League Against Cruel Sports EXPOSED

"impatient, intolerant, judgmental, tactless -- I'm not very nice, I'm really not. And if you don't do it my way, by God you'll be sorry." Annette Crosbie


As regular readers will have noticed The SBW blog is usually played for laughs - it's the way I roll, but while not a practitioner of insightful journalism myself [or any other kind] you may have noticed that I'm a massive fan of The Terrierman's Daily Dose where Patrick Burns uses the disinfectant power of sunlight to revel the dishonesty at the heart of the animal rights movement, the Kennel Club and the Pharmaceutical industry, amongst others. The standard of writing is very high and his research is first rate so I was delighted when he was kind enough to join this blog with a guest post about a UK based anti-fieldsports organisation who are engaged in a prolonged campaign to represent themselves as the voice of reason, when as we shall see they are anything but. If you have the time, I'd really recommend following the links at the bottom where some perviously prominent members of the organisation talk about changes to their thinking. Over to you Patrick. 


Journalists (God bless them) are under crushing deadlines and often do not know much about the organizations and issues they are being asked to cover. One newspaper piece is used to create another, and no one in the press corps goes to libraries at all.

The sadness here is that Wikipedia -- the chaotic "anyone with a password" online encyclopedia is often touted as a legitimate source (go to "Google News" and type in "Wikipedia" for conformation) even though what is written there is often nothing more that Public Relations Department puffery. And -- just to be clear -- those public relations departments do not always want the truth to be told.

Take the League Against Cruel Sports. They are emphatically opposed to anyone actually posting their true history on Wikipedia.

I have appended below the text (with citations) that I added to their Wikipedia puffery, and which they have repeatedly cut out.

For those that think this true history should stay, simply go to this post on the League Against Cruel Sports and put it back in by using the "edit this page" tab or the "history" tab (compare and then revert if you feel that is called for). Or, if you prefer, have the time, and are well-researched, add your own take to LAC's Wikipedia entry -- just be sure to footnote stuff and stick to "just the facts ma'am."

The League began in Morden, a suburb of London in 1923. Henry Amos raised a protest against rabbit coursing, he was successful in motivating support and managed to achieve a ban. This encouraged him to organise opposition to other forms of cruel sports and so in along with Ernest Bell, he established the League for the Prohibition of Cruel Sports. Although many blood sports such as bull, bear and badger baiting and cock fighting had already been outlawed at the timethe laws only applied to domestic and captive animals. With the RSPCA unwilling to take action against hunting, Amos and Bell identified a clear need for an organisation which would campaign against what it classified as cruel sports. (citation)

Originally called the League for the Prohibition of Cruel Sports, the partnership between Henry Amos and Ernest Bell did not last long. The organization had 500 members in 1927, and not many more when, in 1932, Bell left the organization due to a difference in tactics. Bell went on to found the National Society for the Abolition of Cruel Sports (NSACS).

LACS (now called "The League") struggled through World War II, its already small membership depleted by the war effort. In 1956, journalist Eric Hemmingway -- an avid hunt disrupter -- was elected Chairman, and by 1960 LACS (it now calls itself "the League") had a more radical image and a larger support base. (citation)

Hemmingway died in 1963, and was succceed by Raymond Rowley. In 1975, after the anti-coursing bill failed, there was an increasing level of disent with the League as to the course and direction the organization should take. In March of 1977, Richard Course, a former hunt saboteur and a member of the Executive Committee of the League, was charged with receiving documents stolen from the British Field Sports Society. This theft did not slow Course's rise within the League, however, and in 1981 Course was made Executive Director and Mark Davies became Chair. (citation)

In 1982, League member Mrs. Janet Simmonds won a High Court case against the League over an £80,000 gift the organization made to the Labour party in 1979. The judge ruled the donation invalid and that it had to be repaid back with interest. (citation)

In 1982, The London Times revealed that League Press officer Mike Wilkins was actually the convicted grave desecrater Michael Huskisson who had previously set up the Cambridge group of the Hunt Saboteurs Association. (citation citation ) Huskinson was subsequently fired from his League job after he joined the South East Animal Liberation League in sacking the offices of the Royal College of Surgeons (RCS) offices at Buxton Brown Farm, Downe, Kent. Huskinson was sentenced to prison for eighteen months for his role in the vandalism and theft of documents (citation).

