Angle Rifle

The Last Buck

by Thom Cantrall

It was hot! But that was to be expected in August in northern California. Summers here were always hot, though our proximity to the coast tended to ameliorate the extreme temperatures common to the interior valleys. It was still more than warm enough to satisfy the most finicky of sun seekers. It has since occurred to me that it is insanity to hunt deer in one hundred plus degree temperatures, but this being only the twelfth summer I’d known overall, and the sixth summer to enjoy the pursuit of the Columbian Blacktail Deer in the company of my father, I knew no better and accepted it as the status quo. One does not know what one does not know.

The year was 1955 and we were attempting to continue a tradition of long standing in our family. Since the end of World War II, we had gathered each August at my uncle Arthur’s ranch where, as a group, we hunted deer. I had matriculated at age six from a “little kid” to one of those old enough and mature enough to accompany the hunters. I had to be in the direct company of my father and had to keep my “trap” shut at all times, unless spoken to directly, a difficult chore for a six-year-old in any case, but when traversing a wonderland of sights and smells, it was sheer torture to obey this edict, but, since I knew well the consequences of disobedience, my trap remained GLUED shut. Being forced to remain with the “little kids” again, after having made this jump would have been unforgivable in my eyes, so there was no doubt in my mind that I was NOT going to suffer that fate.

After all, the little kids did not get out of bed until the “men” had eaten their breakfast and were outside, making final preparations for departure on the hunt. This included such things as loading the magazines of the rifles, saddling old Tony, the horse, getting Ring or Dopey, the dogs, ready to go and finally, with two men on the Tony’s back and the rest of the contingent with a part of Tony’s tail, the entire entourage left the ranch yard, headed up the dirt road that led into the mountains, the venerable old Tony stoically carrying a couple and towing several more up the steep hills to the area to be hunted this day.

At that time, in that place, the use of a “jump dog” was common practice. What this meant, actually, was a dog, a nondescript mutt of questionable breeding, blooded, papered dogs being well beyond the means of we simple but hardworking folk in this austere, post-war economy. The dog was trained to search through the thick brush closely adjacent to the hunter, to jump game from their beds in the thick jungle of manzanita, madrone and chaparral brush that covered so much of these coastal hills. The dog was not usually encouraged to run the deer, jut to get it to it’s feet and moving, barking a few times to energize the creature. They were usually then called back and given lavish praise for their diligence and dedication. It was then the job of the hunter to get where he could see if the animal was a buck or a doe and, if a buck to make a good shot on it.

Uncle Arthur had two such dogs in the years I knew him. Ring was a unique, very intelligent and extremely well trained bitch. She was of questionable parentage, as I recall, she looked somewhat like a shepherd and labrador cross, but there were, no doubt other strains in her pedigree. She was a largish dog and not especially friendly to anyone but family members. She was so well trained that she would NEVER run a doe, would not even bark at one if she jumped it. With a buck, she would let us know in full voice, and would, if not called back, run the deer for a few hundred yards before leaving him to his own devices and returning for her well deserved praise.

Once, an emergency phone call caused the family to vacate home in a panic. Ring was inadvertently left inside the house. As she had been taught to eat only from her own dish, she would not even take food from the hands of even we kids. In their haste, the family had left a roast, just out of the oven on the kitchen table. When they returned three days later, they found Ring, still inside, her food dish empty and licked clean but the roast still sitting on the table, totally undisturbed. She had yielded to nature and broke her house training, but even that was carefully deposited on the linoleum of the bathroom floor. She was definitely a special creature.

At the time of this story, however, her offspring, Dopey, was the main dog, Ring having lived a long and full life was retired, much to her chagrin, and very soon thereafter passed away. I’ve always felt it was because she was no longer allowed to hunt with us. Dopey, as his name would imply, was not the dog his dam was, but he was good. He would meet every vehicle that came into the ranch yard, and he was always happy to see our little clan arrive and would stay around to greet everyone and encourage we kids to spoil him all we could, but if no rifles were removed from the vehicle, he soon lost interest and disappeared to wherever his habits took him, usually under the back porch of the house. However, let him see a rifle and he was almost uncontrollable... he was ecstatic with glee and joy... it was TIME to hunt again. He did not have the finesse that his dam had, but he was still a puppy, really and he would sometimes jump and sound off at a doe, so you had to be more on your toes with Dopey doing dog duty!

