Story 6: The Huntress

It was exactly 7 a.m. on New York state's opening day of deer hunting season, 1971.  My Dad assigned my post. 

“Don’t move from this log!” he commanded me. “I know these woods and I know right where you are. I’m going to hunt near the pond and see if I can scare up a buck your way,” he told me. “I’ll be gone for a while but do not leave this spot!”

“I won’t Dad, geez, I got it!” I told him.

“And lower your voice or you’ll scare the deer away,” he whispered, "And whatever you do, don't shoot unless you see the antlers, the rack," my father scolded. “You have a buck permit only,” he said for the hundredth time.

"I won't!" I said, irritated with him.

He turned and walked away quietly, moving through the woods like a silent wind.  The eight inches of snow on the ground deadened the crunch of leaves underfoot.  

My Dad, Harold “Popcorn” Bush was a name synonymous with superb marksmanship and sportsmanship integrity in Chautauqua County, New York, in Warren and McKeon County, Pennsylvania, and in Hurst, Ontario, for his moose hunting accomplishments and as a skilled fishing guide.  My father's sense of sportsman-like conduct meant more to him than most civilian laws. He was very happy that I was interested in hunting, but he did not want to be embarrassed by a trigger-happy, careless girl.  

 I caught the last glimpse of my Dad’s bright orange hunting vest as he disappeared into the woods, pressing on with purpose and stealth. I swiped a wide swath of snow off the fallen tree and took a seat. 

It wasn't long before the 17-degree morning air left me guessing where my butt ended and the tree stump began. My fingers were stiff around the trigger of my Savage rifle, a 20/22 over-and-under single shot with a 3-to-5 variable scope. This gun was a gift from my Dad after I finished the gun safety course at the Lakewood Rod and Gun.

As I playfully probed the newly fallen snow with the end of my gun barrel, I began wondering why I was in the middle of the freezing woods at dawn in Frewsburg, New York, when I could have been sacked out in my warm comfy bed at home. All the high schools in western New York were closed on opening day for deer hunting. Sixteen-year-old girls don't do this, I thought, but I did. 

I wanted to please my father. I wanted to be close to him. And I wanted him to be proud of me.

I kept looking at my watch. Fifteen minutes had passed but it felt like fifteen hours.  Stop playing with the snow and start looking around, I thought. So I did.

As I glanced up, I thought I saw something moving in the woods, far away. Some tree branches twitched. A few straggling leaves wiggled. I sat up straight and stiffened my spine, motionless.

Wishful thinking, I thought to myself. I ignored the silent movement some one hundred yards from where I sat and slackened my posture again. 

Wait…! My peripheral vision is not fooling me, I see it again! My eyes fixed on the spot, my heart revved up and then pounded in my ears. The rustling in the thick brush stopped, then quickly started again, something was there; another hunter? My Dad? A deer??

Stitch by stitch my hunting pants slowly released me from the frozen log as I stood up to peer through my scope. 

It’s a deer, with a rack!! I hollered in my head.  I can SEE it; it’s a deer with a rack!!  I slowly released the gun safety.

Buck fever struck through me like a lightening bolt on coke and sent a high-voltage shock through my backbone.  My body trembled from my scalp to my toenails. For a nanosecond, I felt faint.

I could barely keep pressure on the gun stock into my shoulder pocket. Every one of my fluid-producing glands slavigated into overtime. I was positive the deer would hear my knees knocking, my teeth chattering, my heart pounding like a well digger, and I would scare him off, but he was still far away and didn't seem to notice.

I watched, I waited, and stood frozen like a statue in the tundra, finally able to stabilize the gun stock in the pocket. I lightly positioned my finger over the trigger, cocked the hammer, and steadied the barrels and scope to follow the moves of my buck, reassuring myself that although it was small, the rack was visible; it was not a doe and it was not a button buck. The deer continued to travel in a U-shape around me, maintaining a good 70 yards of distance.

I clearly saw the outline of his nose, eyes, and antlers through my scope, but I couldn't shoot him in the head.  My Dad's number one command rang in my brain a million times: "You only shoot a deer in the shoulder or neck. You never injure a deer or any animal with a gut or leg shot and let it suffer. Ever!"

Suddenly, my buck stepped forward and his ears perked; he looked straight down the barrel of my rifle, seemingly staring at my pupils in the end of the scope. I stopped breathing. 

He put his head down again and took one more step forward, ruffling his nose through the snow, searching for a nibble. My buck's last step between two small birch trees created a perfect frame that positioned his thick neck in the crosshairs of my scope. It's now or never.

I breathed in deeply, held it, and firmly pulled the trigger. 

BANG!

Then, nothing. 

I lowered my gun. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything. I raised my gun again to search the woods with my scope. Nothing. He must have run off, I posited. 