In the late 1980s, League Executive Director Richard Course was appointed to the Burns Inquiry into hunting with dogs and began to spend some field time with the mounted fox hunts as an outgrowth of this work. After a period of time talking with professional wildife managers, scientists, and hunt supporters, he finally concluded that: "The dogs easily outpace the fox within a minute or two and kill it within a second or two. How the fox is located is totally irrelevant to animal welfare considerations," and he began to say to publicly.

Course was fired from the League for expressing this and other sentiments divergent from the League's mission. What followed was a period of turmoil and bitter accusations within various factions of the League. James Barington assumed Course's position within the League (still widely known as LACS), but he too eventually quit the organization saying that he too had concluded that an absolute ban on hunting was not in the best interests of animal welfare.

Graham Sirl and John Bryant then took over as Joint Chief Officers of the the League, but this partnership did not last long as Bryant quit over the sale of some of the League's wildlife sanctuaries to pay costs associated with political campaigns.

On February 18, 2001, The Sunday Telegraph (citation) reported that Andrew Wasley, the League's press officer, had previously been arrested for violent disorder at Hillgrove Farm cat breeding centre, where he was one of the balaclava-wearing saboteurs. Wasley was sentenced to three months' imprisonment for his actions. (citation)

In May of 2001 Graham Sirl resigned his position in the League (some say he was fired) and said that he no longer believed a complete ban on hunting was in the best interests of wildlife, and was especially not in the best interests of the Exmoor deer herds which would quickly overpopulate the area if left unmanaged. Sirl says, "I now believe hunting with hounds plays an integral part in the management system of deer on Exmoor and the Quantocks." (citation)

LACS went through more leadership turmoil in 2001 and 2002 until, in January of 2003, actress Annette Crosbie was named President. In a January 10, 2003 inteview with David Edwards, Crosbie told The Mirror (citation) : "When I think about it, I think humans are the nastiest species of animal on the planet ...". In the same interview she describes herself as "impatient, intolerant, judgmental, tactless -- I'm not very nice, I'm really not. And if you don't do it my way, by God you'll be sorry."Supporters of Crosbie say her personaality is one of the things that makes her an ideal choice to lead the League.

The folks at LACS have also tried to delete all external links to anyone except their own web site. Specifically, they have deleted the following links to interviews with their former leadership. I include all the links I included (unlike LACS, I believe in balance and can co-exist with divergent viewpoints so long as both sides are represented).

* Official website of LACS
* Copy of publication by Clifford Pellow, former huntsman
* Horse & Hound: Anti turns pro: "Graham Sirl speaks out"
* Horse & Hound: Anti turns pro: "Miles Cooper"
* Hunt Crimewatch campaign to report illegal hunts

Back to nonsense, kit lust, and the like very soon

Your pal

SBW
Picture credit

Guest Post - Mikes Moose

Mike's back with the full scoop on his moose hunt. Enjoy

SBW

Moose 2009

Prelude and planning:

Inspired by Jack London and every tale of mountain men read in the past 30 years, I went to Alaska to hunt moose ten years ago. I saw cows and young moose every day, but my tag only allowed me to take a mature bull. I came home grateful for the chance to have seen the magnificent wilderness of interior Alaska, but without a moose. I began to apply for moose permits in the lower 48. Two years ago, my friend Gene invited me as the second hunter on his Vermont moose permit. He took a cow while I was with him. I was thrilled for him and surely enjoyed the moose meat that he generously shared, but it only fueled my desire for a moose of my own. This year I filed my applications and the day after the results were announced I received an email from my buddy Will that just said “Congratulations!” We had been discussing moose hunts and I knew what he meant as soon as I read it. I had drawn not only a moose tag, but the most coveted tag which allowed me to take any moose from the heart of moose country.