In 1954 my uncle had been killed in a logging accident on the ranch and the family was trying to hold on, knowing that it would not be possible, but hoping against hope that a miracle would happen. Shortly before season, my father was undecided as to whether he would hunt the ranch without Arthur. Even though Arthur was my mother’s only brother, he and my father were very close. Arthur had served in Italy during the war, coming home highly decorated and full of stories of his experiences. He was a fun-loving man as was my father. When my cousin Pete called, asking us to come hunt with them, we, of course, accepted immediately, even knowing it was going to be difficult to maintain the ambiance of years past.

Opening morning came very early and we went through the entire ritual, breakfast way before daylight and saddling Tony, loading the rifles, and gathering Tony’s tail to be hauled up the mountain in the pre-dawn darkness. First light found us high on the hill at the rim of Lawhead Canyon. Pete had circled in another way and was bringing Dopey up the bottom of the canyon, hoping to jump something on his way in.

While we waited, knowing we where well ahead of Pete’s timetable, my father asked me to walk through a couple of side canyons, using me for his jump dog! It was a ploy that worked so many times over the years that Dad often was heard to say that if he could get me to sound off a little better, he wouldn’t need a regular dog! Such was not the case this day. The brush in the areas I traversed was thick and difficult to get through. If there had been any deer, they left very soon after I entered the jungle. This area had been burned in the past and was miserable to get through. At one time, I fell, my hand crashing down into a buckthorn bush, driving one of its stiff spines completely through my finger, entering just down from the first joint of the middle finger and exiting almost to the first knuckle of that same digit. At that time, I would not allow anyone to touch it, but continued the hunt for the rest of the day. Removing it that evening after soaking the hand in bleach for a time and then having someone grasp it with a pair of pliers and rapidly yanking it out. Not an exercise for the weak at heart, I guarantee you! Had I known he intended to pull it out that way, I’d have never let him near enough to examine it!

About the time we thought Pete should be in our region, about mid morning, we moved to a spot were we could seen well down into the canyon. Dad assigned me to a stump with the admonition to remain there, “or else”... Having had experience with his “or else” in the past and being of sound mind, having no desire to repeat those consequences, I mounted my assigned stump and was quite content to watch the ensuing drama unfold.

I had been on my post for no more than fifteen minutes when we heard Dopey open... he had jumped something directly below us. Knowing he was not Ring, we could not trust that, because he had opened, that it was a buck, but we were hopeful. Presently, my father told me he was going to move down the side ridge we were on just a bit further, so he could see better into the gulch to the west of the main spur. He felt this would be the avenue the fleeing deer would take in eluding the dog.

By now, Dopey had long since quieted and was receiving his praise and adulation he felt his due and the mountain was silent in the warm morning air. Only the sound of the occasional insect or, rarely, a bluejay broke the stillness. The sun was rising and the air was getting hotter when we heard a branch break way down deep in the gulch.

Instantly, I was alert, watching as intently as my twelve year old eyes would allow. Dad, in full view further down the ridge was also intent on the area of the sound, telling me he had heard it as well. Minute after long minute, the time dragged on as if being held my some gigantic hand that would not allow it to elapse! Warmer, I swear it was getting warmer as I watched. The sweat was pouring from my face and into my eyes, making it difficult to watch. But watch I did!

