermos to let him and I both settle down for about 15 minutes, before going to trail him. I checked where I first shot at him, the snow was littered with hair, but no blood. I have shot deer before that did not bleed out right away so I wasn’t at all discouraged. The fresh snow made trailing easy, I found where he had wandered, his pace did not seem to change, where he bed down and munched on mossy grass, but no blood. I finally gave up his trail and headed back to camp to tell the proverbial (the big one that got away) story. The next day, the neighbor who had the property adjoining the camp, stopped by to tell about a nice 8 pointer he got that morning and found a very strange strip of hair gone about 3/8 of an inch wide completely across his chest.
I can only hope I am a better newsletter editor than a hunter.
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