I immediately got online and began searching for anything related to Vermont moose hunting. There wasn’t much available but I uncovered a link to the Champion Lands Leaseholders and Traditional Interest Association (who I rented an excellent camp from). I began to ask for advice on several hunting forums and received some good tips from a couple of fellows who had hunted in area E2 (thanks George, Brian and Pat!) and from wildlife photographer Roger Irwin (check out his moose photos at www.rogerirwinphotos.com).

My brother in law John had been my hunting partner in Africa in 2002 and we had such a good time that when he expressed an interest in coming along I was delighted to enlist him as the second hunter on my permit. Having a second shooter who you can trust is invaluable. Having helped Gene drag his cow out of the woods, I wondered if John knew what he was volunteering for but I was delighted to have him along.

My wonderful wife exceeded all reasonable expectations by encouraging me to go on the hunt even though her birthday fell squarely in the middle of the six day season and the hunting area was an eight hour round trip from home.

A month before the season my 12 year old son came along with me to scout. There were old moose tracks everywhere we looked including within 200 yards of the camp. We drove many miles of unpaved roads in our Subaru to get a general feeling of the area. The second morning we were rewarded with the sight of a young bull trotting down the road ahead of us. It was my son’s first sighting of a moose and we considered that well worth the trip. It became obvious to me on that trip that a four wheel drive truck would be essential to reach the more remote hunting areas and (God willing) to haul out a moose. There is just no way to get a moose in a Subaru! It also became obvious that much of the terrain was so thickly over grown that I would need a short and light handling rifle.

I came home and worked up a load for my 45-70 guide gun. This little carbine had been a consolation gift from my friend Alan who hosted my unsuccessful Alaskan hunt. It was destined for moose. The load I settled on was 46.5 grains of IMR 3031 pushing a 405 grain cast lead bullet at about 1600 f.p.s.

Two days before the season I swapped vehicles with my friend Gene. The day before the season my hunting partner drove the 5 hours from his home to mine. We shared the first slices of the traditional opening day apple pie breakfast, loaded the truck with duffels, rifles, coolers, game cart, blind, and the rest of the pie then drove the 4 hours to moose camp wondering where a moose would fit since the truck bed was already full. We arrived at camp, unloaded the gear, and immediately got back in the truck to do 4 more hours of scouting before dark. Once again, there were plenty of old tracks in the hunting area, but no moose.

Day 1:

We awoke an hour before dawn, grabbed a quick bowl of oatmeal and went out the door (who had time to cook when the hunt waited?) It was COLD. Temps the day before had been in the 50’s. Dawn was about 10 degrees F. We drove the paper company roads peering into thickets, bogs, and forest, up slope, down valleys, and over streams hoping for a lucky break of moose within sight of the road opening day. You can not imagine how much the dark base of an uprooted tree covered in soil resembles a bedded moose, or how many of them there are in the sodden wooded soil of moose country. I dare say that we examined THOUSANDS of fallen logs, root balls, and large rocks looking for ears and antlers. When we happened upon some spot that appeared more promising than the others we would walk about looking for moose. I found LOTS of moose sign, but very few fresh tracks and none so fresh as to still have moose in them. I quit counting hunters after the first dozen trucks we encountered with occupants doing exactly what we were doing. Near the end of the day 1 hit a fresh track in the mud off a logging trail. It led to a pair of large meadows with a swampy tree line between. In that swamp there was a sapling that had been destroyed by some bull rubbing his antlers within the past few days. About 50 yards from there, two immense moose beds flattened the high grass. We spent the rest of the evening sitting in a cluster of Christmas tree scented spruce watching those meadows and occasionally hearing another hunter imitating the call of a moose cow in need from his truck parked at the roadside a half mile away.

We slipped back to the truck only after the green spruce tops against the brilliant blue sky had turned to purple towers in the night. The entire opening day had passed without a single glimpse of moose. I would be very glad to take any moose God sent me in the five short days that remained in the season.

Day 2:

The cabin and its woodstove were very welcome. When I closed my eyes I saw forested bogs and dark humps of soil bound tree roots. We slept comfortably and dawn found us back at the same meadow. The frosted blackberry leaves thawed as the sun rose. But in just two hours the cold sent us back to the truck. Since the heater had frozen up it was only marginally warmer, but we decided to return to a couple of areas that had looked promising the day before.

