As we come to a close of the main firearms portion of Missouri’s deer season, I’m feeling reminiscent. I’m not sure if it’s because I recently realized that I shot my first deer over 20 years ago, or if it was the fact that 2022 was the most perfect opening weekend since I was a kid. But either way, I think deer season’s return has a tendency to stir old memories in all of us. But better than memories are the ones we are in the process of making. I’ve amassed a few new ones this year, and I’m excited to share them in this and my next few posts.
This year, I was excited. More excited than most years for the start of deer season. It all started the weekend leading up to Halloween, when I assisted my nephew Austin in taking his first buck during youth season. He had taken his first deer, a lovely (and delicious) doe, last year. He was determined to hold out for a buck this year, and luck was with us. Well, eventually it was. We rose well before dawn and trekked down the long hill to our blind. A conglomeration of old barn tin and cedar posts stood at the edge of a long unworked field, looking down the gentle slope. This field had been fallow for several years, its diminutive size making it not worth the effort to till and plant. It now provided welcome browse and the occasional small food plot, and it was a fantastic spot for deer. Nestled between two working crop fields and shrouded by thick fingers of timber, the gentle slope stretched about 125 yards from the built-in shooting bench in the blind.
In the pre-dawn darkness we opened the recycled farmhouse door as carefully as we could to avoid the near inevitable creaking it’s old hinges would bring. Inside we took our places in the old plastic lawn chairs and waited the hour until legal light. Things were slow to start, and the rising sun brought a drop in temperature putting just enough chill in the air to lend some optimism to an otherwise uneventful morning. Out of the corner of my eye, in that purely instinctive part of the periphery, I saw movement. I motioned to my nephew to get ready on his gun, my .243 Rossi single shot that he had shot last year. But it was too late. Impossibly close to the blind, a healthy fork horn buck trotted out of the woods, and rather than turning downhill like I expected, he strutted right in front of the blind, no more than 25 feet away. This young buck was on a mission, cruising across the field to the grown over logging trail on the other side. As he walked, paused, sniffed, and looked right at us and all around, we were near helpless. Any movement was sure to be noticed and Austin had not yet shouldered his rifle. As the buck neared the edge of the field, mostly quartering away now, he tried to bring the gun on target, but even a young buck notices a flash of movement like that, and off he bounded.
That disappointment was enough to nearly break a young hunter’s heart. We sat until about 10 A.M., when the cold and what ifs became too much to bear. The hike up the hill, always longer on the way up it seems, was mostly silent. But after lunch and a good nap, we were ready to head back out. Back down the hill, creaking door, plastic lawn chairs. Then we waited. My motto has always been the time worn axiom, “you can’t shoot one from the couch!”, but as we finally approached that last golden hour of the day without so much as a whiff of a deer, I had to wonder. But as they always seem to do, another young buck, this one a 7 pointer, walked out a few feet into the field for a gander. He was crossing at a well worn trail that sits a comfortable 75-80 yards from the blind. But, even though it was very early, barely what you might call the rut, he was on a mission. But after making sure Austin had his rifle at the ready, we made a couple quick whistles that stopped him. For just a moment too long the buck looked around, and before he had any clue what had made that odd noise, my nephew’s bullet found it’s mark.
After much whooping and hollering, we walked up to my nephew’s first buck, dropped where he stood. The rack, which would later green score 86 5/8, was nothing to sneeze at for a first deer, and would be good eating as well. After ensuring the deer was properly dispatched, we climbed the hill once again, still tiring, but a bit less so now, to get the truck. After we stopped off at the house to grab a helping hand, my incredibly understanding and game-for-anything wife Julia, we drove around the backside of the farm where we could access this field and retrieve the deer. We loaded him without field dressing, knowing that we would be hanging the buck and would have just as easy a time in the machine shed under good lighting. Besides, we had a couple pit stops to make.
Back at the house while grandparents gathered to admire the buck, we hopped on my cellphone to telecheck the deer, and fixed the tag to his leg for transport. Then it was up the road to the Hermann Rod & Gun Club to we where we stood and what all was being given away this year. The Hermann Area Youth Hunt has been a long-held tradition in the town and surrounding counties. What started out as a way for the locals to reminisce about the days when you could hang out at the check in station and watch the deer roll in has become a major community event. Over $30,000 in prizes and gifts are awarded to young hunters each year, including gift cards, hunting packs, deer rifles, tree stands, and so much more. With prizes for heaviest doe, largest buck, “closest score to 100” and other creative benchmarks, there are plenty of opportunities for youth hunters to meet an enthusiastic audience of supporters.
After the fanfare of scoring and check in, we headed inside to be greeted by several organizers and get signed up for prizes. Austin was able to draw a number from the bin that corresponded to a prize along the crowded back wall. He ended up drawing a gorgeous modular hunting pack that should serve him well for years to come.
Back at the house, the deer was hung up in the machine shed and gutted, then left to hang overnight. As I woke the next morning, I was incredibly thankful our luck turned the way it did. Morning broke dreary, and by the time I moseyed out to the shed at a comfortable 8:30 A.M., it was starting to rain. Austin rolled out a bit later, bringing a couple tubs to help with the harvest. We skinned out the buck, saving the tail for next year’s crappie jigs. After cutting out the loins and backstraps, we trimmed a good amount off the neck, detached the legs, and left a near bare ribcage and spine hanging. This time around, everything aside from the loins and backstraps was being ground for burger, so as my father-in-law Mike brought out the grinder, we stared deboning the legs and cutting it up.
After a little elbow grease and only a little cursing at equipment, we had nearly 50 pounds of processed venison in the freezer ready to go home later that day. It would be split between our family and Austin’s, later becoming chili, lasagna, summer sausage, and more. A successful second deer season for my nephew was in the books, and he is already planning for next spring chasing gobblers on the family farm. I’ve got a lot of memories of deer hunting, but among the best will always be guiding an impassioned young hunter as they develop a sense of care for our environment and the bounty our local woods and waters have to offer.