32 Year Old Deer

The deer obviously was not aged to be 32 years old… that’s how old I was when I finally took my first deer. I grew up in the Chicago suburbs where you did not talk about owning any guns much less ever admit to hunting. None of my friends, my father or any immediate relatives, were into guns and shooting. Now, over twenty years later, I‘m very fortunate to have hunted in many states including Alaska, as well as the countries of Australia, Austria, Canada, New Zealand, and Zimbabwe. In two trips to Africa, I was able to collect over fifty animals for hardly the cost of a good elk hunt out west. Looking back, it amazes me that I did not take my first deer until I was 32, and now I consider myself truly blessed to have been able to hunt as much as I have. Before the actual hunt, some history is first in order. It all started with a cap gun and a working Bulldog Army tank.

Chapter 1: From Small Acorns

I loved watching westerns on TV when I was very young, so it was no surprise that for my 5th birthday I received a cowboy outfit complete with a hat, a blue western shirt, and of course a nickel plated single action cap pistol (yes toys were actually metal back then- no plastic) with a silver star-studded holster and belt! In just a few short months, as I burned through dozens and dozens of rolls of caps, my parents realized they had created a monster. After going to the store and talking them into buying me a box of caps with five or six rolls to the box, I was in shooting heaven for several days. Then the first time my dad bought me a package of six boxes of caps, I was giddy with excitement. I practiced and practiced with that cap gun until I thought I was real deadly with it, though how I could have known, with a cap gun that only goes “bang” and smokes without firing any projectile?

The following Christmas. my life changed forever when both my younger brother and I got battery-powered, REMCO U.S Army light Bulldog tanks with brass cartridges that fired real grey plastic bullets! They were, of course, Army green, with an aluminum barrel w/muzzle brake, real rubber tracks, grey wheels, small good-guy/bad-guy figurines… and REAL AMMUNITION!

Actually, it came with eight simple brass cases much like a .38 Special case with a primer-pocket sized hole though the back, and eight grey “bullets” which were shaped like a blunt spitizer, and a “tail” on the back end. The bullets were...

projected out the barrel when a firing pin would strike the tail end of the bullet, and the brass case would be ejected out of the front underneath the turret. The top loading magazine on the tank held 4 loaded rounds. Of course, I did not have a chronograph back then, but the velocity was enough to take out the bad guys, and could even destroy the best built fortress made of playing cards. Motorized and capable of almost going faster that a turtle, as long as the silver Eveready D cell batteries held out. The battles my brother and I staged raged for hours and hours. Now I was getting somewhere… projectiles!

A move from downtown Chicago to the suburbs when I was seven was the ballistic turning point for me. First came the red plastic AUTOBAND pistols which looked like a government .45, and could be loaded with and shoot eight or ten rubber bands. Those, in combination with the Bulldog tanks, growing armies of plastic soldiers, and more decks of playing cards, led to repeated battles that rivaled the conflict at Gettysburg. A few years passed before a special Christmas resulted in us both getting Daisy Pop and Smoke Carbines! They looked like a single barreled, lever action rifle, fired no projectile, but only made a large “blast” when fired while emitting a whisp of smoke from the barrel (as long as you remembered to put a drop of oil in the small port on the side of the barrel). While Daisy claimed “non-firing,” it did not take long for my brother and I and all the other boys on our block to figure out if you cocked the gun, and then jammed the muzzle in the dirt, when fired, the clod would be projected out with some force! For two summers, I clearly remember waging wars all day long with a half dozen kids on our block. How simple life was back then.

Chapter 2: Better Late Than Never

I was hooked, and just had to get a handgun of my own.

After much begging, I finally got my first BB gun when I turned 13. Yes, I was very ballistically slow as a child- not by my lack of desire, but because advancing my armament required a constant barrage of begging and pleading with my parents. A Daisy of course, modeled after a pump action Remington, gave me hope that someday I would get a real gun. A few years later, my dad surprised me one day when he came home from work and told me a distant uncle of mine was going to take me pistol...

shooting. Finally at 15 years of age, I would get my chance to shoot a firearm! My dad and I drove to a range where we met my uncle. I started off by shooting his S&W Model 41 .22 LR handgun. Then towards the end, he let me shoot a cylinder full through his K-38 Target Masterpiece in .38 Special with light wadcutter loads. I was hooked and just had to get a handgun of my own.

The next day he came home from work, with what could best be described as a pot-metal, horribly cheap, horrendously fit and finished “Saturday Night Special”.

I carefully began my process of selection to determine what my first handgun- my first gun of any kind- would be. After much research, going to gun stores and reading magazines (no such thing as the internet back then), I was determined to get a Thompson/Center Contender in .22 LR, as my high-school budget would only allow shooting that very low cost ammo, then only about 1.5 cents per shot! Earning only $1.75/hr. at the time, the purchase price of around $160 seemed formidable, but I reasoned that I could buy an additional barrel for less than $50, so for just over $200 total, I could essentially have two quality handguns. Though I was buying the gun with my own money, living under my parents’ roof required their permission. When I approached them, my dad suggested (insisted) that he would borrow a .22 from a guy at work, and if after shooting it for a few months I was still interested, then yes I could get the Contender.