The first one seemed just about ideal to me. The road passed between two ridges that had been logged off a year before with a stream running just below the road. It proved to be “a very moosy” area indeed. There were not only signs of moose feeding, old tracks and droppings, but also day old tracks. The only trouble was that they were intermingled with numerous boot prints from the day before. The area had been hunted hard opening day. The moose may have already been pushed out of the area. We decided to check a couple of other likely spots and hope that they had not seen quite as much hunting pressure. We drove to several other spots, walked a long lane, and spent several hours watching over a beaver pond surrounded by moose tracks, but by noon I had decided that this previously hunted spot was our best bet. It showed more fresh moose sign than anywhere else we had scouted and I suspected that most of the hunters who had been there had stayed close to the road. By going a bit further, we might just find moose. We retreated to the cabin for a heavy lunch with a plan that the meal would carry us until dark. We resisted the temptation to stay warm after lunch and went back to the morning’s promising ridges.

Just as we arrived, an older hunter came out of the brush and climbed into his partner’s truck. We decided to try the area anyway again reasoning that he probably had not ventured very far from the road. Climbing up the bank from the road revealed a small fold of promising moose country with a higher ridge behind it. The top of this second ridge was the typical knife edge path where you could see what seemed like straight down 100 yards on both sides. The side farthest from the road fell away through pines into a broad valley of low brush with dark heavy pines covering the far slope. Beyond that the hills continued to rise into several higher mountains. The top of this second ridge was covered with moose tracks going both directions. We first followed it south toward Granby Bog. It ended in a wet area with thick growth and a gurgling stream. I imitated the call of a cow in longing and we waited half an hour without any sign of reply before retracing our steps up the ridge. Perhaps we should have waited longer but the visibility was limited in that small bowl and the noise of running water drowned out any distant sounds of travelling moose. I thought we might have better luck following the ridge in the opposite direction.

We worked our way back up the ridge and followed it peering into the thickets below and the pines beyond them. Could that dark spot be the head of a bedded moose? Could that light patch be antler? No. There were a thousand false alarms as we snuck along the ridge for the next hour.

At the far end we sat on a fallen log to rest and watch until we decided that we should start working our way back. I called a few times, waited fifteen minutes and we started sneaking and peaking our way toward the truck. As I reached any vantage point which let me see a little further, I would pause and search for some sign of elusive moose before moving on. We had covered perhaps ½ the distance back to the truck when I peaked over the crest of the next fold looking for a dark ear tip or light antler point in the brush ahead.

I can not convey my absolute amazement when I saw not empty woodland, but MOOSE. It was not some bit of the hidden animal, but the full body of an ADULT BULL MOOSE standing in the open 50 yards away. At seven feet tall near 1,000 pounds he was absolutely immense and he was staring at me. I don’t know if he was actually staring at me, but he was definitely looking in my direction for the split second it took me to crouch down below the hill crest out of sight. Later, John said that he thought that the bull was coming down the trail in search of my cow call. He may have just been walking down the trail for his evening stroll, but in either case after ten years of longing, God had sent me a moose. I crouched below the hill crest and pointed frantically in moose direction whispering to John “Moose! Moose! Right There!” John crouched down and began to duck walk forward as I turned back to the moose and worked the lever on my Marlin.

I could scarcely believe that the moose was still there when I looked again. Knowing that the point of impact was six inches low at 50 yards for my hundred yard zero, I put my sights on his throat and pulled the trigger. At impact the bull spun and began to lope away over the uneven ground. With a bullet in the moose I sure didn’t want to lose him in the bog (or worse down slope away from the road)! I held for the center retreating moose butt and pulled the trigger. John said he had an open shot if I got out of the way, so I said “take him” and got down. I heard his 375 Ruger bark and stood just in time to see the moose go down over the top of the knob. I covered the 100 yards between us and saw that he was down on top of the ridge 50 yards from where the first shot had hit him.

