OK I'll tell one that's not my animal. Moose hunting and camping along a creek in Alaska. Buddy has a young bull/ cow permit. Wake up to start a fire and there is a small bull standing across the creek about 150 yards off if not closer. He asks if he should shoot it and naturally everyone said yes, it's close to camp. He drops the bull and starts to cross the creek that is usually 3 feet deep at the most. Due to the three days of rain we had, it turned out to be closer to six feet deep, so we would have to drive up the road to cross at a bridge. Ten miles up the road and ten miles back we find a trail that is 100 yards on the other side of the moose. Still an easy recovery, until we sink over the tops of the hip waders in a bog. The moose was standing on the only solid ground. It looked like no easy way to recover the moose. Then we hear a couple eight wheel buggies coming down the trail, and they stopped. Two natives got a good laugh at us and yelled "you're not supposed to shoot the moose in the swamp." They then offered to help if we wanted any. Like we would turn them down. Those buggies came across the bog pretty easy and sucked the moose out and right to the truck. Sorry about the long winded post. Also, any place I said "we" insert a they. I don't want to admit to having any part of this one.
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It Fell Where?
- Thread starter Muddyboots
- Start date
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My old man shot a whitetail doe one evening close to dark. Didn't find blood and it was cold out so he decided to wait until daylight the next day. He went out once the sun got up and found blood and followed the trail for about 50 yards until it dried up. He scratched his head and looked all around but couldn't find anything. No deer, no blood, nothing. He just happened to notice right close to his feet a single hoof sticking out from under a mound of duff. Apparently overnight a bobcat came across the kill and covered it with pine straw and leaves. I wish I still had the picture of how well that cat covered that carcass.
Country Bumpkin
Well-Known Member
That's nuts!
Country Bumpkin
Well-Known Member
I can't help myself when telling a story, if you don't like long stories, skip this one (no offense taken).
When I was 16 I'd fallen into the hunting deep end, I couldn't get enough. It took me several years to get my dad back into hunting, and even at that, he was more into the scenery than he was actually hunting.
Anyways, that year i tagged out early and on Thanksgiving morning I decided to sleep in (I'd killed a buck with my bow, a buck and a doe with my shotgun, I only had one doe tag left and I was worn out). Dad went hunting without me and said he'd be hunting "the narrows"; a spot where the flat river bottom meets up with a really steep hillside that terminates at the river shore. This was on the farm that we lived on until I was 8, but it wasn't ours (it felt like ours, I had the run of the place and the owners became really good family friends, almost like a 3rd set of grandparents).
About 10:00 the house phone rings and it's Dad telling me he shot a doe but she crossed the River. He needed me to find the phone number for the neighbor and get permission to go after her. We agreed on a meeting place and I geared up (it was in the single digits).
Dad didn't really have any experience of blood tracking (I'd already tracked several archery kills) so I took point and had him stand at "last-blood" while I pressed ahead. After a few hundred yards I was on hands and knees finding a single speckle every 15-20 yards… and headed back toward the river (not good). At that point I was more guessing at direction and trying to think like a deer than actually "trailing". About 40 yards from the river bank I was thinking we were out of the game (nowhere for the deer to hide between here and there, no more blood). I took one more step and the deer stands up out of nowhere (I still can't believe how it was able to conceal itself in the short field grass) and drags itself down the steep bank to the river.
I scream at my dad to run ahead to finish it off but he's not understanding the urgency of what's happening (he was about 30 yards behind me). By the time he gets there the deer was fully in the middle of the river and swimming fast towards the steep side of the narrows (REALLY Not good). I yell at him to shoot again and he hits the "doe" back in the spine. Now it's paralyzed from impact back, but still trying to swim with front legs.
My dad looks at me, I look at him, neither of us wanting to do what needs to be done. He's obviously older, wiser and quicker than I, so he does some very quick deductive reasoning and proclaims "I can't get it, I've got the gun"…. As the deer is quickly being carried down river by the current.
I didn't take time to validate his reasoning; sounds logical to me, so I run into the water and start swim-walk-bobbing to the disappearing deer. About 10' from the thrashing deer, I'm now up to my shoulders but I can still touch the bottom of the river. I can then see that there are two little daggers atop the thrashing deers head. Immediately I'm perplexed and very concerned…. As I was wading into the river I'd pulled out my buck knife and had planned to grab an ear, slit the "does" throat and then drag "her" out. Now that I see the little daggers I realize that my already dangerous and foolhardy plan is, in fact, a VERY poor plan. But… it's all I've got.
As we go bobbing down the current I can hear my dad yelling helpful advice to me, I think (I wasn't listening). Remember, it was single digits and I was submerged up to my ears, dancing with a not-dead spike in the middle of a river… no mental space for listening.
Anyways, I finally execute my plan and grab the spikes antlers and drag him out. By the time I get to shore my energy is fading fast and I'm stiffening up. I look at dad, we exchange knowing looks (that was stupid) and I hand him my knife as I walk off muttering something about c…c…. Co…. Cold, g… goi… t… w… walk… t…. St… sta… wrm….