Good. Good for him. Maybe I should have just shot him with my camera instead of a gun, like Brian's doing today.

Then, I heard a faint, brief noise that sounded like air releasing from a balloon.  I saw a hoof kick up from the far side of a fallen tree where he searched for his last meal in the snow.

I had shot my buck and he was down.

Another stunning surge of voltage shot through my body and I felt sick and elated at the same time. I began trudging through the snow towards my prize but my knees buckled like a newborn foal. I stumbled and fell more than once.

I could see the massive fallen tree where he went down and had two thoughts: my buck would be a gory, bloody mess, and I didn’t want him to slice my juggler with his sharp hoof.

I never discovered if this story was true, but I heard it from more than just my Dad:

A hunter shot his deer, quickly went over to the fallen buck, and upon reaching for the rack, the buck jerked its front leg; it was not dead. The buck's sharp hoof sliced the hunter's jugular vein. The hunter was later found dead in a pool of blood, lying next to his prey.

This story was real to me.  

"Breathe deep, just breathe deep and get a grip of yourself," I said. I took one step at a time until I could see only his legs and rump on the other side of the fallen tree. 

I wanted to see the rack, I MUST see his rack! I squatted down low on the other side of the log. I turned my head away and slowly slid my hand over the snow-covered fallen log. I felt the fur on his back. It was soft and still warm. I continued to pat, pat, pat, up his spine until I could feel the top of his neck and the back of his head. Then I felt his ears.

"Oh my God, good Jesus Christ!!” I cried out.  No rack, no antlers, nothing but fur.

My father will just die. He will kill me. He'll be so embarrassed and ashamed of me, AGAIN! I began to blubber snot and tears everywhere. I can’t believe this, but I KNOW it had a rack. I SAW IT!  I screamed at myself.

I stopped my blubbering and got off my hands and knees. I wanted to roll the deer over so I could see him but I was afraid. I was afraid of the gore, afraid of the blood, I’m sure I blew off most of his head, didn’t I? And what about those sharp hooves?  Get a grip, girl. 

So I got up, cracked open my gun, pulled out the empty shell, and slid in another 20-gauge slug. I closed my gun with a quick snap, placed the end of the gun barrel point-blank at the back of the doe’s ear, turned my head and pulled the trigger. 

BANG!. “Your dead now,” I said. 

I stepped back and leaned my gun carefully next to a tree. I walked over to the fallen log, straddled it, and reached over to grab my deer by the neck. With a big huff, I pulled it up. 

There, in front of the ears, was a small but beautiful five-point rack!  The antlers are in FRONT of the ears, not behind them!! And there was no bloody stump at all! There was barely an indent in his fur where the bullet had entered the top part of his neck. 

Why didn’t I know all this? I don’t know, but at that moment, I lost it.

"Alllll riiiight!!," I yelled at the very top of my lungs. "I shot a buck!!” I screamed as loud as I could. I was so relieved, so satiated with joy at that moment, until…

I looked down at my buck and saw his vacant, dark eyes looking up at me. Suddenly, my screams of joy turned into loud, uncontrollable sobs.

"Shut the hell up, you're scaring the deer," came a faint but clear message from another hunter in the woods. I stopped immediately. I sat and looked at the deer for a few short moments. Then I envisioned my dad's face when he saw my buck! That thought instantly halted all my boo-hooing.

This is going to be FANTASTIC! I thought. He'll never believe I shot my first deer within 20 minutes on opening day!  Oh, won't he just get a hoot and a half out of… 

BANG, BANG, BANG

My body hit the ground like the deer I just shot. I lost my breath and began to tremble. Three gunshots were fired over my head and ricocheted around the trees. My God, they're after me, I mumbled, motionless. I laid low for almost 20 minutes. 

There were no more shots fired and I didn't see anything moving in the woods. Finally, I stood up, looked around, and climbed on top of the big log that shadowed my buck and screamed, "DAAAAD, I SHOT A DEEEEER!!!" They heard me in Pittsburgh, I'm sure.

I wanted to move my deer back to where I was sitting. If I pull on the antlers they will pop right out of his head ,I thought, so I dragged my buck by the back legs almost 70 yards to my sitting log. I later discovered this was not necessary (duh).

Almost an hour and a half had passed since my dad left. I continued to yell for my dad about every 15 minutes or so. I later heard complaints about my poor unsportsmanlike behavior.

Finally, to the right of me, a small bouncing dot of orange caught my eye. I focused on it. It was moving fast and getting bigger, and it was coming towards me. I saw arms and legs carrying that big orange dot and a furry red plaid ball resembling my dad's hunting hat. 

"DAD, DAD, DADDY, DAD, DADDY, DAD, DAAAAD!!!" I took off like a fox on fire. My feet plowed through the snow so fast that I could hardly find the breath to yell, “I GOT A DEER!  DAD!  I SHOT A DEER!!”

