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

I don't usually post on on this page but this thread brought back a memory. In the late '50s when I was about 8 or 9 My Dad always took me hunting. He and his friend rode up front and I was always in the back seat with a .22 if we saw some rabbits. Dad usually had two shotguns with him for some reason. That day he had a 20 gauge in back with me.

The game warden pulled us over and we were one bird over the limit which at that time was 5 or 6 if I recall correctly. Dad said the bird belonged to me. The warden looked at me and the shotgun and laughed and said "Dammm Nate you better get shoulder pads for that boy. Let us go.
That was in small community up in the Sandhills of Nebraska and everyone knew everyone.
Looking back I guess that is why he always took two guns.
Art

A group of us guys were going dove hunting. My father, well into his 80's, hadn't hunted in 50 years or so. But, he wanted to be part of the fun and we didn't mind so along he went.

We got to the lease and there wasn't a lot of activity dove-wise. After a few hours, we all wandered back to the area where we parked the cars to compare our luck. I pulled two doves out of my bag, another guy had 1, another guy had 2 etc. We were all pretty down about it when my father came up (he walks slow!). We asked him how had done and he said "Oh, I got 12 or 13..."

Naturally, we were all amazed and I was kinda proud that my dad had done so well, especially against all the younger guys.

Then, he opened his game bag and started pulling out the 'doves' which were all mockingbirds, bluejays, sparrows, etc!

The more I read here the more I remember.

In the early '70s I hunted the Savannah River swamp for deer, with deer hounds. One of us would usually put in a boat at the U.S. 301 bridge and motor up to "our" stretch of the river to catch the dogs if they tried to follow a deer swimming the river to S. Carolina. One Saturday my buddy Robbie, in his 60s, did that and took his constant hunting companion with him, a black man named Pete. While in the river they spied a doe swimming. Knowing that a shot might alert a game warden to come nosing around, they pulled up alongside the doe and Robbie grabbed her ears and pushed her head under, holding her until she stopped struggling. They drug her into the little johnboat, jerked the cord bringing the Mercury to life, and headed downriver to his truck, hoping the game warden didn't catch them with a wet deer. Everything was going fine and they were well along toward the landing ............ when the deer gasped for air, then immediately began trying to gain her feet, kicking wildly, hooves flailing the air and making strong progress toward kicking the sides out of the little boat. Robbie is running the motor and yells, "Hol' her down, Pete". Pete jumps on her, which just makes the doe fight and kick that much harder. Pete hollers back, "I cain't hol' 'er boss!" "Well, turn her loose then", Robbie yells. Pete answers, "I cain't turn 'er loose neither!"

Both parties in this saga are long gone.

SRH

Stan, that was hilarious.....and a little too close to home for comfort.

My dear friend now, merely an internet acquaintance at the time he invited me to hunt pheasants with him, surely regretted agreeing to help me try to take a pronghorn. I had seen them in Wyoming on the drive to Montana, and thought that it would be a worthy pursuit. It would be the third year, last try, third time's a charm, three strikes and you're out. Lousy shots, scope problems- you name it- I was a disaster. My other good friend and mentor from Nebraska was along for longtails, and my last try at Montana pronghorns. We had put on somewhere between 700 and a thousand miles of dirt and gravel roads, but could only get within a couple miles of the only "goats" we saw all week. Finally,
we got ahead of the only group we'd seen for a week, and my friends stayed in the truck after instructing me on the stalk. The last 150 yards or so were on my belly, trying to keep snow and mud out of the muzzle of the 25.06. When I crawled over the edge of the hill where they shoulda been, there was nuthin'.

I was beyond dejection, and just before reaching the truck I sent up one of the most desperate prayers of my life, asking God to "grant this desire of my heart."

I got into the truck, and the silence was as painful as it was long. After some time my host asked what happened. I said when I got there there were no goats there. Both of them then proceeded to roundly chew me out for not following directions and blowing the last and best chance at taking a pronghorn. I sat in the back in silence, the black cloud that seemed to so often follow me weighing thick and heavy.

