We're visiting my dad for the weekend and I took my Bisley Blackhawk .45 with me today, hoping for a shot at a doe; this morning I had the hammer back on one at ~80 yards but she turned and went another direction. Then this afternoon I had another three steps away from being shot, when she spooked for no reason. About a half-hour later, I heard a noise to my west and knew it was a deer. A small buck trotted back and forth, just in the edge of my sight, harassing a doe with a fawn (I think it was the same one that had just spooked). He pushed them up within 60-70 yards of me then turned around - apparently she wasn't interested - then he ambled past me and kept on going.
The doe and her fawn settled back down and came up to the edge of an opening, but instead of coming into the open, the doe turned and eased towards me. At 40 yards, I began to get excited - it's been a long time since I had any notable 'firsts' in deer hunting. This one excited me moreso than the last several mature bucks I've killed. At 30 yards I cocked the hammer on the .45, and she stopped. Even with the wind blowing hard, she heard it. She was behind a cedar tree and I had no shot.
I bowed my head for a moment to pray and asked that I would make a clean shot. A few moments later I looked up and she was slowly coming closer. I raised my pistol and she stopped at ~23-24 yards, quartering towards me. She began to bob her head - I was busted - but the trigger broke. She flopped over, legs kicking.
God has a way of humbling us - I pride myself on my shooting; over the years I have very rarely lost a deer; when I pull the trigger I expect meat in the freezer, and I expect perfect holes perfectly placed. So I get out of the stand and walk over to her..
I don't know if I wobbled (I didn't flinch, I at least know that) or if she ducked her head to bolt at the last moment - all I know is that after six months of fuss and worry about load development, penetration, expansion, meplat sizes, and so on, I managed to hit her in the neck, and made a giant hole clean through it, and it probably would have worked just as well had I shot her with a .38 wadcutter.
I was hoping to post pictures of an entrance, an exit, massive internal damage, and whatnot. Instead, I simply confess that it is better to be pitied and blessed than to be skilled.
By the time my dad came in at dark, I had her checked in and deboned. We ate her tenderloins for supper and in the morning we plan to have a backstrap for breakfast. The balance of her meat is in the freezer now; what was left of the backstraps and the better parts of the hindquarters were sliced into steaks; later this winter I'll thaw the rest of the trimmed hindquarter muscles and grind them for sausage.
Hopefully before the week is out I'll get another shot and redeem myself - and my shooting abilities. Until then, I will boast not in my shooting, but in the Lord, who loves to show kindness to men such as myself, and puts meat on my table (to my wife's great joy, as we were out of deer) when I totally flub a shot.
|
   
   
|
|
Reply With Quote
