STEVE MERLO: Coastal deer on tap
| Thursday, Jul 16 2009 05:36 PM
Last Updated Thursday, Jul 16 2009 05:36 PM
My friend Bill Lewis and I spent an awful lot of time together while growing up in the "big city" of Buttonwillow. Much to the chagrin of our respective parents, we managed to spend most of that time away from home hunting, fishing, hiking and generally trying to stay out of trouble around the nearby arid countryside. (Notice the key word here -- trying.)
When we first met at around 12-years old and hit it off, we both dreamed of hunting big game in faraway places like Wyoming, just like the local ranchers did each year in the fall. We would infiltrate some of their bull sessions after they returned, and the stories they told of huge bull elk, wide-racked mule deer, snarling grizzly bears and giant moose kept us nailed to the floor, wondering what we had to do to someday be there with them. We saw and touched the antlers and horns they brought back from a place called Wolf Mountain, fueling our fervent desire to go hunt and bond with these men.
But we were too young, they said, and so our mispent youth revolved around our .22s and .410s, learning how to shoot and generally blowing away cans, bottles and hundreds of jackrabbits with our rifles, and ducks, doves, pheasants and quail with our shotguns. But the dreams never went away.
When we finally got old enough to drive, the mountains to the south and west of us supposedly held deer by the jillions, and with our $2 deer tags in hand, we planned our first real big game hunting adventure. Bill carried an old Savage 99 in .300-Savage caliber, and I had my Uncle Tom's pre-64 Model 70 in .270 Winchester, both with iron sights. We'd hunt around La Panza, Queen Bee, Nevada Camp and Black Mountain looking for the oft dreamed about and elusive 30-inch forked-horn buck, seeing plenty of does, but nary a one with bone on his head.
One morning, after a hard bit of hunting, we had given up and had headed toward home when we spotted a deer standing a hundred or so yards off the dirt road. We got out and with our binocuolars, saw that its head was obscurred by tree branches. Only when the 3-pointer finally resumed feeding did we notice that he indeed carried huge (by our standards) antlers, and after a Keystone Kop run for the rifles and a hurried shot, the animal went down.
Down, but certainly not out, by any stretch of the imagination. When we arrived at the scene of the crime, the animal began struggling to rise, and being our first deer and all, we stupidly attempted to hold it down to administer the coup de grace. Straddling the front of the animal and holding on dearly to its antlers, I quickly discovered that a wounded buck was no slouch when it came to administering his own brand of antlered justice. (I still carry the long scar on my arm to this day.) Thankfully, Bill managed to get a swipe in across its neck with his knife without gutting me, and the animal was ours.
Actually, the animal instantly became the property of Bill's Aussie Shepherd, Tia, who decided that she would play tug of war with us as we dragged the hapless animal toward the truck. Growling and snarling, she finally allowed us permission to load her deer into the bed, and away we went.
We were now and finally dyed-in-the-wool big game hunters. Both of us have since hunted out of state and beyond, but that first buck - our buck -- will always be the most remembered and revered.
Bow season in the A-zone and other coastal areas opened the second weekend in July, with the rifle season opening the second weekend in August. I deliberately wrote about deer season a little early to give nimrods the opportunity to still buy their tag applications and get a tag before opening day comes along.
If you do get the chance to go, take a million gallons of fluid with you, a ton of ice, hunt the shaded north slopes early and late, watch the watering holes and take plenty of food and midnight courage with you in case the coyotes howl or the bears come into your camp. A wild pig tag would also be a smart addition, as the porkers are thick over there.