After action report:

The first shot had broken his right shoulder just below the joint. I later recovered the bullet outside of the ribs a foot behind the shoulder.

Either my second shot or John’s shot had taken the bull six inches left of his stubby little tail, broken the left hip at the socket and passed beyond. The bullet was left behind in the gut pile so I don’t know whose shot it was, but in any case with a broken shoulder and a broken hip the moose was down. He was still raising his head when I walked up so I gave him a finisher at the base of the skull and thanked God for not only giving me a moose, but my longed for bull with decent palms besides.

Then the work began! Somehow all three of my large knives had been left behind at the cabin. But John had an excellent set of “Knives of Alaska” and a bone saw. We brought the bull out in three pieces by separating the hind quarters behind the ribs and the head from the front quarters. The two wheeled game cart was worth every penny over the next two hours. A gorgeous sunset lit the sky red as we struggled to wheel the moose down the ridge and toward the road. We managed to load the hind quarters in the truck before returning for the larger second piece. Just as John and I were standing in the darkness contemplating how to lift the several hundred pounds of front shoulder and ribs up to the tail gate, a truck with four hunters came out of the darkness and offered to help. They had been hunting farther down the dead end road and arrived just at the right moment. With the six of us it was an easy lift. God had provided just the help that was needed at just the moment of need, again.

We were so exhausted by field dressing the moose and getting him on the truck that we waited until the next morning to pack up camp and check the bull in. The Vermont Fish and Wildlife official told us that my bull was a 3 or 4 year old moose with an antler spread of 33 ½ inches. Based on seeing a moose of similar size weighed we estimated that our moose was 700 lbs field dressed (900 pounds on the hoof?). I was absolutely delighted to be home in time for my wife’s birthday. My freezer is now very full, dinner last night was moose back strap and I am blessed to have fulfilled my ten year moose quest.

Guest Post: Learning To Hunt - Safely!

When I asked Mike if I could post his Learning to Hunt story as a guest post he said he'd like me to include this one, and when I read it I could see why. See what you think

The Most Important Lesson

Like most, as a young hunter I longed for my first buck. I didn't take a deer the first season despite numerous sightings. The deer were there. I just couldn't seem to get a clear shot. I saw only tails, or running deer instead of still deer offering their shoulders to me. As the second season opened, I wondered if I should take shots that I was not 100% sure of. I had a tag for antlered deer only, so I would at least have to make sure that the deer was a buck before I pulled the trigger. I resolved that I would take the first shot at a buck I saw. No more waiting for the perfect broadside pose. If I could just be sure it had antlers I would pull the trigger no matter what.

I had one glimpse of a departing tail opening day. My hunting companion bagged a nice six-point opening morning and so after that I was on my own, pitting my wits and knowledge of the terrain against the wily bucks I knew were there. The next day I saw three does trotting across an open field, but could not legally take them. By the afternoon of the third day I had buck fever. I thought I could see antlers in every clump of brush. Every fallen log was a buck in his bed to my eyes. I still-hunted away from home all morning. Without much thought, I crossed onto the next farm about noon. I did not doubt that access would be granted if I took the time to ask permission. We were on good terms with the neighbors and the area that I planned to hunt was cropland bordered by woods on one side and a brush-choked streambed well away from any livestock.

It was this stream that drew me over the fence line. I knew that any deer feeling pressured could duck into its gully to skirt the open field on one side and the open hardwoods on the other. I took a position overlooking where the gully ended. Any deer walking that brushy corridor would emerge into my view and either cross the field of corn stubble before me or work up the slope of open hardwoods on the far side of the stream. If a buck walked either of those routes my investment in cold toes and fingers would be well worthwhile. I chose to settle in for a long wait, watching the shadows grow as the afternoon wore on.

Just about the time I was thinking more of my damp seat and cold toes than watching the hedgerow, I became aware of something moving in the gully. A bird flew up at the far range of my vision. Then a moment later, the sound of a snapping twig reached me faintly over the gentle sound of running water. Long minutes passed without revealing the wary buck and I gradually became less alert, lulled by the gurgling stream and the motion of gently swaying saplings. The dappled leaves still holding to them occasionally drifted down to mingle with the berry bushes separating the watercourse from me.

