doublegunshop.com - home Forums General Discussion DoubleGun BBS @ doublegunshop.com Funny hunting memories.

The thread brings up some good memories of some humorous hunting trips.

A few friends and I were heading out elk hunting many years ago, a perfect crisp morning with some fresh snow. Anticipation was high that we would have some good luck that day, with the great conditions.

One of our friends, although only a Sr in High School had more body hair than bigfoot! As we climbed in elevation to where we were going to hunt, a bear ran across the road. "Pud" the hairy one, told me to "STOP" and bailed out of the jeep and high tailed it after the bear. A few moments later we heard a shot and again after a short wait he came walking back to the jeep with the bear slung over his shoulder. We asked how he caught up to the bear for the shot, answering us that he "didn't need to catch up to it, because it treed" and he shot it out of the tree.

Not only did we give him a ration of crap about the small size of the bear, but continued on about how we don't need a bear dog to tree a bear for us we've got "Pud" to do it for us. One look at Pud from a bear and the bear will think it's being chased by some kind of hairy beast and will instinctively tree.

We continued on to our planned elk hunting destination and ended the day with nothing but Pud's bear and perhaps a few ground swatted grouse.

Several years back, I took my young son on his first Goose hunt. We put a few birds in the bag and called it a day. As I was piling the gear into the back of the truck, another flock landed where we had been set up, about 100 yards from where the truck was idling. I grabbed a gun, and walked bold as brass up to the flock. About 50 yards away, they spooked, but one came down when I shot. I tossed it in with the rest and drove the 2 miles to town. While driving down the main street of our sleepy town, I noticed something in the rear-view mirror. It took a second to realize there was a live goose in the back of the truck tearing it up trying to get out.
After I pulled into our driveway, I tried to grab the goose through the partially open camper shell without letting it get away. It took some doing, but I finally got it. While I was wringing its neck, I realized I had an audience. The Mayor, who lived across the street, his Wife, and my Wife had all come to watch. My Wife yelled out to me, "I thought you were supposed to kill them before you brought them home." Everyone had a good laugh. As near as I could tell, I knocked it out with that long-distance shot and tossed it in the truck where it eventually came to on the drive home.

There was a pheasant that came back to life on the drive home with my Brother, Dad, myself, and our wirehair on the interstate in Southern Idaho. The wirehair and the phez made about 3 laps around the inside of the jeep before my Dad got it stopped and the dog finally caught it. After we all realized we were alive, we laughed like idiots. I think all of us were fairly scratched up and shaken although it probably only lasted 10 seconds.

There's been some good ones told. Now, if we got into fishing stories, this could go on forever. Gil

Along the lines of the guy who ran over the farmer's dog, then got permission: This is an old joke some of you may have heard before . . . but, under the right circumstances, it might well be true.

The high school football coach and his assistant are out hunting pheasants after the end of the season. The team finished 2-7 and there's talk around town about finding new coaches. The coach tells his assistant that he's going to ask for permission at the Miller place. "Miller's on the school board. He's always been pretty straight with me. Maybe I can get some idea of whether we need to be looking for a job," he tells the assistant. "Just wait for me in the pickup."

Miller answers the door and they chat for a few minutes. "You're welcome to hunt any time," he says. "And don't you worry about your job. The board's behind you 100%. You flat didn't have the horses this season." The coach thanks the farmer. "But I do have a favor to ask you," he tells the coach. "There's an old horse out behind the barn. He's on his last legs, but I just can't bring myself to put him down. Would you shoot him for me?" Coach agrees . . . and the wheels begin to turn as he returns to his pickup.

"Well?" asks the assistant. "Yeah, we can hunt . . . but it's the last time, and Miller says we're both out of work next year. Boy, I'd like to get that SOB." About that time, they round the corner of the barn. "I'll fix him!" says the coach, and shoots the horse. At which point he hears shots from his assistant's gun. "I got two of his cows! Let's get the hell out of here!"

Many years ago, my late father and a buddy were hunting pheasants on preserve in Chester County, PA. As they were working through a field of cut corn, they looked up and saw a fox running toward them from the top of a hill. Dad quickly decided that the owner of the preserve would certainly appreciate his taking the pheasant eater out of circulation. Dad always carried two 16 gauge shells containing 1-1/8 ounce of 4s for such an event and he had time to break the gun, pull the existing loads and insert the 4s. When the fox got into range, he shot it, killing it.

Not ten seconds after he killed the fox, the pack of hounds crested the hill. Chester County was (and may still be) the home of a pretty upscale, very politically connected, fox hunting club and Dad had just ended their hunt. Thinking quickly, he handed his shotgun to his buddy, grabbed the fox by the tail, swung it around his head a couple of times and threw it as far as he could. Then he and his buddy beat feet through the nearest hedgerow.

When they looked back, they saw the dog pack milling around the spot where the fox had died and shortly after that the pack was joined by the horses and riders. Dad and his buddy decided to hunt somewhere else on the preserve the rest of the day.

We laughed at that story for years. I still have the shotgun and two more old Remington paper 4s for it.

Two knucklehead brothers booked a new bush pilot to drop-off and later pick-up for their annual Canadian backwoods moose hunt. After a week, the pilot returned to find them with their gear at the dock and with a moose apiece in meat and heads for mounting. �I can�t take all of that out. It will overload me� said the pilot. �Heck, our last pilot had the same model float plane as you and we were able to take off with larger moose� said one of the brothers. The pilot was new, eager to please and didn�t want to get a bad reputation so he loaded the plane. The plane strained to make it into the air and clipped the pines on the way out and crashed. When the smoke cleared and the pilot and brothers staggered out of the wreckage, one brother asked �where in the heck are we?� The other said: �I think it�s where we crashed last year.�

This one is not about hunting, but has connections with members of a local gun club that sponsored a sale of smoked and barbecued turkeys and Boston butts during the Holidays years ago. The cooking crew was a bunch of cut-ups and were noted pranksters who drank a lot of beer while cooking. A local businessman who was also a club member ordered a large order of Boston butts. He sent an employee to pick them up. Before the employee arrived, the crew loaded heated bricks into several aluminum pans covered with foil and sent them off with the employee. Unknown to them, Claude had directed the employee to take them directly to Bethesda Boys Orphanage, the oldest in America, which was about a mile from the gun club. He made sure that the orphanage knew of his generosity and was expecting a phone call from the orphanage acknowledging gratitude. The bricks hit the fan when dinner time came around for the boys. The director blew-up and chewed out Claude for being a heartless jerk and from what I gather it took him awhile to finally convince them otherwise

A little fishing memory from when I was six or seven, happened with an uncle who was actually a good family friend. We found a new to us back water shallow weed flat and thought we could get some finger sized bait fish. The plan was for me and two others to feed them for a couple of weeks with old reduced price bread from the bakery with our bicycles, and then do a sneak on them early one morning with a throw net.

Pulling up in pitch black darkness, we got the car hung up on some pipe that had got uncovered by the rain. It took better than an hour to jack the back of the car up and slowly fill enough under the tires to get it unstuck. We headed to the water and the circular ripples of feeding fish were still going, so we set up for the sneak. Our uncle was the net man so he gets ready. He kept the throw net in a bowling ball bag, and when he opens it up expecting the net, he brought his bowling ball. We were pretty young and started to giggle, but we zipped it up quick because he was steamed.

He ran home, got the real net while we waited, and was overjoyed to see the fish still feeding when he got back. He made two casts and everything was unusable, what we considered rubbish fish. He got even more steamed.