Rich Coyle
Well-Known Member
2007 Doe
Talking about the funest deer doesn't mean the biggest trophy for me. In fact it is not even a buck.
I changed the .223 Savage. It used to have a very accurate 26" heavy barrel. I fired ten shots into a 200 yard target that measured .870". But now has a 22" light .223 barrel so Donna, my adult daughter, can handle it. I decided on 60-grain Nosler solid base bullets. According to the Oehler 33 the velocity is barely over 3,000 feet per second at fifteen feet from the muzzle. When I took it to the range the other day, I fired three shots at 100 yards, 200 yards and 300 yards each. The slight breeze came from left to right. The 100 yard group measured 9/16" and centered about one inch above the bull's eye. Due to the breeze the 200 yard's group had a 2" horizontal dispersion about one inch low. When I was ready to shoot at 300 yards, the wind totally disappeared. The group measured 1 3/8". It was eight and a half inches low and centered in the first mildot down of the Tasco 2 ½-10X40 Varmint/Target scope. "Perfect," I thought. Obviously, it was accurate enough. Even a light barrel can be surprisingly accurate. I figured I would limit myself to about 200 yards because the velocity dropped to myself imposed velocity limit. Arbitrarily, I chose about 2,200 feet per second for a minimum.
On a Saturday in 2007 I took the .223 out for opening day of doe hunting season. Before I left, I spent about an hour pouring over a map of the tag area. I found a little chunk of BLM land where I believed is hardly ever hunted. Maybe never. All the terrain goes steeply up from the freeway; some almost vertically. On the other side of the road is the South Umpqua River. Beyond that is a farm.
When I found the place, I headed up the big ravine I named The Main Gorge. The hill on either side looked attractive, though. The north side is dangerously steep. I figured I would be able to see a whole lot more territory if I got up on one side or the other, but continued ahead. I saw considerably more deer sign than I am used to encountering. It was very abundant and encouraging. To say the least I was delighted.
About an hour from the road the gorge I was on became a steeper section and could look down on a lot of country. I saw a deer way down on the other side. It looked so small. Perhaps it was 150 feet below my position. I guessed it was about 200 to 250 yards away. Being below me, I knew the bullet would hit slightly higher than I aimed. The doe was leisurely feeding toward me on a trail. The shot should be easy. Should. Right.
Most of the time I could make this shot with ease by no more than sitting down or leaning against a tree. In the old days I would do it off hand. But then I was young and practicing five days a week. Now I have what I call "old man tremors". Additionally, however to the slight tremors, this time I had a terrible attack of buck fever! I mean terrible with a capital "T"! My breathing was uncontrolled and excessively heavy. My heart was pounding. I was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. It was so-o-o much fun. "I need a support!" I excitedly told myself. I looked around searching for something, anything, to help on which I could rest the rifle. A log! I flopped down on it to no avail. The deer was all over the place in the scope. "O no!" "A branch! I need a branch to wrap my arm around to steady this thing!"
I don't know if I was thinking or talking to myself. I was having so much fun. I slid along the log. "Where's the deer!? O no! I can't see it! Wait. I can't see it from here. Where is it?! Keep moving along the log," I told myself. "Will I be able to see the deer from there!? Just go," I reminded myself. I couldn't believe my own thoughts. I never get this excited. Maybe it was because I have not used the .223 before. I doubt it. It sure was fun. I slid over looking for a spot where I could wrap around a branch and still see the deer. "This will work!" I excitedly told myself. I wrapped my right arm around the branch and took a hold of the pistol grip. After pulling myself against the branch I sort of pushed the rifle down against the log.
I put the cross hair of the scope on the deer. That was much better. But again, I realized I could not hit it while shaking this badly. I turned away from the scope and took a few deep breaths. I didn't want to fog the scope, you know if you've done it. I looked in the scope and what do I see? An empty deer trail! What!? Excitement welled up again. Wait! There it is coming out from under an overhanging leafy tree branch. I settled the crosshair of the scope solidly on its head. I turned up the magnification from the 2 1/2X setting. On 10X I could easily see the eyes of the quarry. "Good," I encouraged myself. Wanting to try to recover the bullet I dropped the crosshair to the top of the chest where the neck starts up. I started squeezing trigger. (Most factory rifles have trigger pull weights in the five to eight pound range.) This gunsmith adjusted twenty-five ounce trigger seemed hard. Very hard. I kept concentrating on holding the crosshairs on the selected spot by pulling against the branch and continued struggling with what most would call nearly a hair trigger. Eventually the trigger broke. The Action Ears muffled the shot and allowed me to concentrate on the impact of the bullet. It was as if the deer was connected to the trigger. The trigger broke and the deer dropped. There was no problem checking the range where I shot it since it DDRT (dropped dead right there). Out came the Leica 1200 laser range finder: 222 yards.