Headed home, we all saw him within microseconds of each other. A nice 15" buck was in a field at about our 2 o'clock, quartering toward us. Bob tried to say "BBBBBBUCK!!!", but was unable to articulate the word until all the chexmix had spewed out of his mouth. He then started yelling at Steve to stop the truck (which he was already doing) and me to get ready to jump out and load the gun for a shot (to which I replied with less than my usual grace that I was inclined to get out as soon as the dang truck actually stopped). I chambered a round, and panicked when it took a second or two to find the goat in the scope. Having acquired him at the breast, I slowly moved back and squeezed when the crosshairs touched the sweet spot at the shoulder. At 162 yards, the 100 grain Nosler slammed the buck to the ground where he stood. My Montana host uttered two words: Thank God. I agreed. The buck was on the ground less than five minutes after that prayer.

Oh- the gravel road we were heading home on was marked: "Last Chance Road." We took the pronghorn back to the sign for a photo.

After shooting a duck roost one evening, four of us were standing around the pickups talking about eating duck, and which kind tasted the best. The discussion wandered off in another direction, taking the form of "Lemme tell you what this one joker I know et". After a bit of this George dryly posited, "I once et a hawk". Another replied, "How'd he eat?". George said with a straight face, "Mos' like a owl".

SRH

Great tale, wingshooter16 !

SRH

Many, many years ago there was a couple of "outlaw" deer hunters in my extended family who killed a deer a little after sunset. Knowing speed was important they ran out and picked the deer up and threw it into the back of their station wagon. Down the road they went. About two miles later the deer regain its sense and was sitting up on it hind haunches.

Now understanding they had a live deer in a moving car, the dumber of the two, shoots the deer with his rifle while inside the car. The bullet passed threw the deer's neck, not hitting anything vital and went out the side rear window. Startled, the deer proceeded to panic and started kicking like heck. After a minute the car was stopped just as the deer kicked out the rear window of the SW. At that point they opened the rear gate of the SW and the deer got out of the car and ran off supposedly never to be seen again.

So the deer got away. The car was filled with blood and had two broken windows plus some damage from the kicking. And to add insult to injury one "hunter" had a ruptured ear drum which healed but always gave the fellow a slight loss of hearing from that side. Now this story is true and both fellows were cousins of my parents. One each side. Best part was that it was the "wife's" SW who was more pissed than any game warden or judge every would have been. Everyone's gone now but the deer may still be around.

Great stories, guys. Keep 'em going.

SRH

Around 23 or 24 years ago, Manitoba set their first season on wild turkey. I was living in Toronto at the time but my brother (and main hunting partner) called with the news, we concocted a phoney business reason for me to fly back and we set out to get ourselves a turkey or two.

Now, no one we knew had hunted turkey, I'd only seen them once before and all we had to go on was a little bit of instruction that came with the Quaker Boy box call my brother had bought. We learned we were supposed to be out and set up while still dark, the birds roosted in trees and we were supposed to use the call. Hell, at that point we didn't even know what they sounded like.

So we stumbled around in the dark in the woods we intended to hunt till we found a big tree. Seemed like as good a place as any, sat down and carried on a whispered conversation trying to figure out what to do when it got light. Suddenly as the first fingers of dawn were stretching up in the east we were startled out of our complacency by the incredible gobbling (neither of us had heard a gobble before). So loud!! One problem. We could not figure out what direction it was coming from. Again the gobbling and again we were both mystified as to where it was coming from. "It's over there", I said. "No, it's from over there" my brother said, pointing in the opposite direction.

As it got lighter, this happened at least five times. We were flummoxed trying to figure out where the gobbling was coming from until, as we peered off into the woods around us, a big tom flew down into our line of sight.....from directly above us. We both looked up and there were another 4 birds on the large branch we had sat down under.

Those birds had been laughing at us for an hour.