Minutes had passed without any sign of life when a crackle of breaking brush at the near end of the gully shot adrenaline through my veins. There was something unmistakably moving just out of sight and coming my way! I saw the top of a sapling move as something out of sight brushed against its trunk. The yellow poplar leaves drifted against the thick hedge of briars below. The form under the saplings moved closer. Yes, I could see it now. The unmistakable gray of deer hair glimpsed between silver saplings and the screen of red berry stalks. A sneaky old buck must have walked straight down the streambed. The noise of his approach had been covered by the gentle gurgle of running water and muffled by the wall of brush.

My breathing became ragged. My heart pounded in my chest. I could feel every pulse in my shoulders and throat. My palms begin to sweat as my thumb reached for the safety on the rifle that lay heavily in my lap as the animal moved toward me. Oh if I could only see antlers!

I tightened my grip on the cold stock. I could see the shape of his body now. It was about 3-4 feet long, soft gray, 3 feet off the ground and moving slowly, steadily my way. He was nearly free of the saplings, which, at that point, had a few low branches. We were only separated by the screen of thick blackberry bushes. I thought about the powerful cartridge in the chamber and knew that the briar stems could not sufficiently deflect the bullet from its intended target. I would click off the safety, throw the rifle to my shoulder, and fire the instant I saw antlers. I contemplated the devastation a shot raking from chest to tail would create. Without a doubt the buck would slump in his tracks and I would have to drag him up the stream bank and out of those thorn bushes. Perhaps I should let him step clear? He was coming the right way. I realized that I was holding my breath. Then I saw the antlers.

I could not help but pause at the sight of them. I had dreamed of this moment for so very long. This was going to be my first buck, and, oh, what antlers they were! Powerfully thrusting through the thick berry bushes, the antlers shoved through the briar screen and broke into the open. With raking motions the rack moved toward me. I saw three long tines on each side and thick brow tines sweeping ahead of a gray hulking body almost as tall as the low sapling branches. I heard the briar stems breaking. I could even hear his breath and began to raise the rifle.

I never fired. I never finished clicking off the safety. In fact, I never even raised the rifle from my lap. I sat stone still with the kind of chill in my soul that I hope I never feel again. Long minutes later I was quite alone at the edge of that field. For what I saw as that matched set of perfect antlers was thrust clear of the briars, was that they quickly split apart and fell earthward when the man who held them stood up. This hunter, with rifle slung over his shoulder, had bent at the waist to move under the low branches and held his synthetic rattling antlers in either hand to push thorns away from his face as he climbed the stream bank. He never knew I was there. He never knew how close his tree bark camouflage had brought him to being a terrible statistic. As I look back now, more than a decade later, I do not recall seeing any red, or blaze clothing at all. What I do recall is that my hands shook as I took them off the unused rifle and silently thanked God that I had learned the most valuable lesson of hunting without tragedy.

I've taken eight deer from that same area in upstate NY over the ten seasons that followed. But two years ago I went deerless. I heard my buck working a rub, and caught glimpses of his gray hide moving away through the hardwoods in the last light of day on the last day of the season, but I let him walk into the shadows with my tag unfilled. I was 99% sure of my target. But 99% is not sure enough, because years before I had learned that safety is the most important hunting lesson of all.

Hope you enjoyed Mikes writing as much as I did.

Back to my inane prattlings very soon.

Your pal

SBW

Guest Post: Learning To Hunt

One of the really cool things about blogging is the way that your words become a calling card when reaching out to other people with similar interests. The last time I found someone who started to learn to hunt in 'middle youth' I met Holly the author of NorCal Cazadora and while we've never met up I've had a few hilarious and thought provoking conversations with her and enjoyed watching her journey unfold in leaps and bounds while my own has been a little more, erhm, sedentary.

While searching the 'tinterweb a few weeks back i came across this story written by Mike Skelly, simply entitled 'Learning to Hunt' I dropped him a line and he was kind enough to write back giving me permission to post it here as a guest post. Hope you like it too.