I carefully studied the surrounding terrain where it fell: "There's a single big fir among oaks and madrones below a rock cliff. Got it," I told myself. The excitement did not stop there. I started down the very steep slope at the head of The Main Gorge toward the nearly vertical area of what became known as "Doe Tag Ridge" where the deer fell.
I was making some very good time going down the hill to recover the deer, but even though I am an old man I was like so many modern teenagers….totally out of control. The deer trail on which I was traversing the steepness collapsed. "Please, Lord." I more or less calmly ask. I always ask for help when I think there is a problem, whether small or large. Quickly I gained speed! When climbers start to fall, they yell, "Falling" so their buddies can get ready. I am not a climber so was not climbing. I was just falling. "Please, Lord!" I exclaimed. This falling was really not falling, but sliding. This sliding was becoming a concern. "Please, Lord!" I earnestly cried out again. This falling thing was going on long enough for me to actually have time to think. I decided I better try to get my hands out or something. I was cradling the .223 Savage to protect it and the Tasco scope from damage. Thinking if I bounced just right, I could be impaled on the small diameter barrel so I tossed it away to my left as I was on my back. Yea, I had time to think. How does one sliding down a hill in the woods miss all the tress? Fortunately I did. Then I stopped.
Amazement is the best thing to describe the feeling when I opened my eyes and looked around. I didn't realize I was hiding from the situation, but I was. Would you call that a flinch? I was on a small level. The rifle was right there beside me lying against a tree, but on the opposite side from where I thought I tossed it. Was this real? Yep! My Action Ears came rolling down the hill. I grabbed them as they came by. Of course they were broken. Perhaps they saved my head from injury. Only the Lord knows. In fact, the only pain I had was the arthritis in my left shoulder immediately flared up.
"Thank you, Lord, for no injuries," I quietly said.
Meanwhile back to the deer hunt: Upon inspection of the entrance hole, I noticed the Nosler solid base 60 with a muzzle velocity of 3,000 feet per second bullet hit barely to the right of the top of sternum. (I remembered it was slightly quartering toward me.) I thought I would recover the bullet. Not so. It exited low in the chest after breaking a couple ribs in front of the diaphragm on the left side before it exited. The lungs were devastated. Instead of having to drag it to the road I just shoved it off the trail. It went half way to the pickup. Did I mention this place is steep?
Talking about the funest deer doesn't mean the biggest trophy for me. In fact it is not even a buck.
I changed the .223 Savage. It used to have a very accurate 26" heavy barrel. I fired ten shots into a 200 yard target that measured .870". But now has a 22" light .223 barrel so Donna, my adult daughter, can handle it. I decided on 60-grain Nosler solid base bullets. According to the Oehler 33 the velocity is barely over 3,000 feet per second at fifteen feet from the muzzle. When I took it to the range the other day, I fired three shots at 100 yards, 200 yards and 300 yards each. The slight breeze came from left to right. The 100 yard group measured 9/16" and centered about one inch above the bull's eye. Due to the breeze the 200 yard's group had a 2" horizontal dispersion about one inch low. When I was ready to shoot at 300 yards, the wind totally disappeared. The group measured 1 3/8". It was eight and a half inches low and centered in the first mildot down of the Tasco 2 ½-10X40 Varmint/Target scope. "Perfect," I thought. Obviously, it was accurate enough. Even a light barrel can be surprisingly accurate. I figured I would limit myself to about 200 yards because the velocity dropped to myself imposed velocity limit. Arbitrarily, I chose about 2,200 feet per second for a minimum.
On a Saturday in 2007 I took the .223 out for opening day of doe hunting season. Before I left, I spent about an hour pouring over a map of the tag area. I found a little chunk of BLM land where I believed is hardly ever hunted. Maybe never. All the terrain goes steeply up from the freeway; some almost vertically. On the other side of the road is the South Umpqua River. Beyond that is a farm.
When I found the place, I headed up the big ravine I named The Main Gorge. The hill on either side looked attractive, though. The north side is dangerously steep. I figured I would be able to see a whole lot more territory if I got up on one side or the other, but continued ahead. I saw considerably more deer sign than I am used to encountering. It was very abundant and encouraging. To say the least I was delighted.
About an hour from the road the gorge I was on became a steeper section and could look down on a lot of country. I saw a deer way down on the other side. It looked so small. Perhaps it was 150 feet below my position. I guessed it was about 200 to 250 yards away. Being below me, I knew the bullet would hit slightly higher than I aimed. The doe was leisurely feeding toward me on a trail. The shot should be easy. Should. Right.