My dad started running full force towards me too. I never saw him run like that. 

Within five yards I could see what was either sweat or tears falling from my dad's face. Within four yards I could barely pant his name. Within three yards, I was airborne and nearly knocked him over as I flung all of me into his outstretched arms.

“Dad! I shot a buck, Dad! I shot a buck!” I cried, and my head flopped down and sobbed on his shoulder. 

“I know, I know, I can tell! HAA HA HA HA!” Dad bellowed out a laugh just like Santa on Christmas Eve.

We walked back to the deer while I breathlessly described the whole story to him. 

"Where were you, Dad? Didn't you hear me yelling for you?" I asked. 

“I heard a shot about 20 minutes after I left but I didn't think it was you, so I kept on going to my regular spot on the other side of the pond,” he explained. “That's quite a distance from here.”

We finally reached my sitting log and I proudly pointed to my buck. 

"What do you think? It's probably 160 lbs., wouldn't you say?" I asked. 

"Well no, not exactly," he said hesitantly, trying to spare my feelings. "I guess maybe 110 or 120 lbs." He crouched in the snow, and rolled my trophy over, separating its hind legs. The buck's genitalia were fully exposed. My Dad  pulled out his hunting knife and looked up at me. 

"This is how you gut a deer," he said. "The first thing you do is cut off his nu..," he coughed a little. "You have to cut off his tes…," he coughed again, and then with a red-faced smile, he said "You have to remove his ‘apparatus,’ as your mother calls it,” he chuckled. I giggled too.

"Why are you gutting my deer?" I said, indignant. "Don't you think I should be gutting my own deer?" He handed me his knife.

For the next twenty minutes, my father carefully showed me how to properly gut a deer: no tearing of the stomach cavity, and of course the heart and liver were saved for pickling.

My brother Steve was also hunting with us, and right about that time he walked over to join our little clambake.  

“I can’t believe you did this,” my brother Steve muttered, eyes glazed. “I can’t believe you actually did this!” 

I was up to my elbows in blood and guts, trying to follow my Dad’s directions for field dressing my buck. But Dad walked away to pee, and Steve was ready to pounce.  

“I can’t believe I shot a deer too,” I started, “but I finally had a good shot and-”

“That’s NOT what I’m talking about,” Steve raised his voice, then gritted through his teeth. 

“I can believe you shot a deer, you little turd, but I can’t believe you do all this shit just to get close to him, to make him proud of you or whatever, after what he did to you.” 

I squinted and peered up at him.

“You’re just jealous, you’re pissed because you’ve been hunting for three years, and you’ve shot how many deer, Steve? – NONE!” I hollered back at him. “And what happened is done and hashing it over every day doesn’t help me. And you do the same damn thing!” I snarled at him.  

“Nice try to screw up my day, you jerk,” I sniveled, looking down at a steaming pile of entrails and wiping my nose on the sleeve of my red plaid hunting jacket.  

My Dad came back and continued to teach me how to gut a deer.

When we finished, my dad grabbed my deer by the rack and started dragging it out of the woods.

“My deer, my drag,” I pronounced. 

“OK, have it your way,” Dad said, relieved.

I grabbed my buck by the rack and started dragging it, with my Dad close behind, encouraging and chiding me all the way back to the truck. I dragged that buck for almost a mile through wet, freezing snow and thick brush. 

When we finally reached my dad's Ford pickup, my Dad asked me, "Do you need some help lifting it into the truck bed?"

"Nope, I'm good," I assured him. Why do I need to be such an ornery shithead? I thought.

I grunted hard and used the very last bit of my strength to hoist the stiff carcass into the truck bed. I was a sweaty, exhausted mess.

"I'm going back in for a while," my Dad told me. Crap, all I wanted to do was go home, take a bath, and sleep for the rest of the day. Instead, I painfully waited for two more hours while my dad continued hunting.

My Dad loves me, but he wanted his buck on opening day too. However, I was the only Bush to bag one that day!

My dad had entered both of us into several hunting contests at local sports clubs and taverns around the Chautauqua County region. But before we went to celebrate (and brag!), my Dad drove us to the Jamestown Post Journal newspaper office in the heart of Jamestown. He went in and came out pronto with a reporter and a photographer who were happy to take my picture and run a small story – on the front page of the next day’s Post Journal Newspaper!

This was the best day I ever had with my Dad. 

“Does this girl look familiar to you?” I taunted the senior boys at the water fountain the next day at Southwestern Central High School. I held up and shook the front page of the Post with my big ol’ pic in the center, holding my gun and my deer on the tailgate of my Dad's truck.

“If any of you men need to know how it’s done, give me a call. I’m happy to help,” I guffawed all the way down the hall.  

Funny, no one ever called about hunting lessons. Or a date.

What a wonderful day to be freezing in Frewsburg.