Mike and I were both target practicing across a small canyon with our .22 rifles. We were both about 13 yrs old at the time, hunting with our families in a place called Sheep Creek, Central Utah. I think it was a Sunday, as we spent the entire day in camp. Mike and I were aiming for the 'white spots' in the brush, when one starts moving!
My loudest uncle grabs his .22 pistol, tells us kids to stand back, and begins shooting. Psseeew! Psseeew! Psseeew! Psseeew! Pseesew! The buck was directly across from us, only 75 yds out. But he just bounded away - you know, those tall, 20 yd. arching bounds.
Dad hears the rapid shooting and comes out from the trailer. He's in his stockings still, carrying my 3 yr. old brother in his arms. He thinks we're just target practicing, but learns we had jumped a buck.
A sheep fence crested the horizon, with the setting sun glaring behind it. The buck was now about 200 yds out, almost directly away. The sun glared, but the buck had to cross.
In one motion, Dad rests little brother on the ground, heads back into the trailer for his .270 and a single shell, then moves briskly to a sitting position at the edge of the canyon. He places one in the chamber as he walks, settles the crosshairs as he sits, then lets one rip as the buck is mid-air.
Grandpa said the buck cleared the fence and was long gone. My uncle said the buck was quartering away too sharply to kill. Dad just put his boots on, grabbed his belt and hunting knife, and I followed along.
I'll never forget that walk, the anticipation. Dad was calm and confident, "He's dead, I got him." But I just didn't know.
Hiking down the canyon and up the opposite side winded me. But when we got to the fence, on the opposite side was a mature 3-point, tumbled up, with one shot through the heart.
You gotta love your Dad.
***Sperca