Most of the time I could make this shot with ease by no more than sitting down or leaning against a tree. In the old days I would do it off hand. But then I was young and practicing five days a week. Now I have what I call "old man tremors". Additionally, however to the slight tremors, this time I had a terrible attack of buck fever! I mean terrible with a capital "T"! My breathing was uncontrolled and excessively heavy. My heart was pounding. I was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. It was so-o-o much fun. "I need a support!" I excitedly told myself. I looked around searching for something, anything, to help on which I could rest the rifle. A log! I flopped down on it to no avail. The deer was all over the place in the scope. "O no!" "A branch! I need a branch to wrap my arm around to steady this thing!"
I don't know if I was thinking or talking to myself. I was having so much fun. I slid along the log. "Where's the deer!? O no! I can't see it! Wait. I can't see it from here. Where is it?! Keep moving along the log," I told myself. "Will I be able to see the deer from there!? Just go," I reminded myself. I couldn't believe my own thoughts. I never get this excited. Maybe it was because I have not used the .223 before. I doubt it. It sure was fun. I slid over looking for a spot where I could wrap around a branch and still see the deer. "This will work!" I excitedly told myself. I wrapped my right arm around the branch and took a hold of the pistol grip. After pulling myself against the branch I sort of pushed the rifle down against the log.
I put the cross hair of the scope on the deer. That was much better. But again, I realized I could not hit it while shaking this badly. I turned away from the scope and took a few deep breaths. I didn't want to fog the scope, you know if you've done it. I looked in the scope and what do I see? An empty deer trail! What!? Excitement welled up again. Wait! There it is coming out from under an overhanging leafy tree branch. I settled the crosshair of the scope solidly on its head. I turned up the magnification from the 2 1/2X setting. On 10X I could easily see the eyes of the quarry. "Good," I encouraged myself. Wanting to try to recover the bullet I dropped the crosshair to the top of the chest where the neck starts up. I started squeezing trigger. (Most factory rifles have trigger pull weights in the five to eight pound range.) This gunsmith adjusted twenty-five ounce trigger seemed hard. Very hard. I kept concentrating on holding the crosshairs on the selected spot by pulling against the branch and continued struggling with what most would call nearly a hair trigger. Eventually the trigger broke. The Action Ears muffled the shot and allowed me to concentrate on the impact of the bullet. It was as if the deer was connected to the trigger. The trigger broke and the deer dropped. There was no problem checking the range where I shot it since it DDRT (dropped dead right there). Out came the Leica 1200 laser range finder: 222 yards.
I carefully studied the surrounding terrain where it fell: "There's a single big fir among oaks and madrones below a rock cliff. Got it," I told myself. The excitement did not stop there. I started down the very steep slope at the head of The Main Gorge toward the nearly vertical area of what became known as "Doe Tag Ridge" where the deer fell.
I was making some very good time going down the hill to recover the deer, but even though I am an old man I was like so many modern teenagers….totally out of control. The deer trail on which I was traversing the steepness collapsed. "Please, Lord." I more or less calmly ask. I always ask for help when I think there is a problem, whether small or large. Quickly I gained speed! When climbers start to fall, they yell, "Falling" so their buddies can get ready. I am not a climber so was not climbing. I was just falling. "Please, Lord!" I exclaimed. This falling was really not falling, but sliding. This sliding was becoming a concern. "Please, Lord!" I earnestly cried out again. This falling thing was going on long enough for me to actually have time to think. I decided I better try to get my hands out or something. I was cradling the .223 Savage to protect it and the Tasco scope from damage. Thinking if I bounced just right, I could be impaled on the small diameter barrel so I tossed it away to my left as I was on my back. Yea, I had time to think. How does one sliding down a hill in the woods miss all the tress? Fortunately I did. Then I stopped.
Amazement is the best thing to describe the feeling when I opened my eyes and looked around. I didn't realize I was hiding from the situation, but I was. Would you call that a flinch? I was on a small level. The rifle was right there beside me lying against a tree, but on the opposite side from where I thought I tossed it. Was this real? Yep! My Action Ears came rolling down the hill. I grabbed them as they came by. Of course they were broken. Perhaps they saved my head from injury. Only the Lord knows. In fact, the only pain I had was the arthritis in my left shoulder immediately flared up.
"Thank you, Lord, for no injuries," I quietly said.
Meanwhile back to the deer hunt: Upon inspection of the entrance hole, I noticed the Nosler solid base 60 with a muzzle velocity of 3,000 feet per second bullet hit barely to the right of the top of sternum. (I remembered it was slightly quartering toward me.) I thought I would recover the bullet. Not so. It exited low in the chest after breaking a couple ribs in front of the diaphragm on the left side before it exited. The lungs were devastated. Instead of having to drag it to the road I just shoved it off the trail. It went half way to the pickup. Did I mention this place is steep?