The next day, he came home from work with what could best be described as a pot-metal, horribly cheap, horrendously fit and finished “Saturday Night Special”. I was elated! For the next two months, I went to the range twice a week, and was lucky to hit a piece of copy paper with every shot at 50 feet. Then as promised, my dad went with me to a local gun store to order the octagon barreled Contender in .22 LR, which would arrive in a few days. Finally, I was on my way to my first real gun.

Chapter 3: First Handloads and Ballistics Lessons

The next day, I decided to try an experiment, the first in a lifelong pursuit of a sound ballistics education, and purchased a tin of .22 starter pistol blanks and a tin of .22 air rifle pellets at the local store. I was going to “create” a gallery load I could shoot in the garage. This would be my first attempt at reloading and creating...

custom handloads without having to go to the range. How smart was I?

Thinking it stuck in the inside layer of Masonite, I walk up to it and peer closely.

Later that day, when my parents were not home of course, my younger brother and I headed for the garage. Both overhead doors were closed. I slipped a .22 pellet into the cylinder, and inserted a .22 blank right behind it, then swung the cylinder closed.What to shoot? My brother pointed at a cardboard box on the shelves against the outside wall, which was labeled “GOOD TABLECLOTH”, and he said, “SHOOT THAT ONE!” So of course, I did. A dark hole appeared on the box, and we immediately went over and opened it to recover the slug. Historically, this was the start of my terminal ballistics career, and the quest to recover fired bullets to see how they performed. I Peeled the nice folded tablecloth back layers at a time, I soon gave up trying to recover it, closed the box, and returned it to its place on the shelf. So my first attempt did not go so well. I told my brother I really wanted to recover a pellet; we needed something to stop it. So he said, “SHOOT THE GARAGE DOOR!” So of course, I did. CRACK- and a black dot suddenly appeared on the garage door. Thinking it stuck in the inside layer of Masonite, I walked up to it and peered closely.

“The Browns across the street got a new car!” I exclaim.

That also was my very first “Oh sh_t!” moment in life, one I will never forget

I knew this because I saw completely through the hollow core garage door; the pellet gave full penetration! That also was my very first “Oh sh_t!” moment in life, one I will never forget. Panic set in. We were looking at a .22 caliber hole on the inside skin of the door. Quickly we unlocked the wounded door, opened it, went outside, and then closed it. As it descended, we were horrified to learn our second ballistic lesson: Bullets can make BIGGER HOLES during exit than entry. Although there was only a .22 caliber hole through the outer Masonite, a CRATER the size of a quarter surrounded that. As the door was painted black, the brown crater surrounding the hole looked like a 12 gauge slug had tried to pass through without expanding. This is also the first time in my life I ever really swore a lot, and I am not ashamed to admit there was no shortage of tears too,...

and the casting of blame at my brother, for commanding me to do such a stupid task. Oh, and I forgot to mention that the NEXT DAY my dad was to take me to pick up my first ever handgun, my first ever firearm.

Add “woodworking and painting” to my young list of new skills.

I have always thought myself to be a quick thinker, and this situation quickly proved that to be true. We lived right behind a hardware store, so I ran over and purchased a 3-foot section of ¼” dowel rod. Getting back home in record time, I checked and saw that it was a snug fit in the “pass-through” hole. I quickly cut a short section, smeared some wood glue on it, and tapped into place so it was flush with the inside. Going outside I saw I needed to trim it just a bit, so I went back inside to get a loose hacksaw blade for trimming. “When are my parents coming home?” I thought to myself. Now the outside of the garage door had a crater with a wood post in the center. Back to my dad’s workbench and I spotted a small can of wood putty- a mixture of glue and sawdust- and grabbed a putty knife. Once back outside, I quickly worked to fill in and level the crater,casting blame on my brother during the whole process. Actually, the skin of the door looked pretty nice when I was done. Back again to the workbench, where underneath I found a partial gallon can of exterior black paint. When are my parents coming home? I dashed outside and artfully painted over the fresh wood putty and end of the dowel. Add“woodworking and painting” to my young list of new skills.

We both stood back and accessed the repair. Actually, it looked real good; mom and dad might not even notice it! But I never, ever for even a moment thought about not telling them (at least my dad… it’s a “guy” thing after all). My parents raised me to be honest, to always tell the truth. They always told us that telling a lie will get us in a whole lot more trouble than telling the truth, so that is what I knew I must do… the next morning.

Silence… I sat there with my head down for what seemed like an eternity.

I woke up an hour earlier than usual, and quietly sat at the kitchen table, eating my cereal at a record slow pace. Later, my brother told me he was up the whole time, still lying in bed listening, but pretending to be asleep. My dad went through...