Deer Season + 25 Years = Drear Season

Within six months of our 1978 Christmas visit with my new bride's parents, I'd bought my first shotgun and my first beagle (Nancy's Dad took great delight in showing his city-boy son in law what he'd been missing). And - another first - I'd also joined a sportsmen’s club, a field trial outfit for “brace beagles." It wasn't long before the beagle men urged me to join them for deer hunts on our grounds. By 1981, I was eager for snow by Thanksgiving, as I found whitetail hunting a bit, and cottontail hunting a whole lot, sportier over the white stuff.

Lots has changed in 25+ years. Beagles became less attractive when they started jumping more whitetails than bunnies. Hunting birds behind spaniels in October had, I discovered, three things going for it that sitting on a frozen stump in December didn’t. Not that I didn’t have my days deer hunting. The lead photo shows the deer I took in November, 1986. When he stuck his head out between two pine trees, I whacked him right between the eyes with my 12 gauge Remington 1100 from the stump I was sitting on. No kidding.

So tonight I’m looking with dread at the 3+ weeks of deer season arriving tomorrow. Safety suggests that Gordie and I stay out of the grouse woods until the shotgunners have gone home for the season. I’m not picking on the deer hunters; I’m simply acting as a prudent owner who runs his dog on grouse in what will temporarily become “deer country.”

Worse yet, even though grouse remain open through February 28, good or even decent hunting conditions in the "second season" after whitetails close are never guaranteed. The hills of w. NY where I now do most of my grousing are famous as the dumping ground of the infamous Lake (Erie) Effect Snow machine. Those 25+ years have done nothing to make snowshoeing through 4 feet of snow more attractive.

I was doubly fortunate to find a release club where I can run my dog safely on pheasants during and after the general deer season. Because the club fills a gaping hole in Gordie's and my bird hunting season, I’ve come to be a lot less defensive about my membership. Hey, we’d all prefer to be chasing plentiful wild birds in unlimited acres of beautiful country. And God bless any who do! But as my fellow old coot wrote, “It ain’t me, babe.”