I did laps back and forth to the vehicles while he gutted the deer and by then I'd recovered enough body temp to help him drag it back to the truck. By the time I drive the 15 minutes back to our house I couldn't really feel my legs and my hands weren't able to use turn signals or do much other than steer. I spent the rest of that Thanksgiving shivering and eating whatever hot food I could find, and with a very thankful attitude for having made it out of that escapade with only a lower core temp.
An adventure I'll never forget. That was … stupid.
When I was 16 I'd fallen into the hunting deep end, I couldn't get enough. It took me several years to get my dad back into hunting, and even at that, he was more into the scenery than he was actually hunting.
Anyways, that year i tagged out early and on Thanksgiving morning I decided to sleep in (I'd killed a buck with my bow, a buck and a doe with my shotgun, I only had one doe tag left and I was worn out). Dad went hunting without me and said he'd be hunting "the narrows"; a spot where the flat river bottom meets up with a really steep hillside that terminates at the river shore. This was on the farm that we lived on until I was 8, but it wasn't ours (it felt like ours, I had the run of the place and the owners became really good family friends, almost like a 3rd set of grandparents).
About 10:00 the house phone rings and it's Dad telling me he shot a doe but she crossed the River. He needed me to find the phone number for the neighbor and get permission to go after her. We agreed on a meeting place and I geared up (it was in the single digits).
Dad didn't really have any experience of blood tracking (I'd already tracked several archery kills) so I took point and had him stand at "last-blood" while I pressed ahead. After a few hundred yards I was on hands and knees finding a single speckle every 15-20 yards… and headed back toward the river (not good). At that point I was more guessing at direction and trying to think like a deer than actually "trailing". About 40 yards from the river bank I was thinking we were out of the game (nowhere for the deer to hide between here and there, no more blood). I took one more step and the deer stands up out of nowhere (I still can't believe how it was able to conceal itself in the short field grass) and drags itself down the steep bank to the river.
I scream at my dad to run ahead to finish it off but he's not understanding the urgency of what's happening (he was about 30 yards behind me). By the time he gets there the deer was fully in the middle of the river and swimming fast towards the steep side of the narrows (REALLY Not good). I yell at him to shoot again and he hits the "doe" back in the spine. Now it's paralyzed from impact back, but still trying to swim with front legs.
My dad looks at me, I look at him, neither of us wanting to do what needs to be done. He's obviously older, wiser and quicker than I, so he does some very quick deductive reasoning and proclaims "I can't get it, I've got the gun"…. As the deer is quickly being carried down river by the current.
I didn't take time to validate his reasoning; sounds logical to me, so I run into the water and start swim-walk-bobbing to the disappearing deer. About 10' from the thrashing deer, I'm now up to my shoulders but I can still touch the bottom of the river. I can then see that there are two little daggers atop the thrashing deers head. Immediately I'm perplexed and very concerned…. As I was wading into the river I'd pulled out my buck knife and had planned to grab an ear, slit the "does" throat and then drag "her" out. Now that I see the little daggers I realize that my already dangerous and foolhardy plan is, in fact, a VERY poor plan. But… it's all I've got.
As we go bobbing down the current I can hear my dad yelling helpful advice to me, I think (I wasn't listening). Remember, it was single digits and I was submerged up to my ears, dancing with a not-dead spike in the middle of a river… no mental space for listening.
Anyways, I finally execute my plan and grab the spikes antlers and drag him out. By the time I get to shore my energy is fading fast and I'm stiffening up. I look at dad, we exchange knowing looks (that was stupid) and I hand him my knife as I walk off muttering something about c…c…. Co…. Cold, g… goi… t… w… walk… t…. St… sta… wrm….
I did laps back and forth to the vehicles while he gutted the deer and by then I'd recovered enough body temp to help him drag it back to the truck. By the time I drive the 15 minutes back to our house I couldn't really feel my legs and my hands weren't able to use turn signals or do much other than steer. I spent the rest of that Thanksgiving shivering and eating whatever hot food I could find, and with a very thankful attitude for having made it out of that escapade with only a lower core temp.
An adventure I'll never forget. That was … stupid.
Last edited:
Buffalobwana
Well-Known Member
Czech Republic, nephew shot a Mouflon, and we looked everywhere.
Called in a great bloodhound. This thing was incredible. He tracked it to a pond. Ran around the pond and finally jumped in the pond.
Dang Sheep jumped in and sunk to the bottom of the pond.
Shot an Aoudad that tumbled off a cliff and hung up on the only tree growing out the side of the cliff. Had to use ropes to get down to it.
Called in a great bloodhound. This thing was incredible. He tracked it to a pond. Ran around the pond and finally jumped in the pond.
Dang Sheep jumped in and sunk to the bottom of the pond.
Shot an Aoudad that tumbled off a cliff and hung up on the only tree growing out the side of the cliff. Had to use ropes to get down to it.