My name is Mike Skelly. And although I am a late starter, I love hunting. I grew up in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains in New York State, but I never hunted until I took it on myself to buy a rifle and get my first license as a 20-year old in 1990. Hunting has grown from a couple of weekends in 1990 to a year round obsession in less than a decade, and I cannot get enough.

I had a lot of learning to do. I hunted solo the first year. The closest that I came to getting a shot when I was still-hunting up a small ridge. As I neared the summit, I could hear something moving fast on the other side. A fat doe popped over the top and skidded to a halt about five yards away. I didn't have an antlerless tag, and I'm not sure who was more surprised. She was so close that I could smell her. Our eyes locked, and then she gave a snort and trotted away, while I waited in vain for a buck to follow.

The second year went much the same except that I linked up with some older hunters who took pity on me and offered to help teach me to hunt. We hunted on my parents' 63 acres of rolling fields and hardwoods and these fellows took two nice deer that I pushed to them with many hours of walking while they kept watch. I sure learned a lot about driving, but not much about shooting. Every time that I wanted to hunt the ridges, these guys assured me that deer always stayed in the valleys, and that I should push the swamps to catch them in their beds. I began to think something was up when the same thing happened the next year. I saw a few tails and a few does, but ended up pushing bucks to my companions while my tags went unfilled. They even helped me by filling my doe tag for me on opening day. What pals! After their tags were filled, I began to walk the ridges and without any surprise found good rubs and scrapes wherever it was hard going to get to. I found tracks, beds, and saw a few tails. And I learned where the bucks bedded, but could not sneak up on those ridge bedded bucks no matter how I tried. The one shot I had misfired because the rifle had iced over during freezing rain. Yes, I was already hooked on hunting enough to stay out for hours in freezing rain!

The third year I told the older guys that I wanted to hunt the high ground opening day, but they convinced me to try "just one sweep" in the valley. Sure enough, they bagged a buck and by the time it was dressed and hauled to the house, it was lunchtime. After lunch, I decided to go to the high ground, even though it was the wrong time of day. I figured anything that had been chased out of the valleys might have holed up on top.

It was unusually warm that day. I slow stalked up a steep, shale covered slope in bright afternoon sunlight. I knew that there was a shelf just before the summit and could envision a big buck laying on that shelf watching the valley below. By taking the steepest route I could not be seen from the shelf. I was about 30 feet from the top after a forty minute climb when I thought that I heard movement ahead. Instinct took over and I ran to the top, just in time to see what seemed like a perfect buck gracefully bounding away. Breathing hard from my up-hill run, I put my rifle to my shoulder as the universe slipped into slow motion.

The deer was one bound away from a stone wall at the crest of the hill. If he cleared that, he would be out of sight. I put my sites on him, and took up the slack in the two stage trigger as he gathered himself for the jump. He was in mid air, over the wall, with antlers held high and the sun shining on his coat when I placed the sites perfectly behind, and just below his shoulder and pulled the trigger. It is an instant that will live forever in my memory, a scene so classic it could have been taken from an advertisement for hunting gear, the perfectly placed shot at last instant for a grand trophy. There was only one problem. Click.

That's right, after unloading the rifle for lunch in the house, I had refilled the magazine but failed to fill the chamber! It took 2 heartbeats (I felt them) for the disbelief to be turned to determination. I ran up the last slope, and looked over the stone wall at the disappearing form of my high bounding buck. After chambering the first bullet from the magazine I fired twice more just as he entered brush. The first shot knocked a branch off a sapling between us, but the second sent hair flying beyond him. He kept going, but I was convinced that he was hard hit.

Tracking revealed enough hair to cover a squirrel, and a set of tracks that got lost in a maze of deer trails, but not one drop of blood. Fearful that I had wounded him, I prayed that God would give me another chance at the same buck later.

Two weeks later, I came down sick. Fever, chills, body ache. No doubt about it, it was the flu. I was too sick to go to work, but when fresh snow started falling, I all but crawled outside. It was the first tracking snow of deer season, and I was home from work. You can't pass up a chance like that!

