First Time

The next several days of of hunting involved going into the high places looking for bull elk.  No one had any luck finding a legal bull.  Several of us saw a big 2X2 bull, but he didn't have brow tines and therefore wasn't legal.  On Tuesday the snow started flying.  Against better judgment we all went out hoping that the snow would let up and we could find elk.  I gave up sure that I would be the first one back in camp.  As it turned out I was the last.

On my way back into camp I saw a weasel, completely white in his winter coat carrying his lunch, a small vole.  When he saw me he dropped the vole (already very dead) and ran off.  To this day I
wonder how many other people on the planet have seen something similar.  If someone were to ask me why I enjoy hunting so much, the story would likely involve Mr. Weasel.

The next day broke with clear skies and the possibility of tracking elk in the fresh snow.  I finally got to hunt the West side of the mountain and took my wife with me.  She had hunted hard and not too far up the mountain ran out of steam.  She elected to sit in a good spot, overlooking a decent amount of the mountain.  Not coincidentally, she was sitting where I had killed my first elk on the mountain.

I chose to hike higher up the mountain, following the trail past the archery hunters' blind, higher and higher until I cut elk tracks.  I followed  the tracks until, for some reason, my gut told me to leave them and walk out towards a rock outcropping.  As I reached the outcropping, I heard and then saw the elk that I had been following.  He was 50 yards away, but his head was hidden behind some brush.  He had no idea that I had dropped in below him, and was feeding peacefully.  Unfortunately, due to his feeding and the brush between his head and me I could not tell if he was a legal bull.  After about three minutes of watching him both through my rifle scope and binoculars I finally decided he was legal.

The next 30 seconds were tied up in me figuring out how to make a clean shot.  His shoulders were hidden behind the brush.  I was forced to take a shot further back on the front side that angled towards his back shoulder.  Having selected my shot, I shouldered the rifle, took off the safety, monitored my breathing, and squeezed the trigger.  I almost did not believe what happened next.  I immediately ran the bolt and chambered another round, fully expecting the elk to take off running.  Instead, he took two steps and dropped.

I waited to see if he would get up and move, but after several minutes I couldn't contain myself and started making phone calls.  I called my father-in-law, my uncle, and my wife telling them that I had an elk down.  Finally my heart rate slowed enough that I could approach the elk.  I came up to him with the safety off in case he had not yet expired.  As I neared, it was clear that my first and only shot had done the job.

I quickly gave thanks to the elk and the mountain, then I got to work.  In short order had him gutted.  My wife showed up and then my uncle and father-in-law.  We quartered him and with the help of the snow, had him down the mountain and into camp.  My first bull gave seven families three elk to share.  My freezer is now full and I have to figure out how to mount the antlers of a 4X5 elk.  I have been blessed with elk for the last four years.

I Must Be One Of Them There Fudds

I was reading the comments to Sebastian's post on the doomage of hunting (I agree with a lot that he says, but feel that access will have more to do with the decline of hunting than hunters shooting each other in the foot).  At some point the comments moved to Fudd bashing.  The popular sport of making fun of hunters who only own a rifle or shotgun and only use it to take game.

Looking at the stack of mail I brought in, I got concerned.  The top two items were a Cabela's catalog and the November issue of Field & Stream.  Oh crap!  Maybe I'm part Fudd.  After all, I got into shooting through hunting.  I learned to shoot primarily by using prairie dogs as targets for my .22.  From there I graduated to rabbits, and then deer, elk, and turkey.

Where I grew up a gun was truly seen as a simple tool.  No different than a hammer or saw or tape.  A gun's function was varmit removal and dinner collector.  It wasn't until I had a family that the utility of a gun expanded to include protection of loved ones.  It shouldn't come as much of a surprise that I think the derogatory use of the term Fudd is moronic.  Typically, convincing people to join in supporting your chosen cause does not involve demeaning them.

There are plenty of people that own one handgun that they store at their bedside, "just in case."  They don't take it out to the range for practice and only clean it once in a blue moon.  For those people, it is just a tool, like a hammer only to be pulled out of the toolbox when a nail needs beaten down.  There are other people who want to know everything there is to know about their gun.  They want to master its use and typically own different guns for different occasions and some just because they are cool.  These folks are comparable to a master fabricator who owns multiple hammers of multiple weights and materials and uses them for much more than that troublesome nail on the stairs.  Not everyone is passionate about hammers.

Many hunters are the same way.  A rifle or shotgun is no different or more significant to these hunters than a new pack or rangefinder or call. It is just one of the many things needed in the field in order to take game.  The best way to get these hunters to support gun rights for all is education, not name calling.  Hunters have been told for decades that politicians aren't out to take their hunting rifles.  The uneducated ones believed this.  Once a hunter becomes educated on the subject, they often become more involved in supporting the rights of all gun owners.

For all the bitching about these evil good for nothing Fudds, I have yet to actually meet one.  Maybe it has to do with where I live, but virtually every truck that has an elk or duck or deer sticker on the back window has an NRA sticker there too.  Many hunters are shooters and CCW holders.

Maybe next time you see an honest to goodness Fudd out in the wild, instead of directing your scorn their way you can direct them to take a seat behind your evil black rifle.  Chances are good that after squeezing off a few rounds and having a friendly chat the Fudd will have disappeared.

Did Your Momma Drop You?

Dear Luke Bryan,

Drinkin' Beer (in moderation), nothing wrong with that.
Hunting Deer (safely, while obeying the 4 rules), an amazing experience
Wasting Bullets (once again in a safe manner), tons of fun

THESE THREE THINGS DO NOT MIX!

None of these activities go well together.  Drinking beer is a great way to relax and blow off some steam.  It is done after the guns are put away, not before handling a gun and not while handling a gun.

When deer hunting, my goal is to use one cartridge making a clean quick kill.  That's not always the way it happens, but the surest way to never see a deer is to take potshots at aluminum cans.  Deer, like most things, do not come running towards the sound of gunfire.

When wasting bullets, the proper venue is a range or piece of land with a good backstop.  Also, it is considered polite to not waste bullets out in the forest during hunting season.  See the above regarding the typical direction deer travel when they hear gunfire.

With that all laid out I have to pose the question to Mr. Luke Bryan.  WTF dude?