There! Down the ridge about a half mile I saw movement in the brush. It was a deer, I was sure. I silently willed my father to turn to look at me. Eventually, after what seemed forever, he did so and I motioned to him that I had seen a deer coming up the canyon bottom. I, with gestures told him I did not know if it was a buck or a doe. He accepted what I had told him and returned to his vigil as I returned to mine. For another ten minutes the tableau held. The deer was moving up the canyon towards us, but oh so slowly! Regularly now, Dad turned to me for updates as to where the deer was. He motioned that he was going to move deeper into the canyon and I told him no! He was in great shape if the deer didn’t veer off course. We were in perfect shape with the wind as it was blowing gently into our faces as we maintained our vigil.

Another ten to fifteen minutes passed as the buck, I could now see antlers, though I could not yet tell how big they were, approached, pausing regularly to look back down the canyon he was leaving, making sure that nothing was trailing him too closely. Then I could see. He was a legal buck, as California at that time anyway, had a forked horn or better limitation. I motioned Dad on our next exchange and told him he was getting close.

At what was probably a range of seventy five yards from Dad, the deer left the trail he was on and started directly up the side of the ridge toward his position. I froze in place, afraid he would see me. When Dad again looked back at me, I was hunkered down as low as I could get, only my eyes moving and he knew that things were drawing to a close. He moved not a muscle as the deer made his way up the new trail he was following through the brush. At thirty yards, maximum, Dad had a clearing through the brush that gave him a good view of the buck and a great shot angle. He quickly, too quickly, actually, for the deer nearly bolted at that sudden movement, brought his ancient Remington Model 8 in the .25 Remington Caliber to his shoulder and fired one time.

This was the one time in all my experience of hunting with my father that I ever saw him make a one-shot kill. He made one other years later, but by then, I was in the Navy and thousands of miles away!

The buck, at the impact of the bullet striking just behind his left shoulder and penetrating both lungs, spun on his hind legs and charged out of sight into the thick brush at the bottom of the canyon spur. I was ecstatic. I had seen it all and I knew it was a good hit. I could see the blood spray from the right side at the impact and knew the buck would not be far. Dad, however was not so convinced, being a bit under the influence of Buck Fever by then. He called down into the canyon and was rewarded with an answering Halloooo... meaning Pete would be following up the trail soon.

Dad returned to my stump and we rehashed all we had seen and heard and all that I felt to be true. He said he thought it was a good shot and I assured him that it, indeed, was! It was just about then that Dopey opened again, apparently on the trail the deer had used coming uphill. Pete stayed right with him and my other cousin, Roger, who was on the next ridge over came towards us as well, drawn by the shot and the shouting.

Dopey, when the hit the blood trail opened and took off at a run into the brush the deer had so shortly before entered, only to almost immediately go quiet. Again the entire mountain returned to the silence of mid day as we wondered if this meant what we hoped it did. Confirmation came only moments later as Roger reached the point where the dog had found the deer to find the deer dead and Dopey lying contentedly next to him as if he, himself had bagged the buck!

The buck was a very nice three-point with prominent eye guards making a very nice rack for a Columbian Blacktail. He weighed about one hundred sixty pounds or so and with three men dragging and one twelve year old man carrying his father’s rifle, now unloaded, it was but a short trip to the fire trail at the head of the spur. There we brought Tony and loaded the buck onto him, tied him in place and began the trek back to the ranch.

That was our last hunt on that ranch. That winter, unable to keep up the payments since there was no man to work it, it reverted to the original owner and we never returned. I was by there the last time I was in California, about eight or so years ago and even the old house is gone now, a new vacation home standing where it once stood. My aunt and cousins moved into town then, and things were never quite the same again. We remained close to them for some time, visiting often, but that ranch had been so much a part of us that it was as if something had been wrested from our soul to rekindle that flame. I had lunch with my cousins last in 1978 when we lived close while I was on a special work assignment in that area. It was lovely and I love them dearly but our childhood was another era, another time and, though we tried, it will never, ever be the same again, except in our minds, where the big bucks still roam brushy canyons, an old horse tows us up steep hills with his tail and even the rattlesnakes wonder what has happened to make it all go away...

About the Author

Minute of Angle for rifle shooting