I hunted away from the house on the ridge tops for an hour when I began to wonder what had possessed me to get so far away from the bathroom, then I crossed fresh tracks still filling with snow (about 30 minutes old). I gratefully followed them back toward home. Through thickets, and finally to a just emptied bed in heavy pines when I heard a stone turn on the stone wall I knew was 100 yards ahead of me. Running to the wall I saw a buck cutting broadside downhill. I fired just once. I was so excited that I actually had my first buck (I thought).

I was now within sight of my house and had always heard that you should let a deer lay down and stiffen up if you wound him. 20 minutes later the snow had stopped when I went out again. At the point my bullet had hit him I found exactly one drop of blood. My heart sank. What kind of a hunter was I? But so long as he was wounded it was my obligation to follow. He had lain down about 500 yards away and there was about as much blood as would fill the palm of your hand in the bed, and a few drops every few feet beyond that. I knew by the tracks what had happened. He was walking on 3 legs. Somehow my perfect broadside shot (on a running deer 70 yards away and about 40 feet down hill through hardwoods) had hit a leg that bled when he used it.

If it wasn't for the snow I would never have been able to track him. I followed him for more than a mile before I saw him jump up from a thicket. Determined not to let him get away even if I had to take a shot from the rear, I fired again. That put him down and I put a finishing shot into his brain to end the chase. He had put up a good fight and I still admire that game little buck. He was only 100 lbs. dressed, and had only a pair of wide forks, but I was as proud as if he had been a bull elephant! He was mine, and I did it alone, hunting where I knew was best. He had a strip of hair shaved off his back from hip to shoulder, and I am convinced that he was the same buck that I missed on the high ridges opening morning. God had given me another chance at the same deer.

The next year I humored my aged companions one more time, but after fruitlessly pushing the swamps in two hours of cold rain, we came home to see three doe run across a neighbor's yard. This time I had a doe tag in my pocket. I sprinted to where I would have a shot directed safely away from the houses, and waited for the trio to step into view en route to the woods. I filled my tag with a clean head shot when one paused to look at my friend standing helplessly on the porch open mouthed and empty handed while his rifle lay unloaded on the kitchen table. None of us got a buck that year, but the doe was good eating. Last year my buddies came back to my parents' farm to hunt, but this time I went up the ridges to wait for dawn. I watched the world turn pink, and sunlight creep down the hill toward me as squirrels played and a partridge fed through. At 8 AM I heard the unmistakable sound of deer walking just out of sight, on my left. A short stalk showed me the hind end of a medium sized four point buck following a doe about 50 yards away. I put my SKS's sites on him, but didn't want to take a butt shot. Just as I resolved to take the shot instead of letting him slip away. He turned to look at me and exposed a shoulder. BAM. He went down 5 yards from where he had stood and I had my second buck by 8:30 opening morning.

I told my friends where the doe had gone, and where she was likely to go when I pushed the thicket she was in. I saw three deer bound away (through cover, without offering me good shots) right where I predicted the escape route would be, but my buddies had chosen to ignore my advice and watch other routes. Although I pushed a doe and fawn to them later that day, they let them pass (I would have too), and they did not see another deer all season.

On closing day I took my antlerless tag back to the high ridges and made a perfect heart shot on a little doe as she and 2 others fed along 50 yards in front of me. She folded up so quickly that the others didn't even leave the area until I showed myself and walked toward them. It was the first time that I had filled both tags in one season and the first time that I had taken a deer completely unaware of human presence.

Lessons learned? Follow your instincts. Be nice to your buddies, but make your own choices. If you have put in the time to learn where the deer are, trust yourself instead of someone who thinks they know more. This year, I'm going straight to the top of the hill before dawn. God willing, I'll get a shot at the really big buck that I know is there, but if not I'll hunt to the low ground in the afternoon and give the other fellows a chance at whatever comes out of the swamp for them. I may not have got my trophy deer yet, but every deer is a trophy when you are learning to hunt.

Stay tuned for part two where Mike learns to hunt SAFELY

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SBW